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Updated: September 24, 2025
Item two works, just out, by Victor Ducange, a novelist highly thought of in the Marais. Item a couple of copies of a second work by Paul de Kock, a beginner in the same style. Item two copies of Yseult of Dole, a charming provincial work. Total, one hundred francs, my little Barbet." Barbet made a close survey of edges and binding. "Oh! they are in perfect condition," cried Lousteau.
He was not decorated enough, not provided with sinecures enough, nor well fed enough by the State he, Madame Schmoll, and their five daughters. His lamentations had some grandeur. Something of the soul of Ezekiel and of Jeremiah was in them. Unfortunately, turning his golden-spectacled eyes toward the table, he discovered Vivian Bell's book. "Oh, 'Yseult La Blonde'," he exclaimed, bitterly.
Harold did not tell Yseult of the curse that was upon him, for he feared that she would not love him if she knew. Whensoever he felt the fire of the curse burning in his veins he would say to her, "To-morrow I hunt the wild boar in the uttermost forest," or, "Next week I go stag-stalking among the distant northern hills."
Gottfried von Strassburg narrates with the greatest detail how Tristram leads to the unsuspecting king the unblushing, unremorseful woman polluted by his own embraces; how Yseult substitutes on the wedding night her spotless damsel Brangwaine for her own sullied self; then, terrified lest the poor victim of her dishonour should ever reveal it, attempts to have her barbarously murdered, and, finally, seeing that nothing can shake the heroic creature's faith, admits her once more to be the remorseful go-between in her amours.
"Since he neither wore on helm or shield The golden symbol of his kinglihood." But Lancelot was sent to bring the bride "And return'd Among the flowers, in May, with Guinevere." Then their long love may have begun, as in the story of Tristram sent to bring Yseult to be the bride of King Mark.
He draws, with a psychological power truly extraordinary in the beginning of the thirteenth century, the two other figures in this love drama: King Mark, cheated, dishonoured, oscillating between horrible doubt, ignominious suspicion and more ignominious credulity, his love for his wife, his trust in his nephew, his incapacity for conceiving ill-faith and fraud, the very gentleness and generosity of his nature, made the pander of guilt in which he cannot believe; and, on the other side, Brangwaine, the melancholy, mute victim of her fidelity to Yseult, the weak, heroic soul, rewarded only with cruel ingratitude, and condemned to screen and help the sin which she loathes and for which she assumes the awful responsibility.
Yseult marvelled at his acts and at his speech. "Ah," quoth she, "thou dost doubt my love," but when she saw a look of pain come on his face she added as if she repented of the words she had spoken "or dost thou fear the werewolf?" Then Harold answered, fixing his eyes on hers, "Thou hast said it; it is the werewolf that I fear." "Why dost thou look at me so strangely, Harold?" cried Yseult.
And if the Carolingian cycle survived, however much altered, I think it must have been thanks to the burghers and artizans of the Netherlands and of Provence, to whom the bluff, matter-of-fact heroism, the simple, gross, but not illegitimate amours of Carolingian heroes, were more satisfactory than any mystic quest of the Grail, any refined adultery of Guenevere or Yseult.
Even so it was that he ever made good excuse for his absence, and Yseult thought no evil things, for she was trustful; ay, though he went many times away and was long gone, Yseult suspected no wrong. So none beheld Harold when the curse was upon him in its violence. Alfred alone bethought himself of evil things.
Then the werewolf, fixing his eyes upon Yseult, skulked for a moment in the shadow of the yews and thinking then of Harold's words, Yseult plucked old Siegfried's spear from her girdle, raised it on high, and with the strength of despair sent it hurtling through the air. The werewolf saw the shining weapon, and a cry burst from his gaping throat a cry of human agony.
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