LORD IPSDEN had soon the mortification of discovering that this Mr. ----
was a constant visitor at the house; and, although his cousin gave him
her ear in this man's absence, on the arrival of her fellow-enthusiast
he had ever the mortification of finding himself _de trop._
Once or twice he demolished this personage in argument, and was rewarded
by finding himself more _de trop._
But one day Lady Barbara, being in a cousinly humor, expressed a wish
to sail in his lordship's yacht, and this hint soon led to a party
being organized, and a sort of picnic on the island of Inch Coombe; his
lordship's cutter being the mode of conveyance to and from that spot.
Now it happened on that very day Jean Carnie's marriage was celebrated
on that very island by her relations and friends.
So that we shall introduce our readers to
THE RIVAL PICNICS.
We begin with _Les gens comme il faut._
PICNIC NO. 1.
The servants were employed in putting away dishes into hampers.
There was a calm silence. “Hem!” observed Sir Henry Talbot.
“Eh?” replied the Honorable Tom Hitherington.
“Mamma,” said Miss Vere, “have you brought any work?”
“No, my dear.”
“At a picnic,” said Mr. Hitherington, “isn't it the thing for
somebody--aw--to do something?”
“Ipsden,” said Lady Barbara, “there is an understanding _between_ you
and Mr. Hitherington. I condemn you to turn him into English.”
“Yes, Lady Barbara; I'll tell you, he means---do you mean anything,
Tom?”
_Hitherington._ “Can't anybody guess what I mean?”
_Lady Barbara._ “Guess first yourself, you can't be suspected of being
in the secret.”
_Hither._ “What I mean is, that people sing a song, or run races, or
preach a sermon, or do something funny at a picnic--aw--somebody gets up
and does something.”
_Lady Bar._ “Then perhaps Miss Vere, whose singing is famous, will have
the complaisance to sing to us.”
_Miss Vere._ “I should be happy, Lady Barbara, but I have not brought my
music.”
_Lady Bar._ “Oh, we are not critical; the simplest air, or even a
fragment of melody; the sea and the sky will be a better accompaniment
than Broadwood ever made.”
_Miss V._ “I can't sing a note without book.”
_Sir H. Talbot._ “Your music is in your soul--not at your fingers'
ends.”
_Lord Ipsden, to Lady Bar._ “It is in her book, and not in her soul.”
_Lady Bar., to Lord Ips._ “Then it has chosen the better situation of
the two.”
_Ips._ “Miss Vere is to the fine art of music what the engrossers are
to the black art of law; it all filters through them without leaving any
sediment; and so the music of the day passes through Miss Vere's mind,
but none remains--to stain its virgin snow.”
He bows, she smiles.
_Lady Bar., to herself._ “Insolent. And the little dunce thinks he is
complimenting her.”
_Ips._ “Perhaps Talbot will come to our rescue--he is a fiddler.”
_Tal._ “An amateur of the violin.”
_Ips._ “It is all the same thing.”
_Lady Bar._ “I wish it may prove so.”
[Note: original has music notation here]
_Miss V._ “Beautiful.”
_Mrs. Vere._ “Charming.”
_Hither._ “Superb!”
_Ips._ “You are aware that good music is a thing to be wedded to
immortal verse, shall I recite a bit of poetry to match Talbot's
strain?”
_Miss V._ “Oh, yes! how nice.”
_Ips. (rhetorically)._ “A. B. C. D. E. F. G. H. I. J. K. L. M. N. O. P.
Q. R. S. T. U. V. W. X. Y. Z. Y. X. W. V. U. T. S. O. N. M. L. K. J. I.
H. G. F. A. M. little p. little t.”
_Lady Bar._ “Beautiful! Superb! Ipsden has been taking lessons on the
thinking instrument.”
_Hither._ “He has been _perdu_ among vulgar people.”
_Tal._ “And expects a pupil of Herz to play him tunes!”
_Lady Bar._ “What are tunes, Sir Henry?”
_Tal._ “Something I don't play, Lady Barbara.”
_Lady Bar._ “I understand you; something we ought to like.”
_Ips._ “I have a Stradivarius violin at home. It is yours, Talbot, if
you can define a tune.”
_Tal._ “A tune is--everybody knows what.”
_Lady Bar._ “A tune is a tune, that is what you meant to say.”
