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Updated: June 9, 2025
At last, when M. Chebe had grown calm, and with good reason, his son-in-law turned with a smile to the illustrious Delobelle, and met the stern, impassive glance which seemed to say, "Well! what of me?" "Ah! Mon Dieu! that is true," thought the poor fellow. Changing at once his chair and his glass, he took his seat opposite the actor. But M. Chebe had not Delobelle's courtesy.
Delobelle's natural tendency was, before everything, to air his grief, to spread it abroad. He played the role of the unhappy father from one end of the boulevard to the other. He was always to be found in the neighborhood of the theatres or at the actors' restaurant, with red eyes and pale cheeks. He loved to invite the question, "Well, my poor old fellow, how are things going at home?"
The mother and daughter were hemming pink flounces destined for Sidonie's frock, and the little cripple never had plied her needle with such good heart. In truth little Desiree was not Delobelle's daughter to no purpose. She inherited her father's faculty of retaining his illusions, of hoping on to the end and even beyond.
You could go out, leave your armchair once in a while. Your father would take us into the country. You would see the water and the trees you have had such a longing to see." "Oh! the trees," murmured the pale little recluse, trembling from head to foot. At that moment the street door of the house was closed violently, and M. Delobelle's measured step echoed in the vestibule.
You could go out, leave your armchair once in a while. Your father would take us into the country. You would see the water and the trees you have had such a longing to see." "Oh! the trees," murmured the pale little recluse, trembling from head to foot. At that moment the street door of the house was closed violently, and M. Delobelle's measured step echoed in the vestibule.
The mother and daughter were hemming pink flounces destined for Sidonie's frock, and the little cripple never had plied her needle with such good heart. In truth little Desiree was not Delobelle's daughter to no purpose. She inherited her father's faculty of retaining his illusions, of hoping on to the end and even beyond.
The mother and daughter were hemming pink flounces destined for Sidonie's frock, and the little cripple never had plied her needle with such good heart. In truth little Desiree was not Delobelle's daughter to no purpose. She inherited her father's faculty of retaining his illusions, of hoping on to the end and even beyond.
"Frantz! my Frantz!" cried the old strolling player in a melodramatic voice, clutching the air convulsively with his hands. After a long and energetic embrace he presented his guests to one another. "Monsieur Robricart, of the theatre at Metz. "Monsieur Chaudezon, of the theatre at Angers. "Frantz Risler, engineer." In Delobelle's mouth that word "engineer" assumed vast proportions!
"Frantz! my Frantz!" cried the old strolling player in a melodramatic voice, clutching the air convulsively with his hands. After a long and energetic embrace he presented his guests to one another. "Monsieur Robricart, of the theatre at Metz. "Monsieur Chaudezon, of the theatre at Angers. "Frantz Risler, engineer." In Delobelle's mouth that word "engineer" assumed vast proportions!
The strolling actress! All her happiness in life was lost forever: honor, family, wealth. She was driven from her house, stripped, dishonored. She had undergone all possible humiliations and disasters. That did not prevent her supping with a wonderful appetite and joyously holding her own under Delobelle's jocose remarks concerning her vocation and her future triumphs.
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