ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Letters of Two Brides, by Honore de BalzacThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost norestrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: Letters of Two BridesAuthor: Honore de BalzacTranslator: R. S. ScottRelease Date: October, 1999  [Etext #1941]Posting Date:November 23, 2009Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LETTERS OF TWO BRIDES ***Produced by John Bickers andDagnyLETTERS OF TWO BRIDESBy Honore de BalzacTranslated by R. S. ScottDEDICATION  To George Sand  Your name, dear George, while casting a reflectedradiance on my  book, can gain no new glory from this page. And yet it is neither  self-interest nor diffidence which has led me to place it there,  but only the wishthat it should bear witness to the solid  friendship between us, which has survived our wanderings and  separations, and triumphed over the busy malice of theworld. This  feeling is hardly likely now to change. The goodly company of  friendly names, which will remain attached to my works, forms an  element of pleasurein the midst of the vexation caused by their  increasing number. Each fresh book, in fact, gives rise to fresh  annoyance, were it only in the reproaches aimed atmy too prolific  pen, as though it could rival in fertility the world from which I  draw my models! Would it not be a fine thing, George, if the  future antiquarian ofdead literatures were to find in this  company none but great names and generous hearts, friends bound by  pure and holy ties, the illustrious figures of thecentury? May I  not justly pride myself on this assured possession, rather than on  a popularity necessarily unstable? For him who knows you well, it  is happinessto be able to sign himself, as I do here,  Your friend,  DE BALZAC.  PARIS, June 1840.LETTERS OF TWO BRIDESFIRST PARTI. LOUISE DE CHAULIEU TO RENEE DEMAUCOMBE. PARIS, September.Sweetheart, I too am free! And I am the first too, unless you havewritten to Blois, at our sweet tryst of letter-writing.Raise thosegreat black eyes of yours, fixed on my opening sentence,and keep this excitement for the letter which shall tell you of my firstlove. By the way, why always"first?" Is there, I wonder, a second love?Don't go running on like this, you will say, but tell me rather howyou made your escape from the convent where youwere to take your vows.Well, dear, I don't know about the Carmelites, but the miracle of my owndeliverance was, I can assure you, most humdrum. The cries ofan alarmedconscience triumphed over the dictates of a stern policy--there's thewhole mystery. The sombre melancholy which seized me after you lefthastenedthe happy climax, my aunt did not want to see me die of adecline, and my mother, whose one unfailing cure for my malady was anovitiate, gave way beforeher.So I am in Paris, thanks to you, my love! Dear Renee, could you haveseen me the day I found myself parted from you, well might you havegloried in the deepimpression you had made on so youthful a bosom. Wehad lived so constantly together, sharing our dreams and letting ourfancy roam together, that I verilybelieve our souls had become weldedtogether, like those two Hungarian girls, whose death we heard aboutfrom M. Beauvisage--poor misnamed being! Neversurely was man better cutout by nature for the post of convent physician!Tell me, did you not droop and sicken with your darling?In my gloomy depression, Icould do nothing but count over the tieswhich bind us. But it seemed as though distance had loosened them; Iwearied of life, like a turtle-dove widowed of hermate. Death smiledsweetly on me, and I was proceeding quietly to die. To be at Blois, atthe Carmelites, consumed by dread of having to take my vows there,aMlle. de la Valliere, but without her prelude, and without my Renee! Howcould I not be sick--sick unto death?How different it used to be! That monotonousexistence, where every hourbrings its duty, its prayer, its task, with such desperate regularitythat you can tell what a Carmelite sister is doing in any place, atanyhour of the night or day; that deadly dull routine, which crushes outall interest in one's surroundings, had become for us two a world oflife and movement.Imagination had thrown open her fairy realms, and inthese our spirits ranged at will, each in turn serving as magic steedto the other, the more alert quickeningthe drowsy; the world fromwhich our bodies were shut out became the playground of our fancy, whichreveled there in frolicsome adventure. The very _Lives ofthe Saints_helped us to understand what was so carefully left unsaid! But the daywhen I was reft of your sweet company, I became a true Carmelite, suchas theyappeared to us, a modern Danaid, who, instead of trying to filla bottomless barrel, draws every day, from Heaven knows what deep, anempty pitcher, thinking tofind it full.My aunt knew nothing of this inner life. How could she, who has made aparadise for herself within the two acres of her convent, understand myrevoltagainst life? A religious life, if embraced by girls of our age,demands either an extreme simplicity of soul, such as we, sweetheart, donot possess, or else an ardorfor self-sacrifice like that which makesmy aunt so noble a character. But she sacrificed herself for a brotherto whom she was devoted; to do the same for anunknown person or an ideais surely more than can be asked of mortals.For the last fortnight I have been gulping down so many reckless words,burying so manyreflections in my bosom, and accumulating such a storeof things to tell, fit for your ear alone, that I should certainlyhave been suffocated but for the resource ofletter-writing as a sorrysubstitute for our beloved talks. How hungry one's heart gets! I ambeginning my journal this morning, and I picture to myself that yoursisalready started, and that, in a few days, I shall be at home in yourbeautiful Gemenos valley, which I know only through your descriptions,just as you will live thatParis life, revealed to you hitherto only inour dreams.Well, then, sweet child, know that on a certain morning--a red-letterday in my life--there arrived from Parisa lady companion and Philippe,the last remaining of my grandmother's valets, charged to carry me off.When my aunt summoned me to her room and told me thenews, I could notspeak for joy, and only gazed at her stupidly."My child," she said, in her guttural voice, "I can see that you leaveme without regret, but thisfarewell is not the last; we shall meetagain. God has placed on your forehead the sign of the elect. You havethe pride which leads to heaven or to hell, but yournature is too nobleto choose the downward path. I know you better than you know yourself;with you, passion, I can see, will be very different from what it iswithmost women."She drew me gently to her and kissed my forehead. The kiss made my fleshcreep, for it burned with that consuming fire which eats away herlife,which has turned to black the azure of her eyes, and softened the linesabout them, has furrowed the warm ivory of her temples, and cast asallow tinge overthe beautiful face.Before replying, I kissed her hands."Dear aunt," I said, "I shall never forget your kindness; and if it hasnot made your nunnery all that it oughtto be for my health of body andsoul, you may be sure nothing short of a broken heart will bring meback again--and that you would not wish for me. You will notsee mehere again till my royal lover has deserted me, and I warn you that if Icatch him, death alone shall tear him from me. I fear no Montespan."She smiled andsaid:"Go, madcap, and take your idle fancies with you. There is certainlymore of the bold Montespan in you than of the gentle la Valliere."I threw my arms roundher. The poor lady could not refrain fromescorting me to the carriage. There her tender gaze was divided betweenme and the armorial bearings.At Beaugencynight overtook me, still sunk in a stupor of the mindproduced by these strange parting words. What can be awaiting me in thisworld for which I have sohungered?To begin with, I found no one to receive me; my heart had been schooledin vain. My mother was at the Bois de Boulogne, my father at theCouncil; mybrother, the Duc de Rhetore, never comes in, I am told,till it is time to dress for dinner. Miss Griffith (she is not unlike agriffin) and Philippe took me to myrooms.The suite is the one which belonged to my beloved grandmother, thePrincess de Vauremont, to whom I owe some sort of a fortune which noone has evertold me about. As you read this, you will understandthe sadness which came over me as I entered a place sacred to so manymemories, and found the rooms justas she had left them! I was to sleepin the bed where she died.Sitting down on the edge of the sofa, I burst into tears, forgetting Iwas not alone, and rememberingonly how often I had stood there by herknees, the better to hear her words. There I had gazed upon her face,buried in its brown laces, and worn as much by ageas by the pangs ofapproaching death. The room seemed to me still warm with the heat whichshe kept up there. How comes it that Armande-Louise-Marie deChaulieumust be like some peasant girl, who sleeps in her mother's bed the verymorrow of her death? For to me it was as though the Princess, who diedin 1817,had passed away but yesterday.I saw many things in the room which ought to have been removed. Theirpresence showed the carelessness with which people,busy with theaffairs of state, may treat their own, and also the little thought whichhad been given since her death to this grand old lady, who will alwaysremainone of the striking figures of the eighteenth century. Philippeseemed to divine something of the cause of my tears. He told me that thefurniture of the Princesshad been left to me in her will and that myfather had allowed all the larger suites to remain dismantled, as theRevolution had left them. On hearing this I rose,and Philippe openedthe door of the small drawing-room which leads into the reception-rooms.In these I found all the well-remembered wreckage; the panelsabovethe doors, which had contained valuable pictures, bare of all but emptyframes; broken marbles, mirrors carried off. In old days I was afraidto go up thestate staircase and cross these vast, deserted rooms; so Iused to get to the Princess' rooms by a small staircase which runsunder the arch of the larger one andleads to the secret door of herdressing-room.My suite, consisting of a drawing-room, bedroom, and the prettymorning-room in scarlet and gold, of which I havetold you, lies in thewing on the side of the Invalides. The house is only separated from theboulevard by a wall, covered with creepers, and by a splendid avenueoftrees, which mingle their foliage with that of the young elms onthe sidewalk of the boulevard. But for the blue-and-gold dome of theInvalides and its gray stonemass, you might be in a wood.The style of decoration in these rooms, together with their situation,indicates that they were the old show suite of the duchesses,whilethe dukes must have had theirs in the wing opposite. The two suites aredecorously separated by the two main blocks, as well as by the centralone, whichcontained those vast, gloomy, resounding halls shown meby Philippe, all despoiled of their splendor, as in the days of mychildhood.Philippe grew quite


