“Il pleut, il pleut, bergère;
Rentre tes blancs moutons.”
“Will you take a fifty, wheelwright?—may the devil admire you!”
The wheelwright of Coq intoned:
“Bon voyage, cher Dumollet,
A Saint-Malo débarquez sans naufrage.”
In the meanwhile the clock of Condé had just struck four, and the boys were coming out of school. The sight of this great dry heron of a creature who struggled on the causeuse, like a devil in a holy-water pot, surprised and soon delighted them.
Never suspecting that when seated at the door of the old, Death watches the young, they thought it funny to put out their tongues at him, singing in chorus:
“Bon voyage, cher Dumollet,
A Saint-Malo débarquez sans naufrage.”
“Will you take a hundred years?” yelled Death.
“Hein? How? What? Were you not speaking of an extension of a hundred years? I accept with all my heart, master; but let us understand: I am not such a fool as to ask for the lengthening of my old age.”
“Then what do you want?”