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Updated: June 9, 2025
His progress became more hesitating. Mid-forenoon found him only half a mile from the home of Nanette and the baby. His keen nostrils caught the faint tang of smoke in the air. He did not follow it up, but circled like a wolf, coming up stealthily and uncertainly until at last he looked out into the little clearing where a new world had come into existence for him.
The streets, the cafes, the studios; his few men, his many women, friends Adolph Jensen, the kindly Swede who loved him; Louise, Nanette, the little Polish Yanina, who had said they loved him; the slanting-glanced Turkish students, the grave Syrians, the democratic un-British Londoners the smell, the glamour of Paris, returned to him with the nostalgia of despair. These he had left.
And Dame Nanette sprang to the window, threw it open, and in such a piercing voice that it might have been heard in the square of Notre Dame: "Help!" she screamed, "my master is being arrested; the Councillor Broussel is being arrested! Help!" "Sir," said Comminges, "declare yourself at once; will you obey or do you intend to rebel against the king?"
Nanette affected an air of reserve and took at on herself to read me lessons on what she was pleased to call my libertinism . . . . I beg that you will write nothing more about me to these two very dangerous personages.... Just now I will tell you of a little trick which I played on you, which without doubt deserves some punishment.
It had not been there when Durant came to the cabin with Le Beau that afternoon. He looked at her strangely as she stood with the baby in her arms. She was another Nanette. He felt uneasy. Why was it that a few hours ago he had laughed boldly when her husband had cursed her and said vile things in her presence and now he could not meet the steady gaze of her eyes?
Rayne for his untiring kindness, she could deck Nanette in "decent" attire, and give such little alms as she longed to distribute with Mr. Rayne's money. She folded the letter carefully back into its primitive creases and handed it to Mr. Rayne, saying,
Wounds had slowly healed. Injuries, physical, were well nigh forgotten; but, mentally, he had been long a sufferer. For months after the death of Nanette, even when sufficiently restored to be on duty, he held shrinkingly aloof from post society. Even Webb, Blake and Ray were powerless to pull him out of his despond.
Rayne, telling him of their safe arrival thus far, and seized with an insuperable impatience to become known to his little protegee, he answered them immediately, that he would meet them in Manchester. The night was wet and dark and cheerless, as Nanette and her pretty charge rolled into this large manufacturing city of England.
He wanted excitement, but the city only seemed to offer memories. The lapse of a short eighteen months had scattered his friends surprisingly. Adolph remained, but Nanette was married. Louise had left Paris, and Giddens, the English painter, had gone back to London.
Even when Flint saw Nanette, self convicted through her very garb and her presence at the scene of the final struggle, even when assured it was she and not the little Ogalalla girl who had been caught in the act, that the latter, in fact, had never left the trader's house, his disproportioned mind refused to grasp the situation.
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