“Monsieur, as a priest, I can not give you any advice which would tend toward uniting a good Catholic and yourself.”
And father Gibault gave the borderer a curious look, that was compounded of sly humor and triumph.
Clark started back in amazement. So much was he engrossed with what he thought mademoiselle’s injustice, that he had not clearly understood whither he was tending.
“What do you mean?” he said, stammeringly.
“I mean,” said the priest, quietly, “that every one in Kaskaskia, except Colonel Clark, is fully aware that he has fallen in love with Mademoiselle Roland, and that he is jealous of a mere boy, because that boy is a favorite of mademoiselle’s. Why, colonel, they are making songs about it in the streets.”
Even as the priest spoke, they heard a chorus of lads in the street, as the young rascals passed under the windows, singing at the top of their voices a doggerel ditty, to the old air of “Malbrook,” better known nowadays as “We won’t go home till morning.” Clark listened, and turned red and pale alternately, as he clutched his sword-hilt; for the boys were coupling his own name with Ruby’s in the disrespectful manner common to French gamin and New York “bhoy” alike.
For the benefit of our readers we append the song, with a free translation:
“Le Colonel Clark est brave,
Mais il n’est qu’un esclave