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e laughed again. ?/p>

癢hat exactly do you mean by that?” “So sensible,” said Martin. “When a man calls a girl sensible, do you know what he means? He means that

she doesn’t expect him to f

all in love wi

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th her. Now you haven’t fallen in love with me, have you?” Martin from his lolling position on the parapet sprang erect. “I should never dream of such a thing!” She

airs,” he replied
 laughed loud

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and grasped the

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lapels of his

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jacket. “Oh

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, Martin!” she cr

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ied, “you’re a gem, a rare jewel. You haven’t changed one little bit. And for Heaven’s sake don’t change!” “If you mean that I haven’

es a change. But it?/a>

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t turned from a gentleman into a cad, then I haven’t changed,” said Martin freeing himself, “

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and I’m glad of it.” She tossed her head and the laughter died from her face. “I don’t see

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how you would be a cad to have fallen in love with a girl who is neither unattractive nor a fool

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, and has been your sole companion from morning to night for three weeks. Ninety-n

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“Very well,” said he, and raised his cap

and left her. In a few seconds he heard her call. “Martin!” He turned. “Yes?” “I’m anything you like to call me,” she said.

lt to expl follow me follow me follow me
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“It’s not your fault. It’s my temper. B

ut you’ve got to learn it’s better not to turn women down flat like that, even when they speak in jest.” “I’m very sorry, Corinna,

ain. I fee follow me follow me follow me
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” he said, smiling gravely, “but when one jests on such subjects I don’t know w

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here I am.” They crossed the square slowly, side by side. “I s

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uppose neither you nor anybody else could understand,” she said.

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“I was angry with you, but if you had played the fool I should ha

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ve been angrier still.” “Why?” he asked. She looked straight

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ahead with a strained glance and for a minute or two did not reply

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. At last: “You remember Fortinbras mentioning the name of Camil

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le Fargot?” “Oh!” said Martin. “That’s why,” said Corinna.

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“Is he at Brant?me?” asked Martin, with brow perplexed by the

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memory of the ridiculous m

other. “No, I wish to God he w

as.” “Are you engaged?” “In a sort of a way,” said Corinna, gloomily. “I see,” said Martin. “You don’t see a little bit in the world, she retorted with a sudden laugh. “You’re utterly mystified.” “I’m not,” he declared stoutly. “Why on earth shouldn’t you have a love affair?” “I thought you insinuated that none of your ‘fellow men’ would l

t in things I

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ook at me twice.” He contracted his brows and regarded her steadily. “I’m begi

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nning to get tired of this argument,” said he. Her eyes drooped first. “Perhaps you really ha

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ve progressed a bit since we started.” “I was doing my best to tell you, when you switched of

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f onto this idiot circuit.” Suddenly she put out her hand. “Don’t let us quarrel, Martin. Wh

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at has been joy and wonder to you has been merely an anodyne to me. I’m about the most miserabl

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e girl in France.” “I wish you had told me something of this before,” said Martin, “because

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I’ve been feeling myself the happiest man. . . .” CHAPTER IV THERE is six o’clock strikin

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g and those English have not yet arrived.” Thus spake Gaspard-Marie Bigourdin, l

andlord of the H?tel des Gro

ttes, a vast man clad

in a brown holland suit and a soft straw hat with a gigant

ic brim. So vast was h

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e that his person overlapped in all directions the Austrian bent-wood rocking-chair in which he was taking the cool of the evening. “They said they would come in time for dinner, mon oncle,” said Félise. She was a graceful slip of a girl, dark-eyed, refined of feature. Fortinbras with paternal fondness, if you remember, had likened her to the wild flowers from which Alpine honey was made. And indeed, she s

never had

uggested wild fragrance. Her

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sant girls of the district; but she wore the blouse and stuff skirt of the well-to-do bourgeoisie. “Six o’clock is already time for din

ner in Brant?me,” remarked

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they dine at eight or nine or any time that pleases them.” “In London and Paris they get up at midday and go to bed at dawn. They are

coming here purposely to dis

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understand. It is a bad beginning.” “I am longing to see them,” said Félise. “Don’t you see enough English? Ten years ago an Engli

shman at Brant?me was a curi

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ook at him. But now, with the automobile, they are as familiar in the eyes of the good Brant?mois as truffles.” By this simile Monsieur

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Bigourdin did not mean to convey the idea that the twelve hundred inhabitants of Brant?me were all gastronomic voluptuar

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ies. It is true that Brant?me battens on paté de foie gras; but it is the essence of its existence, seeing that Brant?m

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e makes it and sells it and with pigs and dogs hunts the truffles without which paté de foie gras would be a comestible

er the trees,

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of fat absurdity. “But no English have been sent before by my father,” said F?/p>

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ise. “That’s true,” replied Bigourdin, with a capacious smile, showing white strong teeth. “They are the first people—French or English, I shall have met who know my father.” “That’s true also,” said Bigourdin. “And they must be droll types like your excellent father

01 One Fourth

himself. Tiens, let me see again what he says about them.” He searched his pockets, a process involving convulsions of his frame which made the rocking-chair creak. “It must be in my black jacket,” said he at last. “I’ll get it,” said Félise, and went into the

02 One Fourth

house. Bigourdin rolled and lit a cigarette and gave himself up to comfortable reflection. The H?tel des Grottes was built on the slope of a rock and the loggia or verandah on which Bigourdin was taking his ease, hung over a miniature precipice. At the bottom ran the R