_Tal._ “Of course it is.”
_Lady Bar._ “Be reasonable, Ipsden; no man can do two things at once;
how can the pupil of Herz condemn a thing and know what it means
contemporaneously?”
_Ips._ “Is the drinking-song in 'Der Freischutz' a tune?”
_Lady Bar._ “It is.”
_Ips._ “And the melodies of Handel, are they tunes?”
_Lady Bar. (pathetically)._ “They are! They are!”
_Ips._ “And the 'Russian Anthem,' and the 'Marseillaise,' and 'Ah,
Perdona'?”
_Tal._ “And 'Yankee Doodle'?”
_Lady Bar._ “So that Sir Henry, who prided himself on his ignorance, has
a wide field for its dominion.”
_Tal._ “All good violin players do like me; they prelude, not play
tunes.”
_Ips._ “Then Heaven be thanked for our blind fiddlers. You like
syllables of sound in unmeaning rotation, and you despise its words, its
purposes, its narrative feats; carry out your principle, it will show
you where you are. Buy a dirty palette for a picture, and dream the
alphabet is a poem.”
_Lady Bar., to herself._ “Is this my cousin Richard?”
_Hither._ “Mind, Ipsden, you are a man of property, and there are such
things as commissions _de lunatico.”_
_Lady Bar._ “His defense will be that his friends pronounced him insane.”
_Ips._ “No; I shall subpoena Talbot's fiddle, cross-examination will get
nothing out of that but, do, re, mi, fa.”
_Lady Bar._ “Yes, it will; fa, mi, re, do.”
_Tal._ “Violin, if you please.”
_Lady Bar._ “Ask Fiddle's pardon, directly.”
_Sound of fiddles is heard in the distance._
_Tal._ “How lucky for you, there are fiddles and tunes, and the natives
you are said to favor, why not join them?”
_Ips. (shaking his head solemnly)._ “I dread to encounter another
prelude.”
_Hither._ “Come, I know you would like it; it is a wedding-party--two
sea monsters have been united. The sailors and fishermen are all blue
cloth and wash-leather gloves.”
_Miss V._ “He! he!”
_Tal._ “The fishwives unite the colors of the rainbow--”
_Lady Bar._ “(And we all know how hideous they are)--to vulgar, blooming
cheeks, staring white teeth, and sky-blue eyes.”
_Mrs. V._ “How satirical you are, especially you, Lady Barbara.”
Here Lord Ipsden, after a word to Lady Barbara, the answer to which did
not appear to be favorable, rose, gave a little yawn, looked steadily at
his companions without seeing them, and departed without seeming aware
that he was leaving anybody behind him.
_Hither._ “Let us go somewhere where we can quiz the natives without
being too near them.”
_Lady Bar._ “I am tired of this unbroken solitude, I must go and think
to the sea,” added she, in a mock soliloquy; and out she glided with the
same unconscious air as his lordship had worn.
The others moved off slowly together.
“Mamma,” said Miss Vere, “I can't understand half Barbara Sinclair
says.”
“It is not necessary, my love,” replied mamma; “she is rather eccentric,
and I fear she is spoiling Lord Ipsden.”
“Poor Lord Ipsden,” murmured the lovely Vere, “he used to be so nice,
and do like everybody else. Mamma, I shall bring some work the next
time.”
“Do, my love.”
PICNIC NO. 2.
In a house, two hundred yards from this scene, a merry dance, succeeding
a merry song, had ended, and they were in the midst of an interesting
story; Christie Johnstone was the narrator. She had found the tale in
one of the viscount's books--it had made a great impression on her.
The rest were listening intently. In a room which had lately been all
noise, not a sound was now to be heard but the narrator's voice.
“Aweel, lasses, here are the three wee kists set, the lads are to
chuse--the ane that chuses reicht is to get Porsha, an' the lave to
get the bag, and dee baitchelars--Flucker Johnstone, you that's sae
clever--are ye for gowd, or siller, or leed?”
_1st Fishwife._ “Gowd for me!”
_2d ditto._ “The white siller's my taste.”
_Flucker._ “Na! there's aye some deevelish trick in thir lassie's
stories. I shall ha to, till the ither lads hae chused; the mair part
will put themsels oot, ane will hit it off reicht maybe, then I shall
gie him a hidin' an' carry off the lass. You-hoo!”
