Not to spoil the fashion.
Giving him monopoly—hatefully, improperly—
Of the sweets of passion.
—Monsieur, I will not be laughed at.”
“A thousand pardons,” said Ned. “I thought from your expression you were going to be sick. But, never mind. Go on!”
“I will go on or not as I please. I protest, at least, I can crow as well as monsieur.”
“Like a bantam cock on a dunghill, little Boppard. You hail the awaking of the proletariat. And are the verses your own?”
“I will not tell you. I will not tell you anything. I have never been so insulted.”
He seemed to sob, plumped down, and drank off a horn of wine in resounding gulps. The two rustics rolled to their feet and began to fling an uncouth dance together. They had canvassed the bottle freely, and were grown very true to themselves. They spun, they hooted, their moonlit shadows writhed on the ground like wounded snakes. Wilder and more abandoned waxed their congyrations, till at length one flung the other upon the bank at the very feet of Théroigne.
Now this fellow, potulent and pot-valiant, and taking his cue from sobriety, scrambled to his knees, threw himself upon the girl, and crying, “No hurt to my neighbour!” endeavoured to salute her after an example set him.