The International Monthly, Volume 2, No. 1, December, 1850Various
History
The International Monthly, Volume 2, No. 1, December, 1850
Various
Art, Modern -- 19th century -- Periodicals; Literature, Modern -- 19th century -- Periodicals; Science -- History -- Periodicals
But here he paused, and, with a slight shake of the head, muttered,
"Apage sathanas!"
III.--THE FERMIER-GENERAL.
The Visconte ate his supper in solemn silence, which Lucille dared not
interrupt, so that the meal was far from cheerful. Shortly after its
conclusion, however, the old man announced in a few brief sentences, as
much of the letter he had just received as in any wise concerned her to
know.
"See _you_ and Marguerite to the preparations; let everything, at least,
be neat. He knows, as all the world does, that I am miserably poor; and
we can't make this place look less beggarly than it is; but we must make
the best of it. What can one do with a pension of eight hundred
francs--bah!"
The latter part of this speech was muttered in bitter abstraction.
"The pension is too small, sir."
He looked at her with something like a sneer.
"It is too small, sir, and ought to be increased."
"Who says so?"
"Marguerite has often said so, sir, and I believe it. If you will
petition the king, he will give you something worthy of your rank."
"You are a pair of wiseheads, truly. It cost the exertions of powerful
friends, while I still had some, to get that pittance; were I to move in
the matter now, it is more like to lead to its curtailment than
extension."
"Yes, but the king admires beauty, and I am beautiful," she said, with a
blush that was at once the prettiest, the boldest, and yet the purest
thing imaginable; "and I will present your petition myself."
Her father looked at her for a moment with a gaze of inquiring wonder,
which changed into a faint, abstracted smile; but he rose abruptly from
his seat with a sort of shrug, as if it were chill, and, muttering his
favorite exorcism, "Apage sathanas!" walked with a flurried step up and
down the room. His face was flushed, and there was something in its
expression which forbade her hazarding another word.
It was not until nearly half an hour had elapsed that the Visconte
suddenly exclaimed, as if not a second had interposed--
"Well, Lucille, it is not _quite_ impossible; but you need not mention
it to Marguerite."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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