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Updated: June 20, 2025
"Madame Nancanou," said Honoré Grandissime, leaning toward her earnestly, "you know I must beg leave to appeal to your candor and confidence you know everything concerning Palmyre that I know. You know me, and who I am; you know it is not for me to undertake to confer with Palmyre.
He had followed Joseph's wake as he pushed through the throng; but as the lady turned her face he wheeled abruptly away. This brought again into view the bench he had just left, whereupon he, in turn, cried out, and, dashing through all obstructions, rushed back to it, lifting his ugly staff as he went and flourishing it in the face of Palmyre Philosophe.
But the very next morning, he turned cold with horror to find on his doorstep a small black-coffined doll, with pins run through the heart, a burned-out candle at the head and another at the feet. "You know it is Palmyre, do you?" asked Agamemnon, seizing the old man as he was going at a headlong pace through the garden gate.
What has Frowenfeld done? And Palmyre, and Agricole? They hustled me away from here as if I had been caught trying to cut my throat. Tell me everything." And Raoul sank the artist and bridegroom in the historian, and told him. "My cousin Honoré, well, you kin jus' say 'e bitray' 'is 'ole fam'ly." "How so?" asked Doctor Keene, with a handkerchief over his face to shield his eyes from the sun.
It was tight and easy at the same time, a perfect fit attained by Palmyre in her moments of inspiration; a black silk mantilla, a little straw bonnet trimmed plainly with ribbon, and a green gauze veil, half thrown back, completed the adornment, or rather absence of ornament, of this graceful creature. Heavens! I had like to have forgotten the gloves!
"No; his back was turned." "Momselle Aurore," said Palmyre, dropping her elbows upon her knees and taking the lady's hand as if the better to secure the truth, "was that the gentleman you met at the ball?" "My faith!" said Aurora, stretching her eyebrows upward. "I did not think to look. Who was it?"
We lose sight of Palmyre Chocareille, called Gypsy, upon her release from prison, but we meet her again six months later, having made the acquaintance of a travelling agent named Caldas, who became infatuated with her beauty, and furnished her a house near the Bastille. She assumed his name for some time, then she deserted him to devote herself to you. Did you ever hear of this Caldas?"
You don' wan' come ad 'er 'ouse, eh? an' you don' wan' her to come ad yo' bureau. You know, 'Sieur Frowenfel', she drez the hair of Clotilde an' mieself. So w'en she tell me dad, I juz say, 'Palmyre, I will sen' for Proffis-or Frowenfel' to come yeh; but I don' thing 'e comin'. You know, I din' wan' you to 'ave dad troub'; but Clotilde ha, ha, ha!
Alexandre opened a little cupboard, and took out a letter which she handed to him. "Here, take it," she said, "and be satisfied." Considering that she used to be a chambermaid, Palmyre Chocareille, since become Mme. Gypsy, wrote a good letter. It bore the following address, written in a free, flowing hand: FOR M. L. DE CLAMERAN, Forge-Master, Hotel du Louvre. To be handed to M. Raoul de Lagors.
Monsieur D'Embarras, the imp of death thus placated, must have been a sort of spiritual Cheap John. Several more nights passed. The house of Palmyre, closely watched, revealed nothing. No one came out, no one went in, no light was seen. They should have watched in broad daylight.
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