United States or Austria ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
It is for you that Shakespeare has written these sad words: 'Make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal. And I, Octave," she added, pointing to her mourning costume, "I am reduced to a single color, and I shall not change it for a long time." "Leave the country if you choose; I will either kill myself or I will follow you. Ah!
'We will begin the story, said M. Vandeloup, in a conversational tone, with an airy wave of his delicate white hand, 'in the good old-fashioned style of our fairy tales. Once upon a time let us say three years ago there lived in Paris a young man called Octave Braulard, who was well born and comfortably off.
This splendid spirit is betrayed by the sordidness of modern life. The exchange for romantic idealism is cynicism and soullessness. Joan does not remain Joan all her life if she 'scapes burning she is quickly destroyed by the world. The philosophy of Voila tout soon possesses her. I always remember the end of Octave Feuillet's "Histoire d'une jeune Parisienne"
"And I wager," added M. de la Rochefoucauld, "that it's against one of the Cardinal-Duke's people." "You are both right, gentlemen; but since when have you laughed at affairs of honor?" "The saints forbid I should," said M. de Beaufort. "Men of the sword like us ever reverence tierce, quarte, and octave; but as for the folds of the cassock, I know nothing of them." "Pardieu!
Octave resumed the letter, but there were passages which he could not read without deep emotion. "'My beloved Husband, You ask me the reason of my sadness. Has it, then, passed from my soul to my face; or have you only guessed it? but how could you fail to do so, one in heart as we are?
It is a great question whether our intellects can grasp the subject. Are we perhaps like a child whose hand is too small to span an octave on the piano? Not only are the facts inhumanly complicated, but the natural ideals of people are so varied and contradictory that action halts in despair.
My aunt might say to her twenty times in a minute: "The end is come at last, my poor Eulalie!", twenty times Eulalie would retort with: "Knowing your illness as you do, Mme. Octave, you will live to be a hundred, as Mme. Sazerin said to me only yesterday."
But it was long before the distance eclipsed that admonitory finger of the Eiffel. Vauquelin manipulating the levers, the plane tilted its nose and swam higher and yet higher. The song of the motor dropped an octave to a richer tone. The speed was sensibly increased.
Suddenly a thought of the little corridor door struck her; she remembered that this door was not usually locked because the one from the library was always closed; she knew that Octave had a key to the latter, and she readily understood how he had reached her apartment. Mustering up all her courage through excessive fear, she returned to the closet, hurried down the stairs, and pushed the bolt.
prosperity Of wicked men runs like a torrent past, And soon is spent. But on this memorable afternoon, when the Cure had come as well, and by his interminable visit had drained my aunt's strength, Francoise followed Eulalie from the room, saying: "Mme. Octave, I will leave you to rest; you look utterly tired out."
Word Of The Day