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A sudden impulse seized her, and with a quick explosion of feeling she dropped on her knees, and looking into his eyes, as though hungering for the words she so often yearned to hear, she said: "You love your mother, Guilbert? You love her, little son?"
Lately Yvette Guilbert has been making some strange remarks concerning drama and dramatists. Her words demand attention since they come from the lips of a woman of genius. In our time the domain between the theatre and the concert-room has produced no artist of her rank. One recollects her different styles.
But when she understood that in that crowd, among whom many perhaps had loved her, no one now would defend her, she rose and left her box, while some of the most excited hustled into the corridor to hoot her in passing. She at last escaped and got to her house in the Rue Guilbert, and the next day she left Caen forever.
If ever Guilbert be in great temptation, tell him his father's story, and read him these words to you, written, as you see, with the cramped fingers of death. He could scarcely hold the pen now, and his eyes were growing dim. . . . I am come to the end of my strength. I thought I loved you, Guida, but I know now that it was not love not real love. Yet it was all a twisted manhood had to give.
Recovering herself, however, and with an air of bright friendliness, she laid a hand upon the great arm-chair, above which hung the ancient sword of her ancestor, the Comte Guilbert Mauprat de Chambery, and said: "Sit here, Ranulph."
If the Templars had been accused of the crimes vulgarly supposed to attach themselves to religious orders; if they had been charged with falling into the sins to which poor human nature by its frailty is liable; if erring members had been denounced, men who had entered the order through disappointment, or from some other unworthy motive, men such as Sir Walter Scott depicts in his imaginary Templar, Brian de Bois Guilbert, in his novel, Ivanhoe, we might well believe that some at least of the accusations against them were true.
They read three or four papers, Parisian papers, and read them like true Parisians. It took a short fifteen minutes. While reading they exchanged short remarks about the new ministry, the races at Auteuil, and Yvette Guilbert particularly about Yvette Guilbert. Young Chamblard had been to hear her the day before, and he hummed the refrain: "Un fiacre allait trottinant Cahin-caha Hu dia! Hop l
Frank, did you ever see the 'bundle of muslin' that His Excellency has wrapped up and carried off?" "Isabel Guilbert?" said Goodwin, laughing. "No, I never did. From what I've heard of her, though, I imagine that she wouldn't stick at anything to carry her point. Don't get romantic, Billy. Sometimes I begin to fear that there's Irish blood in your ancestry."
An obscure Captain of Territorials might well be called Guilbert, and pass unidentified. As they pressed hands at parting, Rust hesitated. "May one hope, madame, to meet you again. Your kindness has been great, and I feel that I have made a new friend." "And I also," sighed Madame. "I often come here to drink the English tea. It is a pleasing custom of London." "To-morrow?" he inquired anxiously.
"No, I'm not or rather, I was, but I feel wonderfully!" Alice said. "Pour the tea, Kitten. What have you two little adventurers been doing with yourselves?" "Mrs. Dupré's party Yvette Guilbert," Leslie said. "She is quite too wonderful!" "I've always wanted to see her, and I've always known I would adore her," Norma interpolated, dreamily. Alice glanced at her quickly.
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