_Jean Carnie._ “That's you, Flucker.”
_Christie Johnstone._ “And div ye really think we are gawn to let you
see a' the world chuse? Na, lad, ye are putten oot o' the room, like
witnesses.”
_Flucker._ “Then I'd toss a penny; for gien ye trust to luck, she whiles
favors ye, but gien ye commence to reason and argefy--ye're done!”
_Christie._ “The suitors had na your wit, my manny, or maybe they had na
a penny to toss, sae ane chused the gowd, ane the siller; but they got
an awfu' affront. The gold kist had just a skull intil't, and the siller
a deed cuddy's head!”
_Chorus of Females._ “He! he! he!”
_Ditto of Males._ “Haw! haw! haw! haw! Ho!”
_Christie._ “An' Porsha puttit the pair of gowks to the door. Then came
Bassanio, the lad fra Veeneece, that Porsha loed in secret. Veeneece,
lasses, is a wonderful city; the streets o' 't are water, and the
carriages are boats--that's in Chambers'.”
_Flucker._ “Wha are ye making a fool o'?”
_Christie._ “What's wrang?”
_Flucker._ “Yon's just as big a lee as ever I heerd.”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth ere he had reason to regret
them; a severe box on the ear was administered by his indignant sister.
Nobody pitied him.
_Christie._ “I'll laern yet' affront me before a' the company.”
_Jean Carnie._ “Suppose it's a lee, there's nae silver to pay for it,
Flucker.”
_Christie._ “Jean, I never telt a lee in a' my days.”
_Jean._ “There's ane to begin wi' then. Go ahead, Custy.”
_Christie._ “She bade the music play for him, for music brightens
thoucht; ony way, he chose the leed kist. Open'st and wasn't there
Porsha's pictur, and a posy, that said:
'If you be well pleased with this, And hold your fortune for your bliss;
Turn you where your leddy iss, And greet her wi' a loving--'” _(Pause)._
“Kess,” roared the company.
_Chorus, led by Flucker._ “Hurraih!”
_Christie (pathetically)._ “Flucker, behave!”
_Sandy Liston (drunk)._ “Hur-raih!” He then solemnly reflected. “Na!
but it's na hurraih, decency requires amen first an' hurraih afterward;
here's kissin plenty, but I hear nae word o' the minister. Ye'll
obsairve, young woman, that kissin's the prologue to sin, and I'm a
decent mon, an' a gray-headed mon, an' your licht stories are no for me;
sae if the minister's no expeckit I shall retire--an' tak my quiet gill
my lane.”
_Jean Carnie._ “And div ye really think a decent cummer like Custy wad
let the lad and lass misbehave thirsels? Na! lad, the minister's at the
door, but” (sinking her voice to a confidential whisper) “I daurna let
him in, for fear he'd see ye hae putten the enemy in your mooth sae
aerly. (That's Custy's word.)”
“Jemmy Drysel,” replied Sandy, addressing vacancy, for Jemmy was
mysteriously at work in the kitchen, “ye hae gotten a thoughtfu' wife.”
(Then, with a strong revulsion of feeling.) “Dinna let the blackguard*
in here,” cried he, “to spoil the young folk's sporrt.”
* At present this is a spondee in England--a trochee in
Scotland The pronunciation of this important word ought to
be fixed, representing, as it does, so large a portion of
the community in both countries.
_Christie._ “Aweel, lassies, comes a letter to Bassanio; he reads it,
and turns as pale as deeth.”
_A Fishwife._ “Gude help us.”
_Christie._ “Poorsha behooved to ken his grief, wha had a better reicht?
'Here's a letter, leddy,' says he, 'the paper's the boedy of my freend,
like, and every word in it a gaping wound.'”
_A Fisherman._ “Maircy on us.”
_Christie._ “Lad, it was fra puir Antonio, ye mind o' him, Lasses. Hech!
the ill luck o' yon man, no a ship come hame; ane foundered at sea,
coming fra Tri-po-lis; the pirates scuttled another, an' ane ran ashore
on the Goodwins, near Bright-helm-stane, that's in England itsel', I
daur say. Sae he could na pay the three thoosand ducats, an' Shylock had
grippit him, an' sought the pund o' flesh aff the breest o' him, puir
body.”
