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Updated: May 13, 2025
But as the German is not forthcoming, I give my vote for the Englishman, provided only you love him. Ah, child, be sure of that. Do not mistake fancy for love. All women do not require love in marriage, but without it that which is best and highest in you would wither and die. Write to me often and tell me all. M. Savarin is right. My book is no longer my companion.
As to the honoraires, she has but to name them." "Carte blanche," cried Rameau, eagerly. "You know Eulalie too well, Monsieur Savarin," answered Isaura, with a smile half reproachful, "to suppose that she is a mercenary in letters, and sells her services to the best bidder." "Bah, belle enfant!" said Savarin, with his gay light laugh.
Savarin rang; the door opened, and Gustave appeared. The poet was, of course, picturesquely attired. In his day of fashion he had worn within doors a very pretty fanciful costume, designed after portraits of the young Raffaelle; that costume he had preserved he wore it now. It looked very threadbare, and the pourpoint very soiled.
When he sought me, I had my coupe, my opera-box, my cachemires, my jewels. The Russians the English vied for my smiles. But I loved the man. I never loved before: I shall never love again; and after the sacrifices I have made for him, nothing shall induce me to give him up. Tell me, I entreat, my dear M. Savarin, where he is hiding.
You not only regard him as a being distinct from the crowd of a salon; he stands equally apart in the chamber of your thoughts, you do not mention him in the same letter as that which treats of Rameau and Savarin. He has become already an image not to be lightly mixed up with others. You would rather not have mentioned him at all to me, but you could not resist it.
"Upon social questions, such as the laws of marriage?" said Graham, with a sarcastic smile, which concealed the quiver of his lip and the pain in his voice. "Nay," answered Savarin, "our journal will be too sportive, I hope, for matters so profound. We would rather have Madame de Grantmesnil's aid in some short roman, which will charm the fancy of all and offend the opinions of none.
"Suppress Gustave Rameau!" cried Bernard, the painter; "I adore his poems, full of heart for poor suffering humanity." "Suffering humanity so far as it is packed up in himself," said the physician, dryly, "and a great deal of the suffering is bile. But a propos of your new journal, Savarin, there is a paragraph in it to-day which excites my curiosity.
"But," said Savarin, "the paragraph you refer to hints that that story is a groundless calumny, and that the true reason for De Mauleon's voluntary self-exile was a very common one among young Parisians, he had lavished away his fortune. He returns, when, either by heritage or his own exertions, he has secured elsewhere a competence."
In this last suggestion the homely prudent good-sense of Madame Savarin failed her. She did not comprehend that delicate pride of honour which, with all his Parisian frivolities and cynicism, dignified the Parisian man of genius. Savarin could not, to save his neck from a rope, have sent round the begging-hat to friends whom he had obliged.
"Ah! is it so? If you had a beloved daughter, Savarin, would you encourage her to be an author?" "Frankly, no: principally because in that case the chances are that she would marry an author; and French authors, at least in the imaginative school, make very uncomfortable husbands." "Ah! you think the Signorina will marry one of those uncomfortable husbands, M. Rameau, perhaps?" "Rameau!
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