Word: bleu
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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When the Law or a woman has pinioned a man, let him wriggle out and flee to Sidi-bel-Abbes, Algeria. From that headquarters of the French Foreign Legion he can go forth a bleu, with wages of six cents per month in his pocket, and no fear of extradition. His lot will be a sandy purgatory of heat, fever, mosquitoes, mangy beasts and tribesmen foes who fight like jackals-but there will be "no questions asked". . . . Such a life attracts not only fugitives, but honest youths athirst for adventure. Such a life attracted Bennett J. Doty of Biloxi, Miss...
...wartime antics of les soldats americains. Certain hotels and restaurants were made by a well-disposed government to standardize their prices in order to prevent profiteering. Police went around cleaning up the streets, arresting those "who nightly seek adven-ture," raiding "certain low class places." Declared Le Petit Bleu: "It is perhaps conceivable?with-out being excusable?that we might receive badly those Americans who came to France to amuse themselves and who wish in our noble, laborious country only those amusements not French except in name, and which the French unanimously despise...
...Still twitching on the ground lay a buck deer. "Sapristi!" muttered Mr. Lebouf. "She sure ees one fine head of horns. By gar, I feex him, queeck!" Forgetting his gun he fumbled in his pocket for his shipping license, whipped it out, tied it to a horn. "Sac' bleu, no man can come an' take heem now," whispered Mr. Lebouf. He proudly examined the body to see where' his bullet had struck. Tickled back to consciousness by Mr. Lebouf's fingers, the buck leaped up, off, away.* "Norn de nom! Crees' de Kilvert!" commented...
...dislike hearing a man go singing to his death when one is sure he will return. The colonel had to return, if only to wave his handkerchief. By the way, devotees of the Metropolitan should see the uniform on--was he a captain? That alone is worth, sacre bleu, twelve thousand francs of my uncle's money
...defense: "This creature Davillard, my dishwasher, my scullion, what did he do that I should stab him in the chest with my carving skewer? Ha! Nom de Dieu! Standing at his filthy sink, he declared that my sauces stink, that they engender colic in delicate stomachs. My sauces! Sacre bleu! The pride of my cuisine. The pride of France. . . . "Mes amis, the sensibilities, the temperament of a great chef cannot be thus baited with impunity! Blood swam before my eyes. ... I skewered him it is true. . . . Next day he died at the hospital. . . . But it was to avenge...