They curse you every bit as hard as they used to bless the late Madame.

The curse of the poor, monseigneur, is a seed that grows,--grows taller than your tall oaks, and oak-wood builds the scaffold.

Nobody here tells you the truth; and here it is, yes, the truth! I expect to die before long, and I risk very little in telling it to you, the _truth_! I, who play for the peasants to dance at the great fetes at Soulanges, I heed what the people say.

Well, they're all against you; and they'll make it impossible for you to stay here.

If that damned Michaud of yours doesn't change, they'll force you to change him.