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Updated: June 18, 2025
He seemed to have found the country a gigantic joke, and his blandness went but so far as to allow that jokes on that scale are indeed inexhaustible. Longmore was not by habit an aggressive apologist for the seat of his origin, but the Count's easy diagnosis confirmed his worst estimate of French superficiality.
She was what the French call a belle brune, and though Longmore, who had rather a conservative taste in such matters, was but half-charmed by her bold outlines and even braver complexion, he couldn't help admiring her expression of basking contentment. She was evidently very happy, and her happiness gave her an air of innocence.
At the same moment they issued out General Stuart came out from his tent, which was close by. "Is that you, Longmore? Jump on your horse and ride down to the town. Bring back news of what is going on." A few minutes later an officer rode up. Some wood had been thrown on the fire, and by its light Vincent recognized Stonewall Jackson. "Have you any news for us?" he asked.
Longmore told her that he was daily expecting news and after a pause mentioned the promised note of introduction. "It seems less necessary now," he said "for me at least. But for you I should have liked you to know the good things our friend would probably have been able to say about me." "If it arrives at last," she answered, "you must come and see me and bring it.
"Voila!" said Madame Clairin. "You pity her." "Pity her?" cried Longmore, looking up with ardent eyes and forgetting the spirit of the story to which he had been treated in the miserable facts. "Don't you?" "A little. But I'm not acting sentimentally I'm acting scientifically. We've always been capable of ideas.
It's not her country," she added, "that makes a woman happy or unhappy." Madame Clairin, Euphemia's sister-in-law, might meanwhile have been supposed to have undertaken the graceful task of making Longmore ashamed of his uncivil jottings about her sex and nation.
Longmore heard the little old gentleman uttering some old-fashioned epigram about "la vieille galanterie francaise" then by a sudden impulse he looked at Madame de Mauves and wondered what she was doing in such a world. She stopped before the house, not asking him to come in. "I hope you will act on my advice and waste no more time at Saint-Germain."
But Longmore felt himself a marplot and lingered only long enough to glance at the young man's sketch and to see in it an easy rendering of the silvery stream and the vivid green rushes. The young wife had spread her shawl on the grass at the base of a tree and meant to seat herself when he had left them, meant to murmur Chenier's verses to the music of the gurgling river.
Was it strength, was it weakness, was it a vulgar fear, was it conviction, conscience, constancy? Longmore sank back with a sigh and an oppressive feeling that it was vain to guess at such a woman's motives. He only felt that those of this one were buried deep in her soul and that they must be of the noblest, must contain nothing base.
More than justice," the Count laughed "that we keep for the wives of other men!" Longmore afterwards remembered in favour of his friend's fine manner that he had not measured at this moment the dusky abyss over which it hovered. Hut a deepening subterranean echo, loudest at the last, lingered on his spiritual ear.
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