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Updated: May 15, 2025
And nobody has known save Quintin until last night, when to induce him to come here and save me he was forced to tell him." "But I, Therese?" the Marquis insisted. "It was my right to know." "Your right? What could you have done? Acknowledge him? And then? Ha!" It was a queer, desperate note of laughter. "There was Plougastel; there was my family.
Into the late afternoon of that endless day of horror with its perpetual alarms, its volleying musketry, rolling drums, and distant muttering of angry multitudes, Mme. de Plougastel and Aline sat waiting in that handsome house in the Rue du Paradis. It was no longer for Rougane they waited.
And it was said by the Abbé Sorgue, my kinsman: for which deadly sin the apostate priest was seized by the most noble Marquis of Plougastel and by him condemned to be burned with hot irons, until his seared soul quit its body and fly to its master the devil.
He lives apart from the rest of them in a neat little room, has a man to wait on him, eats big bowls of Plougastel strawberries, takes his coffee and reads the newspapers. If Delacollonge is the head of the penitentiary, Ambroise is its arm. Ambroise is a superb negro almost six feet tall, who would have made a fine servant for a sixteenth century man of quality.
But Andre-Louis had taken advantage of that moment of M. de La Tour d'Azyr's impotence to draw a pistol in his turn. "I think it will be better to burn his brains instead," he said. "Stand away from him, madame." Far from obeying that imperious command, Mme. de Plougastel rose to her feet to cover the Marquis with her body.
To rescue her might mean ruin for Aline and yourself as well as for me." "We must take the risk." "You have a right to speak for yourself, of course." "Oh, and for you, believe me, Andre, for you!" He came close to the young man. "Andre, I implore you to take my word for that, and to obtain this permit for Mme. de Plougastel." Andre looked at him mystified. "This is fantastic," he said.
He was there, he would have told you, to perform the duties of his office, not to give dancing-lessons. "Plougastel," he repeated after her, without title, as if it had been the name of a butcher or baker. He took down a heavy volume from a shelf on his right, opened it and turned the pages. It was a sort of directory of his section. Presently he found what he sought.
It was not even to be doubted indeed, measure of proof of it was to be forthcoming that those vigilant and ubiquitous secret societies that watched over the cradle of the young revolution were fully informed of the frequent journeyings of M. de Plougastel to Coblenz, and entertained no illusions on the score of the reason for them.
His hand came from beneath the coat at last, and it came armed with a pistol. Mme. de Plougastel screamed, and flung herself upon him. On her knees now, she clung to his arm with all her strength and might. Vainly he sought to shake himself free of that desperate clutch. "Therese!" he cried. "Are you mad? Will you destroy me and yourself?
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