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Updated: June 27, 2025
In the streets of Paris, at Arques, and Coutras, and Ivry, blood flowed like water that the blood of the St. Bartholomew might be forgotten that blood which, by the grace of God, Navarre saw fall from the dice box on the eve of the massacre. The last of the Valois passed to the vaults of St.
Coutras protested that he needed no payment for his journey; he had already given back to Ata the hundred-franc note, but Strickland insisted that he should take the picture. Then together they went out on the verandah. The natives were sobbing violently. "Be quiet, woman. Dry thy tears," said Strickland, addressing Ata. "There is no great harm. I shall leave thee very soon."
Coutras. Mr. Coutras was an old Frenchman of great stature and exceeding bulk. His body was shaped like a huge duck's egg; and his eyes, sharp, blue, and good-natured, rested now and then with self-satisfaction on his enormous paunch. His complexion was florid and his hair white. He was a man to attract immediate sympathy.
Ata flung herself on her knees before him, and clasped his legs with her arms and kissed them. Strickland looked at Dr. Coutras with a faint smile. "In the end they get you, and you are helpless in their hands. White or brown, they are all the same." Dr. Coutras felt that it was absurd to offer expressions of regret in so terrible a disaster, and he took his leave.
Coutras followed her, but waited outside in obedience to her gesture. As she opened the door he smelt the sickly sweet smell which makes the neighbourhood of the leper nauseous. He heard her speak, and then he heard Strickland's answer, but he did not recognise the voice. It had become hoarse and indistinct. Dr. Coutras raised his eyebrows.
You saw man in the nakedness of his primeval instincts, and you were afraid, for you saw yourself." Dr. Coutras shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "You will laugh at me. I am a materialist, and I am a gross, fat man Falstaff, eh? the lyrical mode does not become me. I make myself ridiculous.
"Unfortunately, there can be no doubt of it." Dr. Coutras had delivered sentence of death on many men, and he could never overcome the horror with which it filled him. He felt always the furious hatred that must seize a man condemned when he compared himself with the doctor, sane and healthy, who had the inestimable privilege of life. Strickland looked at him in silence.
Coutras related to me in his words, but in my own, for I cannot hope to give at second hand any impression of his vivacious delivery. He had a deep, resonant voice, fitted to his massive frame, and a keen sense of the dramatic. To listen to him was, as the phrase goes, as good as a play; and much better than most. It appears that Dr.
Eléonore de Bourbon was the daughter of Henri I. de Bourbon, Prince de Condé, who succeeded his father in the command of the Calvinist party, conjointly with the King of Navarre, afterwards Henri IV. This prince raised a body of foreign troops in 1575, and distinguished himself greatly at Coutras in 1587.
Coutras had gone one day to Taravao in order to see an old chiefess who was ill, and he gave a vivid picture of the obese old lady, lying in a huge bed, smoking cigarettes, and surrounded by a crowd of dark-skinned retainers.
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