I shook my head.
Sorel laid down his hat, and wiped his brow with his handkerchief. Then he went on, no longer speaking in French and then translating,—his usual concession to my supposed desires,—but mostly now in quasi-English: “ Mais, you thing this great gouvernement wan' hones' men work for her, n'est-ce pas? ”
“The government ought to have the most honest men,” I said.
“ Bien. Now you thing the gouvernement boun' to 'ave some men w'at mos' know the business, n'est-ce pas? ”
“It ought to have them.”
Sorel wiped his brow again. “Now, w'ich you thing the mos' honestes' man,—Fidèle, or— Carron? W'ich you thing know the business bes',—Fidèle, w'at been there, or Carron, w'at ain' been there?”
“Fidèle, of course.”
“Then tell me, w'at for they bounce' our Fidèle, and let Carron got 'is place?” and he burst into a harsh, resonant, contemptuous laugh. In a moment he resumed: “Now,” he said, “I only got one more thing to ax you,” and taking his felt hat in his hands, he held it on his knees, before him, and stooping a little forward, eyed me closely: “You know w'at we talk sometimes, you an' me, 'bout our Frensh république —some Orléanistes, some Légitimistes, some Bonapartistes? You merember 'ow we talk, you and me?”
I nodded,
“We ain' got no Orléanistes, no Bonapartistes' ici, in this gouvernement, n'est-ce pas? ”