The Nabob [140]
which he held firm with his strong, hairy hands.
A carriage forcibly stopped in the Rue Royale, and in broad daylight-- only this Tartar would have dared such a stroke as that!
"Get down!" said he to Moessard, whose face had turned green and yellow when he saw him. "Get down immediately!"
"Will you let go my horse, you bloated idiot! Whip up Suzanne; it is the Nabob."
She tried to gather up the reins, but the animal, held firmly, reared so sharply that a little more and like a sling the fragile vehicle would have sent everybody in it flying far away. At this, furious with one of those plebeian rages which in women of her kind shatter all the veneer of their luxury, she dealt the Nabob two stinging lashes with her whip, which left little trace on his tanned and hardened face, but which brought there a ferocious expression, accentuated by the short nose which had turned white and was slit at the end like that of a sporting terrier.
"Come down, or, by God, I will upset the whole thing!"
Amid an eddy of carriages arrested by the block in the traffic, or that passed slowly round the obstacle, with thousands of curious eyes, amid cries of coachmen and clinking of bits, two wrists of iron shook the entire vehicle.
"Jump--but jump, I tell you! Don't you see he will have us over? What a grip!"
And the woman looked at the Hercules with interest.
Hardly had Moessard set foot to the ground, and before he could take refuge on the pavement, whither the black military caps of policemen could be seen hastening, Jansoulet threw himself upon him, lifted him by the back of the neck like a rabbit, and, careless of his protestations and his terrified stammerings:
"Yes, yes, I will give you satisfaction, you blackguard! But, first, I intend to do to you what is done to dirty beasts to prevent them from repeating the same offence."
And roughly he set to work rubbing his nose and face all over with his newspaper, which he had rolled into a ball, stifling him, blinding him with it, and making scratches from which the blood trickled over his skin. The man was dragged from his hands, crimson, suffocated. A little more and he would have killed him.
The struggle over, pulling down his sleeves, adjusting his crumpled linen, picking up his portfolio out of which the papers of the Sarigue election were flying scattered even to the gutter, the Nabob answered the policemen who were asking him for his name in order to draw up a summons:
"Bernard Jansoulet, Deputy for Corsica."
A public man!
Only then did he remember that he was one. Who would have suspected it, seeing him breathless and bare-headed, like a porter after a street fight, under the eager, coldly mocking glances of the crowd?
THE APPARITION
If you want simple and sincere feeling, if you would see overflowing affection, tenderness, laughter--the laughter born of great happiness which, at a tiny movement of the lips, is brought to the verge of tears--and the beautiful wild joy of youth illumined by bright eyes transparent to the very depths of the souls behind them--all these things you may find this Sunday morning in a house that you know of, a new house, down yonder, right at the end of the old faubourg. The glass door on the ground floor shines more brightly than usual. More gaily than ever dance the letters over the door, and from the open windows comes the sound of glad cries, flowing from a stream of happiness.
"Accepted! it is accepted! Oh, what good luck! Henriette, Elise, do come here! M. Maranne's play is accepted!"
Andre heard the news yesterday. Cardailhac, the manager of the /Nouveautes/, sent for him to inform him that his play was to be produced immediately--that it would be put on next month. They passed the evening discussing scenic arrangements and the distribution of parts; and, as it was too late to knock at his neighbour's door when he got home from the theatre, the happy author waited for the morning in feverish impatience, and then, as soon as he heard people stirring below and the shutters open with a click against
A carriage forcibly stopped in the Rue Royale, and in broad daylight-- only this Tartar would have dared such a stroke as that!
"Get down!" said he to Moessard, whose face had turned green and yellow when he saw him. "Get down immediately!"
"Will you let go my horse, you bloated idiot! Whip up Suzanne; it is the Nabob."
She tried to gather up the reins, but the animal, held firmly, reared so sharply that a little more and like a sling the fragile vehicle would have sent everybody in it flying far away. At this, furious with one of those plebeian rages which in women of her kind shatter all the veneer of their luxury, she dealt the Nabob two stinging lashes with her whip, which left little trace on his tanned and hardened face, but which brought there a ferocious expression, accentuated by the short nose which had turned white and was slit at the end like that of a sporting terrier.
"Come down, or, by God, I will upset the whole thing!"
Amid an eddy of carriages arrested by the block in the traffic, or that passed slowly round the obstacle, with thousands of curious eyes, amid cries of coachmen and clinking of bits, two wrists of iron shook the entire vehicle.
"Jump--but jump, I tell you! Don't you see he will have us over? What a grip!"
And the woman looked at the Hercules with interest.
Hardly had Moessard set foot to the ground, and before he could take refuge on the pavement, whither the black military caps of policemen could be seen hastening, Jansoulet threw himself upon him, lifted him by the back of the neck like a rabbit, and, careless of his protestations and his terrified stammerings:
"Yes, yes, I will give you satisfaction, you blackguard! But, first, I intend to do to you what is done to dirty beasts to prevent them from repeating the same offence."
And roughly he set to work rubbing his nose and face all over with his newspaper, which he had rolled into a ball, stifling him, blinding him with it, and making scratches from which the blood trickled over his skin. The man was dragged from his hands, crimson, suffocated. A little more and he would have killed him.
The struggle over, pulling down his sleeves, adjusting his crumpled linen, picking up his portfolio out of which the papers of the Sarigue election were flying scattered even to the gutter, the Nabob answered the policemen who were asking him for his name in order to draw up a summons:
"Bernard Jansoulet, Deputy for Corsica."
A public man!
Only then did he remember that he was one. Who would have suspected it, seeing him breathless and bare-headed, like a porter after a street fight, under the eager, coldly mocking glances of the crowd?
THE APPARITION
If you want simple and sincere feeling, if you would see overflowing affection, tenderness, laughter--the laughter born of great happiness which, at a tiny movement of the lips, is brought to the verge of tears--and the beautiful wild joy of youth illumined by bright eyes transparent to the very depths of the souls behind them--all these things you may find this Sunday morning in a house that you know of, a new house, down yonder, right at the end of the old faubourg. The glass door on the ground floor shines more brightly than usual. More gaily than ever dance the letters over the door, and from the open windows comes the sound of glad cries, flowing from a stream of happiness.
"Accepted! it is accepted! Oh, what good luck! Henriette, Elise, do come here! M. Maranne's play is accepted!"
Andre heard the news yesterday. Cardailhac, the manager of the /Nouveautes/, sent for him to inform him that his play was to be produced immediately--that it would be put on next month. They passed the evening discussing scenic arrangements and the distribution of parts; and, as it was too late to knock at his neighbour's door when he got home from the theatre, the happy author waited for the morning in feverish impatience, and then, as soon as he heard people stirring below and the shutters open with a click against