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Updated: May 26, 2025
Snapshots of Ibsen, dangerous illness of the playwright, quaint habits of the Norwegian dramatist, a poet's double life, anecdotes of Ibsen and Mrs. , rumors of the King's attitude to Ibsen this pollenta, dressed a dozen ways, was the standing dish at every journalist's table.
Our detective had just re-entered the journalist's study. There, on the floor, lay the bundle which had excited his curiosity when Vagualame was present. "The enemy," thought he, "has retired, but has abandoned his baggage!" Juve relighted the lamp, and undid the black serge covering of the bundle. "Ah! I might have guessed as much, it is an accordion, Vagualame's accordion!"
That such a man could descend to such coarse work! It was said that the fellow was capable of greater things; he would surely blossom forth some day; all right, time enough then. Irgens did not care for him very much nowadays. Unwillingly, he walked over to the Journalist's table. Milde was there, also the Attorney and Coldevin, the grey tutor from the country. They were waiting for Paulsberg.
Obadiah Turner, of Lynn, gives in his Journal a sad, sad disclosure of total depravity which was exposed by one of these sudden church-awakenings, and the story is best told in the journalist's own vivid words: "June 3, 1616. Allen Bridges hath bin chose to wake ye sleepers in meeting.
She would take a bold step in her despair. Young M. de Rastignac had come to spend a few days with his family. He had spoken of Lucien in terms that set Paris gossip circulating in Angouleme, till at last it reached the journalist's mother and sister. Eve went to Mme. de Rastignac, asked the favor of an interview with her son, spoke of all her fears, and asked him for the truth.
Here, for instance, is the talk of a saloon-keeper, taken from W. Payne's story, 'The Money Captain, which echoes, as nearly as printed words can echo, the voice of the boodler: "Stop it?" says the saloon-keeper of a journalist's attack. "What I got to stop it with? What's the matter with you fellows anyhow?
"No, he did not want to," was the journalist's abrupt reply, for he was taken by surprise, though he had got ready some sort of tale to explain Count Muffat's refusal. Seeing the young woman's sudden pallor, he became conscious of his folly and tried to retract his words. "He was unable to; he is taking the countess to the ball at the Ministry of the Interior tonight."
Again Fandor-Vinson played the admirer's part, though he knew these machines were out-of-date. "What is his game?" was our journalist's mental query. The answer soon came. His guide led him to a strange-looking object concealed by some grey material. It might well be a cabinet for storing odds and ends, but Fandor felt sure the grey stuff covered something metallic.
He began to walk on the landing with heavy steps, imitating someone coming downstairs. Forthwith, the agent, who was coming up, stopped short. He had no wish to be seen by the person descending either! The only thing left for him to do was to take refuge in the journalist's flat! Easy enough with his master-key!
Then, as they did not detain him, he moved off and continued whispering in the journalist's ear: "I'm going to press some more of them. These young fellows must know some little ladies." With that he was observed to accost men and to engage them in conversation in his usual amiable and smiling way in every corner of the drawing room.
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