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The fact is, that for some time he had been the hero of a comedy and of a drama; the grotesque comedy which he had unrolled with his servant, the terrible drama in which he saw himself involved with Suzanne Durand. And he was wearied and satiated. The satisfaction of his senses left him by way of retaliation, shame, trouble and fear.
He laid his arm to her waist and held her hand, but something in her mood stayed him from any expression. Through dinner at the hotel it was the same and on the way to the train, for she wanted to walk through the dark. Under some tall trees, though, in the rich moonlight prevailing, he pressed her hand. "Oh, Suzanne," he said. "No, no," she breathed, drawing back.
Suzanne and Zinti mingled with this crowd of fugitives, taking a position almost in the midst of it, for they did not wish to pass out either among the first or the last. There they waited a while, none noting them, for in their great agony of thirst all thought of themselves and not of their neighbours.
"Madame is coming out to-night?" "Presently. Be in the arcade." He swept away with the ample magnificence of joyous bearing and movement that was like a loud Te Deum. "Suzanne! Suzanne!" Domini had finished her coffee. "Mam'zelle!" answered Suzanne, appearing. "Would you like to come out with me to-night?" "Mam'zelle is going out?" "Yes, to see the village by night." Suzanne looked irresolute.
That night he lurked once more in the shrubbery. He had been there nearly every night, hopeful that Suzanne would pass again, but not until tonight did she come. The tall figure, swathed almost to the eyes in a heavy cloak, came down the terrace to the walk, and John whistled low a note of a French folksong.
They were lodged in the governor's quarters in the fortress, where the accommodation for ladies was of the slenderest, and M. de Nidemerle made many apologies, though he had evidently given up his own sleeping chamber to the two ladies, who would have to squeeze into his narrow camp-bed, with Suzanne on the floor, and the last was to remain there entirely, there being no woman with whom she could have her meals.
Let us repeat continually: it is absurd to force sentiments into one formula: appearing as they do, in each individual man, they combine with the elements that form his nature and take his own physiognomy. Madame Granson, as she stood on that fatal spot, saw a woman approach it, who exclaimed, "Was it here?" That woman wept as the mother wept. It was Suzanne.
Julie and Suzanne followed von Arnheim to a stairway, and John was left alone with medievalism. The man wore no armor, but when only they two stood in the room his feeling that he was back in the Middle Ages was overpowering. Here was the baron, and here was he, untitled and unknown. Auersperg glanced at Julie, disappearing up the stairway, and then glanced back at John.
Rectangles of brown and faded gold were stitched to a neutral backing some were small, some large, some nearly square, others long and thin. Short irregularly curved stems cut from cloth mostly black, a few reddish brown were sewn randomly over the rectangles, crossing over and under each other, separate, yet interlocking. He saw it suddenly. "The field! Looking down." "Bingo!" Suzanne said.
And, as you know, you've never had any real objection to me except that I'm not a Frenchman. And am I not becoming such as fast as possible?" "You don't look very much like one, but you act like one and often you talk like one." "Thanks, Suzanne. That's praise coming from you." "Now be off with you.
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