Mademoiselle Miss, and Other Stories
Mademoiselle Miss, and Other Stories
By Henry Harland
29 Dec, 2020
Brief Extract: It is proverbially on the next morning that a man’s wound begins to hurt. For the others, since I’ve seen none of them, I can speak only by inference: in the morning our little cénacle scatters to the four corners of the town, not
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Brief Extract: It is proverbially on the next morning that a man’s wound begins to hurt. For the others, since I’ve seen none of them, I can speak only by inference: in the morning our little cénacle scatters to the four corners of the town, not to be reunited till the hour of dinner; but what reason is there to doubt that the day will have treated them very much as it has treated me? And oh, the weary, dreary, bright spring day it is! The Luxembourg is fragrant with budding trees, and vocal with half a thousand romping children; the Boule-Miche is at its liveliest, with a ceaseless ebb and flow of laughing young men and women; the terrasse of the Vachette is a mass of gleaming top-hats and flaunting feminine bonnets; and the sky overhead is one smooth blue vault, and the sun is everywhere, a fume of gold: but the sparkle and the joyousness of it all are gone. Turn where I will, I find the same awful sense of emptiness. The streets are deserted, in spite of the crowds: I can hear my solitary footsteps echo gruesomely through them. Paris is like Pompeii. Less