"Now, the Council of war! we must have a command to him from the Bishop; and it is I, Zotique Genest, as prominent citizen! as Registrar! as Zouave! who will write and get it."
"But more—that sacré Grandmoulin is coming, and we must receive him at point of bayonet, à la charge de cuirasse! that sacré Grandmoulin!"
"He will be received!" called out a voice.
"The National Liar!" proposed another.
"The breach in our wall is the Curé," continued Zotique.
"Mais."
Qu'allons nous faire,
Dans cette gallère?
"If we could only strap him up with, every mark of respect, like the sacred white elephant of the Indies!—But first, the Bishop's order! Remark my brother, I am not advocating disobedience:—only coercion."
The laugh rose again. It was not so much anything he said, but his extraordinarily grotesque ways—a roll of his large eyes, or a drawing down of his long, thin mouth, with some quick action of the head, arms or shoulders, that amused them.
"Me, I say sacré to the Curés," boasted a heavy, bleared fellow, stepping forward and looking round. His appearance indicated the class of parodies on the American citizen, known vulgarly as "Yankees from Longueuil," and as he continued, "I say to them,"—he added a string of blasphemy in exaggerated Vermontese.