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Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894

"St. Ives, Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in England"

'Champdivers, my lad, your health!' he would say.
'The Major and I had a very arduous march last night, and I
positively thought I should have eaten nothing, but your fortunate
idea of the brandy has made quite a new man of me--quite a new
man.' And he would fall to with a great air of heartiness, cut
himself a mouthful, and, before he had swallowed it, would have
forgotten his dinner, his company, the place where he then was, and
the escape he was engaged on, and become absorbed in the vision of
a sick-room and a dying girl in France. The pathos of this
continual preoccupation, in a man so old, sick, and over-weary, and
whom I looked upon as a mere bundle of dying bones and death-pains,
put me wholly from my victuals: it seemed there was an element of
sin, a kind of rude bravado of youth, in the mere relishing of food
at the same table with this tragic father; and though I was well
enough used to the coarse, plain diet of the English, I ate scarce
more than himself. Dinner was hardly over before he succumbed to a
lethargic sleep; lying on one of the mattresses with his limbs
relaxed, and his breath seemingly suspended--the very image of
dissolution.
This left the Major and myself alone at the table. You must not
suppose our tete-a-tete was long, but it was a lively period while
it lasted.


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