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"Anatole Labergerie is a respectable garage-keeper. I know him well. Half an hour ago I called him out of bed, chiefly on account of his front name, and he told me that Mr. Hunter hired a car from him last evening, but never showed up at the appointed place and time, and the chauffeur brought the car back to the garage to wait further orders."
The rumbling grew stronger and stronger down in the depths, and Monsieur Anatole again began to feel the effects of the truffles. Mademoiselle Adèle half rose; the music would not let her lie in peace. Here and there the firelight shone on a pair of black eyes staring at the artist.
In a sleigh drawn by two gray trotting-horses that were bespattering the dashboard with snow, Anatole and his constant companion Makarin dashed past. Anatole was sitting upright in the classic pose of military dandies, the lower part of his face hidden by his beaver collar and his head slightly bent.
She sat at the foot of my bed and told me her story. It is so remarkable that I must set in down on paper. Now I understand her nice hands and all her ways. I understand, too, how it came about that I found her one day turning over the pages of a volume by Anatole France, as though she could read French. Her parents had been married twelve years when she was born.
Have a drink!" said Anatole, and filled a large glass of Madeira for him. The driver's eyes sparkled at the sight of the wine. After refusing it for manners' sake, he drank it and wiped his mouth with a red silk handkerchief he took out of his cap. "And when are we to start, your excellency?" "Well..." Anatole looked at his watch. "We'll start at once. Mind, Balaga! You'll get there in time? Eh?"
All which Hyde executed promptly and punctiliously. Anatole suffered him to do as he pleased, and Hyde escaped through the back entrance just as the other policemen rushed in at the front. "After him! Run! Fifty francs to whoever stops him!" But Hyde had the heels of them. He ran out and through a little courtyard at the back communicating with the street.
Last night we attacked them in three columns, 10,000 strong, and drove them out." "Well done!" "It was splendidly done!" went on Anatole, bombastically. "Three times the enemy tried to retake their ambuscades; three times we beat them back at the point of the bayonet, so!" And the excitable Frenchman jumped from his seat and went through the pantomime of charging with the bayonet.
The best idea of the inconceivable antiquity of that enterprise I can give you is by stating the nature of the explorer's ship. It was a trough of stone, a vessel of hollowed granite. The explorer was St. Mael, a saint of Armorica. I had never heard of him before, but I believe now in his arduous existence with a faith which is a tribute to M. Anatole France's pious earnestness and delicate irony.
It was barely a dozen yards to the wine-shop, and they walked there arm-in-arm in boisterous good-fellowship, elbowing their way through the crowd in a manner that was not exactly popular. "Take care, imbecile!" cried one hulking fellow whom Anatole had shouldered off the path. "Make room, then," replied our friend, rudely.
On entering the room now he crossed himself, turning toward the front corner of the room, and went up to Dolokhov, holding out a small, black hand. "Theodore Ivanych!" he said, bowing. "How d'you do, friend? Well, here he is!" "Good day, your excellency!" he said, again holding out his hand to Anatole who had just come in.
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