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Updated: June 8, 2025
And then came June and with it the manuscript and all the flood of information about the Agence Moignon and Bakkus and Petit Patou and Prepimpin and Elodie and various other things that I have yet to set down. While Lady Auriol Dayne was rocking about the Outer Hebrides, we find Andrew Lackaday in Paris confronted with the grim necessity of earning a livelihood.
Monsieur Patou goes to join the English army." She was not going to make her sacrifice for nothing. To Bakkus Andrew confided the general charge of Elodie. "My dear fellow," said the cynic, "isn't it rather overdoing your saintly simplicity? Do you remember the farce 'Occupe-toi d'Amelie? Do I appeal to you as a squire of deserted dames, grass-widows endowed with plenty?
He was full of the realization of the Elodesque idea. His brain became a gushing fount of inspiration. Hundreds of grotesque possibilities of business, hitherto rendered ineffective by flapping costume, appeared in fascinating bubbles. He thought and spoke of nothing else. "Once I denied you the rank of artist," said Bakkus. "I retract. I apologize.
"They're put away," said Andrew. "Thank God," said Bakkus. Andrew detected a lack of altruism in the pious note of praise. He did not love Bakkus to such a pitch of brotherly affection as would warrant his relieving him of responsibility for self support. He had already fed Bakkus for three days. "They're put away," he repeated. "Bring them out of darkness into the light of day," said Bakkus.
I shall therefore invest my five louis in the certain hope of seventy-five beautiful golden coins clinking into my hand. Come thou and do likewise." "I'm going to back Elodie," said Andrew. Bakkus stared at him. "Elodie that ambulatory assemblage of cat's meat! Why she has never been placed in a race in her life. Look at her."
And Bakkus forgot to share his glasses with Andrew, who caught now and then an uncomprehending sight of coloured dots on moving objects and gaped in equally uncomprehensible bewilderment when the racing streak flashed home up the straight. A strange cry, not of gladness but of wonder, burst from the great crowd.
Miladi " She funked the difficult "Lady Auriol." "Au revoir, Madame," said Auriol shaking hands. "Trop honoree," said Elodie, somewhat defiantly. "Au revoir, Miladi." She made an awkward little bow. "Et toi," she extended a careless left hand to Bakkus. "I will see you to the lift," said I.
Months passed of fierce fighting and incessant strain, and he covered himself with glory and completed the rainbow row of ribbons on his breast, until Petit Patou and Elodie and Bakkus and the apartment in the Faubourg Saint-Denis became things of a far-off dream. And before he saw Elodie again, he had met Lady Auriol Dayne. That was the devil of it. He had met Lady Auriol Dayne.
Andrew's face suddenly glowed and he shot out his long arm with his bony wrists many inches from his cuff and put his delicate hand on Bakkus's shoulder. "My dear fellow, why can't you always talk like that?" "I'm going to," replied Bakkus, pausing in the act of lighting one of Elodie's special reserve of pre-war cigars.
"And that's final, my dear?" said I. She helped herself to salad with an air of bravura. She helped herself, to my surprise, to a prodigious amount of salad. "As final as death," she replied. There had been billed about the place a Grand Concert du Soir in the Casino de Royat. The celebrated tenor, M. Horatio Bakkus.
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