_Sandy Liston._ “He would na be the waur o' a wee bit hiding, yon
thundering urang-utang; let the man alane, ye cursed old cannibal.”
_Christie._ “Poorsha keepit her man but ae hoor till they were united,
an' then sent him wi' a puckle o' her ain siller to Veeneece, and
Antonio--think o' that, lassies--pairted on their wedding-day.”
_Lizzy Johnstone, a Fishwife, aged 12._ “Hech! hech! it's lamentable.”
_Jean Carnie._ “I'm saying, mairriage is quick wark, in some
pairts--here there's an awfu' trouble to get a man.”
_A young Fishwife._ “Ay, is there.”
_Omnes._ “Haw! haw! haw!” (The fish-wife hides.)
_Christie._ “Fill your taupsels, lads and lasses, and awa to Veneece.”
_Sandy Liston (sturdily)._ “I'll no gang to sea this day.”
_Christie._ “Noo, we are in the hall o' judgment. Here are set the
judges, awfu' to behold; there, on his throne, presides the Juke.”
_Flucker._ “She's awa to her Ennglish.”
_Lizzy Johnstone._ “Did we come to Veeneece to speak Scoetch, ye useless
fule?”
_Christie._ “Here, pale and hopeless, but resigned, stands the broken
mairchant, Antonio; there, wi scales and knives, and revenge in his
murderin' eye, stands the crewel Jew Shylock.”
“Aweel,” muttered Sandy, considerately, “I'll no mak a disturbance on a
wedding day.”
_Christie._ “They wait for Bell--I dinna mind his mind--a laerned
lawyer, ony way; he's sick, but sends ane mair laerned still, and, when
this ane comes, he looks not older nor wiser than mysel.”
_Flucker._ “No possible!”
_Christie._ “Ye needna be sae sarcy, Flucker, for when he comes to his
wark he soon lets 'em ken--runs his een like lightening ower the boend.
'This bond's forfeit. Is Antonio not able to dischairge the money?'
'Ay!' cries Bassanio, 'here's the sum thrice told.' Says the young judge
in a bit whisper to Shylock, 'Shylock, there's thrice thy money offered
thee. Be mairceful,' says he, out loud. 'Wha'll mak me?' says the Jew
body. 'Mak ye!' says he; 'maircy is no a thing ye strain through a
sieve, mon; it droppeth like the gentle dew fra' heaven upon the place
beneath; it blesses him that gives and him that taks; it becomes the
king better than his throne, and airthly power is maist like God's power
when maircy seasons justice.'”
_Robert Haw, Fisherman._ “Dinna speak like that to me, onybody, or I
shall gie ye my boat, and fling my nets intil it, as ye sail awa wi'
her.”
_Jean Carnie._ “Sae he let the puir deevil go. Oh! ye ken wha could
stand up against siccan a shower o' Ennglish as thaat.”
_Christie._ “He just said, 'My deeds upon my heed. I claim the law,'
says he; 'there is no power in the tongue o' man to alter me. I stay
here on my boend.'”
_Sandy Liston._ “I hae sat quiet!--quiet I hae sat against my will,
no to disturb Jamie Drysel's weddin'; but ye carry the game ower far,
Shylock, my lad. I'll just give yon bluidy-minded urang-utang a hidin',
and bring Tony off, the gude, puir-spirited creature. And him, an' me,
an' Bassanee, an' Porshee, we'll all hae a gill thegither.”
He rose, and was instantly seized by two of the company, from whom he
burst furiously, after a struggle, and the next moment was heard to fall
clean from the top to the bottom of the stairs. Flucker and Jean ran
out; the rest appealed against the interruption.
_Christie._ “Hech! he's killed. Sandy Liston's brake his neck.”
“What aboot it, lassy?” said a young fisherman; “it's Antonio I'm feared
for; save him, lassy, if poessible; but I doot ye'll no get him clear o'
yon deevelich heathen.
“Auld Sandy's cheap sairved,” added he, with all the indifference a
human tone could convey.
“Oh, Cursty,” said Lizzie Johnstone, with a peevish accent, “dinna break
the bonny yarn for naething.”
_Flucker (returning)._ “He's a' reicht.”
_Christie._ “Is he no dead?”
_Flucker._ “Him deed? he's sober--that's a' the change I see.”
_Christie._ “Can he speak? I'm asking ye.”
