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Marie trifled with the cat and got one hand well scratched for his trouble, but in five minutes there came a knocking at the door. He laughed a little. "Michel grows ceremonious when it's a question of food," he said. "Entrez, mon vieux!" The door opened, and Ste. Marie caught his breath. "Michel is busy," said Coira O'Hara, "so I have brought your coffee."
Henri Drumont, in his delightful Mon Vieux Paris, deplores this modern mania for reform which has done such good work in the new quarters but should, he thinks, respect the historic streets and shady squares. One naturally feels that the sights familiar in youth lose by being transformed and doubts the necessity of such improvements. The Rome of my childhood is no more!
They stopped at the sign of the Fox, in the Rue du Vieux Colombier, a tavern known for many years by Athos, and asked for two bedrooms. "You must dress yourself, Raoul," said Athos, "I am going to present you to some one." "To-day, monsieur?" asked the young man. "In half an hour." The young man bowed.
M. Grévy le vieux, "the old fellow," as his Parisians irreverently called him was deeply attached to his daughter, whose husband, M. Daniel Wilson, a presumptuous, speculative person, had made himself obnoxious to society and to all the political parties. This man lived at the Élysée with his family, and made free use of presidential privileges.
Vincent de Paul, at the time of their re-establishment in their house, in the Rue du Vieux Colombier, after the Revolution, wore black dresses and caps. On the fourth Sunday in Advent, 1804, Pope Pius the Seventh visited the community. He seemed surprised that the Sisters had not resumed the habit of their order; but he was told that no community had dared to show the religious habit abroad.
"Vieux bon peuple, a coups de bequilles, Cassons ce Louvre ou s'etala La monarchie en falbala. Ou vont les belles filles, Lon la. "Nous en avons force les grilles, Le roi Charles-Dix ce jour la, Tenait mal et se decolla. Ou vont les belles filles, Lon la." The post's recourse to arms was not without result. The cart was conquered, the drunken man was taken prisoner.
Out of the crowd came a pretty Frenchwoman and, understanding the man, though she had not met him before, she held out her arms to him and raised her face. "Allons-donc, mon vieux!" she said. The man put his arms about her and kissed her, while tears streamed down his face, covered in sweat and dust. He was comforted, like a boy who had hurt himself, in his mother's arms.
The Etang du Vieux Bourg is its name; for, so tradition tells, in the beginning of the seventeenth century the old French town stood where the white coral- reef gleams under water; in fact, upon the northern lip of the crater. One day, however, the Enceladus below turned over in his sleep, and the whole town was swallowed up, or washed away.
Yet, once in a while, as a special luxury, the Mistress had been wont to give him a solitary lump of sugar. Since his arrival in France, the dog had never seen nor scented such a thing until now. Yet he did not jump for the gift. He did not try to snatch it from Vivier. Instead, he waited until the old Frenchman held it closer toward him, with the invitation: "Take it, mon vieux! It is for you."
It was hoisted onto the front seat beside the chauffeur, who, far from grumbling at its size, was most solicitous in placing it so that it would not jar. "We mustn't break the dolls," he said with a wink. Arriving at the station he insisted upon carrying it to the baggage room for us. "Hey, mon vieux!" he addressed the baggage man, "step lively and get that case on the train for Noyon.
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