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Many of the Nice families are titled and wealthy, but with the exception of that of the count de Cessoles, it is very rare to meet the Niçois in society. Mademoiselle Mathilde de Cessoles is the reigning belle, and deserves the honor. She is a superb-looking woman, with a head and countenance worthy of a regal diadem.
Mathilde, dropping her eyes, saw Pete's hand lying on the table. It was stubby, and she loved it the better for being so; it was firm and boyish and exactly like Pete. Looking up, she caught her mother's eye, and they both remembered.
This was the first appearance of Madame Mathilde Anneke, a highly-educated German of noble family, a political exile from Hungary, and a friend of Kossuth. That wonderful colored woman, Sojourner Truth, also was present. The resolutions were, in effect, that "each human being should be the judge of his or her sphere and that human rights should be recognized."
And he carried off Mathilde, who kept drying her eyes with her handkerchief as she went along. Left to himself, M. Saval succeeded in putting everything around him in order. Then he lighted the wax-candles, and waited. He waited for a quarter of an hour, half an hour, an hour. Romantin did not return.
Whatever Adelaide's feelings may have been, she greeted her guest with a positive courtesy, and she was the only one who did. Mrs. Wayne nodded to her son, smiled more formally at Mr. Lanley, and then her eyes falling upon Mathilde, she realized that she had intruded on some sort of conference.
"Bah!" he said, with a gesture dismissing the subject, "I cannot tell you more. It is a woman's secret, Monsieur, not mine. Will you deliver a letter for me in Dantzig, that is all I ask?" "I will give it to Madame Darragon to give to Mademoiselle Mathilde, if you like; I am not returning to Dantzig," replied Louis. But de Casimir shook his head.
I don't care if you succeed or fail, or live all your life in Siam." "What is it, then?" "Pete, it's my mother. She would never consent." Wayne was aware of this, but, then, as he pointed out to Mathilde with great care, Mrs. Farron could not bear for her daughter the pain of separation. "Separation!" cried the girl, "But you just said you would not go if I did not."
Mathilde, when she toiled over her frame, like all great writers, was doubtless quite unconscious she was producing a masterpiece. She was, however, in point of fact, the very first among the great French realists. No other French writer has written as graphically as she did with her needle, of the life and customs of their day.
It cannot be as a speculation, as the price is excessive." "He intends to marry Helga Lindal and live there so that she will not be too far from her father, to whom she is so much attached," said Mathilde Jensen, laughing. "I can explain it all for him." "Thank you, for disposing of my affairs so nicely," said Hardy; "you have saved me a good deal of explanation."
Ah! it was a lucky chance that I met her! I no longer do anything without consulting her; I let her do as she likes; she manages everything, upon my word. The truth was that Mathilde had finished by reducing him to the frightened obedience of a little boy. The once dissolute she-ghoul had become a dictatorial spouse, eager for respect, and consumed with ambition and love of money.
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