“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 sacre Grandmoulin is coming, and we must receive him at point of bayonet, a la charge de cuirasse! that sacre Grandmoulin!”

“He will be received!” called out a voice.

“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 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.

“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.