“Whereupon, at that verra moment,” said the husband next day when recounting the event to a crony, “I had the rare intelligence to lick her hand.”
§ 225 No Closed Season on Fanchon
When a Frenchman goes hunting he takes the sport rather seriously. In certain districts there isn’t much in the way of game for him to kill. So the native makes up for this by wearing a most elaborate and fanciful costume.
An American, visiting in the château country, was invited by his host to go for a rabbit hunt. With a borrowed gun in his hands and wearing his oldest clothes, the American went. Alongside him, as they trudged through the cover, walked the Frenchman, gorgeous in gaiters and belted jacket, with a pheasant’s feather curling from the brim of his hat.
Presently a bunny darted from a thicket. The American raised his fowling-piece.
“Don’t shoot!” cried out his host. “That’s Armand, a great pet of ours. We never shoot at Armand.”
A little further along a second rabbit hopped into view. Again the visitor made ready to fire and again his host detained him with:
“That one is Pierre. We never shoot at Pierre, either.”
Almost immediately, a third rabbit, a long rangy animal, came bouncing into sight.
“Shoot! Shoot!” cried the Frenchman, throwing his own gun to his shoulder. “That is Fanchon. We always shoot at Fanchon.”