“Haven’t Frenchmen genius?” asked the girl.
Carnac laughed. “Why, of course. Barode Barouche—yes, he’s a great one: he can think, he can write, and he can talk; and the talking’s the best that he does—though I’ve not heard him speak, but I’ve read his speeches.”
“Doesn’t he make good laws at Ottawa?”
“He makes laws at Ottawa—whether they’re good or not is another question. I shouldn’t be a follower of his, if I had my chance though.”
“That’s because you’re not French.”
“Oh yes, I’m as French as can be! I felt at home with the French when I was in France. I was all Gallic. When I’m here I’m more Gallic than Saxon.
“I don’t understand it. Here am I, with all my blood for generations Saxon, and yet I feel French. If I’d been born in the old country, it would have been in Limerick or Tralee. I’d have been Celtic there.”
“Yet Barode Barouche is a great man. He gets drunk sometimes, but he’s great. He gets hold of men like Denzil.”
“Denzil has queer tastes.”
“Yes—he worships you.”