• fe. A kindly word, a s
  • miling glance, o
  • n passing, suffice

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d a vague conservative outlook due, most likely, to antipathy to his democratic Swiss relatives, who sent eight pounds to the relief of his impoverished mother, and to a nervous shrinking from democracy in general as represented by his pupils. But in this backwater of the world he encountered a political spirit intensely alive. Vital principles formed the subject of easy, yet stern discussion. Beneath the calm of peaceful commerce and agriculture he felt the pulse of France throbbing in fierce determination to maintain her national existence. Every man had been a soldier; some of the elders had fought in 1870, and those who had grown up sons we

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re the fathers of soldiers. Martin realised that whereas in England, in time of peac

e, the private soldier was tolerated as a picturesque, goo

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must live on bread and beef. How are you going to get them?” “I’ll get them somehow,” said he. “I’m waiting for Fortinbras.” To this determination had he come after three weeks residence in Brant?me. The poor-spirited drudge had drunk of the waters of life and was a drudge no more. He had passed into another world. Far remote, as down the clouded vista of long memory, he saw the bare, hopeless class room and the pale, pinched faces of the students. All

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that belonged to a vague past. It had no concern with the present or the future. How he had arrived at this state of being he could not tell. The change had been wrought little by little, day by day. The ten years of his servitude had been blocked out. He had the thrilling sense of starting life afresh at thirty, as he had started it, a boy of twenty. There was so much more in the open world than he had dreamed of. If the worst came to the worst he could go forth i

nto it, knapsack on shoulders and seek his fortune; and every step he took would carry him further from Margett’s Universal College. “When is that fraud of a m

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I can’t stay idling here for ever.” “But you have been here no time at all,” said he. “Just a little bird that comes and perches on

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this balustrade, looks this side and that side out of its bright eyes and then flies away.” “Oui, c’est comme ?a,” said Corinna. “V

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oilà!” He sighed and turned to throw his broad-brimmed hat on a neighbouring table. “That’s the worst of our infamous trade of hotel k

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eeping. You meet sincere and candid souls whose friendship you crave, but before you have time to win it, away they go like the little bir

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d, for ever and ever out of your life.” “But you have won my friendship, Monsieur Bigourdin,” said Corinna, with rising colour. “You

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are very gracious, Mademoiselle Corinne. But why take it from me as soon as it is given?” “I don’t,” she retorted. “I shall always

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remember you and your kindness.” “A?e, a?e! You know our saying: Tout passe, tout casse, tout lasse. It is the way of the world, the wa

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y of humanity. We say that we will remember—but other things come to dim memory, to blunt sentiment—enfin, we forget, not because we wan

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皔ou’ll forget our friendship too. So we’ll be quits.” “Never, mademoiselle,” he cried illogically. “Your friendship will always be preciou

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s to me. You came into this dull house with your youth, your freshness, your wit and your charm—different from the ordinary hotel guest you have

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joined my little intimate family life—Félise, for example adores you—were it not for her mother, you would be her ideal. And I——” “And you

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, Monsieur Bigourdin?” Her voice had the flat sound of a wooden mallet striking a peg. The huge man bowed with considerable dignity. “I shall

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miss terribly all that you have brought into this house, Mademoiselle.” Corinna relaxed into a mocking smile. “Fortinbras warned us that you w

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ere a poet, Monsieur Bigourdin.” “Every honest man whose eyes can see the beautiful things of life must be a poet of a kind. It is not necessar

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y to scribble verses.” “But do you? Do you write verse?” “Jamais de la vie” he declared stoutly. “An h?telier like me count syllables on h

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tinental thought, he had ted; his interest in p
olitics had been mild and
e had adopte Your email has been delivered.

is fingers? Ah, non! I can make excellent paté de foie gras—no one better in Périgord—but I

should make execrable verses. Ah, voyons donc!”

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