St. Ives: Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in England
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Роберт Стивенсон. St. Ives: Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in England
CHAPTER I – A TALE OF A LION RAMPANT
CHAPTER II – A TALE OF A PAIR OF SCISSORS
CHAPTER III – MAJOR CHEVENIX COMES INTO THE STORY, AND GOGUELAT GOES OUT
CHAPTER IV – ST. IVES GETS A BUNDLE OF BANK NOTES
CHAPTER V – ST. IVES IS SHOWN A HOUSE
CHAPTER VI – THE ESCAPE
CHAPTER VII – SWANSTON COTTAGE
CHAPTER VIII – THE HEN-HOUSE
CHAPTER IX – THREE IS COMPANY, AND FOUR NONE
CHAPTER X – THE DROVERS
CHAPTER XI – THE GREAT NORTH ROAD
CHAPTER XII – I FOLLOW A COVERED CART NEARLY TO MY DESTINATION
CHAPTER XIII – I MEET TWO OF MY COUNTRYMEN
CHAPTER XIV – TRAVELS OF THE COVERED CART
CHAPTER XV – THE ADVENTURE OF THE ATTORNEY’S CLERK
CHAPTER XVI – THE HOME-COMING OF MR. ROWLEY’S VISCOUNT
CHAPTER XVII – THE DESPATCH-BOX
CHAPTER XVIII – MR. ROMAINE CALLS ME NAMES
CHAPTER XIX – THE DEVIL AND ALL AT AMERSHAM PLACE
CHAPTER XX – AFTER THE STORM
CHAPTER XXI – I BECOME THE OWNER OF A CLARET-COLOURED CHAISE
CHAPTER XXII – CHARACTER AND ACQUIREMENTS OF MR. ROWLEY
CHAPTER XXIII – THE ADVENTURE OF THE RUNAWAY COUPLE
CHAPTER XXIV – THE INN-KEEPER OF KIRKBY-LONSDALE
CHAPTER XXV – I MEET A CHEERFUL EXTRAVAGANT
CHAPTER XXVI – THE COTTAGE AT NIGHT
CHAPTER XXVII – THE SABBATH DAY
CHAPTER XXVIII – EVENTS OF MONDAY: THE LAWYER’S PARTY
CHAPTER XXIX – EVENTS OF TUESDAY: THE TOILS CLOSING
CHAPTER XXX – EVENTS OF WEDNESDAY; THE UNIVERSITY OF CRAMOND
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I was still plunged in these thoughts when the bell was rung that discharged our visitors into the street. Our little market was no sooner closed than we were summoned to the distribution, and received our rations, which we were then allowed to eat according to fancy in any part of our quarters.
I have said the conduct of some of our visitors was unbearably offensive; it was possibly more so than they dreamed – as the sight-seers at a menagerie may offend in a thousand ways, and quite without meaning it, the noble and unfortunate animals behind the bars; and there is no doubt but some of my compatriots were susceptible beyond reason. Some of these old whiskerandos, originally peasants, trained since boyhood in victorious armies, and accustomed to move among subject and trembling populations, could ill brook their change of circumstance. There was one man of the name of Goguelat, a brute of the first water, who had enjoyed no touch of civilisation beyond the military discipline, and had risen by an extreme heroism of bravery to a grade for which he was otherwise unfitted – that of maréchal des logis in the 22nd of the line. In so far as a brute can be a good soldier, he was a good soldier; the Cross was on his breast, and gallantly earned; but in all things outside his line of duty the man was no other than a brawling, bruising ignorant pillar of low pothouses. As a gentleman by birth, and a scholar by taste and education, I was the type of all that he least understood and most detested; and the mere view of our visitors would leave him daily in a transport of annoyance, which he would make haste to wreak on the nearest victim, and too often on myself.
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‘About Goguelat,’ said he.
‘I beg your pardon. I cannot conceive,’ said I.
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