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Updated: May 6, 2025
They stood looking thus at one another for nearly half-a-minute, at the end of which she said in a questioning tone: "You have something to tell me Monsieur?" He falteringly replied: "I am M. Hautot's son." She gave a start, turned pale, and stammered out as If she had known him for a long time: "Monsieur César?" "Yes." "And what next?" "I have come to speak to you on the part of my father."
Popinot looked at Madame Cesar without concealing his astonishment; he thought he was dreaming. While du Tillet was writing his cheque at a high desk, Madame Cesar disappeared and went upstairs. The druggist and the banker exchanged papers. Du Tillet bowed coldly to Popinot, and went away.
Cesar, who once walked the streets of Paris with his head high and his eye beaming with confidence, now, unstrung by perplexity, shrank from meeting Claparon; he began to realize that a banker's heart is mere viscera. Claparon had seemed to him so brutal in his coarse jollity, and he had felt the man's vulgarity so keenly, that he shuddered at the necessity of accosting him.
Even old Cesar seemed to feel the awe of that Valley of Shadow, and no one murmured as we passed the first bloated carcasses of dead horses and came upon that far more horrid sight human bodies swelled to twice their natural size, lying as death had met them, some in piles, others farther apart all unrecognizable, but once proud mothers' petted darlings. I think they were our enemies.
Now he would show off the shrewd expedients and devices which have embellished the history of military engineering since the days of Hannibal and Julius Cesar. That everybody might know who was doing all this, the Aid was riding back and forward, loudly commanding parties engaged in various efforts over more than a quarter of a mile of front.
The brown-stone-front houses across the street resemble a row of particularly ugly coffins set up on end. A green mould is settling on the names of the deceased, carved on the silver door-plates. Sardonic spiders have sewed up the key-holes. All is silence and dust and desolation. I interrupt this a moment, to take a shy at Watkins with the second volume of Cesar Birotteau. Missed him!
So it is not surprising that César Franck's teaching, founded on that of Bach and Beethoven, but admitting, as well, imagination and all new and liberal ideas, did, at that time, draw to him all young minds that had lofty ambitions and that were really in love with their art.
Undoubtedly Cesar Leborge and Manuel Polliovo would be there. Equally certainly, Guy Cecil, who had protected him before, would not. A companion would be of aid in a pinch. And it was all so dark, so mysterious, so incomprehensible! He had learned nothing new about the plot. He had no documents with which to confront the conspirators.
The year 1844 was not an unhappy one with Balzac, though his health was bad, and he speaks of terrible neuralgia; so that he wrote "Les Paysans" with his head in opium, as he had written "Cesar Birotteau" with his feet in mustard.
The all-powerful logic of the enamored Popinot triumphed in the end over Cesar's scruples, though he persisted for some time in calling himself a debtor, and in declaring that he was circumventing the law by a substitution. But the refinements of his conscience gave way when Popinot cried out: "Do you want to kill your daughter?" "Kill my daughter!" said Cesar, thunderstruck.
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