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Updated: June 6, 2025
In that dim silent room where only its master came daily, and the one domestic who, with an old housekeeper, attended to the wants of Dormeur and his grandson, and did a little dusting once a week the silver cup had become the receptacle of small trinkets, of coins, and quaint pieces of jewellery.
"Pierre, you are extravagant. What can you want with them? There will be no company; your dress is good enough." "There will be Master Antoine, perhaps a lady, but that I cannot tell; there may even be two ladies." "Pierre, it is ill-jesting," said Dormeur, turning pale and with an angry glance; "do you remember what day it is?" "Good Heaven! Master, forgive me.
With swift steps, but without picking his way, taking the nearest road rather by habit than with any observation, Antoine Dormeur traversed the narrow streets leading to his destination.
Bartholde died fighting on his own threshold; his wife, the beautiful Mathilde, perished, perhaps, in the flames. At all events, a wild figure was seen at an upper window just before the great leaden roof of the château curled and fell. Fire and sword spread in a widening circle round that district; the house of Anton Dormeur was sacked.
The front door stood open every day from ten till five, to give buyers access to the warehouse, in which Anton Dormeur old, withered, slightly bent, and with a set look upon his face which even his rare smile failed to disturb unrolled pieces of silk, made bargains, examined with a critical eye and with the aid of a magnifying glass the fabrics brought in by the weavers, and in fact carried on his trade as though he had for ever been separated from the tragedy which befel him in Languedoc nearly fourteen years before.
Anton Dormeur was frequently at Alais with Bartholde, and the people there whispered that it would go hard with the manufacturer when the dragoons came. He had already made some preparations, however. Always in communication with the refugees who had settled in Spitalfields and Coventry, he held money in England.
It is a question of minutes. Walking backward and pressing slowly against the noiseless door, she slips out again, and, like one pursued, begins to run at her utmost speed through the darkened streets. Anton Dormeur sits alone in the grim old house. Cook and housekeeper have gone to market for the means of providing supper.
So Sara Dufarge went out cursed, undowered, and an orphan, from the old house, and Père Dormeur was left desolate indeed. Yet amidst the gloom that settled on his life, and the hard unyielding determination which resisted any attempts on the part of her sister to bring him to receive his disowned daughter again, the manufacturer had frequent struggles with his pride and obstinacy.
By a horrible fiction it is often thought that such a man is "just fit to deal with workpeople." The same opinion prevailed then, and thus Bashley was able to get a character which obtained for him a place in the warehouse of Anton Dormeur.
There was a strange light in the old foreman's eyes, a strange look in his face, as he said this, so that Anton Dormeur stopped him suddenly. "Pierre, you know something of this," he cried. "You shall tell me what does it mean?" "I am not sure that I can tell you," replied the old man thoughtfully. "Still, you invite me to sup with you to-night. Antoine will be there?" "Ah! there again.
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