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Updated: May 29, 2025
There swept back into his mind the story of the marriage of his ancestor, Red Godwyn, and he laughed low in spite of himself. Miss Vanderpoel looked up at him quickly. "Please tell me about it, if it is very amusing," she said. "I wonder if it will amuse you," was his answer. "Do you like savage romance?" "Very much." It might seem a propos de rien, but he did not care in the least.
Rien ne va plus!" Then a little ivory ball was thrown into a cylinder, where it rolled with a metallic noise. Although he had never seen roulette, it required no effort to divine that this was the game. And, before putting several louis on the table, he looked about him to see how it was played. But after the tenth time he understood as little as at first.
If ever anything was calculated to make a man diabolique! I trust biographers will not forget to place all this depressing drudgery to our "vagabond's" credit. Think of it! The first poet of France correcting French exercises! The poet of the passions conjugating the verb aimer in its hideous grammatical reality! Fumons philosophiquement, Promenons-nous Paisiblement: Rien faire est doux.
For what have they immured you in this place?" "Pour rien du tout, c'est a dire pour une bagatelle; but what can you expect from such animals? For what are you imprisoned? Did I not hear say for Gypsyism and sorcery?" "Perhaps you are here for your opinions?" "Ah, mon Dieu, non; je ne suis pas homme a semblable betise. I have no opinions.
I measured her stature and calculated her strength She seemed both tall and wiry; but, so the conflict were brief and the attack unexpected, I thought I might manage her. Advancing up the room, looking as cool and careless as I possibly could, in short, ayant l'air de rien, I slightly pushed the door and found it was ajar. In an instant, and with sharpness, I had turned on her.
This, which when writ large maddens and kills, writ small is our meat and drink; it attends each minutest and most impalpable detail of the ceaseless fusion and diffusion in which change appears to us as consisting, and which we recognise as growth and decay, or as life and death. Claude Bernard says, Rien ne nait, rien ne se cree, tout se continue.
Je ne me ressouviens de rien je suis vieux, vieux le treize Septembre, mil sept cent vingt-six, je suis né. Non, non," with a few gentle shakes of the head, "je ne puis rappeler rien je suis vieux, vieux." My husband changed his inquiries to the patois which Crély could not feign not to comprehend. "Where is your granddaughter? I am acquainted with her, and would like to speak with her."
"And you are a benefactor of the race," said I. He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some little use," he remarked. "'L'homme c'est rien l'oeuvre c'est tout, as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand."
Can we stop? It's impossible. We must go on till we've thrown them out. It is dreadful, but what would you have? Ah! Our son he was so promising!" And the mother, weeping over the tin-tacks, would make the neatest little parcel of them, murmuring out of her tears: "Il faut que ça finisse; mais la France il ne faut pas que la France Nos chers fils auraient été tués pour rien!" Poor souls!
An old French traveler writes: "J'ai vu dans le trésor d'Ispahan les vetements de Tamerlan; ils ne different en rien de ceux d'aujourd'hui." Ethnology, the natural sciences, and last, but not least, the history of technical art are here set face to face with great problems.
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