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Updated: May 16, 2025
As cook they had an astonishingly broad-bosomed Frenchwoman, whom they called "La Grande Jeanne," and who immediately settled down like a sort of mother of the house; a tall, thin, and birdlike Frenchman named Pierre, who had been a soldier, and then for several years a servant at the Trappist Monastery at Staouëli; Charmian's maid; and an Arab boy whom everyone called Bibi, and who alternated between a demeanor full of a graceful and apparently fatalistic languor, and fits of almost monkeylike gaiety and mischief which Pierre strove to repress.
She answered slowly: "You are right; it is a good idea. We can drink up the money together." Bibi brought her a glass of anisette. As she sipped it she remembered all at once the brandied fruit she had eaten in the same place with Coupeau when he was courting her. That day she had left the brandy and took only the fruit, and now she was sitting there drinking liqueur. But the anisette was good.
"At least, however," exclaimed the Canadian, "you must let us see first what we can do to fit your honour out a little better. Come, Bibi, let us have supper, and I will try what I can rummage out that may be of use to monsieur. If I can do nothing else, I can at all events furnish him with a rifle and powder-horn."
Isidore did not answer him, and Boulanger was making some remarks as to the need in which his guest stood of a long rest after so much fatigue and anxiety, when Bibi suddenly held up her hand, saying softly, "Hush, I declare he has dropped off."
This might be a bit awkward, I mused, remembering the tough little chap who had been so popular with us all by reason of being the best shikari in the regiment. Now he was returning covered with glory, and I was sorry about Bibi. The train arrived at noon with what our travelled Babu calls the "blissies."
But when they reached a wineshop on the corner they entered to take a glass merely to cement good resolutions. Near the counter they beheld Bibi-la-Grillade smoking his pipe with a sulky air. "What is the matter, Bibi?" cried Coupeau. "Nothing," answered his comrade, "except that I got my walking ticket yesterday. Perdition seize all masters!" he added fiercely.
Her mother, poor, honest, gauche, an unpretentious seamstress; she seamed and seamed until her death in 1682 or 1683: Bibi, at the age of ten, flung on to the world homeless, motherless, with nothing but her amazing beauty between her and starvation or worse. Who can blame her for what she did who can question or condemn her motives? She was alone.
And Guy stood sobered sobered not at going to the war, but at leaving her. "There now, run along." "Well, good-by." But he lingered. There was nothing more to say, but he lingered. "Well, good-by. Be good, Bibi." "It looks as if that was all I'd have a chance to be." The drawl of the light voice with its rising inflection was so engaging, no one called it nasal.
Then, seeing her apprehensive of a second flare-up of that volcanic fire: "So gentlemanly of them, too, Bibi. How can those few years of love be worth a life of this to you?" "Those few years? why, Guy! of love? Is that how you feel?" Her eyes filled; her whole face quivered. "Oh, Guy be willing for my sake. I never knew what love could mean until lately." His grasp hurt her knuckles.
He built his own mausoleum, which still rears its melon-shaped dome above Samarcand, and had carved in raised letters on a marble tablet the words: "If I still lived, mankind would tremble." Timur had a wife, Bibi, whom he dearly loved.
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