The Son of Clemenceau, A Novel of Modern Love and LifeDumas, Alexandre
General
The Son of Clemenceau, A Novel of Modern Love and Life
Dumas, Alexandre
Fiction
"Lock it up with the other papers," concluded the inventor. "I appoint
you its keeper while I live--my heir and the carrier out of the work
after my decease, should I die before having proved what I consign
there. What matters it now if my material form disappears when my spirit
lives on in thee! Well," he said, as Antonino returned, after closing
and fastening the chest, "do you need any farther proof of the
confidence I have in you?"
Antonino grasped his hand and wrung it fondly When both had recovered
calmness, they went on speaking of their work, which might be considered
past the stage when the projector is racked by misgivings. They went
into the breakfast-room together, prepared to bear the singular meeting
with the errant wife whose return was so unexpected. But she preferred
not to take the step so soon, and, as Rebecca also kept away, warned by
Hedwig, who might appear at the board, the three men took their meal
together.
CHAPTER XV.
THE MAN OF MANY MASKS.
From dawn a stranger had been wandering about Montmorency. Armed with a
large sun-umbrella and a Guid-Joanne, his copiously oiled black
side-whiskers glistening in the sun, showing large teeth in a friendly
grin to wayfarers of all degrees, one did not need to hear his strong
accent of the people of Marseilles to know that he was a son of the
South. Probably having made a fortune in shipping, in oils or wines, he
was utilizing his holiday by touring in the north of his country, forced
to admire, but still pugnaciously asseverating that no garden equalled
his city park and no main street his Cannebiere. He seemed to have no
destination in particular; he stopped here and there at random, and used
a large and powerful field-glass, slung by a patent leather strap over
his brawny shoulders, to study the points in the wide landscape. Now and
then he made notes in his guide-book, but with a good-humored
listlessness which would have disarmed the most suspicious of military
detectives. On descending the hillside, he did not scruple to stop to
chat with a nurse maid or two out with the children, and to open his
hand as freely to give the latter some silver as he had opened his heart
to the girl--all with an easy, hearty laugh, and the oily accent of his
fellow-countrymen.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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