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At this, my agitation was sudden and very great, for there was no one I wished to prevent perceiving my condition more than that old Antonio Caravacioli! I had not known that he was in Paris, but I could have no doubt it was himself: the monocle, the handsome nose, the toupee', the yellow skin, the dyed-black moustache, the splendid height it was indeed Caravacioli!
He went on triumphantly: "This rascal, my dear ladies, who has persuaded you to ask him to dinner, this camel who claims to be my excellent brother, he, for a few francs, in Paris, shaved his head and showed it for a week to the people with an advertisement painted upon it of the worst ballet in Paris. This is the gentleman with whom you ask Caravacioli to dine!"
Poor Jr. put his hand on my shoulder, and we walked out into the dark of the terrace. Antonio was leaning against the railing, the beautiful lady standing near. Mrs. Landry had sunk into a chair beside her daughter. No other people were upon the terrace. "Prince Caravacioli has been speaking of you," said Poor Jr., very quietly. "Ah?" said I.
"Twenty years after this young this somewhat young Prince was born she divorced his father, Caravacioli, and married a poor poet, whose bust you can see on the Pincian in Rome, though he died in the cheapest hotel in Sienna when my true brother and I were children. This young Prince would have nothing to do with my mother after her second marriage and " "Marriage!"
She strained her eyes at me fixedly; I saw the tears standing still in them, and I knew the moment had come. "This Caravacioli is my half-brother," I said. Antonio laughed again. "Of what kind!" Oh, he went on so easily to his betrayal, not knowing the United-Statesians and their sentiment, as I did. "We had the same mother," I continued, as quietly as I could.
I saw him there with his painted head and I understood! You saw him there, and you did nothing to help him! And the two little children your nieces, too, and he your brother!" Then my heart melted and I found myself choking, for the beautiful lady was weeping. "Not for you, Prince Caravacioli," she cried, through her tears, "Not for you!"
It was only at such times when the mortifications to appear so greatly embarrassed became stronger than the embarrassment itself that I could by will power force my head to a straight construction and look out upon my spectators firmly. On the second day of my ordeal, so facing the laughers, I found myself facing straight into the monocle of my half-brother and ill-wisher, Prince Caravacioli.
The beautiful lady took Poor Jr.'s hand, more than he hers, for he seemed dazed, in spite of the straight way he stood, and it was easy to behold how white his face was. She made the presentation of us both at the same time, and as the other man came into the light, my mouth dropped open with wonder at the singular chances which the littleness of our world brings about. "Prince Caravacioli, Mr.
That rascally old Antonio was now the head of all the Caravacioli, as was I of my own outcast branch of our house that is, of my two little nieces and myself.
A man whose head-top had borne an advertisement of the Folie-Rouge to think he could be making a combat with the Prince Caravacioli! Leaning over the railing in the darkest corner of the terrace, I felt my hand grasped secondarily by that good friend of mine. "God bless you!" whispered Poor Jr. "On my soul, I believe he's done himself. Listen!" I turned.
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