"So, so, from Jean," he said in a high, piping voice. "Jean's a
pretty boy--ay, ay, Jean's like his father, but neither with a foot
like mine--a foot for the Court, said Frotenac to me--yes, yes, I
knew the great Frotenac--"
The wife interrupted his gossip. "What news from Jean?" said she.
"He hoped to come one day this week."
"He says," responded I gently, "that Jacques Dobrotte owes you
ten francs and a leg of mutton, and that you are to give his great
beaver coat to Gabord the soldier."
"Ay, ay, Gabord the soldier, he that the English spy near sent
to heaven." quavered the old man.
The bitter truth was slowly dawning upon the wife. She was
repeating my words in a whisper, as if to grasp their full
meaning.
"He said also," I continued, "'Tell Babette I weep with her.'"
She was very still and dazed; her fingers went to her white lips,
and stayed there for a moment. I never saw such a numb misery in
any face.
"And last of all, he said, 'Ah, mon grand homme de Calvaire--bon
soir!'"
She turned round, and went and sat down beside the old man,
looked into his face for a minute silently, and then said,
"Grandfather, Jean is dead; our Jean is dead."
The old man peered at her for a moment, then broke into a
strange laugh, which had in it the reflection of a distant misery,
and said, "Our little Jean, our little Jean Labrouk! Ha! ha! There
was Villon, Marmon, Gabriel, and Gouloir, and all their sons;
and they all said the same at the last, 'Mon grand homme--de
Calvaire--bon soir!' Then there was little Jean, the pretty
little Jean.
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