"And last of all," said he, removing with a flourish a little, burned, villainous briar-root pipe from his mouth, "this is Pierrett. She's a dirty wench, but sweet and toothsome as parched corn. She is as philosophical as a fisherman, as independent as a church pillar, and she's my soul mate! Eh, Pierrett?"
"You see," he said, addressing me to the exclusion of Nance, as he turned Rogue onto the pasture, "I'm the lone male among all of these females. A sort of Mormon elder, I am; but, tut, man, it's only a brotherly kind of relationship which doesn't entail jealousy.... You see, son, everybody's children are mine—yes, you two's my kiddies—and I pretty much own the world; only, you see, I don't take it and use it except for traveling purposes. All I ask," said he, becoming quite serious, with a far-away expression in his splendid eyes while he pointed down the long white highway, "is a road to roam,—le long du trimard—a river now and then for variety, the sigh of my music in the greenwood, a bit of milk and cheese on a village common at night, for I love the homely gleam of distant lights, and the stars to sing me to sleep while browsing Rogue twinkles her grass.... Um, ah, doesn't make you sleepy, son, just to hear about it? Yes?"
"Now, Mr. Charles—"
"Reubelt King," I hastened to correct him, as he hesitated with a merry twinkle in his eye.
"—Reubelt King, run along and tell me whose house that is way down yonder on the river."
"The old home of the many pillars?" I questioned. "Monsieur l'abbé Jacques Picot."
"Father Picot?... The hell—O, I beg your pardon, Rogue, Pierrett, Columbine, and your young ladyship!... You females are terribly ubiquitous at times.... No, that's not a cuss-word, Mademoiselle. It means you women are always lingering around a good, healthy, pleasant, cussful male like me.
"Where'd I come from? Just down the chemin, my dears. And if you were impolite enough to ask me where I was going, that's where—down the road.... Where do I live?"
Jean François sings:
"Under the greenwood tree,
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall you see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.