"My friend the boaster steps forward with the air Napoleonic! He sticks out his breast like this; he shortens his neck, like this; he frowns his brows; he glares at them a terrible look; he cries: 'I am of the Canadian blood!'"
"And what does he do next, gentlemen?" Zotique paused a moment.
—"Runs for his life!"
The roar that followed shook the apartment. Zotique stopped it.
"But what did I do, gentlemen?"
No one ventured to guess.
"I—perhaps because I was of the Dormillière blood—did not run, but looked at the English.—We laughed all together.—And I passed along unmolested."
"Messieurs,—with the exception of our excellent De La Lande, I am afraid it is too often those who lack the virtues of their race who make most cry of it."
The meeting now resumed its discussions.
"We require strategy!" asserted a burly, red-haired lawyer from the
City.