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Updated: May 27, 2025
We know what that means.” His dark eyes flashed: “And must it be really in the mountains?” he added. “Or in a desert,” conceded Mills, “if you prefer that. There have been temples in deserts, you know.” Blunt had calmed down suddenly and assumed a nonchalant pose. “As a matter of fact, Henry Allègre caught her very early one morning in his own old garden full of thrushes and other small birds.
She asked when she saw it: ‘And does this big place really belong to our Rita?’ My maid of course said that it was mine. ‘And how long did our Rita live here?’—‘Madame has never seen it unless perhaps the outside, as far as I know. I believe Mr. Allègre lived here for some time when he was a young man.’—‘The sinner that’s dead?’—‘Just so,’ says Rose.
Blunt, still addressing Mills with that story, passed on to what he called the second act, the disclosure, with, what he called, the characteristic Allègre impudence—which surpassed the impudence of kings, millionaires, or tramps, by many degrees—the revelation of Rita’s existence to the world at large. It wasn’t a very large world, but then it was most choicely composed.
"And now for your boar spears, gentlemen for Allegre, my pricker, hath harboured one that will try both dog and man. Dunois, lend me your spear take mine, it is too weighty for me; but when did you complain of such a fault in your lance? To horse to horse, gentlemen." And all the chase rode on. I will converse with unrespective boys And iron witted fools.
Under the gateway of the extremely ugly tenement house, which hides the Pavilion and the garden from the street, the wife of the porter was waiting with her arms akimbo. At once she cried out to Rita: ‘You were caught by our gentleman.’ “As a matter of fact, that old woman, being a friend of Rita’s aunt, allowed the girl to come into the garden whenever Allègre was away.
I thought suddenly of the definition he applied to himself: “Américain, catholique et gentil-homme” completed by that startling “I live by my sword” uttered in a light drawing-room tone tinged by a flavour of mockery lighter even than air. He insisted to us that the first and only time he had seen Allègre a little close was that morning in the Bois with his mother.
But my name, amigo, Henry Allègre had taken from me like all the rest of what I had been once. All that is buried with him in his grave. It wouldn’t have been true. That is how I felt about it. So I took that one.” She whispered to herself: “Lastaola,” not as if to test the sound but as if in a dream.
I know she sat there amongst them like a marvellous child, and for the rest what can they say about her? That when abandoned to herself by the death of Allègre she has made a mistake? I think that any woman ought to be allowed one mistake in her life.
I wondered now why he didn’t slip his hands into the sleeves of his coat, you know, as begging Friars do when they come for a subscription. He explained that the Prince asked for permission to call and offer me his condolences in person. We had seen a lot of him our last two months in Paris that year. Henry Allègre had taken a fancy to paint his portrait.
You would be astonished to hear the names of people, of real personalities in the world, who, not to mince matters, owed money to Allègre. And I don’t mean in the world of art only. In the first rout of the surprise some story of an adopted daughter was set abroad hastily, I believe. You know ‘adopted’ with a peculiar accent on the word—and it was plausible enough.
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