I used to say to him, why did you not learn her name and that of her
husband? Perhaps she is a widow now, perhaps you made as great an
impression upon her mind and affections as she did upon yours.
But my friend Admiral Amherst, as the world knew him, was a strange,
irrational creature in many ways, and none of these ideas would he
ever entertain. That the comfortable gentleman in the boat was her
husband he never doubted; more it was impossible to divine. But the
cool northern isle, with its dark fringe of pines; its wonderful moss,
its fragrant and dewy ferns, its graceful sumacs, just putting on
their scarlet-lipped leaves, the morning stillness broken only by
the faint unearthly cry of the melancholy loon, the spar-dyked
cliffs of limestone, and the fantastic couch, with its too lovely
occupant, never faded from his memory and remained to the last as
realities which indeed they have become likewise to me, through the
intensity with which they were described to me.
The Story of Delle Josephine Boulanger
CHAPTER I.
Delle Josephine Boulanger, Miss Josephine Baker, Miss Josephine Baker,
Delle Josephine Boulanger. What a difference it makes, the language!
What a transformation! I thought this to myself as I stood on the
opposite side of the street looking at the sign. To be sure, it, was
only printed in French and sad little letters they were that
composed the name, but my mind quickly translated them into the more
prosaic English as I stood and gazed. Delle Josephine was a milliner
and I had been recommended to try and get a little room "_sous les
toits_" that she sometimes had to let, during my stay in the dismal
Canadian village with the grand and inappropriate name of _Bonheur
du Roi_. Bonneroi, or Bonneroy, it was usually called. Such a dismal
place it seemed to be; one long street of whitewashed or dirty
wooden houses, two raw red brick "stores," and the inevitable Roman
Catholic Church, Convent and offices, still and orderly and gray,
with the quiet priests walking about and the occasional sound of the
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