“Tiens! the Seigneur gave him fifty dollars when he left, to help him along. He smacks and then kisses, does M’sieu’ Racine.”
“We’ve to pay tribute to the Seigneur every year, as they did in the days of Vaudreuil and Louis the Saint,” said Duclosse. “I’ve got my notice—a bag of meal under the big tree at the Manor door.”
“I’ve to bring a pullet and a bag of charcoal,” said Muroc. “‘Tis the rights of the Seigneur as of old.”
“Tiens! it is my mind,” said Benoit, “that a man that nature twists in back, or leg, or body anywhere, gets a twist in’s brain too. There’s Parpon the dwarf—God knows, Parpon is a nut to crack!”
“But Parpon isn’t married to the greatest singer in the world, though she’s only the daughter of old leather-belly there,” said Gingras.
“Something doesn’t come of nothing, snub-nose,” said Lajeunesse. “Mark you, I was born a man of fame, walking bloody paths to glory; but, by the grace of Heaven and my baptism, I became a forgeron. Let others ride to glory, I’ll shoe their horses for the gallop.”
“You’ll be in Parliament yet, Lajeunesse,” said Duclosse the mealman, who had been dozing on a pile of untired cart-wheels.
“I’ll be hanged first, comrade.”
“One in the family at a time,” said Muroc. “There’s the Seigneur. He’s going into Parliament.”
“He’s a magistrate—that’s enough,” said Duclosse. “He’s started the court under the big tree, as the Seigneurs did two hundred years ago. He’ll want a gibbet and a gallows next.”