Mlle, de la Seiglière

Mlle, de la Seiglière

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Mlle, de la Seiglière

Mlle, de la Seiglière

Read FREE!

Excerpt

Should it ever happen, in passing through Poitiers, that one of the thousand little accidents that make up human life compelled you to sojourn an entire day in that city, where, as I suppose, you have neither relations, nor friends, nor any interest that appeals to you, you would infallibly be overtaken at the end of an hour or two by the sad and profound ennui that envelops the province like an atmosphere, and is exhaled more particularly by the capital of Poitou.

Throughout the entire kingdom I know no other place, save Bourges perhaps, where this invisible fluid, a thousand times more fatal than the mistral or the sirocco, is so penetrating, and so subtle—infiltrating one’s entire being in the most sudden and unexpected manner. At Bourges, moreover, to exorcise the scourge, you can make pilgrimage to one of the finest cathedrals ever erected by art and by the Catholic faith. There you will find enough to fill you with admiration for a week or more, without . . .

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