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Updated: June 24, 2025
"She eats, the most beautiful!" he cried joyously, "and petite mère and Yellow Dog look on! Is it not wonderful, ma vieille?" Madame Joyselle smiled sensibly. "It is delightful, my man, delightful. But I fear you should not have come in she may not like it." "Not like it? Of course she does. Why should not the old beau-papa visit his most beautiful while she breakfasts? You are a goose, Félicité!"
Let go my hands, please; you hurt me Beau-papa!" He flung away from her and stood by the window, staring with blinded eyes into the street. "This is really no good, you know," she went on in a conversational tone; "we quarrel and squabble and are no earthly use to each other the whole position is bad. I think I will tell Théo, and go."
Presently she got up, and roamed aimlessly about the room. The door leading into her little sitting-room was open, and she went in and switched on the light. "He wants to come in here to-morrow, and see where I live. Live! He wants to see my books. I'll hide those French ones; they'd shock Beau-papa, I suppose, though they aren't very bad. But what am I to do?
Then her sense of humour, never very keen, did for once come to the rescue, and in an absurd mental flash-light she pictured his face if she should suddenly put her head down on his knees and wail out the truth: "Yes, dear Beau-papa, advise and help me, for I am to be your daughter, my children are to be your grandchildren, and I love you!"
When they had stopped exclaiming he went on, gradually, but with a perceptible effort getting back his usual tone, "and stood and gasped like a young prince in a fairy-tale, didn't I, Most Beautiful?" She smiled, but she was not pleased. "You did Beau-papa," she answered. "I didn't know I was so beautiful. I have been dining out, hence the dragon's skin.
"I have brought these for her Beau-papa," the girl faltered, and he rose. "Thank you. Yes, she loved roses ma Félicité." Brigit noticed, with a thrill of horror, remembering what the doctor had said, that he spoke not quite distinctly; his tongue was a little thick. "Let us," she said, laying her hand on his shoulder, "thank God that she died so happily, with you by her side."
"I never saw anything so yellow as you in my life except Lady Minturn's wig. I believe you're dyed!" The note, written in a peculiarly dashing hand on thick mauve paper, was short: "Ma Fille," it ran, "good morning to you the first of many happy ones with us. Yellow Dog Papillon brings this to you. He is an angel dog, and loves you already, as does your Victor Joyselle, "Beau-Papa."
Yet it seemed to her, as she watched and listened now, in the great hall of the house of her fathers, that she had never heard quite this same man play. At home he had been "Beau-papa," noisy and demonstrative, or solemn with artistic responsibility and reverence, but always the oldish man playing to his family. Now, in some way, he was metamorphosed.
It is unfitted for you, my beautiful one. You are too strong to like warm air in the winter. Come back and go out into the fog with me, and let the chill rain dampen your hair. Come back to your lover who sighs for you, to your old adoring Beau-papa who longs to see again the face of his beautiful child. "Joyselle." "Brigit you must go."
But that something outside her own personal sway should open his eyes she had not anticipated. This had, however, happened, and with the acute intuition of a woman fighting for her life, she understood what she must do to prevent his flight. So, turning towards him, she smiled amusedly. "Eh, b'en, Beau-papa? Got over your fright? You big baby!"
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