He spitted half a dozen of you before breakfast, to give him a relish.

How did Rire-pour-tout die?
I will tell you." He dipped his long mustaches into a beaker of still champagne.

Claude, Viscomte de Chanrellon, though in the ranks, could afford those luxuries.
"He died this way, did Rire-pour-tout! Dieu de Dieu! a very good way too.

Send us all the like when our time comes! We were out yonder" (and he nodded his handsome head outward to where the brown, seared plateaux and the Kabyl mountains lay).

"We were hunting Arabs, of course--pot-shooting, rather, as we never got nigh enough to their main body to have a clear charge at them.