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Updated: May 15, 2025
Heurteux, business agent, coming from broad daylight into the semi-obscurity of the room, was blinking with an uncertain air, trying to see.
She had told him; but it was Madame with whom he wished to speak. "With me?" With a feeling of uneasiness she scrutinized that coarse, rough card, that unfamiliar, harsh name: "Heurteux." Who could he be? "Very well; show him in." Heurteux, homme d'affaires, coming from the bright sunlight into the semi-darkness of the salon, blinked uncertainly, tried to distinguish his surroundings.
"C'est moins qu'un moment, Un pen plus qu'un rêve. Le temps nous enlève Notre enchantement." A flood of bright light suddenly burst into the salon with the maid, who brought her mistress a card: "Heurteux, homme d'affaires." The gentleman was waiting. He insisted on seeing Madame. "Did you tell him that the doctor was away from home?"
She worked constantly, passing her afternoons in turning over new music, choosing by preference sad and complicated harmonies, the modern music which no longer contents itself with being an art, but becomes a science, and answers better to our nerves, to our restlessness, than to sentiment. Daylight flooded the room as a maid brought a card to her mistress; "Heurteux, business agent."
The gentleman was there, he insisted on seeing madame. "You have told him the doctor is travelling?" He had been told, but it was to madame he wished to speak. "To me?" Disturbed, she examined this rough, crumpled card, this unknown name: "Heurteux." What could it be? "Well, show him in."
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