Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: May 2, 2025
She had been faithful to her husband, she had shed sincere and bitter tears over that wretched companion of her youth; but he had exhausted and worn out her affection, and without ever joining her mother in her posthumous recriminations against Monsieur de Trecoeur, she felt that she had no further duty to fulfill toward him but that of prayer.
The poor fellow, they said, never did any harm but to himself; which, in point of fact, was not the exact truth. Trecoeur had married, at the age of twenty-five, his cousin, Clotilde Andree de Pers, a modest and graceful person who had of the world nothing but its elegance.
For the Count Pierre, Trecoeur was simply a mischievous being; in Monsieur de Lucan's eyes, he was a criminal. "Why criminal?" Pierre said. "Is it his fault if he was born with the eternal flames on the marrow of his bones?
We expect you. We shall mingle our tears over those two beloved beings, both kind and charming, both crushed by passion and seized by death with relentless rapidity in the midst of the pleasantest scenes of life. All those who, like ourselves, knew Raoul de Trecoeur during his early youth, believed that he was destined to great fame.
Meryon gave a low whistle. "My goodness! I shall have to mind my p's and q's. I don't know that I ought to have lent you 'Julie de Trecoeur' if it comes to that." "Why not?" Hester turned her great, astonished eyes upon him. "One might as well not read Byron as not read that." "Hm I don't suppose you read all Byron." He threw her an audacious look. "As much as I want to," she said, indifferently.
The reverse is rather more frequently the case, so little is this poor world submitted to the rules of logic. In short, Madame de Trecoeur, after her husband's death was left forlorn, exhausted, and broken down, but spotless. From this melancholy union, a daughter had been born, named Julia, and whom her father, notwithstanding all Clotilde's efforts of resistance, had spoilt to excess.
Appreciating, however, Monsieur de Lucan's just impatience, she advised him to call that very evening upon Madame de Trecoeur, of whose personal sentiments she was herself ignorant, but who could not fail to meet his advances with the esteem and the consideration due to a man of his merit and standing.
I have no right to them any more than any one else, any more than Trecoeur himself." "I beg your pardon, my friend," said Pierre gravely; "in the vegetable world I prefer a rose to a thistle; in the moral world, I prefer you to Trecoeur. You were born a gallant fellow; I rejoice at it, and I make the best of it." "Well, mon cher, you are laboring under a complete mistake," rejoined Lucan.
And he had lent her some French books, which she had read eagerly at night or in the woods wherever she could be alone and unobserved. Why shouldn't she read them? There was one among them "Julie de Trecoeur," by Octave Feuillet, that still seemed running, like a great emotion, through her veins.
The dear madames, as she called them, who formed the ornament of her mother's Thursdays, related with bitterness to each other the scenes of comical imitation with which the child followed their entrance and their departure. The men considered themselves fortunate when they did not carry off a bit of paper or silk on the back of their coats. All this amused Monsieur de Trecoeur extremely.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking