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Updated: May 2, 2025
But I never saw anybody with more style no, not if it was that Mrs. Pletheridge who is everlastingly in the Sunday papers. I declare Florrie's waist didn't look much bigger round than the leg of that table honestly it didn't and her hat was perched on a bandeau so high that you could see the new sort of way she'd gone and had her hair crimped they call it Marcellin' up here, don't they?"
It seemed to make concrete what, after all, had until this moment been more or less vague. It was like fiction suddenly made true. That pungent odor was a grim reality. So was that black-bearded Dr. Marcellin, who, leaving his patient in the hands of his assistant, came to the door wiping his hands upon a towel. "I am Mr. Covington's fiancée Miss Stockton," she said at once.
After the doctors were through with Monte the next morning, they decided, after a consultation, that there was no apparent reason why, during the day, Miss Stockton, if she desired, should not serve as his nurse while Miss Duval went home to sleep. "My assistant will come in at least twice," said Dr. Marcellin. "Besides, you have the constitution of a prize-fighter.
Although my father was very good to me, I was so much in awe of him that I was very shy in his presence, a shyness which he thought was greater than was really the case; he said I should have been a girl, and often called me madamoiselle Marcellin, which annoyed me very much, especially now that I was a Hussar.
This was where fifteen years of clean living counted for something. When Marcellin and his assistant had first stripped Monte to the waist the day before, they had paused for a moment to admire what they called his torso. It was not often, in their city practice, that they ran across a man of thirty with muscles as clearly outlined as in an anatomical illustration.
All the texts consecrated, under whatever titles, by antiquity to the regions of the Sahara were reunited between the four rough-cast walls of that little room of the bordj. Herodotus and Pliny, naturally, and likewise Strabo and Ptolemy, Pomponius Mela, and Ammien Marcellin.
In him was incarnate all that we can conceive as bohemian, with a training that gave him the high-bred manner of a seigneur. He was a romantic, like his friend Félix Ziem Ziem, Marcellin, Deboutin, and Monticelli represented a caste that no longer exists; bohemians, yes, but gentlemen, refined and fastidious.
But he added, having had some experience with fiancées as nurses: "Of course I shall have for a week my own nurse also; but I shall be glad of your assistance. This er was an accident?" She nodded. "He was trying to save a foolish friend from killing himself." "I understand." "Nothing more need be said about it?" "Nothing more," Dr. Marcellin assured her.
"You will tell me the truth?" After one glance at her eyes Dr. Marcellin was willing to tell the truth. "It is an ugly bullet wound in his shoulder," he said. "It is not serious?" "Such things are always serious. Luckily, I was able to find the bullet and remove it. It was a narrow escape for him." "Of course," she added, "I shall serve as his nurse." "Good," he nodded.
A man's destiny is often influenced by the smallest of events. My father and mother were very friendly with M. Barairon, the director of registration, and one day, when they were going to dine with him, they took me along. The talk was of my father's coming departure, and the progress of my two younger brothers. At last, M. Barairon asked, "And Marcellin, what are you going to make of him?" "A sailor," replied my father, "Captain Sibille has agreed to take him with him to Toulon." Then the good Mme. Barairon, towards whom I have always felt the warmest gratitude, observed to my father that the French navy was in complete disarray, that the poor state of the country's finances would not allow its rapid refurbishment, and, furthermore, its inferiority vis-
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