Part 12 (1/2)
”The National Liar!” proposed another.
”The breach in our wall is the Cure,” continued Zotique.
”Mais.”
Qu'allons nous faire, Dans cette gallere?
”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 _sacre_ to the Cures,” boasted a heavy, bleared fellow, stepping forward and looking round. His appearance indicated the cla.s.s 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.
”Be moderate, Mr. Cuiller,” Zotique interposed, ”None of us have the honor of being ruffians.”
”In the Unyted Staytes,” continued Cuiller, however, jerking his heavy shoulder forward, ”when a cure comes to them they say 'Go on, cursed rascal,'” More oaths in English. The hearers looked on without knowing how to act, some of them, without doubt, in that atmosphere, tremblingly admiring his hardihood.
”Cuiller,”--commenced the Honorable, easily.
”My name is Spoon,” the Yankee from Longueuil drawled, ”I've got a white man's name.”
Cuiller, in fact, was of the host who have Anglicised their patronymics.
Many a man who goes as ”White” in New England, is really Le Blanc; Desrochers translates himself ”Stone,” Monsieur Des Trois-Maisons calls himself ”Mr. Three-Houses,” and it is well authenticated that a certain Magloire Phaneuf exists who triumphs in the supreme ingenuity of ”My-glory Makes-nine.”
”There is a respect due,” proceeded the Honorable, ignoring the correction ”to what others consider sacred, even by those who themselves respect nothing. This gentleman, besides, sir, is an English gentleman, and your use of his tongue cannot but be a barbarism to his taste.”
The big fellow shoved his hands into the hip pockets of his striped trousers; and putting on a leer of pretended indifference, turned to a man named Benoit, who was regarding him with admiration.
This was an orator and a Solomon. He was a farmer, middle-aged, and somewhat short, whose shaven lips were drawn so over-soberly as to express a complete self-conviction of his own profundity, while his unstable averted glance warned that his alliances were not to be depended on where he was likely to be a material loser. A particularly ”fluent” man, accomplished in gestures such as form an ingredient in all French conversation, he was in Zotique's Sunday afternoons a zestful contestant. His clothes were of homespun, dyed a raw, light blue, and he was proud of his choice of the color, for its singularity.
”Monsieur Genest,” he began, with oratorical impressiveness, coming forward, and bowing to Zotique, ”Monsieur l'Honorable; Monsieur;” bowing low; ”and Messieurs. I speak not against the clergy, whom the good G.o.d and His Pontifical Holiness have set over us for instruction and guidance. I am not speaking against those holy men. But it seems to me to-day that you, my friend, are a little rash--a very little severe--in reproaching my friend, Mr. Cuiller, upon the language which he uses, coming from a foreign country where neither the expressions, nor the customs, are the same as ours; and it seems to me that there is a point a little subtle which should have been noticed by you before commencing, and on which I dare to base my exception to the form; and this point is, I pretend, that Mr. Cuiller has said nothing directly himself against the clergy, but has simply told how they were treated in the United States.”
This beginning, delivered with appropriate gestures--now a bow, now an ultra-crossing of the arms, only to throw them apart again, now a chopping down with both hands from the elbow, now again a graceful clasping of them in front, made a satisfactory impression on Benoit himself, who prepared to continue indefinitely had not Zotique interrupted.
”Benoit, you are too fine for good millstone. But respecting friend Cuiller, we are willingly converted to your delusion. He is honorably acquitted of his crime.”
”And now,” he cried, ”Oyez! Let all who have not forgotten how to make their marks, sign the requisition which I observe in the hands of Maitre Descarries.”
Maitre Descarries, Notary, an elderly, active little man, carefully attired and wearing his white hair brushed back from his forehead, in a manner resembling a halo, or some silvery kind of old-time wig, stood at the door holding a doc.u.ment,--a paper nominating Sieur Chamilly Haviland to represent the Electoral District of Argentenaye.
The Notary, advancing, laid it on the bar of the Court, and everybody crowded to look on and see those requested to sign do so.
The Honorable, the first to be called, went forward and affixed his name, and Maitre Descarries turned to a person who was apparently an old farmer, but a man with a face of conspicuous dignity.
”Will you sign, Mr. De La Lande?”
”Ah yes, Monsieur Descarries--'with both hands,'”--answered he, bowing quickly; and his signature read, to the Ontarian's astonishment: ”De La Lande, Duke of St. Denis, Peer of France.”