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And still no one passed. Suddenly the soft whistling of a tune came through the hot air. A tune she had learned in Paris. "C'etait deux amants." "Hi!" cried Betty in a voice that was not at all like her voice. "Help! Au secours!" she added on second thoughts. "Where are you?" came a voice. How alike all Englishmen's voices seemed in a foreign land! "Here on the island!
She darted back, and clapping her hands upon the bosom of her charming frock, danced, literally danced and pirouetted around poor Dickie. "Moi, je ne comprenais pas ce que c'était qu'un avorton," she continued rapidly. "Mais je comprends parfaitement maintenant. C'est un monstre, n'est-ce pas, Maman?" She threw back her head, her white throat convulsed by laughter.
Et il avait un petit bouledogue qui, a le voir, ne valait pas un sou; on aurait cru que parier contre lui c'etait voler, tant il etait ordinaire; mais aussitot les enjeux faits, il devenait un autre chien.
"C'était moi, messieurs, qui viens de vous téléphoner. Moi je suis Lady Clifford." The voice, metallic and defiant, rang out from the door leading into the right-hand bedroom. The officer stared in surprise, while Roger wheeled with a brusque movement of incredulity to behold Thérèse facing them. "You telephoned them?" he repeated, hardly able to believe his ears. "Certainly.
C'est une vertu, la gaiete, et vous l'avez en France, cette vertu! Il me disait cela melancoliquement; et c'etait la premiere fois que je lui entendais faire une louange adressee a la France. . . . Mais il ne faut pas que vous voyiez la une plainte de ma part.
When, at last, his customary place became vacant, and some brilliant butterfly of madame's circle of visiteurs flottants, who, perhaps, had smiled patronizingly upon the silent old gentleman, becoming aware of his absence, would, perchance, carelessly inquire what had become of her constant dinner guest, madame would reply: Mais, c'était mon mari.
I asked her if the townspeople knew about Friedrich Froebel, but she looked blank. "Froebel? Froebel?" she asked; "qui est-ce?" "Mais, Madame," I said eloquently, "c'etait un grand homme! Un heros! Le plus grand eleve de Pestalozzi! Aussi grand que Pestalozzi soi-meme!" "Je ne sais!" she returned, with an indifferent shrug of the shoulders. "Je ne sais!
When I more than hinted that nothing could justify detraction and departure from truth in carrying out a policy, he merely shrugged his shoulders and reiterated: 'C'était notre politique; et que voulez-vous? That he and the others respected Sir Hudson Lowe, I had not the shadow of a doubt: nay, in a conversation with Montholon at St.
It is, I believe, possible to explain the condition of the d'Epinay manuscript without having recourse to the iconoclastic theory of Mrs. Macdonald. To explain everything, indeed, would be out of the question, owing to our insufficient data, and the extreme complexity of the events; all that we can hope to do is to suggest an explanation which will account for the most important of the known facts. Not the least interesting of Mrs. Macdonald's discoveries went to show that the Mémoires, so far from being historically accurate, were in reality full of unfounded statements, that they concluded with an entirely imaginary narrative, and that, in short, they might be described, almost without exaggeration, in the very words with which Grimm himself actually did describe them in his Correspondance Littéraire, as 'l'ébauche d'un long roman. Mrs. Macdonald eagerly lays emphasis upon this discovery, because she is, of course, anxious to prove that the most damning of all the accounts of Rousseau's conduct is an untrue one. But she has proved too much. The Mémoires, she says, are a fiction; therefore the writers of them were liars. The answer is obvious: why should we not suppose that the writers were not liars at all, but simply novelists? Will not this hypothesis fit into the facts just as well as Mrs. Macdonald's? Madame d'Epinay, let us suppose, wrote a narrative, partly imaginary and partly true, based upon her own experiences, but without any strict adherence to the actual course of events, and filled with personages whose actions were, in many cases, fictitious, but whose characters were, on the whole, moulded upon the actual characters of her friends. Let us suppose that when she had finished her work a work full of subtle observation and delightful writing she showed it to Grimm and Diderot. They had only one criticism to make: it related to her treatment of the character which had been moulded upon that of Rousseau. 'Your Rousseau, chère Madame, is a very poor affair indeed! The most salient points in his character seem to have escaped you. We know what that man really was. We know how he behaved at that time. C'était un homme
The silly old creature! to be so wild about a young lad at her time of life!" "'Twas a real passion, I almost do believe," said Madame de Bernstein. "You should have heard her take leave of him. C'etait touchant, ma parole d'honneur! I cried. Before George, I could not help myself.
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