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Updated: June 26, 2025
"Merci, monsieur!" said Margaret, rising and dropping him a curtsey, with the prettiest of glances, as he left the parlour. She hummed a little French air, and went and ran her fingers up and down the keys of the pianoforte, which great new instrument had supplanted the old harpsichord in the house. Tom and I, standing at the fireplace, watched her face as the candle-light fell upon it.
A flash of vivid light crossed my eyes for a second, and I exclaimed eagerly: "I remember now! It was 'Dieu vous garde' signor!" He bent his head reverentially. "Merci mille fois, mademoiselle! Dieu vous garde vous aussi. Au revoir." And clasping my hand with a light yet friendly pressure, he closed the door of his room behind me.
"Très bon! merci, messieurs les cadavres, perhaps I may forgive you even yet for being empty." Hope surged, he wrought eagerly; before long he had cleared away a passage that ended in a dead wall! It was perhaps the most poignant moment of his experience. He had, then, been the fool of an illusion! Only a blank wall!
A hasty person may say "What! do you venture to quarrel with letters where, side by side with agreeable miscellaneous details, you may suddenly come upon the original and virgin text of 'La Belle Dame sans Merci'?" Most certainly not. Such a find, or one ten times less precious, would make one put up with accompaniments much more than ten times worse than the worst of Keats's letters.
Then came forward Sir Anthony de Mandeville and Sir Roger de Merci in full armour, and presented to Sir Andrew D'Arcy, their uncle, who stood upon the edge of the dais, also in his armour, their swords and spurs, of which he gave back to them two of the latter, bidding them affix these upon the candidates' right heels.
Your mistress and I desire to give you a further little gift as you have shown so much zeal to-day, so here is twenty francs." "Merci, M'sieur." Without looking again at Sylvia the woman went out of the room, and a moment later the front door slammed behind her. "My wife discovered that it is Annette's fête day to-morrow, and gave her a trifle.
"I put a pair of silver dollars into the old man's purse to keep company with his three dimes and one nickel. It made them look like orphans that had found a home. 'Mon Dieu! Monsieur, vous etes un ange du ciel. Merci. Thank you. 'But you must give me your address and let me send back the money!
The Frenchwoman took up her parasol and laid the house key on the table, then, with a "Bon jour, Madame, et encore merci bien!" she noisily closed the door behind her. A moment later, Sylvia, with a sense of relief, found herself in sole possession of the Châlet des Muguets. Even the quietest, the most commonplace house has, as it were, an individuality that sets it apart from other houses.
"Yes, Nick looks it. Merci, pas de vin. It's just the thing for you, you know," Julia said to him. "To be sure he knows it. He's immensely grateful. It's really very kind of you." "You do me a very great honour, Julia," Nick hastened to add. "Don't be tiresome, please," that lady returned. "We'll talk about it later. Of course there are lots of points," Nick pursued.
I am in no way like Keats' "Knight at Arms." I should simply have run away from the "Belle Dame sans merci," and no amount of fairy songs or manna dew would have enabled her to have me in thrall. But I could understand how Ascher, who evidently has a taste for that kind of thing, might have been fascinated by the morbid beauty of the girl in the picture.
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