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Updated: June 14, 2025
I learned of the catastrophe the other night when he solemnly entered my abandoned house by the marsh and sank his big frame in the armchair before my fire. He was no longer the genial bohemian of a Tanrade I had known. He was silent and haggard.
Two weeks later there came to my house abandoned by the marsh such joyful news that my hand trembled as I realized it news that made my heart beat quicker from sudden surprise and delight. As I read and reread four closely written pages from Tanrade and a corroborative postscript from Alice, leaving no doubt as to the truth. "Suzette! Suzette!" I called. "Come quick Eh! Suzette!"
She had insisted that I dine with them. In Paris Alice might not have insisted, but in the lost village, with so many old women with nothing to talk about save other peoples' affairs! Lucky Tanrade! I could see from where I lay the distant mass of trees screening her château, and picture to myself my two dear friends alone.
You do not look it even now with your gray hair, for you are ever young and witty and gracious. She clapped her hands as she peered across the dinner-table to the row before the chimney. "My Burgundy, I see!" she exclaimed, to my surprise; Tanrade was gazing intently at a sketch. "Oh, you shall see," added the marquise seriously. "You are not the only one, my friend, the gods have blessed.
"Yes," she replied half audibly. Monsieur le Curé gave a sigh of relief. "God be with you!" said he. He watched her as she wrote in haste the following telegram in pencil upon the back of a crumpled envelope: MONSIEUR TANRADE, Théâtre des Folies Parisiennes, Paris. Tranchard's child very ill. Come at once. A. de Bréville. This she handed to the priest in silence.
Alice de Bréville, stretched out in the long chair before the fire, was listening intently. And so with song and story the hands of the tall clock slipped by the hours. It was midnight before we knew it. Again Tanrade played this time it was the second act of his new operetta. When he had finished he took his seat beside the woman in the long chair. "Bravo!" she murmured in his ear.
"A procès-verbal unfortunately for you, Monsieur Tanrade. Read the charge," he said to the short one, who had now unfolded a paper, cleared his throat, and began to read in a monotonous tone.
"We regret to disturb you, messieurs," began the taller of the two pleasantly as he extracted a note-book from a leather case next to his revolver. "But" and he shrugged his military shoulders "it is for the little affair at Hirondelette." "Which one of us is elected?" asked Tanrade grimly. "Ah! Bon Dieu!" returned the tall one; half apologetically.
He forgot during such moments of ecstasy that his father was either out at sea with his nets or back in the village good-naturedly drunk, or that his mother, whom he vaguely remembered, was dead. Tanrade was a so much better father to him than his own that the rest of his wretched little existence did not count. When the father was fishing, the little boy cared for himself.
She nodded mischievously to Tanrade, who rushed to the piano, and before the Essence of Selfishness had time to elude her she was picked up bodily, held by her fore paws and forced to dance upon her hind legs, her sleek head turned aside in hate, her velvety ears flattened to her skull.
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