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Updated: June 23, 2025
He was a young man again, with the Prince, that Bourbon prince and hero whom he loved and honoured far above any of his own countrymen. "O, la folle entreprise du Prince de Conde," he sang, waving his hand above his head, while the spaniels barked loud and shrill, adding their clamour to his. He raved of battles and sieges.
For twenty-four hours he had not ceased thinking of the girl with the tambourine, of her savage, sullen grace, her magnificent poise and strange glance. He had learned at his hotel that she was called "Debora la folle," and that she was the daughter of the still crazier Baki. Was she some sort of a gypsy, or a Continental version of Salvation Army lass? No one knew. Each year, at the beginning of autumn, the pair wandered into Rouen, remained a few weeks, and disappeared. Where? Paris, perhaps, or Italy or l
Nevertheless, by some happy chance, I saw one performance at the Grand Opera of that great dancer and actress, Bigottini, in the ballet of the "Folle par Amour;" and I shall never forget the wonderful pathos of her acting and the grace and dignity of her dancing.
La Folle is a romance the success of which was so great that a wit called it une folie de salon. To show his gratitude, the king sent the two artists valuable presents: to Chopin a gold cup and saucer, to Moscheles a travelling case. "The king," remarked Chopin, "gave Moscheles a travelling case to get the sooner rid of him."
She withdrew her arms from the tub of suds in which they had been plunged, dried them upon her apron, and as quickly as her trembling limbs would bear her, hurried to the spot whence the ominous report had come. It was as she feared. There she found Cheri stretched upon the ground, with his rifle beside him. He moaned piteously: "I'm dead, La Folle! I'm dead! I'm gone!"
A shrill laugh finished this outburst, but Martine knew who it was that spoke, and maintained her equanimity. "Is that you again, Marguerite?" she said, not unkindly "You will tire yourself to death wandering about the streets all day." Marguerite Valmond, "la folle" as she was called by the townsfolk, shook her head and smiled cunningly.
"Ef you will give me one good drink tisane, Tante Lizette, I b'lieve I'm goin' sleep, me." And she did sleep; so soundly, so healthfully, that old Lizette without compunction stole softly away, to creep back through the moonlit fields to her own cabin in the new quarters. The first touch of the cool gray morning awoke La Folle.
The French prima donna, who not very long ago appeared in M. Clapisson's poor opera, "Jeanne la Folle," is said to have shut herself up in the Salpêtrière, by way of studying her part, and to have been rewarded for her zealous curiosity by receiving a basin of scalding soup dashed in her face by one of the poor miserable objects of her examination.
"There is a broken-hearted creature near us," pursued Patoux leisurely "We call her Marguerite La Folle; I have often thought I would ask Pere Laurent to speak to Monseigneur for her, that she might be released from the devils that are tearing her. She was a good girl till a year or two ago, then some villain got the ruin of her, and she lost her wits over it.
I caught her viciously by the wrist, and with my face close up to hers "Folle!" I cried, and I'll swear no man had ever used the word to her before. She gasped and choked in her surprise and rage. Then lowering my voice lest it should reach the approaching soldiers: "Would you ruin the Vicomte and yourself?" I muttered. Her eyes asked me a question, and I answered it.
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