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The people seemed to him no better and hardly any more sincere than the other classes: there was not enough difference between them and others. In the midst of the torrent of interests and muddy passions, Olivier's gaze and heart were attracted by the little islands of independent spirits, the little groups of true believers who emerged here and there like flowers on the face of the waters.
When she set out from her own home to go to the painter's studio, a wave of joy, warm and penetrating, overflowed her spirit, making it light and happy. As she laid her hand on Olivier's bell, her breast throbbed with impatience, and the stair-carpet seemed the softest her feet ever had pressed. But Bertin became gloomy, a little nervous, often irritable.
But Olivier's respectable burgess instincts were shocked, and so were his traditional habits of mental discipline, and regular work, and scrupulous economy of time: and he did not relish such a waste of so many precious hours. Besides that, he was not good at talking or drinking.
Two commandos, supposed to be Grobler's and Olivier's, were seen by them, moving on a line which suggested that they were going to join Steyn, who was known to be rallying his forces at Kroonstad, his new seat of government in the north of the Free State.
This had been found amongst Olivier's papers; a note in that precious manuscript, which had given to the hands of his successors the keys of the grave, had discovered the mystery of its uses.
Christophe, under Olivier's guidance, was impregnated with the pensive beauty of the Muse of France, while in his heart he found the aristocratic lady a little too intellectual for his liking, and preferred a pretty girl of the people, simple, healthy, robust, who thinks and argues less, but is more concerned with love.
Christophe had the most lovely joy in gazing at him and listening to him; it seemed to him that all the cares of the past were washed away; his sorrowful experiences, his trials, his sufferings and Olivier's sufferings, all were wiped out: he was born again in this young shoot of Olivier's life. They talked on.
I will leave them and say no more about it." Since the day when he left Olivier's house, Olivier had given no sign of life: all seemed over between them. Christophe had no mind to form new friendships. He imagined Count and Countess Bereny to be like the rest of the snobs who called themselves his friends: and he made no attempt to meet them. He was more inclined to avoid them.
Cardillac's wound is precisely the same as all those of the persons who have been robbed and murdered in the streets and houses; and most conclusive of all, since Olivier's arrest, the robberies and murders have ceased; the streets are as safe by night as by day. Proof enough that Olivier was most probably the chief of the band.
Julio came back, bounding toward them, without having found the quail, which had kept still at his approach; Annette followed him, breathless from running. "I can't run any more," said she. "I will prop myself up with you, Monsieur painter!" She leaned on Olivier's free arm, and they returned, walking thus, he between them, under the shadow of the trees. They spoke no more.
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