“I can do without Guitrel. There are plenty of others who will get the badge for me. Terremondre, for instance; he knows the Brécés well. His family is quite good, and he’s all right—but not to be relied upon; he’s a dodger, a regular dodger! He’ll promise everything and do nothing.”
“I couldn’t very well ask old Traviès, who goes out helping Rivoire the poacher. There is General Cartier de Chalmot; he’d only have to open his mouth—but the old crock hates me.”
These were Private Bonmont’s opinions, and they were not altogether unfounded. General Cartier de Chalmot did not like him. “If little Bonmont were under me I’d make him sit up,” he was in the habit of saying. As for the General’s wife, her indignation regarding him knew no bounds since the day she had heard him say at a ball: “Putting all sentiment aside, mother is too damned lazy.” No, young Bonmont was not mistaken, it was no good looking for help either from the General or his wife.
He searched his memory to try and discover some one to render him the service which Guitrel had refused him. M. Lerond? He was too cautious. Jacques de Courtrai? He was in Madagascar.
Young Bonmont heaved a deep sigh. As he peeled his last potato a sudden inspiration came to him.
“Supposing I made Guitrel a bishop! That would be rich!”
As this idea flashed through his brain a torrent of curses sounded in his ears.
“Nom de Dieu! Nom de Dieu! Misère de misère!” yelled Briqueballe and Cocot, as a shower of soot fell suddenly upon them, around them, and into the cauldron, soiling their wet fingers, and blackening the potatoes, which a moment before had been ivory white.
Looking up to seek the cause of their trouble, they espied through the black shower some of their comrades upon the roof removing a long chimney flue, and shaking out the soot with which it was filled. As they caught sight of them, Cocot and Briqueballe cried as with one voice:
“Hi! you up there! what the devil are you doing?”