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Suddenly, one of them, the taller, Paul d'Henricol, pressed the arm of his comrade, Jean Renoldi, then, in a whisper, said: "Hallo, here's Madame Poincot; give a good look at her. I assure you that she's making eyes at you." She was moving along on the arm of her husband.
She was regarded as the very type of a virtuous, uncorrupted woman. So upright that no man had ever dared to think of her. And yet for the last month Paul d'Henricol had been assuring his friend Renoldi that Madame Poincot was in love with him, and he maintained that there was no doubt of it. "Be sure I don't deceive myself. I see it clearly.
Sit down. Let us talk." She murmured: "No, leave me;" and remained there, her soul in a state of ecstasy. He said to his friend d'Henricol: "You know, 'twill end by my beating her. I won't have any more of it! It must end, and that without further delay!" Then he went on: "What do you advise me to do?" The other replied: "Break it off."
Paul d'Henricol called on his friend: "Deuce take it, Renoldi, it's not good enough to let a woman die; it's not the right thing anyhow." The other, enraged, told him to hold his tongue, whereupon d'Henricol made use of the word "infamy." The result was a duel, Renoldi was wounded, to the satisfaction of everybody, and was for some time confined to his bed.
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