“Ah, gentilmen, you mistake.”
“No, no! there’s no mistake about it. Mam’selle Jeanette would have had you ten years ago, if you had asked her.”
“You flatter too much,” said Baptiste, shrugging his shoulders; and finding that there was no means of avoiding the charivary, he with great good humour accepted the serenade, and according to custom invited the whole party into his house.
I retired to my former quarters, at the house of an old settler—a little shrivelled, facetious Frenchman, whom I found in his red flannel nightcap, smoking his pipe, and seated like Jupiter in the midst of clouds of his own creating.
“Merry doings in the village!” said I, after we had shaken hands.
“Eh, bien! Mons. Baptiste is marry to Mam’selle Jeannette.”
“I see the boys are making merry on the occasion.”
“Ah Sacré! de dem boy! they have play hell to-night.”
“Indeed! how so?”
“For make dis charivary—dat is how so, my friend. Dis come for have d’ Americain government to rule de countrie. Parbleu! they make charivary for de old maid, and de old bachelor!”