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Updated: June 27, 2025
"You will do me the favor to leave me as soon as we reach the woods," said Gerfaut, as he continued to limp with a grace which would have made Lord Byron envious; "you may go straight ahead, or you may turn to the left, as you choose; the right is forbidden you." "Very well. Hearts are trumps, it seems, and, for the time being, you agree with Sganarelle, who places the heart on the right side."
Gerfaut soon noticed a rather animated conversation taking place between Madame de Bergenheim, who was somewhat embarrassed as to how to amuse her guests for the remainder of the afternoon, and Marillac, who, with his accustomed enthusiasm, had constituted himself master of ceremonies.
"Get down upon your knees, then," she said, haughtily, "and put on my slipper, since you exact it, and let this end this ridiculous scene. I think you should be too proud to regard a maid's privilege as a favor." "As a favor which a king would envy," replied Gerfaut, in a voice as tender as hers had been disdainful.
"And how do you know?" said she, after a moment's reflection. "You were at the piano. How could you hear at the other end of the room what Monsieur de Gerfaut was saying?" It was Clemence's turn to hang her head, for it seemed to her that the girl had suspected the constant attention which, under an affectation of indifference, never allowed her to lose one of Octave's words.
"In life and in death!" exclaimed Marillac, and he pressed his hand with the emotion that the bravest of men feel at the approach of a danger which threatens one who is dear to them. "Here," said Gerfaut, as he handed him the papers in his hand, "is a letter for you in which you will find my instructions in full; they will serve you as a guide, according to circumstances.
After a few moments' reflection, he raised his head and looked first at Gerfaut, then at Bergenheim, with a peculiar smile. "It would be very original," said he, in a low voice as if replying to his own thoughts. "The story!" exclaimed one of the party, more impatient than the rest. "Here it is," replied the artist. "You all know, gentlemen, how difficult it always is to choose a title.
In this way, the denouement, whatever it may be, will be looked upon as one of those accidents which so frequently happen in shooting-parties." "I am a dead man," thought Gerfaut, as he saw that the gun would be the weapon chosen by his adversary, and recalled his wonderful skill, of which he had had many and various proofs.
Was the fair lady one of those caprices, so frequent and fleeting in an artist's thoughts, or had she given birth to one of those sentiments that end by absorbing the rest of one's life? The young man seated opposite Gerfaut was, physically and morally, as complete a contrast to him as one could possibly imagine. He was one of the kind very much in request in fashionable society.
"As to that, certainly not," said she, in a sharp tone; "I should much prefer to leave it with you and return home as I am." Gerfaut shook his head and smiled incredulously. "Think of your delicate lungs and of this terrible mud?" Clemence drew her foot suddenly back under her skirt, concealing it entirely from the sight of the young man, who gazed at it more than she thought proper.
Tell us about it, Fritz." The child related in his Alsatian patois his meeting of the afternoon, and the artist was convinced that it was Gerfaut he had met. "He must be wandering in the valley," said he, "dreaming about our play. But did you not say something about Bergenheim? Is there a village near here by that name?"
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