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Updated: June 9, 2025
In five minutes he was fast asleep; and Prosper sat by the bed watching him with a perplexed gaze, wondering who this strange man could be. About nine o'clock someone tapped timidly at the door. Slight as the noise was, it aroused M. Verduret, who sprang up, and called out: "Who is it?" Prosper arose and opened the door. Joseph Dubois, the valet of the Marquis of Clameran, entered.
Although his every thought had been devoted to Madeleine since he discovered the reasons for her cruelty, he was hurt by Nina's cold manner. The girl stood looking at M. Verduret with a mixture of fear and devotion, like a poor dog that has been cruelly treated by its master. He, however, was kind and gentle in his manner toward her.
Jacques. "He is caught!" cried M. Verduret with delight. At that moment the door opened, and Mme. Nina Gypsy, alias Palmyre Chocareille, entered. Poor Nina! Each day spent in the service of Madeleine seemed to have aged her a year. Tears had dimmed the brilliancy of her beautiful black eyes; her rosy cheeks were pale and hollow, and her merry smile was quite gone.
After putting away my carriage, and rubbing down my horses, I went to see if he wanted anything; I found the door locked, and he swore at me like a trooper, through the key-hole." And, to assist the digestion of this insult, Master Joseph here gulped down a glass of absinthe. "Is that all?" questioned M. Verduret.
The half-bantering, half-commiserating tone of M. Verduret was not calculated to calm Prosper's irritation. "That being the case, monsieur," he cried, "I will thank you for your past services, and decline them for the future, as I have no need of them. If I attempted to defend my honor and my life, it was because I hoped that Madeleine would be restored to me.
"I know him well; he is the errand-runner who keeps his cart at the corner of the Rue Pigalle." "Go and bring him here." After the porter had gone, M. Verduret drew from his pocket his diary, and compared a page of it with the notes which he had spread over the table. "These notes were not sent by the thief," he said, after an attentive examination of them. "Do you think so, monsieur?"
Genuine passion is uninfluenced by surrounding circumstances. M. Verduret and Prosper stood foot-deep in mud, wet to the skin, the rain pouring down on their heads, and yet seemed in no hurry to end their dispute. "I will be avenged," repeated Prosper with the persistency of a fixed idea, "I will avenge myself." "Well, avenge yourself like a man, and not like a child!" said M. Verduret angrily.
This sum will enable him to leave France, and we shall never see him again." Like everyone else, M. Fauvel yielded to the ascendancy of M. Verduret. Gradually he had awakened to the true state of affairs; prospective happiness no longer seemed impossible, and he felt that he was indebted to the man before him for more than life.
"Are you very satisfied, M. Verduret?" he inquired. "Yes, and no, M. the Count. No, because I have not completely achieved the object I had in view when I asked you for an invitation here to-night; yes, because these two rascals behaved in a manner which dispels all doubt." "And yet you complain "
Now you must go; good-morning." It was twelve o'clock, and M. Verduret suddenly remembered that he was hungry. He called Mme. Alexandre, and the beaming hostess of the Archangel soon placed a tempting breakfast before Prosper and his friend. But the savory broiled oysters and flaky biscuit failed to smooth the perplexed brow of M. Verduret. To the eager questions and complimentary remarks of Mme.
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