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Out of Time's Abyss, by Edgar Rice BurroughsThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost norestrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.netTitle: Out of Time's AbyssAuthor: Edgar Rice BurroughsPosting Date: July 30, 2008 [EBook #553]Release Date: June, 1996[Last updated:November 24, 2012]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUT OF TIME'S ABYSS ***Produced by Judith Boss.Out of Time'sAbyssByEdgar Rice BurroughsChapter IThis is the tale of Bradley after he left Fort Dinosaur upon the westcoast of the great lake that is in the center of theisland.Upon the fourth day of September, 1916, he set out with fourcompanions, Sinclair, Brady, James, and Tippet, to search along thebase of the barrier cliffsfor a point at which they might be scaled.Through the heavy Caspakian air, beneath the swollen sun, the five menmarched northwest from Fort Dinosaur, nowwaist-deep in lush, junglegrasses starred with myriad gorgeous blooms, now across openmeadow-land and parklike expanses and again plunging into denseforestsof eucalyptus and acacia and giant arboreous ferns with featheredfronds waving gently a hundred feet above their heads.About them upon the ground,among the trees and in the air over themmoved and swung and soared the countless forms of Caspak's teeminglife.  Always were they menaced by some frightfulthing and seldom weretheir rifles cool, yet even in the brief time they had dwelt uponCaprona they had become callous to danger, so that they swungalonglaughing and chatting like soldiers on a summer hike."This reminds me of South Clark Street," remarked Brady, who had onceserved on the traffic squad inChicago; and as no one asked him why, hevolunteered that it was "because it's no place for an Irishman.""South Clark Street and heaven have something incommon, then,"suggested Sinclair.  James and Tippet laughed, and then a hideous growlbroke from a dense thicket ahead and diverted their attention toothermatters."One of them behemoths of 'Oly Writ," muttered Tippet as they came to ahalt and with guns ready awaited the almost inevitable charge."Hungry loto' beggars, these," said Bradley; "always trying to eateverything they see."For a moment no further sound came from the thicket.  "He may befeeding now,"suggested Bradley.  "We'll try to go around him.  Can'twaste ammunition.  Won't last forever.  Follow me."  And he set off atright angles to their former course,hoping to avert a charge.  Theyhad taken a dozen steps, perhaps, when the thicket moved to the advanceof the thing within it, the leafy branches parted, and thehideous headof a gigantic bear emerged."Pick your trees," whispered Bradley.  "Can't waste ammunition."The men looked about them.  The bear took a couple ofsteps forward,still growling menacingly.  He was exposed to the shoulders now.Tippet took one look at the monster and bolted for the nearest tree;and then thebear charged.  He charged straight for Tippet.  The othermen scattered for the various trees they had selected--all exceptBradley.  He stood watching Tippet andthe bear.  The man had a goodstart and the tree was not far away; but the speed of the enormouscreature behind him was something to marvel at, yet Tippetwas in afair way to make his sanctuary when his foot caught in a tangle ofroots and down he went, his rifle flying from his hand and fallingseveral yardsaway.  Instantly Bradley's piece was at his shoulder,there was a sharp report answered by a roar of mingled rage and painfrom the carnivore.  Tippet attemptedto scramble to his feet."Lie still!" shouted Bradley.  "Can't waste ammunition."The bear halted in its tracks, wheeled toward Bradley and then backagain towardTippet.  Again the former's rifle spit angrily, and thebear turned again in his direction.  Bradley shouted loudly.  "Come on,you behemoth of Holy Writ!" hecried.  "Come on, you duffer!  Can'twaste ammunition."  And as he saw the bear apparently upon the verge ofdeciding to charge him, he encouraged the idea bybacking rapidly away,knowing that an angry beast will more often charge one who moves thanone who lies still.And the bear did charge.  Like a bolt of lightninghe flashed down uponthe Englishman.  "Now run!"  Bradley called to Tippet and himselfturned in flight toward a nearby tree.  The other men, nowsafelyensconced upon various branches, watched the race with breathlessinterest.  Would Bradley make it?  It seemed scarce possible.  And ifhe didn't!  Jamesgasped at the thought.  Six feet at the shoulderstood the frightful mountain of blood-mad flesh and bone and sinew thatwas bearing down with the speed of anexpress train upon the seeminglyslow-moving man.It all happened in a few seconds; but they were seconds that seemedlike hours to the men whowatched.  They saw Tippet leap to his feet atBradley's shouted warning.  They saw him run, stooping to recover hisrifle as he passed the spot where it hadfallen.  They saw him glanceback toward Bradley, and then they saw him stop short of the tree thatmight have given him safety and turn back in the direction ofthe bear.Firing as he ran, Tippet raced after the great cave bear--the monstrousthing that should have been extinct ages before--ran for it and firedeven as thebeast was almost upon Bradley.  The men in the treesscarcely breathed.  It seemed to them such a futile thing for Tippet todo, and Tippet of all men!  They hadnever looked upon Tippet as acoward--there seemed to be no cowards among that strangely assortedcompany that Fate had gathered together from the fourcorners of theearth--but Tippet was considered a cautious man.  Overcautious, somethought him.  How futile he and his little pop-gun appeared as hedashedafter that living engine of destruction!  But, oh, how glorious!It was some such thought as this that ran through Brady's mind, thougharticulated it might havebeen expressed otherwise, albeit moreforcefully.Just then it occurred to Brady to fire and he, too, opened upon thebear, but at the same instant the animalstumbled and fell forward,though still growling most fearsomely.  Tippet never stopped running orfiring until he stood within a foot of the brute, which layalmosttouching Bradley and was already struggling to regain its feet.Placing the muzzle of his gun against the bear's ear, Tippet pulled thetrigger.  The creaturesank limply to the ground and Bradley scrambledto his feet."Good work, Tippet," he said.  "Mightily obliged to you--awful waste ofammunition, really."And thenthey resumed the march and in fifteen minutes the encounterhad ceased even to be a topic of conversation.For two days they continued upon their perilousway.  Already thecliffs loomed high and forbidding close ahead without sign of break toencourage hope that somewhere they might be scaled.  Late intheafternoon the party crossed a small stream of warm water upon thesluggishly moving surface of which floated countless millions of tinygreen eggs surroundedby a light scum of the same color, though of adarker shade.  Their past experience of Caspak had taught them thatthey might expect to come upon a stagnantpool of warm water if theyfollowed the stream to its source; but there they were almost certainto find some of Caspak's grotesque, manlike creatures.  Alreadysincethey had disembarked from the U-33 after its perilous trip through thesubterranean channel beneath the barrier cliffs had brought them intothe inland sea ofCaspak, had they encountered what had appeared to bethree distinct types of these creatures.  There had been the pureapes--huge, gorillalike beasts--and thosewho walked, a trifle moreerect and had features with just a shade more of the human cast aboutthem.  Then there were men like Ahm, whom they had capturedandconfined at the fort--Ahm, the club-man.  "Well-known club-man," Tylerhad called him.  Ahm and his people had knowledge of a speech.  Theyhad alanguage, in which they were unlike the race just inferior tothem, and they walked much more erect and were less hairy: but it wasprincipally the fact that theypossessed a spoken language and carrieda weapon that differentiated them from the others.All of these peoples had proven belligerent in the extreme.  Incommonwith the rest of the fauna of Caprona the first law of nature as theyseemed to understand it was to kill--kill--kill.  And so it was thatBradley had no desireto follow up the little stream toward the poolnear which were sure to be the caves of some savage tribe, but fortuneplayed him an unkind trick, for the pool wasmuch closer than heimagined, its southern end reaching fully a mile south of the point atwhich they crossed the stream, and so it was that after forcing theirwaythrough a tangle of jungle vegetation they came out upon the edgeof the pool which they had wished to avoid.Almost simultaneously there appeared south ofthem a party of naked menarmed with clubs and hatchets.  Both parties halted as they caughtsight of one another.  The men from the fort saw before them ahuntingparty evidently returning to its caves or village laden with meat.They were large men with features closely resembling those of theAfrican Negro thoughtheir skins were white.  Short hair grew upon alarge portion of their limbs and bodies, which still retained aconsiderable trace of apish progenitors.  They were,however, adistinctly higher type than the Bo-lu, or club-men.Bradley would have been glad to have averted a meeting; but as hedesired to lead his party southaround the end of the pool, and as itwas hemmed in by the jungle on one side and the water on the other,there seemed no escape from an encounter.On thechance that he might avoid a clash, Bradley stepped forward withupraised hand.  "We are friends," he called in the tongue of Ahm, theBo-lu, who had been held aprisoner at the fort; "permit us to pass inpeace.  We will not harm you."At this the hatchet-men set up a great jabbering with much laughter,loud andboisterous.  "No," shouted one, "you will not harm us, for weshall kill you.  Come!  We kill!  We kill!" And with hideous shoutsthey charged down upon theEuropeans."Sinclair, you may fire," said Bradley quietly.  "Pick off the leader.Can't waste ammunition."The Englishman raised his piece to his shoulder and tookquick aim atthe breast of the yelling savage leaping toward them.  Directly behindthe leader came another hatchet-man, and with the report of Sinclair'srifle bothwarriors lunged forward in the tall grass, pierced by thesame bullet.  The effect upon the rest of the band was electrical.  Asone man they came to a sudden halt,wheeled to the east and dashed intothe jungle, where the men could hear them forcing their way in aneffort to put as much distance as possible betweenthemselves and theauthors of this new and frightful noise that killed warriors at a greatdistance.Both the savages were dead when Bradley approached toexamine them, andas the Europeans gathered around, other eyes were bent upon them withgreater curiosity than they displayed for the victim ofSinclair'sbullet.  When the party again took up the march around the southern endof the pool the owner of the eyes followed them--large, round eyes,almost


