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Updated: May 22, 2025
The thought that such foul means should be used for the purpose against her bosom friend brought the hot blood into Clotilde's cheeks, and she stamped her little foot impetuously in the height of her indignation.
"You are the only man living whom I would permit to use that word with impunity." "I repeat the word," replied the marquis, sternly. "I cannot doubt, even if any other part of my letter could have been misunderstood, that I must have mentioned your cousin Clotilde's name in connection with this affair. To pretend the contrary is as impudent as it is absurd."
For want of it, Clotilde's short explorations in Dot-and-Dash land were of a kind to terrify her, and yet they seemed not only unavoidable, but foreshadowing of the unavoidable to come.
Because Zola likes it that way. But perhaps he cares to show what tragical results are produced by illegitimate marriages? Not at all. He shares the doctor's and Clotilde's opinion. Were they married, there would be no drama, and the author wishes to have it. That is the reason. Then comes the doctor's insolvency. One must separate.
At noon he said: "Bah, I shall lunch upon Clotilde's twenty francs; that will not hinder me from returning the money to-morrow." He ate his lunch, for which he paid two francs fifty, and on entering the office of "La Vie Francaise" he repaid the porter the three francs he had borrowed from him.
Tresten sketched it. The baroness realized it, and shut her lips tight for a laugh of essential humour. Late in the day Alvan was himself able to inform her that he had overcome Clotilde's father after a struggle of hours.
The letter of the baroness and the visit of the woman's admirer had vitiated Clotilde's blood.
The letter of the baroness and the visit of the woman's admirer had vitiated Clotilde's blood.
We may ask it: an eagle is expected, and how is he to declare his eagleship save by breaking through our mean conventional systems, tearing links asunder, taking his own in the teeth of vulgar ordinances? Clotilde's imagination drew on her reading for the knots it tied and untied, and its ideas of grandeur. Her reading was an interfusion of philosophy skimmed, and realistic romances deep-sounded.
The reverse is rather more frequently the case, so little is this poor world submitted to the rules of logic. In short, Madame de Trecoeur, after her husband's death was left forlorn, exhausted, and broken down, but spotless. From this melancholy union, a daughter had been born, named Julia, and whom her father, notwithstanding all Clotilde's efforts of resistance, had spoilt to excess.
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