_Flucker._ “Yes, he can speak.”
_Christie._ “What does he say, puir body?”
_Flucker._ “He sat up, an' sought a gill fra' the wife--puir body!”
_Christie._ “Hech! hech! he was my pupil in the airt o'
sobriety!--aweel, the young judge rises to deliver the sentence of the
coort. Silence!” thundered Christie. A lad and a lass that were slightly
flirting were discountenanced.
_Christie._ “'A pund o' that same mairchant's flesh is thine! the coort
awards it, and the law does give it.'”
_A young Fishwife._ “There, I thoucht sae; he's gaun to cut him, he's
gaun to cut him; I'll no can bide.” _(Exibat.)_
_Christie._ “There's a fulish goloshen. 'Have by a doctor to stop the
blood.'--'I see nae doctor in the boend,' says the Jew body.”
_Flucker._ “Bait your hook wi' a boend, and ye shall catch yon carle's
saul, Satin, my lad.”
_Christie (with dismal pathos)._ “Oh, Flucker, dinna speak evil o'
deegneties--that's maybe fishing for yoursel' the noo!---'An' ye shall
cut the flesh frae off his breest.'--'A sentence,' says Shylock, 'come,
prepare.'”
Christie made a dash _en Shylock,_ and the company trembled.
_Christie._ “'Bide a wee,' says the judge, 'this boend gies ye na a drap
o' bluid; the words expressly are, a pund o' flesh!'”
_(A Dramatic Pause.)_
_Jean Carnie (drawing her breath)._ “That's into your mutton, Shylock”
_Christie (with dismal pathos)._ “Oh, Jean! yon's an awfu' voolgar
exprassion to come fra' a woman's mooth.”
“Could ye no hae said, 'intil his bacon'?” said Lizzie Johnstone,
confirming the remonstrance.
_Christie._ “'Then tak your boend, an' your pund o' flesh, but in
cutting o' 't, if thou dost shed one drop of Christian bluid, thou
diest!'”
_Jean Carnie._ “Hech!”
_Christie._ “'Thy goods are by the laws Veneece con-fis-cate,
confiscate!'”
Then, like an artful narrator, she began to wind up the story more
rapidly.
“Sae Shylock got to be no sae saucy. 'Pay the boend thrice,' says he,
'and let the puir deevil go.'--'Here it's,' says Bassanio.--Na! the
young judge wadna let him.--'He has refused it in open coort; no
a bawbee for Shylock but just the forfeiture; an' he daur na tak
it.'--'I'm awa',' says he. 'The deivil tak ye a'.'--Na! he wasna to win
clear sae; ance they'd gotten the Jew on the hep, they worried him, like
good Christians, that's a fact. The judge fand a law that fitted him,
for conspiring against the life of a citizen; an' he behooved to give up
hoose an' lands, and be a Christian; yon was a soor drap--he tarned no
weel, puir auld villain, an' scairtit; an' the lawyers sent ane o' their
weary parchments till his hoose, and the puir auld heathen signed awa'
his siller, an' Abraham, an' Isaac, an' Jacob, on the heed o' 't. I
pity him, an auld, auld man; and his dochter had rin off wi' a Christian
lad--they ca' her Jessica, and didn't she steal his very diamond
ring that his ain lass gied him when he was young, an' maybe no sae
hard-hairted?”
_Jean Carnie._ “Oh, the jaud! suppose he was a Jew, it was na her
business to clean him oot.”
_A young Fishwife._ “Aweel, it was only a Jew body, that's my comfort.”
_Christie._ “Ye speak as a Jew was na a man; has not a Jew eyes, if ye
please?”
_Lizzy Johnstone._ “Ay, has he!--and the awfuest lang neb atween 'em.”
_Christie._ “Has not a Jew affections, paassions, organs?”
_Jean._ “Na! Christie; thir lads comes fr' Italy!”
_Christie._ “If you prick him, does he not bleed? if you tickle him,
does na he lauch?”
_A young Fishwife (pertly)._ “I never kittlet a Jew, for my pairt--sae
I'll no can tell ye.”
_Christie._ “If you poison him, does he not die? and if you wrang him”
(with fury) “shall he not revenge?”
_Lizzie Johnstone._ “Oh! but ye're a fearsome lass.”
_Christie._ “Wha'll give me a sang for my bonny yarn?”
