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apped his hands to his head and reeled back, horror in his eyes. Then: “Tais-toi!” he thundered, and seizing the woman masterfully by

e and tender father. She forgot the squalor of the environment. It was merely a feature of P
aris mighty and inscrutable, so di
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the arms, he pushed her i

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nto some inner room, leavi

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ng Félise shaking on the

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threshold. In a moment or two he re-appeared, caught overcoat and old silk hat from a peg, and motioning Félise back, marched out of his home and slammed the door behind him. Father and daughter were now in the neutral ground at the end of the dim

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, malodorous passage. “What in the name of God are you doing here, Félise?” “I came to s

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ee my mother.” The fleshy, benign face of the man fell into the sags of old age. His lower l

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ip hung loose. His mild blue eyes, lamping out from beneath noble brows, stared agony. “Your

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mother?” “Yes. Where is she?” He drew a deep breath. “Your mother—well—she is in a nu

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rsing home, dear. No one, not even I, can see her.” He took her by the arm and hurried her to

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the staircase. “Come, come, dear, we must get away from this. You understand. I did not tell

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you your mother was so ill, for fear of making you unhappy.” “But that dreadful woman, fat

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her?” she cried. And the Alpine flower from which honey is made looked like a poor little fro

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st-bitten lily of the valley. She faced him on the landing. “That woman—that——” he waved an arm. “That,” said he, quoting bitterly, “is a woman of no importance.” “Ah!” cried Félise. With some of the elemental grossnesses of life she was acquainted. You cannot manage a hotel in France which is a free, non-Puritanical country, and remain in imbecile ignorance. She was shocked to the depths of her being. “Come,” said Fortinbras with outstretched hand. But she shrank from him. “Come!” he commanded. “There’s no time to l

fferent from Brant?me. She felt a little throb
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ose. We must get out of this.” “Where are we going?” she asked. “To the Gare de Montparnasse. You must return at once to Chartres.” “I will never enter the house of Aunt Clothilde again,” said Félise. “But what has happened? My God! wh

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at has happened?” he asked, as they hurried down the stairs. Breathlessly, brokenly, she told him. In the courtyard he paused, put his hand to his head. “But what can I do with you? My God! what can I do with you in this dreadful city?” “Isn

  • cared by the abominable appariti
  • on. “Monsieur Fortinbras?”
  • She mimicked the girl’s clear acc

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ent. “Oui, m
  • adame,” replied Félise. Where
  • upon the woman withered her wi
  • th a sudden volley of drunken abus

Jack alfred

e. She knew ho
  • w Fortinbras occupied himself al
  • l day long. She did not compla
  • in. But when the gonzesses of the

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rive gauche ha
  • d the indecency to come to his h
  • ouse, she would very soon put
  • them across her knee and teach the

Neal Potter

m manners. Thi

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’t there a hotel in Paris?” she asked, coldly. He laughed in a mirthless way. “There are many. There are the Ritz and the Meurice and the Elysée Palace. Yes—there are hotels enough!” “I have plenty of money,” she said. “No, no, my child

  • s is but a paraphrase
  • of what fell upon Fél
  • ise’s terror-stricken

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,” said he. “Not an hotel. I should go mad. I have an idea. Come.” They had just reached the evil pavement of the Rue Maugrabine, when Cécile Fortinbras, sister of the excellent Gaspard Bigourdin and the pious Clothilde Robineau, and mother of

Félise, recovered from the stupor to which the unprecedented fury of her husband had reduced her, and reeled drunkenly to the flat door. “Je vais arracher les yeux à cette putain-là!” Sh

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ears. It fell like an a

e started to tear the hussy’s eyes out; but by the time she had accomplished the difficult descent and had expounded her grievances to an unsympathetic concierge, a motor omnibus was conveying

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valanche; but it did not

father and daughter silent and anguished to the other side of the River Seine. CHAPTER XII THE huge door on the Boulevard Saint Germain swung open at Fortinbras’s ring and admitted them to a

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last long, for suddenly

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warm, marble-floored vestibule adorned with rugs, palms and a cast or two of statuary. Facing them, in its cage of handsome wrought iron-work, stood the lift. All indicated a life so far apart from that of the Rue Maugrabine that Félise, in spite

of the despair and disillusion that benumbed her soul, uttered an exc

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