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Updated: June 8, 2025
They belonged to two different stations in life almost as far apart as two social stations could be, even in a republic. They were not, in any sense of the word, friends; they were merely partners, intensely awake, as partners usually are, to each other's shortcomings. The Vicomte d'Audierne probably thought no more of Signor Bruno from the moment that he raised his hat and turned.
It would seem that these two could not be in the same room without quarrelling. Never was the Vicomte d'Audierne so cynical, so sceptical, as in the presence of his brother. Never was Raoul d'Audierne so cold, so heartless, so Jesuitical, as when meeting his brother's scepticism. Sixteen years of their life had made no difference.
Hilda introduced the two men, speaking in French. "I did not know," said Signor Bruno, with outspread hands, "that you spoke French like a Frenchwoman." Hilda laughed. "Had it," she said, with a sudden inspiration, "been Italian, I should have told you." There was a singular smile visible, for a moment only, in the eyes of the Vicomte d'Audierne, and then he spoke.
"To-day," snapped Signor Bruno. The Vicomte d'Audierne made a little grimace. "Who wrote this?" he inquired. "Christian Vellacott, son of the Vellacott, whom you knew in the old days." "Ah!" There was something in the Vicomte's expressive voice that made Signor Bruno look at him sharply with some apprehension. "Why do you say that?" The Vicomte countered with another question. "Who is this Mr.
She may have thought differently; one cannot always read a maiden's thoughts. They walked on together. Suddenly the Vicomte d'Audierne spoke. "Who is this?" he said. Hilda followed the direction of his eyes. "That," she answered, "is Signor Bruno. An old Italian exile. A friend of ours." Bruno came forward, hat in hand, bowing and smiling in his charming way.
Indirectly, I should think, unless the Vicomte d'Audierne is a scoundrel." Sidney thought deeply. "He may be," he admitted. "I do not," pursued Mr. Bodery, with a certain easy deliberation, "think that the Vicomte is aware of Vellacott's existence. That is my opinion." "He asked who you were if you were a friend of my father's." "And you said " "No!
Sidney lighted a candle, one of many standing on a side table, and led the way upstairs. They walked through the long, dimly lighted corridors in silence, and it was only when they had arrived in the room set apart for the Vicomte d'Audierne that this gentleman spoke. "By the way," he said, "who is this person this Mr. Bodery? He was not a friend of your father's."
When, however, he was face to face with the little blue-rimmed orifice that disfigured the Vicomte's muscular chest, the expression of his face indeed his whole manner changed. His eyes lost their shiftiness he seemed to forget the presence of the great man standing at the other side of the table. While he was selecting a probe from his case of instruments the Vicomte d'Audierne opened his eyes.
At this moment there was a rumble of carriage wheels. "By the way," said the editor of the Beacon, raising his voice so as to command universal attention, "do not tell the Vicomte d'Audierne about Vellacott. Do not let him know that Vellacott has been here. Do not tell him of my connection with the Beacon." The ladies barely had time to reconsider their first impression of Mr.
"Your father admired him tremendously," Mrs. Carew went on to say. "He said that he was one of the cleverest men in France, but that he had fallen in a wrong season, and would not adapt himself. Had France been a monarchy, the Vicomte d'Audierne would have been in a very different position." Vellacott did not open his own letters. He seemed to be interested in the conversation of these ladies.
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