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                W I L D  A T  H E A R T      a love story      written by      David Lynch based on the book by      BarryGiffordAnd now the story of Sailor and Lula.....1. EXT. CITY STREET - DAYA MAN rides a screaming massive Japanese motorcycle - wound out tomaximum R.P.M. up the street. CUT TO:2. SIGN BY ROADSIDEThe sign reads KIDS PLAYING - SPEED BUMPS. CUT TO:3.EXT. CITY STREET - DAYWith a whine from hell, the front tire of the motorcycle hits a speed bump.The motorcycle becomes airborne and on the way upslices itself in half as it scrapes along the full length of a Datsun Kingcab.In the air, the rider and motorcycle twist violently as they fly by.The motorcycle bouncesoff a black 66 Chevrolet and makes a sound like the end of the world.The rider hits the same Chevy a moment later.  Like a broken ragdoll shot from a canon,the man punches through the back window blowing glass for a block.  He stops somewhere under the front seat and a bubble of blood forms out his nose.Themotorcycle continues on sliding and spinning with an ear-piercing howl for one entire city block. CUT TO:4. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD STREETS -VACANT LOT - DAYTwo rabid dogs fight ferociously in a vacant lot - ripping each others flesh.  An OLD COUPLE, both with walkers, inch painfully along


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's Tom Swift and his Electric Rifle, by Victor AppletonThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.netTitle: Tom Swift and his Electric RifleAuthor: Victor AppletonPosting Date: January 16, 2009 [EBook #3777]Release Date: February, 2003Lastupdated November 10, 2010Last updated: April 22, 2012Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TOM SWIFT AND HIS ELECTRICRIFLE ***Produced by This etext was produced by Charles Franks,Greg Weeks, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.TOM SWIFT AND HIS ELECTRICRIFLEORDaring Adventures in Elephant Landby VICTOR APPLETONCONTENTS     I   TOM WANTS EXCITEMENT    II   TRYING THE NEW GUN   III   A DIFFICULTTEST    IV   BIG TUSKS WANTED     V   RUSH WORK    VI   NEWS FROM ANDY   VII   THE BLACK HAWK FLIES  VIII   OFF FOR AFRICA    IX   ATTACKED BY AWHALE     X   OFF IN THE AIRSHIP    XI   ANCHORED TO EARTH   XII   AMONG THE NATIVES  XIII   ON THE ELEPHANT TRAIL   XIV   A STAMPEDE    XV   LIONSIN THE NIGHT   XVI   SEEKING THE MISSIONARIES  XVII   SHOTS FROM ABOVE XVIII   NEWS OF THE RED PYGMIES   XIX   AN APPEAL FOR HELP    XX   THEFIGHT   XXI   DRIVEN BACK  XXII   A NIGHT ATTACK XXIII   THE RESCUE  XXIV   TWO OTHER CAPTIVES   XXV   THE ROGUE ELEPHANT--CONCLUSIONCHAPTERITOM WANTS EXCITEMENT"Have you anything special to do to-night, Ned?" asked Tom Swift,the well-known inventor, as he paused in front of his chum'swindow,in the Shopton National Bank."No, nothing in particular," replied the bank clerk, as he stackedup some bundles of bills. "Why do you ask?""I wanted youto come over to the house for a while.""Going to have a surprise party, or something like that?""No, only I've got something I'd like to show you.""A newinvention?""Well, not exactly new. You've seen it before, but not since I'veimproved it. I'm speaking of my new electric rifle. I've got itready to try, now, and I'dlike to see what you think of it. There'sa rifle range over at the house, and we can practice some shooting,if you haven't anything else to do.""I haven't, and I'll beglad to come. What are you doing in thebank, anyhow; putting away more of your wealth, Tom?""Yes, I just made a little deposit. It's some money I got fromthegovernment for the patents on my sky racer, and I'm salting it downhere until Dad and I can think of a better investment.""Good idea. Bring us all the moneyyou can," and the bank clerk, whoheld a small amount of stock in the financial institution, laughed,his chum joining in with him."Well, then. I'll expect you overthis evening," went on theyouthful inventor, as he turned to leave the bank."Yes, I'll be there. Say, Tom, have you heard the latest about AndyFoger?""No, Ihaven't heard much since he left town right after I beat himin the aeroplane race at Eagle Park.""Well, he's out of town all right, and I guess for a long timethistrip. He's gone to Europe.""To Europe, eh? Well, he threatened to go there after he failed tobeat me in the race, but I thought he was only bluffing.""No, he'sreally gone this time.""Well, I, for one, am glad of it. Did he take his aeroplane along?""Yes, that's what he went for. It seems that this Mr. Landbacher,theGerman who really invented it, and built it with money which Mr.Foger supplied, has an idea he can interest the German or some otherEuropean government inthe machine. Andy wanted to go along withhim, and as Mr. Foger financed the scheme, I guess he thought itwould be a good thing to have some one representhim. So Andy'sgone.""Then he won't bother me. Well, I must get along. I'll expect youover to-night," and with a wave of his hand Tom Swift hurried fromthebank.The young inventor jumped into his electric runabout which stoodoutside the institution, and was about to start off when he saw anewsboy selling paperswhich had just come in from New York, on themorning train."Here, Jack, give me a TIMES," called Tom to the lad, and he tossedthe newsboy a nickel. Then, afterglancing at the front page, andnoting the headings, Tom started off his speedy car, in which, onone occasion, he had made a great run, against time. He wassoon athome."Well, Dad, I've got the money safely put away," he remarked to anaged gentleman who sat in the library reading a book. "Now we won'thave toworry about thieves until we get some more cash in.""Well, I'm glad it's coming in so plentifully," said Mr. Swift witha smile. "Since my illness I haven't been ableto do much, Tom, andit all depends on you, now.""Don't let that worry you, Dad. You'll soon be as busy as ever,"for, following a serious operation for an ailmentof the heart, Mr.Swift, who was a veteran inventor, had not been able to do much. Butthe devices of his son, especially a speedy monoplane, which Tominvented,and sold to the United States Government, were nowbringing them in a large income. In fact with royalties from hisinventions and some gold and diamonds whichhe had secured on twoperilous trips, Tom Swift was quite wealthy."I'll never be as busy as I once was," went on Mr. Swift, a littleregretfully, "but I don't knowthat I care as long as you continueto turn out new machines, Tom. By the way, how is the electric riflecoming on? I haven't heard you speak of it lately.""It'spractically finished, Dad. It worked pretty well the time Itook it when we went on the trip to the caves of ice, but I'veimproved it very much since then. In fact I'mgoing to give it asevere test to-night. Ned Newton is coming over, and it may be thatthen we'll find out something about it that could be bettered. But Ithink not.It suits me as it is.""So Ned is coming over to see it; eh? You ought to have Mr. Damonhere to bless it a few times.""Yes, I wish I did. And he may come along atany moment, as it is.You never can tell when he is going to turn up. Mrs. Baggert saysyou were out walking while I was at the bank, Dad. Do you feelbetter afterit?""Yes, I think I do, Tom. Oh, I'm growing stronger every day, but itwill take time. But now tell me something about the electric gun."Thereupon the younginventor related to his father some facts aboutthe improvements he had recently made to the weapon. It was dinnertime when he had finished, and, after themeal Tom went out to theshed where he built his aeroplanes and his airships, and in whichbuilding he had fitted up a shooting gallery."I'll get ready for the trialto-night," he said "I want to see whatit will do to a dummy figure. Guess I'll make a sort of scarecrowand stuff it with straw. I'll get Eradicate to help me. Rad! Isay,Rad! Where are you?""Heah I is, Massa Tom! Heah I is," called a colored man as he camearound the corner of a small stable where he kept hismuleBoomerang. "Was yo'-all callin' me?""Yes, Rad, I want you to help make a scarecrow.""A scarecrow, Massa Tom! Good land a' massy! What fo' yo' want obascarecrow? Yo'-all ain't raisin' no corn, am yo'?""No, but I want something to shoot at when Ned Newton comes overto-night.""Suffin t' shoot at? Why MassaTom! Good land a' massy! Yo'-allain't gwine t' hab no duel, am yo'?""No, Rad, but I want a life-size figure on which to try my newelectric gun. Here are some oldclothes, and if you will stuff themwith rags and straw and fix them so they'll stand up, they'll dofirst-rate. Have it ready by night, and set it up at the far end oftheshooting gallery.""All right, Massa Tom. I'll jest do dat, fo' yo'," and leaving thecolored man to stuff the figure, after he had showed him how, Tomwent back intothe house to read the paper which he had purchasedthat morning.He skimmed over the news, thinking perhaps he might see something ofthe going abroad ofAndy Foger with the German aeroplane, but therewas nothing."I almost wish I was going to Europe," sighed Tom. "I will certainlyhave to get busy at something,soon. I haven't had any adventuresince I won the prize at the Eagle Park aviation meet in my skyracer. Jove! That was some excitement! I'd like to do thatoveragain, only I shouldn't want to have Dad so sick," for just beforethe race, Tom had saved his father's life by making a quick run inthe aeroplane, to bring acelebrated surgeon to the invalid's aid."I certainly wish I could have some new adventures," mused Tom, ashe turned the pages of the paper. "I could afford totake a triparound the earth after them, too, with the way money is coming innow. Yes, I do wish I could have some excitement. Hello, what'sthis! A big elephanthunt in Africa. Hundreds of the huge creaturescaptured in a trap--driven in by tame beasts. Some are shot fortheir tusks. Others will be sent to museums."He wasreading the headlines of the article that had attracted hisattention, and, as he read, he became more and more absorbed in it.He read the story through twice,and then, with sparkling eyes, heexclaimed:"That's just what I want. Elephant shooting in Africa! My! With mynew electric rifle, and an airship, what couldn't afellow do overin the dark continent! I've a good notion to go there! I wonder ifNed would go with me? Mr. Damon certainly would. Elephant shootingin Africa! Inan airship! I could finish my new sky craft in shortorder if I wanted to. I've a good notion to do it!"CHAPTER IITRYING THE NEW GUNWhile Tom Swift is thusabsorbed in thinking about a chance to huntelephants, we will take the opportunity to tell you a little moreabout him, and then go on with the story.Many of youalready know the young inventor, but those who do notmay be interested in hearing that he is a young American lad, fullof grit and ginger, who lives with hisaged father in the town ofShopton, in New York State. Our hero was first introduced to thepublic in the book, "Tom Swift and His Motorcycle."In that volume itwas related how Tom bought a motor-cycle from aMr. Wakefield Damon, of Waterford. Mr. Damon was an eccentricindividual, who was continually blessinghimself, some one else, orsomething belonging to him. His motor-cycle tried to climb a treewith him, and that was why he sold it to Tom. The two thusbecameacquainted, and their friendship grew from year to year.After many adventures on his motor-cycle Tom got a motor-boat, andhad some exciting times inthat. One of the things he and his fatherand his chum, Ned Newton, did, was to rescue, from a burning balloonthat had fallen into Lake Carlopa, an aeronautnamed John Sharp.Later Tom and Mr. Sharp built an airship called the Red Cloud, andwith Mr. Damon and some others had a series of remarkable fights.In theRed Cloud they got on the track of some bank robbers, andcaptured them, thus foiling the plans of Andy Foger, a town bully,and one of Tom's enemies, andputting to confusion the plot of Mr.Foger, Andy's father.After many adventures in the air Tom and his friends, in a submarineboat, invented by Mr. Swift, wentunder the ocean for sunkentreasure and secured a large part of it.It was not long after this that Tom conceived the idea of a powerfulelectric car, which proved, tobe the speediest of the road, and init he won a great race, and saved from ruin a bank in which hisfather and Mr. Damon were interested.The sixth book of theseries, entitled "Tom Swift and His WirelessMessage," tells how, in testing a new electric airship, which afriend of Mr. Damon's had invented, Tom, the inventor


