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Alexandre Dumas has left among his numberless works a Life of Johanne la Pucelle, which is neither true history nor romance, but a jumble of both, and is a work hardly worthy the author, but there are some fine expressions in the book.
Her little bag had remained open on her knees, and Alexandre, with his glittering eyes, was searching it, weighing in fancy all the treasure of the poor that it contained, all the gold and silver and even the copper money that distended its sides. Still in silence, he watched Madame Angelin as she closed it, slipped its little chain round her wrist, and then finally rose from her chair.
Her hands were comparatively small and the play of her vast arms was graceful as she said to a slim, tallish, comely woman with an abundance of soft, well-arranged hair: "Seraphine, allow me to pres-ent Mr. Chezter." She explained that this Mme. Alexandre was her "neighbor of the next door," and Chester remembered her sign: "Laces and Embroideries."
No. 56. Télégramme de son Altesse Royale le Prince Alexandre de Serbie
"Oh, ho!" said Fanferlot, accompanying his exclamation with a little whistle, as was his habit when he thought he had made a grand discovery. "Oh, ho!" "Do you intend to open it?" questioned Mme. Alexandre. "A little bit," said Fanferlot, as he dexterously opened the envelope. Mme.
"She's calling for Alexandre, the waiter who runs out across the street obediently but slowly with your pennies to buy your wine. They don't have a license here." Alexandre made his appearance with a big red cardboard cover in his hand, which looked as if it held a copy of a weekly paper. This was the wine list. Traill gripped it from him, giving the number almost at the same moment.
Alexandre, the military tribune of this quarter of Paris, in which he commanded a battalion, was to place himself at its head on the place, before daybreak, to concentrate the people, and then give them the impulse that should lead them to the quays and the Tuileries.
Alexandre Dumas has written of Arles: "Roman monuments form the soil; and about them, at their feet, in their shadow, in their crevasses, a second Gothic city has sprung one knows not how by the vegetative force of the religious civilisation of Saint Louis. Arles is the Mecca of archæologists."
He was fidgeting about on his bench visibly embarrassed, and he muttered behind his long beard: "It was not he, it was you!" The old lady, who had a sweet face, with a snowy line of curly white hair between her forehead and her bonnet, turned around in her chair and observed her servant with a surprised look, exclaiming: "I, my poor Alexandre! How so?"
"I apologize," Traill repeated, when Alexandre had disappeared. "But there's no need to," said Sally, quickly. "I think it's very kind of you to take the interest that you do. And I suppose" her eyes roamed plaintively round the room, rather than at that moment meet his; "I suppose I should have told you without your asking." "Why?" he leaned a little forward. "I don't know.
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