"
"We're not far from Fontanelle now," said Mother Meraut; "don't
you think we'd better go on?"
"We can't get there without stopping somewhere to eat, anyway,"
said Father Meraut. "It's already eleven o'clock, and I'd rather
find out about the soldiers than eat." So they tied the Ark to a
willow tree and went ashore.
In a moment more they were in a city of soldiers, and Father
Meraut was making friends with some of the men who were lounging
near the cook-house, sniffing the savory smell of soup which
issued from it in appetizing gusts. Pierre and Pierrette sniffed
too, and even Mother Meraut could not help saying appreciatively,
"That cook knows how to make soup." Pierre laid his hand upon his
stomach and smacked his lips. "Pierre," said his mother,
reprovingly, "where are your manners, child?"
At that moment two soldiers were passing--one a tall, thin man,
and one much smaller. They paused and laughed, and the tall man
laid his hand on his stomach, too, and smacked his lips.
"Are you hungry, kid?" he said genially to Pierre. Pierre looked
blank.
The short man punched the tall man in the ribs. "Don't you see
he's French," he said derisively. "Did you think you were back
home in Illinois? Why don't you try some of your parley-voo on
him? You're not getting on with the language; here's your chance
for a real Parisian accent."
"Oh, g'wan," answered the tall man. "Try your own French on him!
I guess it won't kill him; he looks strong.
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