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Ball at Sceaux, by Honore de BalzacThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Ball at SceauxAuthor: Honore de BalzacTranslator: Clara BellRelease Date: May, 1998  [Etext #1305]Posting Date: February 22,2010Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BALL AT SCEAUX ***Produced by DagnyTHE BALL AT SCEAUXBY HONORE DEBALZACTranslated By Clara Bell              To Henri de Balzac, his brother Honore.THE BALL AT SCEAUXThe Comte de Fontaine, head of one of the oldest familiesin Poitou, hadserved the Bourbon cause with intelligence and bravery during the warin La Vendee against the Republic. After having escaped all the dangerswhichthreatened the royalist leaders during this stormy period ofmodern history, he was wont to say in jest, "I am one of the men whogave themselves to be killed onthe steps of the throne." And thepleasantry had some truth in it, as spoken by a man left for dead at thebloody battle of Les Quatre Chemins. Though ruined byconfiscation, thestaunch Vendeen steadily refused the lucrative posts offered to himby the Emperor Napoleon. Immovable in his aristocratic faith, he hadblindlyobeyed its precepts when he thought it fitting to choosea companion for life. In spite of the blandishments of a rich butrevolutionary parvenu, who valued thealliance at a high figure, hemarried Mademoiselle de Kergarouet, without a fortune, but belonging toone of the oldest families in Brittany.When the secondrevolution burst on Monsieur de Fontaine he wasencumbered with a large family. Though it was no part of the noblegentlemen's views to solicit favors, he yieldedto his wife's wish, lefthis country estate, of which the income barely sufficed to maintain hischildren, and came to Paris. Saddened by seeing the greediness ofhisformer comrades in the rush for places and dignities under the newConstitution, he was about to return to his property when he received aministerial despatch,in which a well-known magnate announced to him hisnomination as marechal de camp, or brigadier-general, under a rulewhich allowed the officers of the Catholicarmies to count the twentysubmerged years of Louis XVIII.'s reign as years of service. Some dayslater he further received, without any solicitation, ex officio,thecrosses of the Legion of Honor and of Saint-Louis.Shaken in his determination by these successive favors, due, as hesupposed, to the monarch'sremembrance, he was no longer satisfied withtaking his family, as he had piously done every Sunday, to cry "Vive leRoi" in the hall of the Tuileries when the royalfamily passed throughon their way to chapel; he craved the favor of a private audience.The audience, at once granted, was in no sense private. Theroyaldrawing-room was full of old adherents, whose powdered heads, seen fromabove, suggested a carpet of snow. There the Count met some old friends,whoreceived him somewhat coldly; but the princes he thought ADORABLE,an enthusiastic expression which escaped him when the most gracious ofhis masters, towhom the Count had supposed himself to be known onlyby name, came to shake hands with him, and spoke of him as the mostthorough Vendeen of them all.Notwithstanding this ovation, none ofthese august persons thought of inquiring as to the sum of his losses,or of the money he had poured so generously into thechests of theCatholic regiments. He discovered, a little late, that he had made warat his own cost. Towards the end of the evening he thought he mightventure ona witty allusion to the state of his affairs, similar, asit was, to that of many other gentlemen. His Majesty laughed heartilyenough; any speech that bore thehall-mark of wit was certain to pleasehim; but he nevertheless replied with one of those royal pleasantrieswhose sweetness is more formidable than the anger ofa rebuke. One ofthe King's most intimate advisers took an opportunity of going up to thefortune-seeking Vendeen, and made him understand by a keen andpolitehint that the time had not yet come for settling accounts with thesovereign; that there were bills of much longer standing than his on thebooks, and there,no doubt, they would remain, as part of the history ofthe Revolution. The Count prudently withdrew from the venerable group,which formed a respectfulsemi-circle before the august family; then,having extricated his sword, not without some difficulty, from among thelean legs which had got mixed up with it, hecrossed the courtyard ofthe Tuileries and got into the hackney cab he had left on the quay. Withthe restive spirit, which is peculiar to the nobility of the oldschool,in whom still survives the memory of the League and the day of theBarricades (in 1588), he bewailed himself in his cab, loudly enoughto compromise him,over the change that had come over the Court."Formerly," he said to himself, "every one could speak freely to theKing of his own little affairs; the nobles couldask him a favor, or formoney, when it suited them, and nowadays one cannot recover the moneyadvanced for his service without raising a scandal! By Heaven!the crossof Saint-Louis and the rank of brigadier-general will not make good thethree hundred thousand livres I have spent, out and out, on the royalcause. Imust speak to the King, face to face, in his own room."This scene cooled Monsieur de Fontaine's ardor all the more effectuallybecause his requests for aninterview were never answered. And,indeed, he saw the upstarts of the Empire obtaining some of the officesreserved, under the old monarchy, for the highestfamilies."All is lost!" he exclaimed one morning. "The King has certainly neverbeen other than a revolutionary. But for Monsieur, who never derogates,and is somecomfort to his faithful adherents, I do not know what handsthe crown of France might not fall into if things are to go onlike this. Their cursed constitutional systemis the worst possiblegovernment, and can never suit France. Louis XVIII. and Monsieur Beugnotspoiled everything at Saint Ouen."The Count, in despair, waspreparing to retire to his estate,abandoning, with dignity, all claims to repayment. At this momentthe events of the 20th March (1815) gave warning of a freshstorm,threatening to overwhelm the legitimate monarch and his defenders.Monsieur de Fontaine, like one of those generous souls who do notdismiss a servant ina torrent of rain; borrowed on his lands tofollow the routed monarchy, without knowing whether this complicity inemigration would prove more propitious to himthan his past devotion.But when he perceived that the companions of the King's exile werein higher favor than the brave men who had protested, sword inhand,against the establishment of the republic, he may perhaps have hoped toderive greater profit from this journey into a foreign land than fromactive anddangerous service in the heart of his own country. Nor washis courtier-like calculation one of these rash speculations whichpromise splendid results on paper, andare ruinous in effect. He was--toquote the wittiest and most successful of our diplomates--one of thefaithful five hundred who shared the exile of the Court atGhent,and one of the fifty thousand who returned with it. During the shortbanishment of royalty, Monsieur de Fontaine was so happy as to beemployed by LouisXVIII., and found more than one opportunity of givinghim proofs of great political honesty and sincere attachment. Oneevening, when the King had nothing betterto do, he recalled Monsieur deFontaine's witticism at the Tuileries. The old Vendeen did not let sucha happy chance slip; he told his history with so much vivacitythata king, who never forgot anything, might remember it at a convenientseason. The royal amateur of literature also observed the elegant stylegiven to somenotes which the discreet gentleman had been invited torecast. This little success stamped Monsieur de Fontaine on the King'smemory as one of the loyal servantsof the Crown.At the second restoration the Count was one of those special envoys whowere sent throughout the departments charged with absolutejurisdictionover the leaders of revolt; but he used his terrible powers withmoderation. As soon as the temporary commission was ended, the HighProvost found aseat in the Privy Council, became a deputy, spokelittle, listened much, and changed his opinions very considerably.Certain circumstances, unknown to historians,brought him into suchintimate relations with the Sovereign, that one day, as he came in, theshrewd monarch addressed him thus: "My friend Fontaine, I shalltakecare never to appoint you to be director-general, or minister. Neitheryou nor I, as employees, could keep our place on account of our opinions.Representativegovernment has this advantage; it saves Us the trouble Weused to have, of dismissing Our Secretaries of State. Our Council isa perfect inn-parlor, whither publicopinion sometimes sends strangetravelers; however, We can always find a place for Our faithfuladherents."This ironical speech was introductory to a rescriptgiving Monsieur deFontaine an appointment as administrator in the office of Crown lands.As a consequence of the intelligent attention with which he listened tohisroyal Friend's sarcasms, his name always rose to His Majesty'slips when a commission was to be appointed of which the members wereto receive a handsomesalary. He had the good sense to hold his tongueabout the favor with which he was honored, and knew how to entertain themonarch in those familiar chats inwhich Louis XVIII. delighted asmuch as in a well-written note, by his brilliant manner ofrepeating political anecdotes, and the political orparliamentarytittle-tattle--if the expression may pass--which at that time was rife.It is well known that he was immensely amused by every detail ofhisGouvernementabilite--a word adopted by his facetious Majesty.Thanks to the Comte de Fontaine's good sense, wit, and tact, everymember of his numerousfamily, however young, ended, as he jestinglytold his Sovereign, in attaching himself like a silkworm to the leavesof the Pay-List. Thus, by the King's intervention,his eldest sonfound a high and fixed position as a lawyer. The second, before therestoration a mere captain, was appointed to the command of a legion onthereturn from Ghent; then, thanks to the confusion of 1815, when theregulations were evaded, he passed into the bodyguard, returned to aline regiment, andfound himself after the affair of the Trocaderoa lieutenant-general with a commission in the Guards. The youngest,appointed sous-prefet, ere long became a legalofficial and director ofa municipal board of the city of Paris, where he was safe from changesin Legislature. These bounties, bestowed without parade, and assecretas the favor enjoyed by the Count, fell unperceived. Though the fatherand his three sons each had sinecures enough to enjoy an income insalaries almostequal to that of a chief of department, their politicalgood fortune excited no envy. In those early days of the constitutionalsystem, few persons had very preciseideas of the peaceful domain of thecivil service, where astute favorites managed to find an equivalent forthe demolished abbeys. Monsieur le Comte de Fontaine,


