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The Floating Press - Miles Forman Justus

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192 pages

English

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This emotionally resonant love story is set into motion by a heinous crime: the kidnapping of a young American heir. His family is understandably distraught about the sudden disappearance, and French aristocrat Jason steps in to play the amateur sleuth -- motivated in part by his interest in the missing man's sister.

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Romance

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 octobre 2015
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776592098
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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JASON
A ROMANCE
* * *
JUSTUS MILES FORMAN

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Jason A Romance First published in 1908 Epub ISBN 978-1-77659-209-8 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77659-210-4 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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I - Ste. Marie Hears of a Mystery and Meets a Dark Lady II - The Ladder to the Stars III - Ste. Marie Makes a Vow, but a Pair of Eyes Haunt Him IV - Old David Stewart V - Jason Sets Forth Upon the Great Adventure VI - A Brave Gentleman Receives a Hurt, but Volunteers in a Good Cause VII - Captain Stewart Makes a Kindly Offer VIII - Jason Meets with a Misadventure and Dreams a Dream IX - Jason Goes Upon a Journey, and Richard Hartley Pleads for Him X - Captain Stewart Entertains XI - A Golden Lady Enters—The Eyes Again XII - The Name of the Lady with the Eyes—Evidence Heaps up Swiftly XIII - The Voyage to Colchis XIV - The Walls of Aea XV - A Conversation at La Lierre XVI - The Black Cat XVII - Those Who Were Left Behind XVIII - A Conversation Overheard XIX - The Invalid Takes the Air XX - The Stone Bench at the Rond Point XXI - A Mist Dims the Shining Star XXII - A Settlement Refused XXIII - The Last Arrow XXIV - The Joint in the Armor XXV - Medea Goes over to the Enemy XXVI - But the Fleece Elects to Remain XXVII - The Night's Work XXVIII - Medea's Little Hour XXIX - The Scales of Injustice XXX - Jason Sails Back to Colchis—Journey's End
I - Ste. Marie Hears of a Mystery and Meets a Dark Lady
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From Ste. Marie's little flat, which overlooked the gardens, they drovedown the quiet rue du Luxembourg, and at the Place St. Sulpice turned tothe left. They crossed the Place St. Germain des Prés, where lines ofhome-bound working-people stood waiting for places in the electrictrams, and groups of students from the Beaux Arts or from Julien's satunder the awnings of the Deux Magots, and so, beyond that busy square,they came into the long and peaceful stretch of the Boulevard St.Germain. The warm, sweet dusk gathered round them as they went, and theevening air was fresh and aromatic in their faces. There had been alittle gentle shower in the late afternoon, and roadway and pavementwere still damp with it. It had wet the new-grown leaves of thechestnuts and acacias that bordered the street. The scent of that livinggreen blended with the scent of laid dust and the fragrance of the lastlate-clinging chestnut blossoms; it caught up a fuller, richer burdenfrom the overflowing front of a florist's shop; it stole from openwindows a savory whiff of cooking, a salt tang of wood smoke; and thesoft little breeze—the breeze of coming summer—mixed all together andtossed them and bore them down the long, quiet street; and it was thebreath of Paris, and it shall be in your nostrils and mine, a keen agonyof sweetness, so long as we may live and so wide as we maywander—because we have known it and loved it—and in the end we shallgo back to breathe it when we die.
The strong white horse jogged evenly along over the wooden pavement, itshead down, the little bell at its neck jingling pleasantly as it went.The cocher, a torpid, purplish lump of gross flesh, pyramidal, pearlike,sat immobile in his place. The protuberant back gave him anextraordinary effect of being buttoned into his fawn-colored coat wrongside before. At intervals he jerked the reins like a large strange toy,and his strident voice said:
"Hé!" to the stout white horse, which paid no attention whatever. Oncethe beast stumbled and the pearlike lump of flesh insulted it, saying:
"Hé! veux tu, cochon!"
Before the War Office a little black slip of a milliner's girl dodgedunder the horse's head, saving herself and the huge box slung to her armby a miracle of agility, and the cocher called her the most frightfulnames, without turning his head and in a perfunctory tone quite freefrom passion.
Young Hartley laughed and turned to look at his companion, but Ste.Marie sat still in his place, his hat pulled a little down over hisbrows and his handsome chin buried in the folds of the white silkmuffler with which for some obscure reason he had swathed his neck.
"This is the first time in many years," said the Englishman, "that Ihave known you to be silent for ten whole minutes. Are you ill, or areyou making up little epigrams to say at the dinner-party?"
