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Updated: June 27, 2025
A moldly moldering molish voice, suggesting putrifying tracts and orifices, answers with a cob-webbish patience so far beyond despair as to be indescribable: "La soupe." "Well, the soup, I just gave it to you, Monsieur Savy." "Must have a little something else. My money is chez le directeur. Please take my money which is chez le directeur and give me anything else."
Monsieur le Directeur hastened about, doing his best to reassure everybody. "If I thought it was of the slightest use," he declared, "I would ask you all to stay, but when the clouds once stoop like this, there is not likely to be any change for twenty-four hours, and we have not, alas! sleeping accommodation.
I am not facetious. For already I feel how do you say? my fowl is cooked. 'Not the messenger, sir, the directeur has said. 'You 'ave misunderstood me. It was the cat which was to be destroyed as per instructions of the anonymous sender. 'Who could have played such a wicked trick? Miss Marion has asked, indignant. The directeur has stooped, and from behind a table he has brought a 'at-box.
She described the nuns mumbling their prayers, and punctuating them with irate commands to the children; the many and various rules, the Mére Supérieure, the food, the clothes, the eccentricities of Monsieur le Directeur. She had the rare and unwomanlike art of witty description, though it assorted badly with her tragic face and unsmiling eyes.
Those who would justify the good 'directeur', alias the pimp, in this affair, must not attempt to do it by saying that the King and Madame Maintenon were at that time privately married; that the directeur knew it; and that this was the meaning of his 'enigme'. That is absolutely impossible; for that private marriage must have removed all scruples between the parties; nay, could not have been contracted upon any other principle, since it was kept private, and consequently prevented no public scandal.
Imagine the severe faces of the outraged gowned, the avoidance aghast by terrified playmates the council with closed doors, his disappearance into the mysterious Office to confront the Directeur alone, and the interview with him at white-heat strain beginning mildly: "My son" and ending with icy distinctness: "Then, sir, Go!" He did go.
Of course none of this bear's letters ever got posted Le Directeur was not that sort of person; nor did this bear ever expect that they would go elsewhere than into the official waste-basket of La Ferte, which means that he wrote because he liked to; which again means that he was essentially an artist for which reason I liked him more than a little.
"In New York, also," asked Claire proudly, "are you directeur of the electric lights?" "On Broadway alone," Billy explained reprovingly, "there is one sign that uses more bulbs than there are in the whole of Hayti!" "New York is a large town!" exclaimed Claire. "It's a large sign," corrected Billy. "But," he pointed out, "with no money we'll never see it.
His subordinate swayed to and fro, clasping and unclasping his hands behind his back, and regarded me with an expression of almost benevolence. The Black Holster guarded the doorway. Turning on me ferociously: "Your friend is wicked, very wicked, SAVEZ-VOUS?" Le Directeur shouted. I answered quietly: "Oui? Je ne le savait pas."
The final touch to Delacroix's disgrace was given by the Directeur des Beaux Arts sending for him and recommending him to study drawing from casts, warning him at the same time that unless he could change his style he must expect neither commissions nor recognition from the State!
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