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It was a deed characteristic of any one of the Santien boys, and if not altogether laudable Joçint having been at the time of the shooting unarmed yet was it thought in a measure justified by the heinousness of his offense, and beyond dispute, a benefit to the community. Hosmer reserved the expression of his opinion.
“No, not at firs’. You see the Santien boys had a putty hard name in the country. Aunt Thérèse, she’d fallen out with father years ago ’bout the way, she said, he was bringin’ us up. Father, he wasn’t the man to take nothin’ from nobody. Never ’lowed any of us to come down yere. I was in Texas, goin’ to the devil I reckon, w’en she sent for me, an’ yere I am.”
The other was when a dinner of importance was to be given: then Marie Louise consented to act as chef de cuisine, for there was no more famous cook than she in the State; her instructor having been no less a personage than old Lucien Santien a gourmet famed for his ultra Parisian tastes.
"Three li," I said. We walked ten li further. "How far is it now?" he asked. "Only five li further," I replied, gravely. We went on another six li, when again he asked me: "Teacher Mô, how many li to Santien?" "Only eight more li," I said, and he did not ask me again. I was endeavouring to give him information in the fashion that prevails in his own country.
There is old Monsieur Lucien Santien, leaning against one of the pillars, and laughing at something which Monsieur Lafirme is telling him, till his fat shoulders shake. His son Jules is with him Jules, who wants to marry her. She laughs. She wonders if Felix has told her father yet. There is young Jerome Lafirme playing at checkers upon the sofa with Leandre.
Grégoire’s hair was soft, not so dark as her own, and possessed an inclination to curl about her slender fingers. “Grégoire,” she said, “you told me once that the Santien boys were a hard lot; what did you mean by that?” “Oh no,” he answered, laughing good-humoredly up into her eyes, “you did’n year me right. W’at I said was that we had a hard name in the country.
She wrote first to Madame Santien, living now her lazy life in Paris, with eyes closed to the duties that lay before her and heart choked up with an egoism that withered even the mother instincts. It was very difficult to withhold the reproach which she felt inclined to deal her; hard to refrain from upbraiding a selfishness which for a life-time had appeared to Thérèse as criminal.
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