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He then placed himself in position. An extreme indecision marked Gerfaut's attitude. After raising his gun, he dropped it to the ground with a despondent gesture, as if his resolution to fire had suddenly abandoned him; the pallor of death could not be more terrible than that which overspread his features. The howling of the dogs and shouts of the hunters increased.
I know that I am not very sensible, and so it is necessary that my husband should be wise enough for both. Christian is nine years older than you, is he not?" "Do you think that is too much?" asked Madame de Bergenheim. "Quite the contrary." "What age should you like your husband to be?" "Oh! thirty," replied the young girl, after a slight hesitation. "Monsieur de Gerfaut's age?"
"She is very pretty! and then it is the Holy Virgin, you know Ah! I hear Monsieur de Gerfaut's voice in the garden." The young girl arose quickly and ran to the window, where, concealed behind the curtains, she could see what was going on outside without being seen herself. "He is with Christian," she continued. "There, they are going to the library.
I know that I am not very sensible, and so it is necessary that my husband should be wise enough for both. Christian is nine years older than you, is he not?" "Do you think that is too much?" asked Madame de Bergenheim. "Quite the contrary." "What age should you like your husband to be?" "Oh! thirty," replied the young girl, after a slight hesitation. "Monsieur de Gerfaut's age?"
Clemence drew herself up upon the divan, crossed her arms over her breast and gazed at him for a few moments in silence. "Do you believe these two sentiments incompatible?" she asked at last; "you are the only one whom I fear. Others would not complain." There was such irresistible charm in her voice and glance that Gerfaut's ill-humor melted away like ice in the sun's rays.
I know that I am not very sensible, and so it is necessary that my husband should be wise enough for both. Christian is nine years older than you, is he not?" "Do you think that is too much?" asked Madame de Bergenheim. "Quite the contrary." "What age should you like your husband to be?" "Oh! thirty," replied the young girl, after a slight hesitation. "Monsieur de Gerfaut's age?"
Twenty-eight months later the Parisian journals, in their turn, inserted, with but slight variations, the following article: "Nothing could give any idea of the enthusiasm manifested at the Theatre- Francais last evening, at the first representation of Monsieur de Gerfaut's new drama.
Marillac was not intimidated this time by Gerfaut's withering glance, but, with the obstinacy of drunkenness, continued in a more or less stammering voice: "I swore that I would gloss it over; you annoy me. I committed an error, gentlemen, in calling the lover in this story Octave. It is as clear as day that his name is Boleslas, Boleslas Matalowski.
There was something so serious and urgent in Gerfaut's accent as he said these words, that the artist got up at once and hurriedly dressed himself. "What is the matter?" he asked, as he put on his dressing-gown, "you look as if the affairs of the nation rested upon you." "Put on your coat and boots," said Octave, "you must go to La Fauconnerie.
He then placed himself in position. An extreme indecision marked Gerfaut's attitude. After raising his gun, he dropped it to the ground with a despondent gesture, as if his resolution to fire had suddenly abandoned him; the pallor of death could not be more terrible than that which overspread his features. The howling of the dogs and shouts of the hunters increased.
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