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Updated: May 6, 2025
Gradually the great man's face relaxed from its forbidding severity. Interest, warming almost to sympathy, came to be reflected on it. "And who, sir, is the man you charge with this?" "The Marquis de La Tour d'Azyr." The effect of that formidable name was immediate. Dismayed anger, and an arrogance more utter than before, took the place of the sympathy he had been betrayed into displaying.
M. d'Ormesson had sprung to the side of his principal. "You are hurt!" he had cried stupidly. "It is nothing," said La Tour d'Azyr. "A scratch." But his lip writhed, and the torn sleeve of his fine cambric shirt was full of blood. D'Ormesson, a practical man in such matters, produced a linen kerchief, which he tore quickly into strips to improvise a bandage.
In an attitude of deepest concern, M. de La Tour d'Azyr, his wound notwithstanding, was bending over the girl, whilst behind him stood M. d'Ormesson and madame's footman. The Countess looked up and saw him as he was driven past.
M. de La Tour d'Azyr shook himself out of the gloomy abstraction in which he had sat. The successor of the deputy he had slain must, in any event, be an object of grim interest to him.
You must go away at once, and lie completely lost for a time until this blows over. Indeed, until my uncle can bring influence to bear to obtain your pardon, you must keep in hiding." "That will be a long time, then," said Andre-Louis. "M. de Kercadiou has never cultivated friends at court." "There is M. de La Tour d'Azyr," she reminded him, to his astonishment.
But more than all he considered the expression of the dark eyes that were devouring Climene's lovely face, and his own lips tightened. M. de La Tour d'Azyr never heeded him or his stare; nor, had he done so, would he have known who it was that looked at him from behind the make-up of Scaramouche; nor, again, had he known, would he have been in the least troubled or concerned.
He smiled at her. "True!" he said. "But nine o'clock will soon be here. Tell me," he asked her suddenly, "why did you not carry this request of yours to M. de La Tour d'Azyr?" "I did," she answered him, and flushed as she remembered her yesterday's rejection. He interpreted the flush quite otherwise. "And he?" he asked.
Opposite the Breton arme the inn and posting-house at the entrance of the village of Gavrillac M. de Vilmorin interrupted his companion just as he was soaring to the dizziest heights of caustic invective, and Andre-Louis, restored thereby to actualities, observed the carriage of M. de La Tour d'Azyr standing before the door of the hostelry. "I don't believe you've been listening to me," said he.
Coming to Gavrillac on a November morning, laden with news of the political storms which were then gathering over France, Philippe found in that sleepy Breton village matter to quicken his already lively indignation. A peasant of Gavrillac, named Mabey, had been shot dead that morning in the woods of Meupont, across the river, by a gamekeeper of the Marquis de La Tour d'Azyr.
"Nothing beastly can surprise me when done by a beast. And La Tour d'Azyr is a beast, as all the world knows. The more fool Mabey for stealing his pheasants. He should have stolen somebody else's." "Is that all you have to say about it?" "What more is there to say? I've a practical mind, I hope." "What more there is to say I propose to say to your godfather, M. de Kercadiou.
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