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Updated: September 7, 2025
It is a pleasure to say what one means." "But monsieur could not mean it. Monsieur will call at the chateau in the morning" the complacent varlet prophesied "as early as it will be polite. I am sure of that. Monsieur is not at all an old man; no, not yet! Even if he were, aha! no one could possess the friendship of that wonderful Madame d'Armand and remain away from the chateau."
"His speaking to you as he did; a thing on the face of it inexcusable " "Why did he call me 'Madame d'Armand'?" she interposed. I explained something of the mental processes of Amedee, and she listened till I had finished; then bade me continue. "That's all," I said blankly, but, with a second thought, caught her meaning. "Oh, about young Saffren, you mean?" "Yes."
"But I mean that you unless I utterly misunderstand you seem to imply that you had selected some one now in France whom you planned that he should care for that you had selected the lady whom you know as Madame d'Armand." "Again," he shouted, "you have said it!"
I took it, and my soul was disquieted within me, for it was no purpose of mine to set inquiries on foot in regard to the affairs of "Madame d'Armand."
"Madame d'Armand," Saffren repeated the name slowly. "Her name is Madame d'Armand." "Yes, monsieur," said Amedee complacently; "it is an American lady who has married a French nobleman." Like most painters, I have supposed the tools of my craft harder to manipulate than those of others. The use of words, particularly, seemed readier, handier for the contrivance of effects than pigments.
This came with sudden decision, but with less than marked what followed. "But he can't stop me, now. No one on earth shall do that, except Madame d'Armand herself. No one!" "I won't quarrel with that," I said drily, throwing away my cigar, which had gone out long before. He hesitated, and then I saw his hand groping toward me in the darkness, and, rising, I gave him mine.
"But Oliver still speaks of her as Madame d'Armand." "He does not know. She has not told him." "But why haven't you told him?" "Ha, that is a story, a poem," he cried, beginning to pace the floor again "a ballad as old as the oldest of Provence! There is a reason, my dear sir, which I cannot tell you, but it lies within the romance of what you agree is my madness.
"I don't understand; it was all beyond me," he added huskily. "What was it you said to her?" "I spoke her name 'Madame d'Armand." "You said more than that!" "I asked her if she would let me see her again." "What else?" "Nothing," he answered humbly. "And then she then for a moment it seemed for a moment she didn't seem to be able to speak " "I should think not!"
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