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Updated: June 4, 2025
As Chiffinch hesitated what reply to make, a man, who, by the blaze of the torches, then always borne, as well by the lackeys who hung behind the carriage, as by the footmen who ran by the side, might easily see who sat in the coach, approached, and sung in a deep manly voice, the burden of an old French song on the battle of Marignan, in which is imitated the German French of the defeated Swiss.
Emerging presently at the back of the Madeleine, we paused for a moment to admire the noble building by moonlight; then struck across the Marché aux Fleurs and took our way along the Boulevard. "Are you tired, Damon?" said Dalrymple presently. "Not in the least," I replied, with my head full of Madame de Marignan.
When it was introduced into the room where the prince was sitting, in company with several Dutchmen, it immediately exclaimed in the Brazilian language, "What a company of white men are here!" They asked it, "Who is that man?" The parrot answered, "Some general or other." The parrot answered, "From Marignan." The prince asked, "To whom do you belong?" It answered, "To a Portuguese."
The voice, whose brazen tones had sounded like a trumpet over the land, was hushed that voice which had exclaimed with such sublime significance to the Marseillais, "When the last of the Gracchi expired, he flung dust towards heaven, and from this dust sprang Marius!" that voice which had conquered the aversion of Mademoiselle de Marignan with its seductive melody that voice which had been at once the oracle of the king and the law of the rabble.
"If we don't meet before, come and dine with me next Sunday at seven o'clock and don't dream of dreadful murders, if you can help it!" I did not dream of dreadful murders. I dreamt, instead, of Madame de Marignan, and never woke the next morning till eleven o'clock, just two hours later than the time at which I should have presented myself at Dr. Chéron's.
I had, as usual, attended Madame de Marignan one evening to the Opera, and found myself, also as usual, neglected for a host of others. His name was Delaroche, and he called himself Monsieur le Comte Delaroche.
We shall get much nearer the reality by comparing the seigneur of Guillettes to those actors or priests whose freshly shaven cheeks have a bluish gloss. Monsieur de Montragouz did not wear a pointed beard like his grandfather at the Court of King Henry II; nor did he wear it like a fan, as did his great-grandfather who was killed at the battle of Marignan.
I have some recollection of marching to and fro among the side-alleys of the Bois de Boulogne, which at that time was really a woody park, and not a pleasure-garden of lying under a tree, and listening to the birds overhead, and indulging myself in some idiotic romance about love, and solitude, and Madame de Marignan of wandering into a restaurant somewhere about seven o'clock, and sitting down to a dinner for which I had no appetite of going back, sometime during the evening, to the Rue Castellane, and walking to and fro on the opposite side of the way, looking up for ever so long at the darkened windows where my divinity did not show herself of coming back to my lodgings, weary, dusty, and not a bit more sober, somewhere about eleven o'clock at night, driven to-bed by sheer fatigue, and, even then, too much in love to go to sleep!
How he had used to want those hours then, and how again, after a little, at present, the Rue de Marignan might have been before him!
Released from gaol, in order, by his father's command, to attempt to form a marriage beset with difficulties with Mademoiselle De Marignan, a rich heiress of one of the greatest families of Provence, he displayed, like a wrestler, all kinds of stratagems and daring schemes of policy in the small theatre of Aix. Cunning, seduction, courage, he used every resource of his nature to succeed, and he succeeded; but he was hardly married, before fresh persecutions beset him, and the stronghold of Pontarlier gaped to enclose him. A love, which his Lettres
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