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"PESTE! Matters are going all right." "Should you know those doors again?" "Yes." "Do you know the numbers?" "Yes." "What are they?" "No. 25 in the Rue de Vaugirard; 75 in the Rue de la Harpe." "That's well," said the cardinal. At these words he took up a silver bell, and rang it; the officer entered. "Go," said he, in a subdued voice, "and find Rochefort.
"Oh-h-h!" she gasped in relief. "You'd better stay cached." Nell Beecroft eyed, with a look of contempt, the woman for whom she had lied. "Dan Treu was here; he's got a warrant." "I don't care I'll not go down there!" She pinned wildly at the loosened knot of dull red hair which lay upon her shoulders. "That was fierce!" She looked in horror down the dusky cellarway. "What ails you, Harpe?"
Michel, and stared, as I proceeded along the Rue de la Harpe, at the crowds of people hurrying in either direction in each of the narrow, crooked streets, each person so absorbed in his own errand, and so used to the throng and the noise, that he paid no heed to the animation that so interested and stirred me.
Saltoun shivered inwardly. He was a man of courage, but not of foolhardy courage, the species of courage that dares death unnecessarily. He was getting on in years, and hoped, when it came his time to die, to pass out peacefully in his nightshirt. And here was that fool of a Racey practically telling Harpe and the other rascals that he was on to their game. No wonder Mr. Saltoun shivered.
Yet the most timid among them had less fear of Public Opinion than Dr. Harpe to whom it was always a menacing juggernaut. She returned at the end of the day tired but content in the knowledge that her efforts had produced exactly the effect she desired.
"I'll just try one more place this evening," he said as soon as he had swallowed some of the hot coffee "a restaurant in the Rue de la Harpe; the members of the Cordeliers' Club often go there for supper, and they are usually well informed. I might glean something definite there."
Harpe appeared with her hair curled and wearing a lingerie waist, the fact which roused the risibilities of her friends stirred in him a feeling which resembled the instinct of self-preservation. Van Lennop's brow contracted as he re-read the invitation in his room. "Confound it! I'm not ready to be discovered yet." Then he grinned, in spite of himself, at the hint in the corner "full dress."
for what did she care for such particulars when her eyes were at their clearest? Her perception was intellectual; and to the penetrating glances of her mental vision the objects of the sensual world were mere irrelevance. The kind of writing produced by such a quality of mind may seem thin and barren to those accustomed to the wealth and variety of the Romantic school. Yet it will repay attention. The vocabulary is very small; but every word is the right one; this old lady of high society, who had never given a thought to her style, who wrote and spelt by the light of nature, was a past mistress of that most difficult of literary accomplishments 'l'art de dire en un mot tout ce qu'un mot peut dire. The object of all art is to make suggestions. The romantic artist attains that end by using a multitude of different stimuli, by calling up image after image, recollection after recollection, until the reader's mind is filled and held by a vivid and palpable evocation; the classic works by the contrary method of a fine economy, and, ignoring everything but what is essential, trusts, by means of the exact propriety of his presentation, to produce the required effect. Madame du Deffand carries the classical ideal to its furthest point. She never strikes more than once, and she always hits the nail on the head. Such is her skill that she sometimes seems to beat the Romantics even on their own ground: her reticences make a deeper impression than all the dottings of their i's. The following passage from a letter to Walpole is characteristic: Nous eûmes une musique charmante, une dame qui joue de la harpe
My uncle Mr. Richard Kincaid Dr. Harpe." Dr. Harpe standing at her office window saw the lovely Pearline Starr, curled and dressed at ten in the morning, trip down the street bearing a glass of buffalo berry jelly in her white-gloved hands, while Mrs.
Harpe he looked the fortunate and beaming bridegroom and only she saw the tiny lines which sleeplessness had left about his eyes or detected the hollowness of his frequent laughter. It was more or less of a relief to all when the ceremony was over and the nervous and perspiring Justice of the Peace, miserable in a collar, had wished them every known joy.
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