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Updated: May 11, 2025
She was amazed, smothering, as if he had announced his departure for America. At last, recovering herself, she said: "Oh, Poulet, what is the matter with you? Tell me what is going on." He began to laugh, and kissing her, replied: "Why, nothing, nothing, mamma. I am going to have a good time with my friends; I am just at that age."
They took him back there and he got well. Then began a series of quiet, monotonous years. Always around the little one, they went into raptures at everything he did. His mother called him Poulet, and as he could not pronounce the word, he said "Pol," which amused them immensely, and the nickname of "Poulet" stuck to him.
Berthe laughed with her little cooing sound in the throat. "Omelette aux fines herbes, et poulet roti aux cresson oui, monsieur." She departed and they listened to the repetition of it all "Deux consommes deux " as she shouted it through the little doorway to the kitchen. "Supposing I were to die," Traill repeated. He leant his elbows on the table and gazed steadily into her eyes.
"I don't absolutely catch the drift, old bean," said Archie. The boy sniffed with half-closed eyes as a wave of perfume from the poulet en casserole floated past him. He seemed to be anxious to intercept as much of it as possible before it got through the door. "Mother's a food-reformer," he vouchsafed. "She lectures on it. She makes Pop and me live on vegetables and nuts and things."
"I care very little about dinners, but I shall not easily forget a matelote at the Rochers de Cancale, an almond tart at Montreuil, or a poulet
"Oh! come back, my darling Poulet, come back, and let me hold you in my arms again; come back to your old mother who so longs to see you. A few days later came the following reply: "My Dear Mother I should only be too glad to come and see you, but I have not a penny; send me some money and I will come.
"No, monsieur! Neither did M. Blake, when I met him upon the stairs, and told him of my poulet. He also, it seems, had lost his appetite. Your picture must have been truly bad!" She discreetly toyed with her belt during the accepted space of time in which a brain can conceive a heart leap to an overmastering joy; then she looked again at Max.
"Oh, Poulet, you will never reproach me for having loved you too much, will you?" "No, mamma," promised the boy in surprise. "You swear you will not?" "Yes, mamma." "You want to stay here, don't you?" "Yes, mamma." "Jeanne, you have no right to dispose of his life in that way," said the baron, sternly. "Such conduct is cowardly almost criminal.
Although Paul was a head taller than his mother, she always treated him as if he were a child and still asked him, as in former years, "Your feet are not cold, are they, Poulet?"
"Poor Don Aloysius!" she said "He will now go to his soup maigre and we to our poulet, sauce bechamel, and he will be quite as contented as we are!" "More so, probably!" said Rivardi, as he courteously assisted Lady Kingswood, who was slightly lame, to rise from her chair "He is one of the few men who in life have found peace." Morgana gave him a keen glance. "You think he has really found it?"
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