Maurice Leblanc

“ As for his good, kind face, usually so grave and placid and still so young beneath the white curls that crowned his head, its features seemed unfamiliar, ravaged by conflicting expressions, no one of which obtained the upper hand over the others: violent expressions of terror and anguish in which I was surprised, at moments, to observe gleams of the maddest and most extravagant delight. ”

“ I knew that it must be Berangere, my uncle's god-daughter, reading, as usual, on a stone bench, her favourite seat.
“Have you seen your god-father?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “He was going through the garden and back to his Yard. He looked so queer!”
Berangere pushed aside the leafy curtain at a place where the trelliswork which closed the arbour was broken; and her pretty face, crowned with rebellious golden curls, came into view.
“This is pleasant!” she said laughing. “My hair's caught. And there are spiders' webs too. Ugh! Help!” ”

“ Well, twelve years before the time of which I am speaking, there arrived at the Lodge a little girl to whom my uncle was god-father and from whom he used to receive a letter regularly on each 1st of January, bringing him her good wishes for the new year. She lived at Toulouse with her father and mother, who had formerly been in business at Meudon, near my uncle's place. Now the mother had died; and the father, without further ceremony, sent the daughter to Noel Dorgeroux with a short letter of which I remember a few sentences:
“The child is dull here, in the town.... ”