Ste. Marie waved a despondent glove.
"I 'ave," said he, "w'at you call ze blue. Papillons noirs—clouds in mysoul." It was a species of jest with Ste. Marie—and he seemed never totire of it—to pretend that he spoke English very brokenly. As a matterof fact, he spoke it quite as well as any Englishman and without theslightest trace of accent. He had discovered a long time before this—itmay have been while the two were at Eton together—that it annoyedHartley very much, particularly when it was done in company and beforestrangers. In consequence he became on such occasions a sort ofcomic-paper caricature of his race, and by dint of much practice, addedto a naturally alert mind, he became astonishingly ingenious in thetorture of that honest but unimaginative gentleman whom he consideredhis best friend. He achieved the most surprising expressions by the mereliteral translation of French idiom, and he could at any time bringHartley to a crimson agony by calling him "my dear "'before other men,whereas at the equivalent "mon cher" the Englishman would doubtlessnever, as the phrase goes, have batted an eye.
"Ye-es," he continued, sadly, "I 'ave ze blue. I weep. Weez ze tearsfull ze eyes. Yes." He descended into English. "I think something'sgoing to happen to me. There's calamity, or something, in the air.Perhaps I'm going to die."
"Oh, I know what you are going to do, right enough," said the other man."You're going to meet the most beautiful woman—girl—in the world atdinner, and of course you are going to fall in love with her."
"Ah, the Miss Benham!" said Ste. Marie, with a faint show of interest."I remember now, you said that she was to be there. I had forgotten.Yes, I shall be glad to meet her. One hears so much. But why am I ofcourse going to fall in love with her?"
"Well, in the first place," said Hartley, "you always fall in love withall pretty women as a matter of habit, and, in the second place,everybody—well, I suppose you—no one could help falling in love withher, I should think."
"That's high praise to come from you," said the other. And Hartley said,with a short, not very mirthful laugh:
"Oh, I don't pretend to be immune. We all—everybody who knows her.You'll understand presently."
Ste. Marie turned his head a little and looked curiously at his friend,for he considered that he knew the not very expressive intonations ofthat young gentleman's voice rather well, and this was somethingunusual. He wondered what had been happening during his six months'absence from Paris.
"I dare say that's what I feel in the air, then," he said, after alittle pause. "It's not calamity; it's love.
"Or maybe," he said, quaintly, "it's both. L'un n'empêche pas I'autre."And he gave an odd little shiver, as if that something in the air hadsuddenly blown chill upon him.
They were passing the corner of the Chamber of Deputies, which faces thePont de la Concorde. Ste. Marie pulled out his watch and looked at it.
"Eight-fifteen," said he. "What time are we asked for—eight-thirty?That means nine: It's an English house, and nobody will be on time. It'sout of fashion to be prompt nowadays."
"I should hardly call the Marquis de Saulnes English, you know,"objected Hartley.
"Well, his wife is," said the other, "and they're altogether English inmanner. Dinner won't be before nine. Shall we get out, and walk acrossthe bridge and up the Champs-Elysées? I should like to, I think. I liketo walk at this time of the evening—between the daylight and the dark."Hartley nodded a rather reluctant assent, and Ste. Marie prodded thepear-shaped cocher in the back with his stick. So they got down at theapproach to the bridge, Ste. Marie gave the cocher a piece of twofrancs, and they turned away on foot. The pear-shaped one looked at thecoin in his fat hand as if it were something unclean andcontemptible—something to be despised. He glanced at the dial of histaximeter, which had registered one franc twenty-five, and pulled theflag up. He spat gloomily out into the street, and his purple lips movedin words. He seemed to say something like "Sale diable de métier!"which, considering the fact that he had just been overpaid, appearsunwarrantably pessimistic in tone. Thereafter he spat again, picked uphis reins and jerked them, saying:
"Hè, Jean Baptiste! Uip, uip!" The unemotional white horse turned up theboulevard, trotting evenly at its steady pace, head down, the littlebell at its neck jingling pleasantly as it went. It occurs to me thatthe white horse was probably unique. I doubt that there was anotherhorse in Paris rejoicing in that extraordinary name.
But the two young men walked slowly on across the Pont de la Concorde.They went in silence, for Hartley was thinking still of Miss HelenBenham, and Ste. Marie was thinking of Heaven knows what. His gloom wasunaccountable unless he had really meant what he said about feelingcalamity in the air. It was very unlike him to have nothing to say.Midway of the bridge he stopped and turned to look out over the river,and the other man halted beside him. The dusk was thickening almostperceptibly, but it was yet far from dark. The swift river ran leadenbeneath them, an