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Updated: May 21, 2025
When he alighted, the person who handed him out, a sort of head-porter of the Palace, who was our guide, told me he looked "triste, bien triste"; he spoke to nobody, went upstairs as fast as he could, and then called for his plans and maps; his occupation during the whole time he staid consisted in writing and looking over papers, but to what this writing and these papers related the world may feel but will never know; his spirits were by no means broken down; in a day or two he was pretty much as usual, and it is said he signed the Abdication without the least apparent emotion.
She did not answer at once, she was struggling with her tears; at last out came the grief. "It it all looks so sad, and gloomy, and triste," she said. "I do not want to come here and be shut up in the convent; oh, take me away, take me away!" She clung to Graham as if she were to be parted from him that moment, whilst he soothed her as best he could.
No sooner had Lord Byron declared himself unhappy, than every young gentleman with a pale face and dark hair, used to think himself justified in frowning in the glass and writing Odes to Despair. All persons who could scribble two lines were sure to make them into rhymes of 'blight' and 'night. Never was there so grand a penchant for the triste."
That night you looked so triste I was afraid the present delightful affair would never become a reality." Florence did not confess that, on the evening in question, she had misgivings herself. The Hon. Nathaniel Adams Sawyer sat in his library reading a ponderous legal document. It was full of knotty points requiring deep thinking, and the Hon.
Here was a tragedy too deep for human judgment, too deep for thoughts of vengeance, and without a word he turned and stole from the room. And as he stumbled down the dark, narrow stairs he heard the sound of a violin as it wailed out the beginning notes of the Chanson Triste, and he shivered, as if with cold.
And Ronald! ah, Ronald! Yes, indeed! They had met. They had spoken. "What a dull morning," Gertrude had said. "Quelle triste matin! Was fur ein allerverdamnter Tag!" "Beastly," Ronald had answered. "Beastly!!" The word rang in Gertrude's ears all day. After that they were constantly together.
The "triste Bedford," as Michelet calls him, had no means of employing an ambitious priest, no dirty work for the moment to give him. It is natural to suppose that a man so admirably adapted for that employment went in search of it to the ecclesiastical court, not beloved of England, which the Cardinal Bishop of Winchester held there.
The horrors of the long winter also, so sad for a Parisian "si triste pour la Parisienne, ces hivers de province" together with the miseries of her own home life, between this paralytic of a husband below stairs, and above, her mother, an old lady of eighty, nailed to her sofa with gout. "You may thus figure to yourselves, mesdames, what a melancholy season is the winter!
His widow gave a dinner the next week, because she was afraid of being triste receives and appears on the Boulevards, because 'bon ami m'a dit qu'il fallait vivre. Her friends flatter themselves that her sensibility will not kill her, at the same time that it enables them to give agreeable parties.... My desire to see my child is stronger than my taste for Paris.
"How glad I am to have quitted the convent," she thought to herself; "how triste it was, how dismal! How can people exist who always, always live there? They do not live, I think, they seem half dead already. Aunt Thérèse, how mournful and cold she always looked; she never smiled, she hardly ever spoke; she was not alive as other people are.
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