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Updated: July 6, 2025
Count Bielowsky set about counting them and arranging them in little piles with infinite care. "The white are worth a louis," he explained to me. "The red, a hundred francs. The yellow, five hundred. The green, a thousand. Oh, it's the devil of a game that we play here. You will see." "I open with ten thousand," said the Zwinglian cook. "Twelve thousand," said the Hetman.
Spardek, of Manchester, bowed reservedly and asked our permission to keep on his tall, wide-brimmed hat. He was a dry, cold man, tall and thin. He ate in pious sadness, enormously. "Monsieur Bielowsky," said M. Le Mesge, introducing us to the second guest. "Count Casimir Bielowsky, Hetman of Jitomir," the latter corrected with perfect good humor as he stood up to shake hands.
"'Count Bielowsky, I answered coolly to show him that the difference in our ages was not sufficient to justify the interrogation. "Well, my dear Count, may your prediction indeed be realized; and I hope that you will not neglect the Tuileries, said the guest in the blue coat, with a smile. "And he added, finally consenting to present himself: "'Prince Louis-Napoleon Bonaparte.
He knows Spanish and Italian, keeps my papers in order, and is busy working out my genealogy. The Reverend Spardek knows English and German. Count Bielowsky is thoroughly conversant with the Slavic languages. Besides, I love him like a father. He knew me as a child when I had not dreamed such stupid things as you know of me.
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