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Updated: May 17, 2025
"Attends! what love what history what passion! the perfect P'tite Louison!" cried Emile, the youngest, the most sentimental. "Ah, Moliere!" he added, as if calling on the master to rise and sing the glories of this daughter of romance. Isidore's tale was after this fashion: "I ver' well remember the first of it; and the last of it who can tell? He was an actor oh, so droll, that!
Medallion turned and took off his hat reverently, as if a soul were passing from the world; but it was only P'tite Louison going out into the garden. "She thinks him living?" he asked gently as he watched Louison. "Yes; we have no heart to tell her. And then he wish it so. And the flowers kep' coming." "Why did he wish it so?" Isidore mused a while. "Who can tell? Perhaps a whim.
He show me and Emile how to play sword-sticks; and he pick flowers and fetch them to P'tite Louison, and teach her how to make an omelette and a salad like the chef of the Louis Quinze Hotel, so he say. Bagosh, what a good time we have! But first one, then another, he get a choke-throat when he think that P'tite Louison go to leave us, and the more we try, the more we are bagosh fools.
'Give me a drink, he say, and begin to cough a little a queer sort of rattle. Florian give him big drink, and he toss it off-whiff! 'Thank you, he say, and start again, and we see him walk away over the hill ver' slow an' he never come back. But every year there come from New York a box of flowers, and every year P'tite Louison send him a 'Merci, Charles, mille fois.
'Give me a drink, he say, and begin to cough a little a queer sort of rattle. Florian give him big drink, and he toss it off-whiff! 'Thank you, he say, and start again, and we see him walk away over the hill ver' slow an' he never come back. But every year there come from New York a box of flowers, and every year P'tite Louison send him a 'Merci, Charles, mille fois.
The way that my little one come. Which is the good path over the hills? The path that leads to my little one's home To my little one's home, m'sieu', m'sieu'! "That did it. 'Corinne, ma p'tite Corinne! he said; but he did not look at me only stretch out his hands.
So he speak to Florian and say he want marry P'tite Louison, and he say, of course, that he is not marry and he have money. But he is a Protestan', and the Cure at first ver' mad, bagosh! "But at las' when he give a hunder' dollars to the Church, the Cure say yes. All happy that way for while.
Tall, ver' smart, and he play in theatre at Montreal. It is in the winter. P'tite Louison visit Montreal. She walk past the theatre and, as she go by, she slip on the snow and fall. Out from a door with a jomp come M'sieu' Hadrian, and pick her up. And when he see the purty face of P'tite Louison, his eyes go all fire, and he clasp her hand to his breast.
The man was saying in a dialect new to Kedzie: "Ah, ma pauvre p'tite amie, for why you have a jalousie of my patrie?" There was a vague discussion from which Kedzie drowsily gleaned that the man was going to cross the sea to the realm of destruction.
"Then," he said, "I must secure a nurse for you." "Am I not able to care for the p'tite?" demanded Marie. "A nurse!" "A nurse is needed to care for you both. I am going downstairs now to summon one." She protested feebly, and Marie vigorously, but he was insistent. "I ought to call your family physician " "No, Mr. Donaldson, you must not do that."
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