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A Son of the Immortals   By: (1863-1928)

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First Page:

A Son of the Immortals

By LOUIS TRACY

Author of "The Stowaway," "The Message," "The Wings of the Morning," etc.

Illustrations by HOWARD CHANDLER CHRISTY

New York Edward J. Clode Publisher

Copyright, 1909, by EDWARD J. CLODE

Entered at Stationers' Hall

[Illustration: The sight of Alec and his fair burden brought a cheer from the crowd Frontispiece]

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I. THE FORTUNE TELLER 1 II. MONSEIGNEUR 22 III. IN THE ORIENT EXPRESS 44 IV. THE WHITE CITY 64 V. FELIX SURMOUNTS A DIFFICULTY 89 VI. JOAN GOES INTO SOCIETY 112 VII. JOAN BECOMES THE VICTIM OF CIRCUMSTANCES 132 VIII. SHOWING HOW THE KING KEPT HIS APPOINTMENT 154 IX. MUTTERINGS OF STORM 176 X. WHEREIN THE SHADOWS DEEPEN 196 XI. JOAN DECIDES 221 XII. THE STORM BREAKS 241 XIII. WHEREIN A REASON IS GIVEN FOR JOAN'S FLIGHT 263 XIV. THE BROKEN TREATY 284 XV. THE ENVOY 310

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

The sight of Alec and his fair burden brought a cheer from the crowd Frontispiece

PAGE

"Gentlemen, here stands Alexis Delgrado" 75 Beaumanoir and Felix fortified the position 153 Joan laughed at Alec's masterful methods 199 Stampoff saluted the King in silence 268 In a few minutes the three were securely bound 298 He felt the thrill that ran through her veins 306

A SON OF THE IMMORTALS

CHAPTER I

THE FORTUNE TELLER

On a day in May, not so long ago, Joan Vernon, coming out into the sunshine from her lodging in the Place de la Sorbonne, smiled a morning greeting to the statue of Auguste Comte, founder of Positivism. It would have puzzled her to explain what Positivism meant, or why it should be merely positive and not stoutly comparative or grandly superlative. As a teacher, therefore, Comte made no appeal. She just liked the bland look of the man, was pleased by the sleekness of his white marble. He seemed to be a friend, a counselor, strutting worthily on a pedestal labeled " Ordre et Progrès "; for Joan was an artist, not a philosopher.

Perhaps there was an underthought that she and Comte were odd fish to be at home together in that placid backwater of the Latin Quarter. Next door to the old fashioned house in which she rented three rooms was a cabaret, a mere wreck of a wineshop, apparently cast there by the torrent of the Boule Mich, which roared a few yards away. Its luminous sign, a foaming tankard, showed gallantly by night, but was garish by day, since gas is akin to froth, to which the sun is pitiless. But the cabaret had its customers, quiet folk who gathered in the evening to gossip and drink strange beverages, whereas its nearest neighbor on the boulevard side was an empty tenement, a despondent ghost to day, though once it had rivaled the flaunting tankard. Its frayed finery told of gay sparks extinguished. A flamboyant legend declared, "Ici on chante, on boit, on s'amuse(?)" Joan always smirked a little at that suggestive note of interrogation, which lent a world of meaning to the half obliterated statement that Madame Lucette would appear "tous les soirs dans ses chansons d'actualités."

Nodding to Léontine, the cabaret's amazingly small maid of all work, who was always washing and never washed, Joan saw the query for the hundredth time, and, as ever, found its answer in the blistered paint and dust covered windows: Madame Lucette's last song of real life pointed a moral... Continue reading book >>




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