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Cicero's Brutus or History of FamousOrators; also His Orator, or Accomplished Speaker., by CiceroThis eBook is for the use ofanyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project GutenbergLicense includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.netTitle: Cicero's Brutus or History of Famous Orators; also His Orator, or AccomplishedSpeaker.Author: CiceroPosting Date: November 15, 2011 [EBook #9776]Release Date: January, 2006First Posted: October 15, 2003Language: English*** STARTOF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CICERO'S BRUTUS ***Produced by Anne Soulard, Ted Garvin, and the ProjectGutenberg Online Distributed ProofreadingTeamCICERO'S BRUTUS,ORHISTORY OF FAMOUS ORATORS:ALSO,HIS ORATOR,ORACCOMPLISHED SPEAKER.Now first translated into English by E.JonesPREFACE.As the following Rhetorical Pieces have never appeared before in theEnglish language, I thought a Translation of them would be nounacceptableoffering to the Public. The character of the Author (Marcus TulliusCicero) is so universally celebrated, that it would be needless, andindeedimpertinent, to say any thing to recommend them.The first of them was the fruit of his retirement, during the remains ofthe _Civil War_ in Africa; and wascomposed in the form of a Dialogue. Itcontains a few short, but very masterly sketches of all the Speakerswho had flourished either in Greece or Rome, with anyreputation ofEloquence, down to his own time; and as he generally touches the principalincidents of their lives, it will be considered, by an attentive reader,as a_concealed epitome of the Roman history_. The conference is supposedto have been held with Atticus, and their common friend Brutus, inCicero's garden atRome, under the statue of Plato, whom he alwaysadmired, and usually imitated in his dialogues: and he seems in this tohave copied even his _double titles_,calling it _Brutus, or the Historyof famous Orators_. It was intended as a _supplement_, or _fourth book_,to three former ones, on the qualifications of anOrator.The second, which is intitled _The Orator_, was composed a very short timeafterwards (both of them in the 61st year of his age) and at the requestofBrutus. It contains a plan, or critical delineation, of what he himselfesteemed the most finished Eloquence, or style of Speaking. He calls it_The Fifth Part, orBook_, designed to complete his _Brutus_, and _theformer three_ on the same subject. It was received with great approbation;and in a letter to Lepta, who hadcomplimented him upon it, he declares,that whatever judgment he had in Speaking, he had thrown it all into thatwork, and was content to risk his reputation onthe merit of it. But it isparticularly recommended to our curiosity, by a more exact account of therhetorical _composition_, or _prosaic harmony_ of the ancients,than is tobe met with in any other part of his works.As to the present Translation, I must leave the merit of it to be decidedby the Public; and have only toobserve, that though I have not, to myknowledge, omitted a single sentence of the original, I was obliged, insome places, to paraphrase my author, to render hismeaning intelligibleto a modern reader. My chief aim was to be clear and perspicuous: if Ihave succeeded in _that_, it is all I pretend to. I must leave it toablerpens to copy the _Eloquence_ of Cicero. _Mine_ is unequal to the task.BRUTUS, OR THE HISTORY OF ELOQUENCE.When I had left Cilicia, and arrived atRhodes, word was brought me of thedeath of Hortensius. I was more affected with it than, I believe, wasgenerally expected. For, by the loss of my friend, I sawmyself for everdeprived of the pleasure of his acquaintance, and of our mutualintercourse of good offices. I likewise reflected, with Concern, that thedignity of ourCollege must suffer greatly by the decease of such aneminent augur. This reminded me, that _he_ was the person who firstintroduced me to the College, wherehe attested my qualification uponoath; and that it was _he_ also who installed me as a member; so that Iwas bound by the constitution of the Order to respectand honour him as aparent. My affliction was increased, that, in such a deplorable dearth ofwife and virtuous citizens, this excellent man, my faithful associateinthe service of the Public, expired at the very time when the Commonwealthcould least spare him, and when we had the greatest reason to regret thewant of hisprudence and authority. I can add, very sincerely, that in_him_ I lamented the loss, not (as most people imagined) of a dangerousrival and competitor, but of agenerous partner and companion in thepursuit of same. For if we have instances in history, though in studies ofless public consequence, that some of the poetshave been greatlyafflicted at the death of their contemporary bards; with what tenderconcern should I honour the memory of a man, with whom it is moregloriousto have disputed the prize of eloquence, than never to have met with anantagonist! especially, as he was always so far from obstructing_my_endeavours, or I _his_, that, on the contrary, we mutually assisted eachother, with our credit and advice.But as _he_, who had a perpetual run of felicity,left the world at ahappy moment for himself, though a most unfortunate one for his fellow-citizens; and died when it would have been much easier for him tolamentthe miseries of his country, than to assist it, after living in it as longas he _could_ have lived with honour and reputation;--we may, indeed,deplore hisdeath as a heavy loss to _us_ who survive him. If, however, weconsider it merely as a personal event, we ought rather to congratulatehis fate, than to pity it;that, as often as we revive the memory of thisillustrious and truly happy man, we may appear at least to have as muchaffection for him as for ourselves. For if weonly lament that we are nolonger permitted to enjoy him, it must, indeed, be acknowledged that thisis a heavy misfortune to _us_; which it, however, becomesus to supportwith moderation, less our sorrow should be suspected to arise from motivesof interest, and not from friendship. But if we afflict ourselves, onthesupposition that _he_ was the sufferer;--we misconstrue an event, which to_him_ was certainly a very happy one.If Hortensius was now living, he wouldprobably regret many otheradvantages in common with his worthy fellow-citizens. But when he beheldthe Forum, the great theatre in which he used to exercisehis genius, nolonger accessible to that accomplished eloquence, which could charm theears of a Roman, or a Grecian audience; he must have felt a pang ofwhichnone, or at least but few, besides himself, could be susceptible. Even _I_am unable to restrain my tears, when I behold my country no longerdefensible bythe genius, the prudence, and the authority of a legalmagistrate,--the only weapons which I have learned to weild, and to whichI have long been accustomed,and which are most suitable to the characterof an illustrious citizen, and of a virtuous and well-regulated state.But if there ever was a time, when the authorityand eloquence of anhonest individual could have wrested their arms from the hands of hisdistracted fellow-citizens; it was then when the proposal of acompromiseof our mutual differences was rejected, by the hasty imprudence of some,and the timorous mistrust of others. Thus it happened, amongothermisfortunes of a more deplorable nature, that when my declining age, aftera life spent in the service of the Public, should have reposed in thepeacefulharbour, not of an indolent, and a total inactivity, but of amoderate and becoming retirement; and when my eloquence was properlymellowed, and had acquiredits full maturity;--thus it happened, I say,that recourse was then had to those fatal arms, which the persons who hadlearned the use of them in honourableconquest, could no longer employ toany salutary purpose. Those, therefore, appear to me to have enjoyed afortunate and a happy life, (of whatever State theywere members, butespecially in _our's_) who held their authority and reputation, either fortheir military or political services, without interruption: and thesoleremembrance of them, in our present melancholy situation, was a pleasingrelief to me, when we lately happened to mention them in the courseofconversation.For, not long ago, when I was walking for my amusement, in a privateavenue at home, I was agreeably interrupted by my friend Brutus, andT.Pomponius, who came, as indeed they frequently did, to visit me;--twoworthy citizens who were united to each other in the closest friendship,and were so dearand so agreeable to me, that, on the first sight of them,all my anxiety for the Commonwealth subsided. After the usualsalutations,--"Well, gentlemen," said I,"how go the times? What news haveyou brought?" "None," replied Brutus, "that you would wish to hear, orthat I can venture to tell you for truth."--"No," saidAtticus; "we arecome with an intention that all matters of state should be dropped; andrather to hear something from you, than to say any thing which mightserveto distress you." "Indeed," said I, "your company is a present remedy formy sorrow; and your letters, when absent, were so encouraging, that theyfirstrevived my attention to my studies."--"I remember," repliedAtticus, "that Brutus sent you a letter from Asia, which I read withinfinite pleasure: for he advised youin it like a man of sense, and gaveyou every consolation which the warmest friendship could suggest."--"True," said I, "for it was the receipt of that letter whichrecovered mefrom a growing indisposition, to behold once more the cheerful face ofday; and as the Roman State, after the dreadful defeat near Cannae,firstraised its drooping head by the victory of Marcellus at Nola, which wassucceeded by many other victories; so, after the dismal wreck of ouraffairs, both publicand private, nothing occurred to me before the letterof my friend Brutus, which I thought to be worth my attention, or whichcontributed, in any degree, to theanxiety of my heart."--"That wascertainly my intention," answered Brutus; "and if I had the happiness tosucceed, I was sufficiently rewarded for my trouble. But Icould wish tobe informed, what you received from Atticus which gave you such uncommonpleasure."--"That," said I, "which not only entertained me; but, Ihope,has restored me entirely to myself."--"Indeed!" replied he; "and whatmiraculous composition could that be?"--"Nothing," answered I; "could havebeen amore acceptable, or a more seasonable present, than that excellentTreatise of his which roused me from a state of languor and despondency."--"You mean," saidhe, "his short, and, I think, very accurate abridgmentof Universal History."--"The very same," said I; "for that little Treatisehas absolutely saved me."--"I amheartily glad of it," said Atticus; "butwhat could you discover in it which was either new to you, or sowonderfully beneficial as you pretend?"--"It certainlyfurnished manyhints," said I, "which were entirely new to me: and the exact order oftime which you observed through the whole, gave me the opportunity Ihadlong wished for, of beholding the history of all nations in one regularand comprehensive view. The attentive perusal of it proved an excellentremedy for my


