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- 10683
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:52.921Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 10609
- text
- further end of the further drawing-room, into which the first one widely
opened, "Here is a most peculiar fellow after you; who the devil is he?"
"I think I see him," replied a singularly cool, deliberate, and rather
drawling voice, yet a very silvery one, and at bottom perhaps a very
resolute one; "I think I see him; stand aside, my good fellow, will you;
ladies, remove, remove from between me and yonder hat."
The polite compliance of the company thus addressed, now revealed to the
advancing Pierre, the tall, robust figure of a remarkably
splendid-looking, and brown-bearded young man, dressed with surprising
plainness, almost demureness, for such an occasion; but this plainness
of his dress was not so obvious at first, the material was so fine, and
admirably fitted. He was carelessly lounging in a half side-long
attitude upon a large sofa, and appeared as if but just interrupted in
some very agreeable chat with a diminutive but vivacious brunette,
occupying the other end. The dandy and the man; strength and effeminacy;
courage and indolence, were so strangely blended in this superb-eyed
youth, that at first sight, it seemed impossible to decide whether there
was any genuine mettle in him, or not.
Some years had gone by since the cousins had met; years peculiarly
productive of the greatest conceivable changes in the general personal
aspect of human beings. Nevertheless, the eye seldom alters. The instant
their eyes met, they mutually recognized each other. But both did not
betray the recognition.
"Glen!" cried Pierre, and paused a few steps from him.
But the superb-eyed only settled himself lower down in his lounging
attitude, and slowly withdrawing a small, unpretending, and unribboned
glass from his vest pocket, steadily, yet not entirely insultingly,
notwithstanding the circumstances, scrutinized Pierre. Then, dropping
his glass, turned slowly round upon the gentlemen near him, saying in
the same peculiar, mixed, and musical voice as before:
"I do not know him; it is an entire mistake; why don't the servants take
him out, and the music go on?---- As I was saying, Miss Clara, the
statues you saw in the Louvre are not to be mentioned with those in
Florence and Rome. Why, there now is that vaunted _chef d'oeuvre_, the
Fighting Gladiator of the Louvre----"
"Fighting Gladiator it is!" yelled Pierre, leaping toward him like
Spartacus. But the savage impulse in him was restrained by the alarmed
female shrieks and wild gestures around him. As he paused, several
gentlemen made motions to pinion him; but shaking them off fiercely, he
stood erect, and isolated for an instant, and fastening his glance upon
his still reclining, and apparently unmoved cousin, thus spoke:--
"Glendinning Stanly, thou disown'st Pierre not so abhorrently as Pierre
does thee. By Heaven, had I a knife, Glen, I could prick thee on the
spot; let out all thy Glendinning blood, and then sew up the vile
remainder. Hound, and base blot upon the general humanity!"
"This is very extraordinary:--remarkable case of combined imposture and
insanity; but where are the servants? why don't that black advance? Lead
him out, my good Doc, lead him out. Carefully, carefully! stay"--putting
his hand in his pocket--"there, take that, and have the poor fellow
driven off somewhere."
Bolting his rage in him, as impossible to be sated by any conduct, in
such a place, Pierre now turned, sprang down the stairs, and fled the
house.
III.
"Hack, sir? Hack, sir? Hack, sir?"
"Cab, sir? Cab, sir? Cab, sir?"
"This way, sir! This way, sir! This way, sir!"
"He's a rogue! Not him! he's a rogue!"
- title
- Chunk 8