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Updated: June 20, 2025
"You are triste, Monsieur," observed Madame Beavor, in rather a piqued tone, to the Pole, who had not said a word since the roti. "Madame, an exile is always triste: I think of my pauvre pays." "Bah!" cried Mr. Love. "Think that there is no exile by the side of a belle dame." The Pole smiled mournfully. "Pull it," said Madame Beavor, holding a cracker to the patriot, and turning away her face.
"No swords here, if you please," said Mr. Love, putting his vast hands on the Pole's shoulder, and sinking him forcibly down into the circle now formed. The game proceeded with great vigour and much laughter from Rosalie, Mr. Love, and Madame Beavor, especially whenever the last thumped the Pole with the heel of the slipper.
said Madame Beavor, reading the motto. "What do you say to that?" "Madame, there is no triumph for La Pologne!" Madame Beavor uttered a little peevish exclamation, and glanced in despair at her red-headed countryman. "Are you, too, a great politician, sir?" said she in English. "No, mem! I'm all for the ladies." "What does he say?" asked Madame Caumartin.
Monsieur Favart turned round and saw the Pole making himself as small as possible behind the goodly proportions of Madame Beavor. "What name does that gentleman go by?" "So vo lofski, the heroic Pole," cried Madame Beavor, with sundry misgivings at the unexpected cowardice of so great a patriot. "Hein! take care of yourselves, ladies. I have nothing against that person this time.
"Still-what dower has she?" "Forty thousand francs, and sickly," replied Mr. Love; "but she likes a tall man, and Monsieur Goupille is " "Tall men are never well made," interrupted the Vicomte, angrily; and he drew himself aside as Mr. Love, gallantly advancing, gave his arm to Madame Beavor, because the Pole had, in rising, folded both his own arms across his breast. "Excuse me, ma'am," said Mr.
said Madame Beavor, reading the motto. "What do you say to that?" "Madame, there is no triumph for La Pologne!" Madame Beavor uttered a little peevish exclamation, and glanced in despair at her red-headed countryman. "Are you, too, a great politician, sir?" said she in English. "No, mem! I'm all for the ladies." "What does he say?" asked Madame Caumartin.
Rumour said she had been gay in her youth, and dropped in Paris by a Russian nobleman, with a very pretty settlement, she and the settlement having equally expanded by time and season: she was called Madame Beavor.
Love to Madame Beavor, as they adjourned to the salon, "I don't think you manage that brave man well." "Ma foi, comme il est ennuyeux avec sa Pologne," replied Madame Beavor, shrugging her shoulders. "True; but he is a very fine-shaped man; and it is a comfort to think that one will have no rival but his country. Trust me, and encourage him a little more; I think he would suit you to a T."
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