Lord Ipsden, who had been an unobserved auditor of the latter part of
the tale, here inquired whether she had brought her book.
“What'n buik?”
“Your music-book!”
“Here's my music-book,” said Jean, roughly tapping her head.
“And here's mines,” said Christie, birdly, touching her bosom.
“Richard,” said she, thoughtfully, “I wish ye may no hae been getting in
voolgar company. Div ye think we hae minds like rinning water?”
_Flucker (avec malice)._ “And tongues like the mill-clack abune it?
Because if ye think sae, captain--ye're no far wrang!”
_Christie._ “Na! we hae na muckle gowd maybe; but our minds are gowden
vessels.”
_Jean._ “Aha! lad.”
_Christie._ “They are not saxpenny sieves, to let music an' meter
through, and leave us none the wiser or better. Dinna gang in low
voolgar company, or you a lost laddy.”
_Ipsden._ “Vulgar, again! everybody has a different sense for that word,
I think. What is vulgar?”
_Christie._ “Voolgar folk sit on an chair, ane, twa, whiles three hours,
eatin' an' abune drinkin', as still as hoegs, or gruntin' puir every-day
clashes, goessip, rubbich; when ye are aside them, ye might as weel be
aside a cuddy; they canna gie ye a sang, they canna gie ye a story, they
canna think ye a thoucht, to save their useless lives; that's voolgar
folk.”
She sings. “A caaller herrin'!”
_Jean._ “A caaller herrin'!”
_Omnes._
“Come buy my bonny caaller herrin', Six a penny caaller from the sea,”
etc.
The music chimed in, and the moment the song was done, without pause,
or anything to separate or chill the succession of the arts, the fiddles
diverged with a gallant plunge into “The Dusty Miller.” The dancers
found their feet by an instinct as rapid, and a rattling reel shook the
floor like thunder. Jean Carnie assumed the privilege of a bride, and
seized his lordship; Christie, who had a mind to dance with him too,
took Flucker captive, and these four were one reel! There were seven
others.
The principle of reel dancing is articulation; the foot strikes the
ground for every _accented_ note (and, by the by, it is their weakness
of accent which makes all English reel and hornpipe players such
failures).
And in the best steps of all, which it has in common with the hornpipe,
such as the quick “heel and toe,” “the sailor's fling,” and the “double
shuffle,” the foot strikes the ground for every _single_ note of the
instrument.
All good dancing is beautiful.
But this articulate dancing, compared with the loose, lawless diffluence
of motion that goes by that name, gives me (I must confess it) as much
more pleasure as articulate singing is superior to tunes played on the
voice by a young lady:
Or the clean playing of my mother to the piano-forte splashing of my
daughter; though the latter does attack the instrument as a washerwoman
her soapsuds, and the former works like a lady.
Or skating to sliding:
Or English verse to dactyls in English:
Or painting to daubing:
Or preserved strawberries to strawberry jam.
What says Goldsmith of the two styles? “They swam, sprawled, frisked,
and languished; but Olivia's foot was as pat to the music as its
echo.”--_Vicar of Wakefield._
Newhaven dancing aims also at fun; laughter mingles with agility;
grotesque yet graceful gestures are flung in, and little inspiring cries
flung out.
His lordship soon entered into the spirit of it. Deep in the mystery
of the hornpipe, he danced one or two steps Jean and Christie had never
seen, but their eyes were instantly on his feet, and they caught in a
minute and executed these same steps.
To see Christie Johnstone do the double-shuffle with her arms so saucily
akimbo, and her quick elastic foot at an angle of forty-five, was a
treat.
The dance became inspiriting, inspiring, intoxicating; and, when the
fiddles at last left off, the feet went on another seven bars by the
enthusiastic impulse.
And so, alternately spinning yarns, singing songs, dancing, and making
fun, and mingling something of heart and brain in all, these benighted
creatures made themselves happy instead of peevish, and with a day of
stout, vigorous, healthy pleasure, refreshed, indemnified, and warmed
themselves for many a day of toil.
Such were the two picnics of Inch Coombe, and these rival cliques,
agreeing in nothing else, would have agreed in this: each, if allowed
(but we won't allow either) to judge the other, would have pronounced
the same verdict:
_“Ils ne savent pas vivre ces gens-l'a.”_