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Older observers, confirmed by Doppner, say that all the plague-patients at Vetlianka diffused an odor of honey. In diabetes there is a marked odor of apples. The sweat in dysentery unmistakably bears the odor of the dejecta. Behier calls the odor of typhoid that of the blood, and Berard says that it attracts flies even before death.
Merrily Marie Berard recounts to the luxurious social star the efforts of sly dames and soft-voiced messieurs to fathom the "De Santos'" past. Marie Berard is irreproachable; never presuming. She can wait. Madame Natalie's stormy past has taught her to trust no one. It is her rule from the first that no one shall see Isabel Valois, the pet of the Sacred Heart Convent, but herself.
As Madame de Santos is ushered to her rooms, she decides to act at once, and drop forever her past. But Marie? Marie Berard wonders at the obscure hotel. Her brain finds no reason for this isolation. "Ah! les modes de Paris." Madame will soon emerge as a lovely vision. In the years of her service with Hortense Duval, Marie has quietly enriched herself.
Hortensc Duval might lose her hold on cold Philip Hardin. The scheming beauty smiles when she thinks how true Marie Berard will be to the new Madame de Santos. A thorough adventuress, she can count on her fellow-conspirator. Two smart women, with a solid golden bond, united against a distant, aging man. Marie returns, her business-like manner showing no change. "I have found the family," she says.
Colonel R. E. De Russy was Superintendent; Major John Fowle, Sixth United States Infantry, Commandant. The principal Professors were: Mahan, Engineering; Bartlett, Natural Philosophy; Bailey, Chemistry; Church, Mathematics; Weir, Drawing; and Berard, French. The routine of military training and of instruction was then fully established, and has remained almost the same ever since.
We might invite Madame Berard de la Malle; there has been no gossip about her for two years. What do you think of it?" "But, my dear, since I am to go next week " This filled him with consternation. They went, both silent and moody, into the drawing-room, where Paul Vence was waiting. He often came in the evening. She extended her hand to him. "I am very glad to see you. I am going out of town.
In the proscenium boxes were the wife of the Austrian Ambassador and the Duchess Gladwin; in the amphitheatre Berthe d'Osigny and Jane Tulle, the latter made famous the day before by the suicide of one of her lovers; in the boxes, Madame Berard de La Malle, her eyes lowered, her long eyelashes shading her pure cheeks; Princess Seniavine, who, looking superb, concealed under her fan panther like yawnings; Madame de Morlaine, between two young women whom she was training in the elegances of the mind; Madame Meillan, resting assured on thirty years of sovereign beauty; Madame Berthier d'Eyzelles, erect under iron-gray hair sparkling with diamonds.
He has notes of Vimont's in his hand. While the underlings bring out dusty old folios, Joe distributes his pet cigars. He is always welcome. Looking over the ancient records he finds on a trip of the Golden Gate, the following entries: Madame de Santos, Miss Isabel Valois, Marie Berard and child. He calls the bookkeeper. "Can you tell about these people?" The man of ink scans the entry.
He chose six for Morocco: Vidal, a very prudent and pious religious, whom he nominated superior; Berard de Carbio, from the vicinity of Narni, who was well versed in the Arabian language; Peter, of St. Geminien, and Otho, who were in priests' orders; and Ajut, and Accurse, who were lay-brethren. Having sent for them he spoke as follows:
The rest you can provide through your friends. I want you to see the child once a week, not oftener. Go." In ten minutes Marie Berard is rolling away to her advisers. Her letter has already announced her arrival. She knows her Paris. If a French maid has a heart history, hers is a succession of former Parisian scenes. Madame Natalie de Santos closes the doors.
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