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"And yet, Olive herself never thought of it. She does not know a word." The hand came out holding a miniature. Madame Varrillat passed it to Jean Thompson. "Ouala so popa" said Madame Delphine. "That is her father." It went from one to another, exciting admiration and murmured praise. "She is the image of him," said Madame Thompson, in an austere under-tone, returning it to her husband.
When they brought her to herself, Olive was kneeling at her head silently weeping. "Maman, chère maman!" said the girl softly, kissing her lips. "Ma courri c'ez moin" I will go home said the mother, drearily. "You will go home with me," said Madame Varrillat, with great kindness of manner "just across the street here; I will take care of you till you feel better.
"Mo pas capable, non; m'olé di' tous ç'ose." She attempted to fan herself, her face turned away from the attorney, and her eyes rested on the ground. "Take a seat," said Doctor Varrillat, with some suddenness, starting from his place and gently guiding her sinking form into the corner of the bench.
All eyes were bent toward them. "She walks like a man," said Madame Varrillat, in the language with which the conversation had opened. "No," said the physician, "like a woman in a state of high nervous excitement." Jean Thompson kept his eyes on the woman, and said: "She must not forget to walk like a woman in the State of Louisiana," as near as the pun can be translated. The company laughed.
Jean Thompson and Doctor Varrillat lived opposite each other on the Bayou road, a little way beyond the town limits as then prescribed.
During one term of silence Madame Varrillat, a pale, thin-faced, but cheerful-looking lady, touched Madame Thompson, a person of two and a half times her weight, on her extensive and snowy bare elbow, directing her attention obliquely up and across the road.
Doctor Varrillat was watching Madame Delphine. She was very pale. She had passed a trembling hand into a pocket of her skirt, and now drew out another picture, in a case the counterpart of the first. He reached out for it, and she handed it to him. He looked at it a moment, when his eyes suddenly lighted up and he passed it to the attorney.
Jean Thompson and Doctor Varrillat lived opposite each other on the Bayou road, a little way beyond the town limits as then prescribed.
In this room, and about this miniature round table, used sometimes to sit with Père Jerome two friends to whom he was deeply attached one, Evariste Varrillat, a playmate from early childhood, now his brother-in-law; the other, Jean Thompson, a companion from youngest manhood, and both, like the little priest himself, the regretful rememberers of a fourth comrade who was a comrade no more.
All eyes were bent toward them. "She walks like a man," said Madame Varrillat, in the language with which the conversation had opened. "No," said the physician, "like a woman in a state of high nervous excitement." Jean Thompson kept his eyes on the woman, and said: "She must not forget to walk like a woman in the State of Louisiana," as near as the pun can be translated. The company laughed.
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