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Updated: June 12, 2025
Near as he was to her now, he very often saw her in his mind's eye as she passed over Ridley Common, looking towards him, her eyes shaded by her hand. She, too, had continually said to herself that this man could be nothing to her nothing, never! Yet, why not? Count Ploare had offered her his hand. But she knew what had been in Count Ploare's mind.
It was not intellectual, but it was power of a kind; and it was decent, and healthy, and infinitely better than playing the Jew in business, or keeping a tavern, or "shaving" notes, and all that. Truly, the woman was to be admired, for she was earning an honest living; and no doubt they lied when they named her with Count Ploare. He kept coming back to that Count Ploare!
No: she had had enough of the chain, and the loveless hand of man, for three months that were burned into her brain no more! If ever she loved all; but not the right for Count Ploare to demand the affection she gave her lions freely. The manager of the menagerie had tried for her affections, had offered a price for her friendship; and failing, had become as good a friend as such a man could be.
Count Ploare there was nothing in that. A blase man of the world, who had found it all not worth the bothering about, neither code nor people he saw in this rich impetuous nature a new range of emotions, a brief return to the time when he tasted an open strong life in Algiers, in Tahiti. And he would laugh at the world by marrying her yes, actually marrying her, the dompteuse!
But he did his part with sincere intention. That was up to the day when he saw Andree as Mademoiselle Victorine. Then came a swift change. Day after day he visited her, always in the presence of Annette. Soon they dined often together, still in Annette's presence, and the severity of that rule was never relaxed. Count Ploare came no more; he had received his dismissal.
Near as he was to her now, he very often saw her in his mind's eye as she passed over Ridley Common, looking towards him, her eyes shaded by her hand. She, too, had continually said to herself that this man could be nothing to her nothing, never! Yet, why not? Count Ploare had offered her his hand. But she knew what had been in Count Ploare's mind.
'Wrap me up in my tarpaulin jacket, And say a poor buffer lies low!" "Get the jacket ready," put in a young Frenchman, sneering. The Englishman's jaw hardened, but he replied coolly "What do you know about it?" "I know enough. The Comte Ploare visits her." "How the devil does that concern my painting her?" There was iron in Bagshot's voice. "Who says you are painting her?"
A wanderer, an Ishmael then, her handful of household goods and her father in the grasp of the Law: to-day, Mademoiselle Victorine, queen of animal-tamers! And her name associated with the Comte Ploare! With the Comte Ploare? Had it come to that? He remembered the look in her face when he bade her good-bye. Impossible! Then, immediately he laughed. Why impossible?
No: she had had enough of the chain, and the loveless hand of man, for three months that were burned into her brain no more! If ever she loved all; but not the right for Count Ploare to demand the affection she gave her lions freely. The manager of the menagerie had tried for her affections, had offered a price for her friendship; and failing, had become as good a friend as such a man could be.
But he did his part with sincere intention. That was up to the day when he saw Andree as Mademoiselle Victorine. Then came a swift change. Day after day he visited her, always in the presence of Annette. Soon they dined often together, still in Annette's presence, and the severity of that rule was never relaxed. Count Ploare came no more; he had received his dismissal.
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