When, in this little room, Calabressa had at length finished his letter
and dusted it over with sand, he was not at all loath to show it to this
master of modern speech. Calabressa was proud of his French; and if he
would himself have acknowledged that it was perhaps here and there of
doubtful idiom and of phonetic spelling, would he not have claimed for
it that it was fluent, incisive, and ornate?
"My valued friend, it is not permitted me to answer your questions in
precise terms; but he to whom you have had the goodness to extend your
bountiful protection is well and safe, and under my own care. No; he
goes not back to Russia. His thoughts are different; his madness travels
in other directions; it is no longer revenge, it is adoration and
gratitude that his heart holds. And you, can you not guess who has
worked the miracle? Think of this: you have a poor wretch who is
distracted by injuries and suffering; he goes away alone into Europe; he
is buffeted about with the winds of hunger and thirst and cold: he
cannot speak; he is like a dog--a wild beast that people drive away from
their door.
Pages:
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399