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's Bliss, and Other Stories, by Katherine MansfieldThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: Bliss, and Other StoriesAuthor: Katherine MansfieldRelease Date: December 8, 2013 [EBook #44385]Language: English*** START OFTHIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLISS, AND OTHER STORIES ***Produced by Paul Haxo from page images generously madeavailable by the Internet Archiveand the University ofMichigan Library.BLISSAND OTHER STORIES". . . _but I tell you, my lord fool, out of this nettle danger, wepluck this flower,safety._"BLISSAND OTHER STORIESBYKATHERINE MANSFIELDLONDON: CONSTABLE& COMPANY LIMITED_Published_ 1920_Reprinted_ 1920_Reprinted_1921_Reprinted_ 1921_Reprinted_ 1921_Reprinted_ 1922_Reprinted_ 1922_Reprinted_ 1923_Reprinted_ 1924_Reprinted_ 1925Printed in Great Britain at_TheMayflower Press, Plymouth._ William Brendon & Son, Ltd.TOJOHN MIDDLETONMURRYCONTENTS                                       PAGEPRELUDE  .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .    1JE NE PARLE PAS FRANÃAIS.   .   .   .   71BLISS    .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .  116THE WINDBLOWS   .   .   .   .   .   .  137PSYCHOLOGY   .   .   .   .   .   .   .  145PICTURES     .   .   .   .   .   .   .  157THE MAN WITHOUT A TEMPERAMENT    .   .  172MR.REGINALD PEACOCK'S DAY   .   .   .  194SUN AND MOON     .   .   .   .   .   .  208FEUILLE D'ALBUM  .   .   .   .   .   .  218A DILL PICKLE    .   .   .   .   .   .  228THELITTLE GOVERNESS .   .   .   .   .  239REVELATIONS  .   .   .   .   .   .   .  262THE ESCAPE   .   .   .   .   .   .   .  272PRELUDE1THERE was not an inch of room forLottie and Kezia in the buggy. WhenPat swung them on top of the luggage they wobbled; the grandmother'slap was full and Linda Burnell could not possibly haveheld a lump ofa child on hers for any distance. Isabel, very superior, was perchedbeside the new handy-man on the driver's seat. Hold-alls, bags andboxes werepiled upon the floor. "These are absolute necessities thatI will not let out of my sight for one instant," said Linda Burnell,her voice trembling with fatigue andexcitement.Lottie and Kezia stood on the patch of lawn just inside the gate allready for the fray in their coats with brass anchor buttons and littleround caps withbattleship ribbons. Hand in hand, they stared withround solemn eyes first at the absolute necessities and then at theirmother."We shall simply have to leavethem. That is all. We shall simply haveto cast them off," said Linda Burnell. A strange little laugh flewfrom her lips; she leaned back against the buttoned leathercushionsand shut her eyes, her lips trembling with laughter. Happily at thatmoment Mrs. Samuel Josephs, who had been watching the scene frombehind herdrawing-room blind, waddled down the garden path."Why nod leave the chudren with be for the afterdoon, Brs. Burnell?They could go on the dray with thestoreban when he comes in theeveding. Those thigs on the path have to go, dod't they?""Yes, everything outside the house is supposed to go," said LindaBurnell,and she waved a white hand at the tables and chairs standingon their heads on the front lawn. How absurd they looked! Either theyought to be the other way up,or Lottie and Kezia ought to stand ontheir heads, too. And she longed to say: "Stand on your heads,children, and wait for the store-man." It seemed to her thatwould beso exquisitely funny that she could not attend to Mrs. Samuel Josephs.The fat creaking body leaned across the gate, and the big jelly of aface smiled."Dod't you worry, Brs. Burnell. Loddie and Kezia can havetea with by chudren in the dursery, and I'll see theb on the drayafterwards."The grandmotherconsidered. "Yes, it really is quite the best plan. Weare very obliged to you, Mrs. Samuel Josephs. Children, say 'thankyou' to Mrs. Samuel Josephs."Two subduedchirrups: "Thank you, Mrs. Samuel Josephs.""And be good little girls, and--come closer--" they advanced, "don'tforget to tell Mrs. Samuel Josephs when you wantto. . . .""No, granma.""Dod't worry, Brs. Burnell."At the last moment Kezia let go Lottie's hand and darted towards thebuggy."I want to kiss my granma good-byeagain."But she was too late. The buggy rolled off up the road, Isabelbursting with pride, her nose turned up at all the world, LindaBurnell prostrated, and thegrandmother rummaging among the verycurious oddments she had had put in her black silk reticule at thelast moment, for something to give her daughter. Thebuggy twinkledaway in the sunlight and fine golden dust up the hill and over. Keziabit her lip, but Lottie, carefully finding her handkerchief first, setup awail."Mother! Granma!"Mrs. Samuel Josephs, like a huge warm black silk tea cosy, envelopedher."It's all right, by dear. Be a brave child. You come and blay inthedursery!"She put her arm round weeping Lottie and led her away. Kezia followed,making a face at Mrs. Samuel Josephs' placket, which was undone asusual,with two long pink corset laces hanging out of it. . . .Lottie's weeping died down as she mounted the stairs, but the sight ofher at the nursery door with swolleneyes and a blob of a nose gavegreat satisfaction to the S. J.'s, who sat on two benches before along table covered with American cloth and set out with immenseplatesof bread and dripping and two brown jugs that faintly steamed."Hullo! You've been crying!""Ooh! Your eyes have gone right in.""Doesn't her nose lookfunny.""You're all red-and-patchy."Lottie was quite a success. She felt it and swelled, smiling timidly."Go and sit by Zaidee, ducky," said Mrs. Samuel Josephs,"and Kezia,you sid ad the end by Boses."Moses grinned and gave her a nip as she sat down; but she pretendednot to notice. She did hate boys."Which will youhave?" asked Stanley, leaning across the table verypolitely, and smiling at her. "Which will you have to beginwith--strawberries and cream or bread anddripping?""Strawberries and cream, please," said she."Ah-h-h-h." How they all laughed and beat the table with theirteaspoons. Wasn't that a take in! Wasn't itnow! Didn't he fox her!Good old Stan!"Ma! She thought it was real."Even Mrs. Samuel Josephs, pouring out the milk and water, could nothelp smiling. "Youbustn't tease theb on their last day," she wheezed.But Kezia bit a big piece out of her bread and dripping, and thenstood the piece up on her plate. With the biteout it made a dearlittle sort of a gate. Pooh! She didn't care! A tear rolled down hercheek, but she wasn't crying. She couldn't have cried in front ofthose awfulSamuel Josephs. She sat with her head bent, and as thetear dripped slowly down, she caught it with a neat little whisk ofher tongue and ate it before any of themhad seen.2After tea Kezia wandered back to their own house. Slowly she walked upthe back steps, and through the scullery into the kitchen. Nothing wasleft in itbut a lump of gritty yellow soap in one corner of thekitchen window sill and a piece of flannel stained with a blue bag inanother. The fireplace was choked up withrubbish. She poked among itbut found nothing except a hair-tidy with a heart painted on it thathad belonged to the servant girl. Even that she left lying, andshetrailed through the narrow passage into the drawing-room. The Venetianblind was pulled down but not drawn close. Long pencil rays ofsunlight shone throughand the wavy shadow of a bush outside danced onthe gold lines. Now it was still, now it began to flutter again, andnow it came almost as far as her feet. Zoom!Zoom! a blue-bottleknocked against the ceiling; the carpet-tacks had little bits of redfluff sticking to them.The dining-room window had a square of coloured glassat each corner.One was blue and one was yellow. Kezia bent down to have one more lookat a blue lawn with blue arum lilies growing at the gate, and then atayellow lawn with yellow lilies and a yellow fence. As she looked alittle Chinese Lottie came out on to the lawn and began to dust thetables and chairs with a cornerof her pinafore. Was that reallyLottie? Kezia was not quite sure until she had looked through theordinary window.Upstairs in her father's and mother's room shefound a pill box blackand shiny outside and red in, holding a blob of cotton wool."I could keep a bird's egg in that," she decided.In the servant girl's room therewas a stay-button stuck in a crack ofthe floor, and in another crack some beads and a long needle. She knewthere was nothing in her grandmother's room; shehad watched her pack.She went over to the window and leaned against it, pressing her handsagainst the pane.Kezia liked to stand so before the window. Sheliked the feeling ofthe cold shining glass against her hot palms, and she liked to watchthe funny white tops that came on her fingers when she pressed themhardagainst the pane. As she stood there, the day flickered out anddark came. With the dark crept the wind snuffling and howling. Thewindows of the empty houseshook, a creaking came from the walls andfloors, a piece of loose iron on the roof banged forlornly. Kezia wassuddenly quite, quite still, with wide open eyes andknees pressedtogether. She was frightened. She wanted to call Lottie and to go oncalling all the while she ran downstairs and out of the house. But ITwas justbehind her, waiting at the door, at the head of the stairs,at the bottom of the stairs, hiding in the passage, ready to dart outat the back door. But Lottie was atthe back door, too."Kezia!" she called cheerfully. "The storeman's here. Everything is onthe dray and three horses, Kezia. Mrs. Samuel Josephs has given us abigshawl to wear round us, and she says to button up your coat. Shewon't come out because of asthma."Lottie was very important."Now then, you kids," called thestoreman. He hooked his big thumbsunder their arms and up they swung. Lottie arranged the shawl "mostbeautifully" and the storeman tucked up their feet in apiece of oldblanket."Lift up. Easy does it."They might have been a couple of young ponies. The storeman felt overthe cords holding his load, unhooked thebrakechain from the wheel,and whistling, he swung up beside them."Keep close to me," said Lottie, "because otherwise you pull the shawlaway from my side,Kezia."But Kezia edged up to the storeman. He towered beside her big as agiant and he smelled of nuts and new wooden boxes.3It was the first time that Lottieand Kezia had ever been out so late.Everything looked different--the painted wooden houses far smallerthan they did by day, the gardens far bigger and wilder.Bright starsspeckled the sky and the moon hung over the harbour dabbling the waveswith gold. They could see the lighthouse shining on Quarantine Island,andthe green lights on the old coal hulks."There comes the Picton boat," said the storeman, pointing to a littlesteamer all hung with bright beads.But when theyreached the top of the hill and began to go down theother side the harbour disappeared, and although they were still inthe town they were quite lost. Other cartsrattled past. Everybodyknew the storeman."Night, Fred.""Night O," he shouted.Kezia liked very much to hear him. Whenever a cart appeared in thedistance she


