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Updated: July 13, 2025
On leaving Mme. de Brecourt Francie's lover had written to Delia that he desired half an hour's private conversation with her father on the morrow at half-past eleven; his impatience forbade him to wait for a more canonical hour. He asked her to be so good as to arrange that Mr. Dosson should be there to receive him and to keep Francie out of the way. Delia acquitted herself to the letter.
Jenny Amenaide Brecourt was born in Paris in the year 1837. Her father was a printer, her mother sold vegetables. The parents neglected the child, but a lady of title took pity on her, and when she was five years old adopted her. Even as a little girl she was haughty and imperious. At the age of eight she refused to play with another child on the ground of her companion's social inferiority.
By the time our young lady had noted these things she was sitting beside her on a sofa and Mme. de Brecourt had her hand, which she held so tight that it almost hurt her. Susan's eyes were in their nature salient, but on this occasion they seemed to have started out of her head. "We're upside down terribly agitated. A thunderbolt has fallen on the house." "What's the matter what's the matter?"
Seeing the picture and hearing this, Mme. de Brecourt, as a disinterested lover of charming impressions, and above all as an easy prey at all times to a rabid curiosity, would express a desire also to enjoy a sight of so rare a creature; on which Waterlow might pronounce it all arrangeable if she would but come in some day when Miss Francie should sit.
Marguerite de Cliche exclaimed, giving a long moan of pain which ended in an incongruous laugh. "Then you've been three to it," she went on; "that accounts for its perfection!" Francie disengaged herself again from Mme. de Brecourt and went to Mr. Probert, who stood looking down at the fire with his back to her. "Mr.
You might explain I'm only an American girl!" said Francie, whose being only an American girl didn't prevent her pretty head from holding itself now as high as Mme. de Cliche's. Mme. de Brecourt came back to her quickly, laying her hand on her arm. "You're very nervous you'd much better go home. I'll explain everything to them I'll make them understand. The carriage is here it had orders to wait."
You're incapable, and you must say so, face to face, to my father. Think of Gaston, cherie; HE'LL have seen it over there, alone, far from us all. Think of HIS horror and of HIS anguish and of HIS faith, of what HE would expect of you." Mme. de Brecourt hurried on, and her companion's bewilderment deepened to see how the tears had risen to her eyes and were pouring down her cheeks.
"I'm not in the least nervous, but I've made you all so," Francie brought out with the highest spirit. "I defend you, my dear young lady I insist that you're only a wretched victim like ourselves," M. de Brecourt remarked, approaching her with a smile.
That did injustice and this the artist also knew to the delicate nature of the bond uniting the different members of the house of Probert, who were each for all and all for each. Family feeling among them was not a tyranny but a religion, and in regard to Mesdames de Brecourt, de Cliche and de Douves what Gaston most feared was that he might seem to them not to love them enough.
"So many people in America that's just the dreadful thought, my dear," said Mme. de Brecourt kindly. "Foyons, put it in your muff and tell us what you think of it." And she continued to thrust forward the scandalous journal. But Francie took no notice of it; she looked round from Mr. Probert at the others. "I told Gaston I'd certainly do something you wouldn't like."
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