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When the Paris butterflies flutter for a summer day to the decaying watering-place of Dieppe, some American wanderer, who flutters with them, may cast perchance a longing eye to where the hamlet of Eu stands amid its verdant meadows, two miles away, still lovely as when the Archbishop Laurent chose it out of all the world for his "place of eternal rest," six centuries ago.
At the expiration of four months, Laurent thought of taking advantage of the profit he had calculated on deriving from his marriage. He would have abandoned his wife, and fled from the spectre of Camille, three days after the wedding, had not his interest detained him at the shop in the arcade.
I never noticed this wound before." It seemed to Laurent as if the finger of Therese was boring a hole in his throat. At the contact of this finger, he suddenly started backward, uttering a suppressed cry of pain. "That," he stammered, "that " He hesitated, but he could not lie, and in spite of himself, he told the truth. "That is the bite Camille gave me. You know, in the boat. It is nothing.
"Oh, leave him alone," put in Monsieur Laurent, the stationer, who was seated near me. "Just listen to those fiendish women. Why they're worse than we are about the slackers. After all, I keep telling them there must be a few, otherwise who's going to write history? And history's got to be written, hasn't it?" "Most decidedly," I replied.
Wenonah looked up from her work and smiled. "No, children," said Jeanne with a wave of the hand, "I cannot have you now. You may come to-morrow. This afternoon is all mine." It was a pleasant, grave, fatherly letter. M. St. Armand had found much to do, and presently he would go to England. Laurent was at a school where he should leave him for a year.
This communion, this mutual penetration is a psychological and physiological phenomenon which is often found to exist in beings who have been brought into violent contact by great nervous shocks. For over a year, Therese and Laurent lightly bore the chain riveted to their limbs that united them.
He will go with his wife as far as the outer fortifications in the direction of Versailles. The news of the election of Cardinal Jacques della Chiesa as Pope, with the title Benoit XV, does not arouse as much public interest here as does the nomination of M. Emile Laurent as Prefect of Police, in place of M. Hennion who, on account of ill health, retires at his own request.
He stopped to listen to the conversation before the latticed gate of the park through which fountains and statues could be seen. He recognized the voice of a woman. She was beautiful, and once had broken his boyish heart. She was saying: "Do you remember the great poet, Laurent Laurini?...They say he has made a mésalliance, and has married a cowherd...."
"He was good," said she, "and we must have been very cruel to assail such a warm-hearted man who had never a bad thought." "He was good, yes, I know," jeered Laurent. "You mean to say he was a fool. You must have forgotten! You pretended you were irritated at the slightest thing he said, that he could not open his mouth without letting out some stupidity." "Don't jeer," said Therese.
For though they took their religion seriously in the services of the Church, they were gay and light hearted, pleasure loving when the time of leisure came, or at festivals and marriages. "There was a pretty wedding to-day in St. Anne's," said Madelon Fleury, glancing up at Laurent St. Armand, with soft, dark eyes. "I looked for you.
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