Fiction Books

CHAPTER I. THE WEDDING OF ST. LUC. On the evening of a Sunday, in the year 1578, a splendid fête was given in the magnificent hotel just built opposite the Louvre, on the other side of the water, by the family of Montmorency, who, allied to the royalty of France, held themselves equal to princes. This fête was to celebrate the wedding of François d'Epinay de St. Luc, a great friend and favorite... more...

THE SEVEN DEVILS It was very warm in the inn room, but it was so much warmer outside, in the waning flames of the late September evening, that the dark room seemed veritably cool to those who escaped into its shelter from the fading sunlight outside. A window was open to let in what little air was stirring, and from that window a spectator with a good head might look down a sheer drop of more than... more...

How young Denis kept guard. His Most Christian Majesty King Francis the First had a great preference for his Palace of Fontainebleau among the many places of residence from which he could choose, and it is interesting to glance into that magnificent palace on a certain afternoon in the year 151—. In a special apartment, from which direct access could be obtained to the guard chamber, where a... more...

ALPHONSE DAUDET. Alphonse Daudet is one of the most richly gifted of modern French novelists and one of the most artistic; he is perhaps the most delightful; and he is certainly the most fortunate. In his own country earlier than any of his contemporaries he saw his stories attain to the very wide circulation that brings both celebrity and wealth. Beyond the borders of his own language he swiftly won a... more...

A DAY OF SPLEEN. Five o'clock in the afternoon. Rain ever since the morning, a gray sky, so low that one can touch it with one's umbrella, dirty weather, puddles, mud, nothing but mud, in thick pools, in gleaming streaks along the edge of the sidewalks, driven back in vain by automatic sweepers, sweepers with handkerchiefs tied over their heads, and carted away on enormous tumbrils which... more...

CHAPTER I. "Let the boy go to Paris," exclaimed our guest, Roland Belloc. "I warrant he'll find a path that will lead him to fortune." "He is young," said my father doubtfully. "He will be killed," cried my mother, while I stood upright against the wall and looked at Roland gratefully. It was in 1650, in the days of the Regency, and all France was in an uproar. Our... more...

CHAPTER I. "THE WAGES OF SIN IS DEATH" Near eleven o'clock, one evening in the month of May, a man about fifty years of age, well formed, and of noble carriage, stepped from a coupe in the courtyard of a small hotel in the Rue Barbet-de-Jouy. He ascended, with the walk of a master, the steps leading to the entrance, to the hall where several servants awaited him. One of them followed him... more...

CHAPTER I "Get along, you little beast!" Madame Podvin accompanied her admonition with a vigorous blow from her heavy hand. "Out, I say!" Thump. "You lazy caniche!" Thump. "You get no breakfast here this morning!" Thump. "Out with you!" Thump. In the mean time the unhappy object of these objurgations and blows had been rapidly propelled towards the open door, and... more...

CHAPTER I Were the events of this nether sphere governed by the calculus of probabilities, Count Abel Larinski and Mlle. Antoinette Moriaz would almost unquestionably have arrived at the end of their respective careers without ever having met. Count Larinski lived in Vienna, Austria; Mlle. Moriaz never had been farther from Paris than Cormeilles, where she went every spring to remain throughout the... more...

CHAPTER I Not long since there lived, in the city of Philadelphia, a young man of singular identity. His only parallel was the comedian who is compelled to take himself seriously and make the most of it, or a tart plum that concludes in a mellow prune. He was the affinity of two celebrated instances to the contrary. To those who enjoy the whimsies of paradox he presented an astonishing resemblance, in... more...