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Updated: June 19, 2025
When their steps sounded near, Mrs. Rantoul rose hastily, spilling her silk and needles on the floor. She gave her husband a swift, searching look, and said with her flattering smile: "Mr. Herkimer, you must be a very interesting talker. I am quite jealous." "I am rather tired," he answered, bowing. "If you'll excuse me, I'll go off to bed." "Really?" she said, raising her eyes.
"Right, old chap." "Smash the statues!" "Burn the galleries!" "Down with tradition!" "Eggs and more bock!" But where Rantoul differed from the revolutionary regiment was that he was not simply a painter who delivered orations; he could paint. His tirades were not a furore of denunciation so much as they were the impulsive chafing of the creative energy within him.
He had been christened, in the felicitous language of the Quarter, Don Furioso Barebones Rantoul, and for cause. He shared a garret with his chum, Britt Herkimer, in the Rue de l'Ombre, a sort of manhole lit by the stars, when there were any stars, and he never failed to come springing up the six rickety flights with a song on his lips.
"What, you're going to leave me?" she said instantly, with a shade of vague uneasiness, that Herkimer perceived. "We sha'n't be long, dear," said Rantoul, pinching her ear. "Our chatter won't interest you. Send the coffee out into the rose cupola."
"I had almost forgotten," said Rantoul, slowly. "Are you sure?" "Am I sure?" said Herkimer, furiously. "I say what I mean; you know it." "Yes, that's true," said Rantoul. He stretched out his hand and drank his coffee, but without knowing what he did. "Well, that's all of the past what might have been." "But why?"
"The artist must always rebel accept nothing, question everything, denounce conventions and traditions." "Above all, work," said Herkimer in his laconic way. "What? Don't I work?" "Work more." Rantoul, however, was not vulnerable on that score.
Rantoul began to appear in society, besieged with the invitations that his Southern aristocracy and the romance of his success procured him. "You go out too much," said Herkimer to him, with a fearful growl. "What the deuce do you want with society, anyhow? Keep away from it. You've nothing to do with it." "What do I do? I go out once a week," said Rantoul, whistling pleasantly.
It was the opinion of Robert Rantoul and other members of the Congressional Committee that Doctor Jackson suffered from a "heated and disordered imagination," and that is the most charitable view that one can take of such a letter as this. It is not customary to charge subordinates for their service but to reward them. The two horns of this dilemma are sharp and penetrating.
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