Sorel laid down his hat, and wiped his brow with his handkerchief. Then
he went on, no longer speaking in French and then translating,--his
usual concession to my supposed desires,--but mostly now in
quasi-English: “_Mais_, you thing this great _gouvernement_ wan' hones'
men work for her, _n'est-ce pas?_”
“The government ought to have the most honest men,” I said.
“_Bien_. Now you thing the _gouvernement_ boun' to 'ave some men w'at
mos' know the business, _n'est-ce pas?_”
“It ought to have them.”
Sorel wiped his brow again. “Now, w'ich you thing the mos' honestes'
man,--Fidèle, or-- _Carron?_ W'ich you thing know the business
bes',--Fidèle, w'at been there, or Carron, w'at ain' been there?”
“Fidèle, of course.”
“Then tell me, w'at for they bounce' our Fidèle, and let Carron got 'is
place?” and he burst into a harsh, resonant, contemptuous laugh. In
a moment he resumed: “Now,” he said, “I only got one more thing to ax
you,” and taking his felt hat in his hands, he held it on his knees,
before him, and stooping a little forward, eyed me closely: “You know
w'at we talk sometimes, you an' me, 'bout our Frensh _république_--some
_Orléanistes_, some _Légitimistes_, some _Bonapartistes?_ You merember
'ow we talk, you and me?”