No! no! if I do anything, I
must try if I can't entrap him into giving me warning. But we
have got to another unpleasant subject already--suppose I change
the topic again? You will find a little book on that table there,
in the corner--tell me what you think of it."
The book was a copy of Corneille's "Cid," prettily bound in blue
morocco. Rose was enthusiastic in her praises. "I found it in a
bookseller's shop, yesterday," said her brother, "and bought it
as a present for you. Corneille is not an author to compromise
any one, even in these times. Don't you remember saying the other
day that you felt ashamed of knowing but little of our greatest
dramatist?" Rose remembered well, and smiled almost as happily as
in the old times over her present. "There are some good
engravings at the beginning of each act," continued Trudaine,
directing her attention rather earnestly to the illustrations,
and then suddenly leaving her side when he saw that she became
interested in looking at them.
He went to the window--listened--then drew aside the curtain, and
looked up and down the street. No living soul was in sight. "I
must have been mistaken," he thought, returning hastily to his
sister; "but I certainly fancied I was followed in my walk to-day
by a spy."
"I wonder," asked Rose, still busy over her book, "I wonder,
Louis, whether my husband would let me go with you to see 'Le
Cid' the next time it is acted.
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