03 One Fourth

iver Dronne encircling most of the old-world town and crossed here and there by flashing little bridges. Away to the northeast loomed the mountains of the Limousin where the river has its source. The tiny place slumbered in the slanting sunshine. The sight of Brant?me s

04 One Fourth

tretched out below him was inseparable from Bigourdin’s earliest conception of the universe. In the H?tel des Grottes he had been born; there, save for a few years at Lyons whither he had been sent by his mother in order to widen his views on hotel keeping, he had spen

01 One Half

t all his life, and there he sincerely hoped to die full of honour and good nourishment. Brant?me contented him. It belonged to him. It was so diminutive and compact that he could take the whole of it in at once. He was familiar with all the little tragedies and comedie

02 One Half

s that enacted themselves beneath those red-tiled roofs. Did he walk down the Rue de Périgueux his hand went to his hat as often as that of the President of the Republic on his way to a review at Longchamps. He was a man of substance and consideration, and he was just

01 One Third

forty years of age. And Félise adored him, and anticipated his commands. She returned with the letter. He glanced through it, reading portions aloud: “I am sending you a young couple whom I have taken to my heart. They are not relations, they are not married and the

02 One Third

y are not lovers. They are Arcadians of the pavement, more innocent than doves, and of a ferocious English morality. She is a painter without patrons, he a professor without classes. They are also candidates for happiness performing their novitiate. Later they will take

03 One Third

the vows.” “What does he mean? What vows?” “Perhaps they are pious people and are going to enter the convent,” Félise suggested. “I can see your father—anti-clerical that he is—interesting himself in little nuns and monks.” “Yet he and Monsieur le Curé

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are good friends.” “That is because Monsieur le Curé has much wisdom and no fear. He would have tried to convert Voltaire himself. . . . Let us continue——” “As they are poor and doing this out of obedience——” “Saprelotte!” he laughed, “they seem to have taken the th

  • watching the lazy life o
  • f the road—the
  • wine wagons and the bull
  • ock carts and the sunb
  • urnt men and women—and the br
  • own, dusty children with their goa
  • ts—and the quiet evenings und
  • er the stars when we have either s
  • at alone saying nothing
  • or else talked t
  • o the patron of the aube
  • rge and listened to hi
  • s simple philosophy of life. And then to sleep
  • drunk with air and sunshine between the
  • clean coarse sheets—to sleep like a dog unti

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ree vows already!” He read on:“—— they do not desire the royal suite in your Excelsior Palace. Corinna Hastings has lived under the roofs in Paris, Martin Overshaw over a baker’s shop in a vague quarter of London. All the luxury they ask is to be allowed to wash themselves al

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l over in cold water once a day.” “I wa

s sure you had not written to my father about the bathroom,” said Félise. She was right. But the omission was odd. For Bigourdin

  • l the scurry of the house wake
  • s you at dawn—I don’t know,” he
  • fetched up lamely. “It has been
  • a thrill, morning, noon and ni

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took inordinate pride in the newly install

ed bathroom and all the touring clubs of Europe and Editors of Guide Books had heard of it and he had offered it to the admiring ins

  • my life before this was remar
  • kably devoid of thrills. Of course
  • ,” he added after a slight pause,
  • “you have had a good deal to

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pection of half Brant?me. Monsieur le Mair

e himself had visited it, and if he had only arrived girt with his tricolour sash, Bigourdin would have jumped in and demanded an in

  • it.” “Je te remercie infin
  • iment, mon frère,” said Corinna.
  • “That is as much as to say I’ve
  • not been a too dull companion

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augural ceremony. “I must have forgotten,?/p>

?said Bigourdin. “But no matter. They can have plenty of cold water. But if I am to feed them and lodge them and wash them for the

  • ou’ve been a delightful compa
  • nion,” he cried boyishly. “I had
  • no idea a girl could be so—so—?/li>
  • ?He sought for a word with

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derisory price your father stipulates, they must learn that six o’clock is the hour of table d’h?te at the H?tel des Grottes. It is only people in automobiles who can turn the place upside down, and then they have to pay four francs for their dinner.” He rose mountainously, an

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d, standing, displayed the figure of a vigorous, huge proportioned, upright man. On his face, large and ruddy, a small black moustache struck a startling note. His eyes were brown and kindly, his mouth too small and his chin had a deep cleft, which on a creature of lesser scale wou

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ld have been a pleasing dimple. “Allons d?ner,” said he. In the patriarchal fashion, now unfortunately becoming obsolete, Monsie

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ur Bigourdin dined with his guests. The salle-à-manger—off the loggia—was furnished with the long central table sacred to commerc

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ial travellers, and with a few side tables for other visitors. At one of these, in the corner between the service door and the dinin

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g-room door, sat Monsieur Bigourdin and his niece. As they entered the room five b

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agmen, with anticipatory napkins stuck cornerwise in their collars, half rose from their chairs and bowed. “Bon soir, messieurs,” said Bigourdin, and he passed with Félise to his table. Euphémie, the cook, fat and damp, entered with the soup tureen, followed by a desperate-looking, crop-

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headed villain bearing plates. The latter, w

ho viewed half a mile off through a te

lescope might have passe

d for an ortho

dox waiter, ap

peared, at close

quarters, t

map

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o be raimented in grease and grime. He served the soup;

first to the five commercial travellers,—and then to Bigourdin and Félise. On

Félise’s plate he left a great thumb-mark. She looked

at it with an expression of disgust. “Regarde, mon oncle.” Bigourdin alludin

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