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Father Goriot, by Honore de BalzacThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: Father GoriotAuthor: Honore de BalzacTranslator: Ellen MarriageRelease Date: March, 1998  [Etext #1237]Posting Date: February 22,2010Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FATHER GORIOT ***Produced by DagnyFATHER GORIOTBy Honore DeBalzacTranslated by Ellen Marriage     To the great and illustrious Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire, a token     of admiration for his works andgenius.                                                      DE BALZAC.FATHER GORIOTMme. Vauquer (_nee_ de Conflans) is an elderly person, who for the pastforty years haskept a lodging-house in the Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve,in the district that lies between the Latin Quarter and the FaubourgSaint-Marcel. Her house (known inthe neighborhood as the _MaisonVauquer_) receives men and women, old and young, and no word has everbeen breathed against her respectable establishment;but, at the sametime, it must be said that as a matter of fact no young woman has beenunder her roof for thirty years, and that if a young man stays thereforany length of time it is a sure sign that his allowance must be of theslenderest. In 1819, however, the time when this drama opens, there wasan almostpenniless young girl among Mme. Vauquer's boarders.That word drama has been somewhat discredited of late; it has beenoverworked and twisted to strangeuses in these days of dolorousliterature; but it must do service again here, not because this story isdramatic in the restricted sense of the word, but becausesome tears mayperhaps be shed _intra et extra muros_ before it is over.Will any one without the walls of Paris understand it? It is open todoubt. The onlyaudience who could appreciate the results of closeobservation, the careful reproduction of minute detail and local color,are dwellers between the heights ofMontrouge and Montmartre, in a valeof crumbling stucco watered by streams of black mud, a vale of sorrowswhich are real and joys too often hollow; but thisaudience is soaccustomed to terrible sensations, that only some unimaginable andwell-neigh impossible woe could produce any lasting impression there.Now andagain there are tragedies so awful and so grand by reason of thecomplication of virtues and vices that bring them about, that egotismand selfishness are forced topause and are moved to pity; but theimpression that they receive is like a luscious fruit, soon consumed.Civilization, like the car of Juggernaut, is scarcely stayedperceptiblyin its progress by a heart less easy to break than the others that liein its course; this also is broken, and Civilization continues on hercoursetriumphant. And you, too, will do the like; you who with thisbook in your white hand will sink back among the cushions of yourarmchair, and say to yourself,"Perhaps this may amuse me." You willread the story of Father Goriot's secret woes, and, dining thereafterwith an unspoiled appetite, will lay the blame of yourinsensibilityupon the writer, and accuse him of exaggeration, of writing romances.Ah! once for all, this drama is neither a fiction nor a romance! _All istrue_,--sotrue, that every one can discern the elements of the tragedyin his own house, perhaps in his own heart.The lodging-house is Mme. Vauquer's own property. It isstill standingin the lower end of the Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve, just where the roadslopes so sharply down to the Rue de l'Arbalete, that wheeled trafficseldompasses that way, because it is so stony and steep. This positionis sufficient to account for the silence prevalent in the streets shutin between the dome of thePantheon and the dome of the Val-de-Grace,two conspicuous public buildings which give a yellowish tone to thelandscape and darken the whole district that liesbeneath the shadow oftheir leaden-hued cupolas.In that district the pavements are clean and dry, there is neither mudnor water in the gutters, grass grows in thechinks of the walls. Themost heedless passer-by feels the depressing influences of a place wherethe sound of wheels creates a sensation; there is a grim lookabout thehouses, a suggestion of a jail about those high garden walls. A Parisianstraying into a suburb apparently composed of lodging-houses andpublicinstitutions would see poverty and dullness, old age lying down to die,and joyous youth condemned to drudgery. It is the ugliest quarter ofParis, and, it maybe added, the least known. But, before all things,the Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve is like a bronze frame for a picture forwhich the mind cannot be too wellprepared by the contemplation of sadhues and sober images. Even so, step by step the daylight decreases,and the cicerone's droning voice grows hollower as thetraveler descendsinto the Catacombs. The comparison holds good! Who shall say which ismore ghastly, the sight of the bleached skulls or of dried-uphumanhearts?The front of the lodging-house is at right angles to the road, andlooks out upon a little garden, so that you see the side of the housein section, as itwere, from the Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve. Beneath thewall of the house front there lies a channel, a fathom wide, paved withcobble-stones, and beside it runsa graveled walk bordered by geraniumsand oleanders and pomegranates set in great blue and white glazedearthenware pots. Access into the graveled walk isafforded by a door,above which the words MAISON VAUQUER may be read, and beneath, in rathersmaller letters, "_Lodgings for both sexes, etc._"During the daya glimpse into the garden is easily obtained through awicket to which a bell is attached. On the opposite wall, at the furtherend of the graveled walk, a greenmarble arch was painted once upona time by a local artist, and in this semblance of a shrine a statuerepresenting Cupid is installed; a Parisian Cupid, so blisteredanddisfigured that he looks like a candidate for one of the adjacenthospitals, and might suggest an allegory to lovers of symbolism. Thehalf-obliterated inscriptionon the pedestal beneath determines the dateof this work of art, for it bears witness to the widespread enthusiasmfelt for Voltaire on his return to Paris in1777:              "Whoe'er thou art, thy master see;               He is, or was, or ought to be."At night the wicket gate is replaced by a solid door. The little gardenisno wider than the front of the house; it is shut in between the wallof the street and the partition wall of the neighboring house. A mantleof ivy conceals the bricksand attracts the eyes of passers-by to aneffect which is picturesque in Paris, for each of the walls is coveredwith trellised vines that yield a scanty dusty crop offruit, andfurnish besides a subject of conversation for Mme. Vauquer and herlodgers; every year the widow trembles for her vintage.A straight path beneath thewalls on either side of the garden leads toa clump of lime-trees at the further end of it; _line_-trees, as Mme.Vauquer persists in calling them, in spite of the factthat she was a deConflans, and regardless of repeated corrections from her lodgers.The central space between the walls is filled with artichokes androws ofpyramid fruit-trees, and surrounded by a border of lettuce,pot-herbs, and parsley. Under the lime-trees there are a fewgreen-painted garden seats and a woodentable, and hither, during thedog-days, such of the lodgers as are rich enough to indulge in a cupof coffee come to take their pleasure, though it is hot enough toroasteggs even in the shade.The house itself is three stories high, without counting the atticsunder the roof. It is built of rough stone, and covered withtheyellowish stucco that gives a mean appearance to almost every house inParis. There are five windows in each story in the front of the house;all the blindsvisible through the small square panes are drawn up awry,so that the lines are all at cross purposes. At the side of the housethere are but two windows on eachfloor, and the lowest of all areadorned with a heavy iron grating.Behind the house a yard extends for some twenty feet, a space inhabitedby a happy family ofpigs, poultry, and rabbits; the wood-shed issituated on the further side, and on the wall between the wood-shed andthe kitchen window hangs the meat-safe, justabove the place where thesink discharges its greasy streams. The cook sweeps all the refuseout through a little door into the Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve,andfrequently cleanses the yard with copious supplies of water, under painof pestilence.The house might have been built on purpose for its present uses. Accessisgiven by a French window to the first room on the ground floor, asitting-room which looks out upon the street through the two barredwindows already mentioned.Another door opens out of it into thedining-room, which is separated from the kitchen by the well of thestaircase, the steps being constructed partly of wood,partly of tiles,which are colored and beeswaxed. Nothing can be more depressing thanthe sight of that sitting-room. The furniture is covered with horse hairwovenin alternate dull and glossy stripes. There is a round table inthe middle, with a purplish-red marble top, on which there stands, byway of ornament, the inevitablewhite china tea-service, covered witha half-effaced gilt network. The floor is sufficiently uneven, thewainscot rises to elbow height, and the rest of the wall spaceisdecorated with a varnished paper, on which the principal scenes from_Telemaque_ are depicted, the various classical personages beingcolored. The subjectbetween the two windows is the banquet given byCalypso to the son of Ulysses, displayed thereon for the admiration ofthe boarders, and has furnished jokesthese forty years to the youngmen who show themselves superior to their position by making fun of thedinners to which poverty condemns them. The hearth isalways so cleanand neat that it is evident that a fire is only kindled there on greatoccasions; the stone chimney-piece is adorned by a couple of vasesfilled withfaded artificial flowers imprisoned under glass shades, oneither side of a bluish marble clock in the very worst taste.The first room exhales an odor for which thereis no name in thelanguage, and which should be called the _odeur de pension_. The dampatmosphere sends a chill through you as you breathe it; it has astuffy,musty, and rancid quality; it permeates your clothing; after-dinnerscents seem to be mingled in it with smells from the kitchen andscullery and the reek ofa hospital. It might be possible to describeit if some one should discover a process by which to distil from theatmosphere all the nauseating elements with which itis charged by thecatarrhal exhalations of every individual lodger, young or old. Yet,in spite of these stale horrors, the sitting-room is as charming andas delicatelyperfumed as a boudoir, when compared with the adjoiningdining-room.The paneled walls of that apartment were once painted some color, nowa matter ofconjecture, for the surface is incrusted with accumulatedlayers of grimy deposit, which cover it with fantastic outlines. Acollection of dim-ribbed glass decanters,metal discs with a satin sheenon them, and piles of blue-edged earthenware plates of Touraine warecover the sticky surfaces of the sideboards that line the room.


