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Marmet refused to take it, and said 'I do not know you. 'Do you take me for a Latin inscription? Schmoll replied. Marmet died and was buried because of that satire. Now you know the reason why his widow sees his enemy with horror." "And I have made them dine together, side by side." "Madame, it was not immoral, but it was cruel."
The Countess Martin smiled. "Monsieur Choulette, I desire nothing, and, nevertheless, I am not joyful. Must I make shoes, too?" Choulette replied, gravely: "It is not yet time for that." When they reached the gardens of the Oricellari, Madame Marmet sank on a bench.
"The Etruscan language was the cause of it. Marmet made it his unique study. He was surnamed Marmet the Etruscan. Neither he nor any one else knew a word of that language, the last vestige of which is lost.
He remained immovable, dreamy, and gazed without seeing. He tried to be reassured; perhaps it was an insignificant letter which she was trying to hide from the tiresome curiosity of Madame Marmet. "Monsieur Dechartre, it is time to rejoin our friends at the dressmaker's."
Two hours before he died he was trying to read again. He was affectionate and kind. Even in suffering he retained all his sweetness. Madame Martin said to her: "You have had long years of happiness; you have kept the reminiscence of them; that is a share of happiness in this world." But good Madame Marmet sighed; a cloud passed over her quiet brow.
Then she made a motion with her head that meant Yes. And, without his trying to stop her, she rejoined Miss Bell and Madame Marmet, who were waiting for her at the corner. Therese, after quitting Dechartre, took breakfast with her friend and Madame Marmet at the house of an old Florentine lady whom Victor Emmanuel had loved when he was Duke of Savoy.
But that her desire to go should contain a vague joy, that she should feel the charm of what she was to find, was inexplicable to her. Her carriage left her at the corner of a street. There, under the roof of a tall house, behind five windows, in a small, neat apartment, Madame Marmet had lived since the death of her husband.
She added, brusquely: "You know Miss Bell has invited me to spend a month with her at Fiesole. I have accepted; I am going." Less astonished than discontented, he asked her with whom she was going. At once she answered: "With Madame Marmet." There was no objection to make.
She is a spiritual daughter of Saint Paulin de Nole, who was the first to make the sky sing over our heads. The metal is rare. Soon I will show to you a gentle Florentine, the queen of bells. She is coming. But I bore you, darling, with my babble. And I bore, too, the good Madame Marmet. It is wrong." She escorted them to their rooms.
It died before having eaten too many flowers. Phanion lamented over its loss. She buried it in the lemon-grove, in a grave which she could see from her bed. And the shade of the little hare was consoled by the songs of the poets." The good Madame Marmet said that M. Le Menil pleased by his elegant and discreet manners, which young men no longer practise. She would have liked to see him.
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