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"I do not believe that Billy can understand a great pain, or that she can enjoy it, for we must be able to enjoy even our pain." "Enjoy, ma chère, quelle idée," said Madame Bonnechose, without looking up from her knitting. The count passed on and came to a stop before Billy. "Well, how are you?" he asked a little sternly. Billy flushed. "Thank you, papa, well. I wanted to tell you something."
"The fatal vesture left the unguarded side;" just as he turned to extricate the garment from that dilemma, Rosalie sprang upon him, and naturally lifting her hands to that height where she fancied the human face divine, took another extremity of Monsieur Goupille's graceful frame thus exposed, by surprise. "I don't know who this is. Quelle drole de visage!" muttered Rosalie.
"But now, do you know, it was only because I just said that I was going out with Lord George that Mr. Mountague made all this rout." "Den let him make his rout; qu'importe? Miladi votre chere mere make no objections. Quelle impertinence! If he was milord duc he could not give himself no more airs. Va, man enfant Dis a lover!
"Is that the fact?" he cried, springing up "I thought it was she you were in love with! I heard you were in one of Picault's alcoves together." "Dans quelle terre a borderez-vous qui vous soit plus chère que celle où vous êtes né?" When I reached home my father took me to Dormillière.
But it is when we turn to the humour of life, even in its most sordid tragedies, that his real strength appears. "Quelle richesse inexprimable" says Lavater again, and no less justly "dans les scènes comiques ou morales de la vie."
His sole chance is to find one woman, but I pity her; sapristi, quelle vie pour elle!" Gyp said calmly: "Would a man like that ever love?" The baroness goggled her eyes. "I have known such a man become a slave. I have known him running after a woman like a lamb while she was deceiving him here and there. On ne peut jamais dire. Ma belle, il y a des choses que vous ne savez pas encore."
"'Tis the same conquered, slavish look the painter hath put into the lion's face when Ariadne is by," mused Calvert to himself. Beaufort was counting out silver pieces slowly, and slowly dropping them on the caissière's desk. He looked at Calvert and nodded appreciatively, coolly toward Madame Danton. "Quelle charmante tête," he said, lightly, nonchalantly.
"Quelle barbarie!" too, when the cat's culture in elegant manners required of maternal solicitude a smart box on the ear. And if the cat did not say "Quelle barbarie!" with an approved French accent, we all know that she thought it.
"Does your majesty promise me this little revenge in earnest?" "I promise it; give me your poem as soon as it is ready; it shall be published in 'Formey's Journal." "'Quel diable de Marc Antoine! Et quelle malice est le votre, Vous egratinez d'une main Lorsque vous caressez de l'autre." "Ah," said Frederick, "what a beautiful quatrain Monsieur Arouet has made."
"Elle dira, lisant ces vers tout remplis d'elle: 'Quelle est donc cette femme? et ne comprendra pas." Without pause she passed into a quick staccato and then descended to long-drawn tones, deep and full. "This is better, but I have never played it for you because that it is Polish, and to make it in English and so sing it is hard. You have heard of our great and good general Kosciuszko, yes?
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