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                                    TWO FOR THE MONEY                                       Written by                                       DanGilroy                                                        Final Draft: 10-29-04               EXT. HOME MOVIE - 1982 - DAY               A DAD tosses a baseball to hisSON.  The boy swings, connects,                sends the ball flying.  DAD smiles.                                       BRANDON LANG'SVOICE               That's me.  Five years old.  I remember that day.  Believe it                or not, I remember that hit.  I remember it because of thesmile                that spread over my dad's face...                EXT. HOME MOVIE - 1983 - DAY               BRANDON shooting hoops.  DAD drinksa Bud, frowns as he misses.                                                       BRANDON VOICEOVER               I would've stood there all day tosink one.  Just to see that                smile...                  EXT. HOME MOVIE - 1984 - DAY               BRANDON runs, wears a too-big helmetand pads.  A DOG chases                him as DAD throws a football -- long pass -- TIME SLOWS and --                                                    BRANDON VOICEOVER               To pop, sports were a religion.  To me, it was aboutpurity,                a place where all wrongs could be made right, or at least temporarily                forgotten.  I was going to fill the whole house withtrophies                for him.  There was no doubt in my mind, I was going to make                him happy...                BRANDON catches the


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       <TITLE>"Never Been Kissed" </TITLE><LINK rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="style.css"title="style1"><META http-equiv="Content-Type"content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> <divid="Layer1">

NEVER BEEN KISSED

Revised Draft by Jenny Bicks

<pID="act">Based on the Original Screenplay by

Abby Kohn & Marc Silverstein

6/26/98 revision

<pID="act">CLOSE UP ON A GIRL'S FACE

It's Josie Geller, 25, cute, blonde and scared out of her wits. We hear the chanting of acrowd.

CROWD
Josie! Josie! Josie!

JOSIE (V.O.)
You know in some movies howthey have a dream sequence only they don't tell you it's a dream?

Pull out to reveal Josie on pitcher's mound of a--

<pID="slug">EXTERIOR. A BASEBALL STADIUM -- NIGHT

It's packed. Reporters line the field. All eyes are on Josie.

<PID="speaker">JOSIE (V.O.)
This is so not a dream.

The stadium clock sets at 5:00. The crowd goes crazy. Josietakes a deep, nervous breath and smiles, "Oh God."

INTERIOR. ELECTRONICS STORE -- CONTINUOUS

Multipleimages of Josie play across rows of TV sets. A crowd has gathered.

JOSIE (V.O.)
It wasn't supposed to be like


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                                        STAR WARS                                        Episode IV                                        A NEWHOPE                                         From the                                  JOURNAL OF THEWHILLS                                            by                                       George Lucas                                   Revised FourthDraft                                     January 15, 1976                                      LUCASFILM LTD.                               A long time ago, in a galaxyfar, far, away...               A vast sea of stars serves as the backdrop for the main title.                War drums echo through the heavens as a rollup slowlycrawls                into infinity.                    It is a period of civil war. Rebel spaceships,                     striking from a hidden base, have won theirfirst                     victory against the evil Galactic Empire.                    During the battle, Rebel spies managed to steal                     secret plans to the Empire'sultimate weapon, the                     Death Star, an armored space station with enough                     power to destroy an entire planet.                    Pursued bythe Empire's sinister agents, Princess                     Leia races home aboard her starship, custodian of                     the stolen plans that can save her peopleand                     restore freedom to the galaxy...               The awesome yellow planet of Tatooine emerges from a total                eclipse, her two moons