Library / Literature & Fiction

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse
- Pages
- about 524
- Category
- Literature & Fiction
- Language
- English
- Reading time
- 9.6 h at 250 wpm
From the opening
I. AFTER THE MARNE
II. IN THE STUDIO
IV. “NO ONE WILL KILL HIM”
V. THE BURIAL FIELDS
They were to have met in the garden of the Chapelle Expiatoire at five
o’clock in the afternoon, but Julio Desnoyers with the impatience of a
lover who hopes to advance the moment of meeting by presenting himself
before the appointed time, arrived an half hour earlier. The change of
the seasons was at this time greatly confused in his mind, and evidently
demanded some readjustment.
Five months had passed since their last interview in this square had
afforded the wandering lovers the refuge of a damp, depressing calmness
near a boulevard of continual movement close to a great railroad
station. The hour of the appointment was always five and Julio was
accustomed to see his beloved approaching by the reflection of the
recently lit street lamps, her figure enveloped in furs, and holding
her muff before her face as if it were a half-mask. Her sweet voice,
greeting him, had breathed forth a cloud of vapor, white and tenuous,
congealed by the cold. After various hesitating interviews, they had
abandoned the garden. Their love had acquired the majestic importance of
acknowledged fact, and from five to seven had taken refuge in the fifth
floor of the rue de la Pompe where Julio had an artist’s studio. The
curtains well drawn over the double glass windows, the cosy hearth-fire
sending forth its ruddy flame as the only light of the room, the
monotonous song of the samovar bubbling near the cups of tea--all
the seclusion of life isolated by an idolizing love--had dulled their
perceptions to the fact that the afternoons were growing longer, that
outside the sun was shining later and later into the pearl-covered
depths of the clouds, and that a timid and pallid Spring was beginning
to show its green finger tips in the buds of the branches suffering the
last nips of Winter--that wild, black boar who so often turned on his
tracks.
A short sample. Read the whole book
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