Belle-Rose — page 82: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Fi A FRIEND AND AN ENEMY. : 71 “Who is that gentleman?’’ Claudine asked her brother, who had bowed his head. ‘*Monsieur de Villebrais, my lieutenant.’’ After having driven about some time in the environs, Belle-Rose and his sister made the fiacre deviate from the main road. There was at the end of a meadow a house, be- fore which some beautiful trees extended their shade; this house had the appearance of a farm-house. Hoping that in this out-of-the-way place dinner could be served to them, Belle-Rose ran to it, leaving his sister some distance away. As he was returning, beating the bushes with a cane which he held in his hand, he heard frightened cries, in which his own name was mixed. He hurried on and saw Claudine struggling in the hands of a cavalier. In a bound, Belle-Rose had reached them. | ‘Eh! parbleu! come on,’’ exclaimed the cavalier. ‘‘You will aid me to make this pretty child understand that 1 am not a peasant.”’ The cavalier had not finished his phrase, when Belle- Rose, snatching Claudine from his arms, placed himself between them. _ **Monsieur de Villebrais,’’ said he, ‘‘this child is my sis- ter.”’ ‘Your sister? Word of honor, ’tis charming. You are very spiritual, Belle-Rose.’’ ‘*My lieutenant!’’ ' ‘*Your sister? Does one ride about with one’s sister? I have a sister, too, but she is at the convent, my dear sir.”’ ‘Monsieur de Villebrais, I have told you the truth. Clau- dine——’”’ ‘‘Ah! her name is Claudine, your cousin or your mis- tress; both, perhaps. It isa pretty name, altogether in the pastoral taste. Say, then, my charmer, if you wish my heart, L offer it to you; it is vacant for twenty-four hours.’ Belle-Rose barred the way to Monsieur de Villebrais; but it was out of the question to make a man hear reason who had dined altogether too well. Turning, then, to the coachman, who was looking on philosophically, he cried to him to turn his team in the direction of Paris. The chevy- alier immediately threw a purse at the coachman’s feet. “Count that money, rascal,’’ he said to him, ‘‘and when you have finished, whistle your most beautiful airs. ”’ The coachman picked up the purse, sat down upon a block of stone, and began to count. He had not reached Eomichbooks (Gl)