United States or Czechia ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
For the moment Marguerite's sweet face had become as white as the soft fichu which swathed her throat, and a very keen observer might have noted that the hand which held the tall, beribboned stick was clenched, and trembled somewhat.
She led him to Marguerite's special work-table, under the curtained window. There, on a sheet of paper stretched upon a drawing-board, was the finished design which Marguerite had been labouring at for two days.
"Nay, citoyenne, I offer you a chance of saving the brother you love from the consequences of his own folly." Marguerite's face softened, her eyes at last grew moist, as she murmured, half to herself: "The only being in the world who has loved me truly and constantly . . . But what do you want me to do, Chauvelin?" she said, with a world of despair in her tear-choked voice.
Marguerite's Faith in Supernatural Intelligence. After this fatal event, which was as unfortunate for France as for me, we went to Lyons to give the meeting to the King of Poland, now Henri III. of France. The new King was as much governed by Le Guast as ever, and had left this intriguing, mischievous man behind in France to keep his party together.
"I shall be glad to go on with the spoiling," the girl said in a sweet, earnest tone. "I want to do all I can to make you happy to make up for the years when you did not have me." Marguerite's eyes were lustrous with deep feeling. Her words went to the mother's heart.
"Cher ami," she murmured hastily, in a piercing whisper, like some articulate sigh, "si tu m'aimes, dis moi!" The door closed in the draught, the drawing-room door opened, and Mr. Laudersdale stepped out, having been awaiting their return. Mr. Raleigh caught the flash of Marguerite's eye and the crimson of her cheek, as she sprang forward up the stairs and out of sight.
All these circumstances, often repeated in Paris, the mother city of scandal, had begun to be forgotten, and I was even little by little forgetting the part I had taken in them, when a new incident brought to my knowledge the whole of Marguerite's life, and acquainted me with such pathetic details that I was taken with the idea of writing down the story which I now write.
Suzanne, distracted with grief, her brow pressed against the bed, wept bitterly, repeating over and over again the words: "Margot, my poor Margot, my little one!" She had always called her "my little one," while Marguerite's name for the elder was invariably "sister." A footstep sounded on the stairs. The door opened. An acolyte appeared, followed by the aged priest in his surplice.
"Madame, a gentleman from Paris, an envoy from the Louvre to the king of Navarre, and sent by his majesty to you, desires to speak to your majesty." A sudden flush passed over Marguerite's face, and she turned quickly. Chicot was standing near; Marguerite quitted the circle, and waving an adieu to the company, advanced toward the Gascon. "M. Chicot!" cried she in astonishment.
But he now saw Marguerite's father again a quite different person from the factotum.... Strange, how the house seemed forlorn! 'Something about a baby, Agg had said vaguely. And it was as though something that Mr. Haim and his wife had concealed had burst from its concealment and horrified and put a curse on the whole Grove. Something not at all nice!
Word Of The Day