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Élodie gave him a long look out of her dancing, wanton eyes. "You know how to hate, Monsieur Gamelin, are we to conclude you know also how to lo...?" "Is that you, Gamelin?" broke in a tenor voice; it was the citoyen Blaise just come back to his shop.
We walked down the terrace in silence to the salon door just inside which was the lift which took one down some four stories to the street. Two things were obvious: the perturbation of the simple Lackaday and the jealousy of Elodie. "Au revoir, monsieur, et merci," she said, with over emphasized politeness, as we stood at the lift gates.
But the psychological fact remains that Andrew Lackaday needed some magnetic contact with another individuality, animal or human, to exhibit his qualities. There, in counselling splendid isolation, Elodie Figasso, the little Marseilles gutter fairy was wrong. She saw, clearly enough, that, subordinated to others, with no chance of developing his one personality he must fail.
All the glory of the war has ended, my dear. A breath. Phew! Out goes the candle." But Elodie would have none of this pessimistic philosophy. "You are a General to the end of your days." They mounted to the flat in the Faubourg Saint-Denis. To Andrew, accustomed of late months to the greater spaciousness of English homes, it seemed small and confined and close.
Philippe Desmahis was at work before a pigeon-cote in the picaresque manner of Callot and Duplessis. Old Brotteaux who piqued himself on imitating the Flemings, was drawing a cow with infinite care. Élodie was sketching a peasant's hut, while her friend Julienne, who was a colourman's daughter, set her palette.
"Encore une etoile qui file, File, file et disparait!" "Oh no, my dear friend," laughed Bakkus. "He can't persuade us, Lady Auriol, that he is afflicted with the morbidezza of 1830." "Qu'est-ce que c'est que cela?" asked Elodie, sharply. "It was a fashion long ago, my dear, for poets to assume the gaiety of a funeral. Even Beranger who wrote Le Roi d'Yvetot you know it "
But of Andrew with his weather-beaten mug of a face marked with new, deep lines of thought and pain, sitting there courteous and simple, yet preoccupied, strangely aloof, the easy cynic felt curiously afraid. And when Elodie taxed him with pusillanimity he glanced at Andrew. "He has made up his mind," he replied. "Some people's minds are made up of sand and water.
Before he realized what was being done, Elodie, in her tempestuous swiftness, had done it. It was only when she came to fix the cross on his breast that his soul sprang to irresistible revolt. He could have taken her by the throat and wrung it, and flung her away dead. Thus, they were infinite leagues asunder.
"I must do like all other demobilized men return to my trade." Elodie nearly fainted. For months the prospect had hung over them like a doom; ever since the brigade which he commanded in England had dissolved through demobilization, and he, left in the air, had applied disastrously to the War Office for further employment.
But since he loved Elodie more than himself which was perhaps the only redeeming feature of this sorry business he said nothing, nor did more than to journey south to Edmonton, leaving the younger man alone in Fort Rae to the White Silence. But his soul was stirred. In the course of nature and of time Galen Albret had a daughter, but lost a wife.
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