Short stories of the tragedy and comedy of life with a critical preface . , just in the samemanner as some imperceptible influence, some un-discernible impression, moves the female heart and ALLOUMA 153 urges It en to resolutions, no matter whether it be-longs to town or country, to the suburbs, or to thedesert. They can then feel, provided that they reasonand understand, why they have done one thing ratherthan another, but, for the moment, they do notknow. They are the playthings of their own feelings,the thoughtless, giddy-headed slaves of events, ofsurroundings, of chance meetings, and of a
Short stories of the tragedy and comedy of life with a critical preface . , just in the samemanner as some imperceptible influence, some un-discernible impression, moves the female heart and ALLOUMA 153 urges It en to resolutions, no matter whether it be-longs to town or country, to the suburbs, or to thedesert. They can then feel, provided that they reasonand understand, why they have done one thing ratherthan another, but, for the moment, they do notknow. They are the playthings of their own feelings,the thoughtless, giddy-headed slaves of events, ofsurroundings, of chance meetings, and of all the sensa-tions with which their soul and their body tremble! Monsieur Auballe had risen, and, after walking upand down the room once or twice, he looked at me,and said, with a smile: That is love in the desert! Suppose she were to come back? I asked him. Horrid girl! he replied. But 1 should be veryglad if she did return to me. And you would pardon the shepherd? Good heavens, yes! With women, one mustalways pardon — or else pretend not to see things. THE OLD MAID. ouNT EusTACHE dEtchegorrys Soli-tary country house had the ap-pearance of a poor mans home,where people do not have enoughto eat every day in the week, wherethe bottles are more frequently filledat the pump than in the cellar, andwhere they wait until it is quite darkbefore lighting the was an old and miserable building;^^.—a the walls were crumbling to pieces, thegrated iron gates were eaten away by rust,the holes in the broken windows had beenmended with old newspapers, but the ancestralportraits which hung against the walls showed thatit was no tiller of the soil, nor miserable back-bentlaborer whose strength had gradually worn out,that lived there. Great, knotty elm-trees sheltered it,as with a tall, green screen, and a large garden, fullof wild rose-trees, of straggling plants, and of sicklylooking vegetables, which sprang up half witheredfrom the sandy soil, stretched down to the bank ofthe ri
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Keywords: ., bookauthormaupassa, bookcentury1900, bookdecade1900, bookyear1903
