Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: June 6, 2025
Buscarlet was breathing like a man in a nightmare. Truelove stood to attention. But Regnault did not return to the shape of life. O'Neill let his hand drop, and turned to Truelove. "He's got it," he said; "But fetch a doctor." His eyes fell on the dancer in her shimmering scarlet, where she knelt at the bedside, with her head bowed to the counterpane and her hands clasped over it. He sighed.
O'Neill set the capsules out on the table to be easily accessible, and joined Buscarlet by the great fireplace at the end of the room, whence he could keep watch on the still profile that showed against the gold of the screen. From without there came the blurred noises of the Paris street, mingled and blended in a single hum, as though life were laying siege to that quiet chamber.
It will be found in full on pp. 348 to 362 of his masterly book. In August, 1883, a certain Mme. Buscarlet, whom he knew personally, returned to Geneva after spending three years with the Moratief family at Kazan as governess to two girls. She continued to correspond with the family and also with a Mme. Nitchinof, who kept a school at Kazan to which Mlles. Moratief, Mme.
Buscarlet was eager to talk. He was a speciously amiable little man, blonde and plump, a creature of easy emotions, prone to panic and tears. "Ah, he talked indeed!" he said, as soon as O'Neill was seated. "At first I thought: 'This is delirium. He is returning to the age of his innocence. But his eyes, as he looked at me, were wise and serious. My friend, it gave me a shock."
"Oh, I shall be all right," answered O'Neill, but the same thought had occurred to him. "No, it will not be amusing to you," repeated Regnault. "For this good Buscarlet it is another thing. I shall keep him busy. You like that, don'it you, Emile?" Poor Buscarlet choked and gurgled. Regnault laughed softly. "Take the lamp, Emile," he said, "and carry it to 'The Dancer. I want to see it."
The teacher in the first room here is a handsome young Calabrian, with the gentlest face and manner, one of the most efficient teachers under Mr. Buscarlet. The boys had out their Bibles when we entered, and one after another read passages to us.
A hand was on her hip, and she moved towards the bed with the sliding gait of the Spanish dancer. It was an affair of an instant. Buscarlet and Truelove hastened upon his exclamation, and Buscarlet, stumbling, brushed against the screen. He caught at it to save it from falling, and the bed was bare to the room. Regnault and his wife looked into each other's face.
He stared at it, Buscarlet smiling mildly at his elbow; then he turned away and went back to his seat. The face on the bed was unchanged. "So Regnault married Lola!" he said slowly. "When?" "Ah, who knows?" Buscarlet shrugged graphically. "Many years ago, of course. It is twenty years since she danced." "And what was he saying about her?" asked O'Neill.
Buscarlet, the pastor of the Presbyterian Church in Naples, a Swiss by birth, who had received his education chiefly in Scotland. He accompanied me to the different schools, and as we walked up the long Toledo, and threaded our way through the sprightly Neapolitan crowd, he told me of the origin of the schools, and of the peculiar difficulties encountered in their foundation and maintenance.
For an instant of forgetfulness his delicate face was ingenuous and expressive; he caught himself back to control as he met O'Neill's eyes. "Il est un age dans la vie Ou chaque reve doit finir, Un age ou l'ame recueillie A besoin de se souvenir," he quoted softly. Buscarlet was fitting the shade on the lamp again. "I think," Regnault went on, "that I have come to that, after all. He told you, eh?
Word Of The Day
Others Looking