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Updated: June 5, 2025
Her beauty, which was quite phenomenal, soon became the subject of poetry. Voltaire wrote: "De perles, d'astres et de fleurs, Bourbon, le ciel fit tes couleurs, Et mit dedans tout ce mélange L'esprit d'un ange! L'on jugerait par la blancheur De Bourbon, et par sa fraicheur, Qu'elle a prit naissance des lis."
Suddenly, in the midst of the dismal calm, a clear, gay, young voice, which seemed to come from the Rue Saint-Denis, rose and began to sing distinctly, to the old popular air of "By the Light of the Moon," this bit of poetry, terminated by a cry like the crow of a cock: Mon nez est en larmes, Mon ami Bugeaud, Prete moi tes gendarmes Pour leur dire un mot.
Penticost! you make me feel horribly guilty, for I'm afraid it's all over," she said with simple earnestness, "but I couldn't prevent it; and poor Mr. Ruan " "Don't 'ee go for to tell I about it!" broke in Mrs. Penticost; "'tes downright ondecent in 'ee!" Blanche flushed. "Horrid, insufferable woman!" she thought angrily as she went upstairs. "How thankful I shall be to see the last of her!"
"And you think a ghost means trouble, do you?" The lame man pushed his hat up; his aspiring eyes looked at Ashurst more earnestly than ever. "'Tes not for me to zay that but 'tes they bein' so unrestin'like. There's things us don' understand, that's zartin, for zure.
"There you go, John-James Beggoe, talken' as though I grudged my own cheild maken' herself 'ansome. Vassie, my worm, you may have that bit o' blue ribbon I bought last Corpus Fair 'tes in the chest." Vassie was off before her mother had time to change her mind, and John-James began slowly to rinse the china through the darkened water, on whose surface the grease lay in a shimmering arabesque.
Isis lilts the corner of her veil, and he who perceives the great mystery beneath is struck with giddiness. I can scarcely breathe. It seems to me that I am hanging by a thread above the fathomless abyss of destiny. Is this the Infinite face to face, an intuition of the last great death? "Creature d'un jour qui t'agites une heure, Ton ame est immortelle et tes pleurs vont finir." Finir?
Immediately the words evoke the chaste vision sung by Leconte de Lisle, in his poem "l'Epiphanie": Elle passe, tranquille, en un rêve divin, Sur le bord du plus frais de tes lacs, ô Norvège! Le sang rose et subtil qui dore son col fin Est doux comme un rayon de l'aube sur la neige.
"O printemps sans pitie, dans l'ame endolorie, Avec tes chants d'oiseaux, tes brises, ton azur, Tu creuses sourdement, conspirateur obscur, Le gouffre des langueurs et de la reverie." Of all the hours of the day, in fine weather, the afternoon, about 3 o'clock, is the time which to me is most difficult to bear.
"That's right, growl ahead, thou, tes beaux jours sont passes, but for me l'amour, l'amour que c'est gai, que c'est frais!" he half sung, half shouted. The moving mass of color, the Breton caps, and the Norman faces, the gold crosses that fell from dented bead necklaces, the worn hooped earrings, the clean bodices and home-spun skirts, streamed out past our windows as we looked down upon them.
"I'll put 'ee home," he told her: "best have this on; 'tes a bit cool on cliff." "Oh, but " began Phoebe. She had no hopes, such as she had cherished, against all reason, upon getting Ishmael's note that morning, of a moonlit walk home with him, but something in her shrank from the walk undertaken with Archelaus. He wrapped the shawl about her as she spoke.
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