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The influence of the reconciled nobles was brought to bear with fatal effect upon the states of Artois, Hainault, and of a portion of French Flanders.
"Good-evening, Ruffo," Artois said, looking at the boy. "Good-evening, Signore." Ruffo took off his cap. He was going to put it back on his dark hair, when Artois held his arm. "Wait a minute, Ruffo!" The boy looked surprised, but met fearlessly the eyes that were gazing into his. "Va bene, Ruffo." Artois released his arm, and Ruffo put on his cap.
"Tea!" she said, "all alone with me for a treat!" "Isn't your mother in?" "No. She's gone to Naples. I'm very, very sorry. Make the best of it, Monsieur Emile, for the sake of my amour propre. I said I was sorry but that was only for you, and Madre." Artois smiled. "Is an old shoe a worthy object of gross flattery?" he said. "No." "Then "
"I believe he would like to kill her." "It makes him sad to see her crying, perhaps," said Artois. "Gaspare loved the signore." He saluted the fisherman and rode on. But the man followed and kept by his side. "I will take you across in a boat, signore," he said. "Grazie." Artois struck the donkey and made it trot on in the dust.
As to the vines they were all devoured by the phylloxera, and he had no money to buy and plant vines from America. Artois hinted that he received a good rent from the English lady for the cottage on Monte Amato.
As he waded in the water, coming ever nearer to the jagged rocks that shut out from his sight the wide sea and something else, he felt as if thinking and living were in opposition, as if the one were destructive of the other; and the desire to be clever, to be talented, which had often assailed him since he had known, and especially since he had loved, Hermione, died out of him, and he found himself vaguely pitying Artois, and almost despising the career and the fame of a writer.
Artois thought, "I have seen you there without consciously noticing you." "You live there?" he said. "Si, Signore; I live with my mamma and my Patrigno." "Your Patrigno," Artois said, merely to continue the conversation. "Then your father is dead?" "Si, Signore, my Babbo is dead." They were on the plateau now, before the house.
To them it was sacred ground, this line from the long ridge of Notre Dame de Lorette, past Arras, the old capital of Artois, to Hebuterne, where it linked up with the British army already on the Somme. Every field here was a graveyard of their heroic dead.
Peter Flotte dwelt especially on this latter argument, and appealed in turn to the interests of the nobility and of the clergy, and to national pride. The fiery Count of Artois arose, and exclaimed that even if the King submitted to the encroachments of the Pope, the nobility would not suffer them, and that the gentry would never acknowledge any temporal superior other than the King.
She would dine quietly here, and then walk back to the sea in the cool of the evening. That was her decision. Yet when evening fell, and her bill was paid, she took the tram that was going down to Naples, and passed presently before the eyes of Artois. The coming of darkness had revived within her much of the mood of the afternoon.
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