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Updated: June 4, 2025
"You would enjoy the Opéra Comique far more than the Italiens," said I, remembering that Madame de Marignan had a box at the Italiens, and rapidly weighing the chances for and against the possibility of recognition. "At the first they sing in French at the last, in Italian," "Ah, bah! I should prefer the French," replied she, falling at once into the snare. "When shall it be this week?"
That was just what I was wondering. It was not Delaroche. It was no one whom I had ever seen before. It was a short, fat, pale man, with a bald head, and a ribbon in his button-hole. "Is he her husband?" pursued Josephine. The suggestion flashed upon me like a revelation. Had I not heard that M. de Marignan was coming home from Algiers? Of course it was he. No doubt of it.
I turned my glass in the direction to which she pointed, and recognised Madame de Marignan! I turned hot and cold, red and white, all in one moment, and shrank back like a snail that has been touched, or a sea-anemone at the first dig of the naturalist. "Does she know you?" asked Josephine. "I I probably that is to say I have met her in society." "And who is the gentleman?"
Was there ever such a charming, sensible, lively creature? He is to be seen with her in every drawing-room and theatre throughout Paris. For my part, I am amazed that a woman of the world should suffer herself to be compromised to that extent especially one so experienced in these affaires du coeur." Madame de Marignan! Compromised experienced intriguante! I felt as if I were choking.
I am that Englishman whom whom...." For a moment there was silence. My companion was the first to speak. "Poor boy!" she said; and her voice, now, was gentle and compassionate. "You have been rudely undeceived. Did Madame de Marignan pass herself off upon you for a widow?" "She never named her husband to me I believed that she was free. I fancied he had been dead for years.
"Love him! Ridiculous! What does such a woman understand by love? Certainly neither the sentiment nor the poetry of it! Tush, Hippolyte! I do not wish to be censorious; but every one knows that ever since M. de Marignan has been away in Algiers, that woman has had, not one devoted admirer, but a dozen; and now that her husband is coming back...." "Coming back! ... her husband!"
"Every man is a caricature of himself when you strip him," said Müller, epigrammatically. "Look at that scarecrow just opposite. He passes for an Adonis, de par le monde." I looked and recognised the Count de Rivarol, a tall young man, an élégant of the first water, a curled darling of society, a professed lady-killer, whom I had met many a time in attendance on Madame de Marignan.
Very many amusing stories are told of its docility and sagacity. A very clever man tells of one that was introduced to Prince Maurice in a room in Brazil, where he was in company with several Dutchmen. The bird immediately exclaimed in the Brazilian language, "What a company of white men is here." Being asked, "Who is that man?" When asked, "Where do you come from?" it replied, "From Marignan."
And this desire to "hug" flies or lilac blossoms disquieted, angered, and roused the priest, who saw, even in this, the ineradicable tenderness that is always budding in women's hearts. Then there came a day when the sexton's wife, who kept house for Abbe Marignan, told him, with caution, that his niece had a lover.
"That of Marignan, just at the point where one of my forefathers is offering his sword to Francis I., who has broken his. It was on that occasion that my ancestor, Enguerrand de la Fere, was made a knight of the Order of St.
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