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Though they were accustomed to a life of misfortune, they had been struck, since their arrival in the Rue Brise Miche, with the painful contrast between the poor dwelling which they had come to inhabit, and the wonders which their young imagination had conceived of Paris, that golden city of their dreams.
The mother looked up into her face and said: "No, it is nothing, nothing, only that " turning her head from side to side with a slow, emotional emphasis, "Miché Vignevielle is the best best man on the good Lord's earth!" Olive drew a chair close to her mother, sat down and took the little yellow hands into her own white lap, and looked tenderly into her eyes.
As he arrived in the philosophe's sick-chamber where he found her sitting in a chair set well back from a small fire she half-whispered "Miché" with a fine, greeting smile, as if to a brother after a week's absence.
But at length, one day in May, 1822, in a small private office behind Monsieur Vignevielle's banking-room, he sitting beside a table, and she, more timid and demure than ever, having just taken a chair by the door, she said, trying, with a little bashful laugh, to make the matter seem unimportant, and yet with some tremor of voice: "Miché Vignevielle, I bin maguing my will."
No matter how late or how early you were abroad, you would be sure to encounter Bibi, wide-awake, somewhere in the Boul' Miche, between the Luxembourg and the Rue des Ecoles. That was his beat. Perhaps one of the benches was his home. He lived in a state of approximate intoxication. I never drew near to him without getting a whiff of alcohol, yet I never saw him radically drunk.
"Certainly, Miché Thompson, of course I shall; you will make out the paper and I will swear before God that it is true! Only" turning to the ladies "do not tell Olive; she will never believe it. It will break her heart! It"
He sat on his own folding stool, which he had brought along from his winter studio hard by in the old Boul' Miche'. He had arrived early that morning, all the way from Como, to find a thunderbolt driven in at his feet. Across his knees fluttered an open newspaper, the Paris edition of the New York Herald.
"Miché Agoussou loves red," persisted Palmyre. The color that came into Aurora's cheek ought to have suited Monsieur precisely. "It is an accident," she feebly insisted. "Well," presently said Palmyre, with a pretence of abandoning her impression, "then you want me to work you a spell for money, do you?" Aurora nodded, while she still avoided the quadroon's glance.
But where was Bras-Coupé? The question was asked of Palmyre by Agricola with a gaze that meant in English, "No tricks, girl!" Among the servants who huddled at the windows and door to see the inner magnificence a frightened whisper was already going round. "We have made a sad discovery, Miché Fusilier," said the overseer. "Bras-Coupé is here; we have him in a room just yonder.
M. Jules St.-Ange stood long, gazing at the receding vessel as it now disappeared, now re-appeared beyond the tops of the high undergrowth; but, when an arm of the forest hid it finally from sight, he turned townward, followed by that fagged-out spaniel, his servant, saying, as he turned, "Baptiste." "Miché?" "You know w'at I goin' do wid dis money?" "Non, m'sieur."
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