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Updated: June 9, 2025
On this occasion, inquisitive minds were particularly surprised to see the six lateral chapels at Saint-Roch also hung in black. Two men in mourning were listening to a mortuary mass said in each chapel. In the chancel no other persons but Monsieur Desmarets, the notary, and Jacquet were present; the servants of the household were outside the screen.
Jacquet in that office was like a glow-worm, casting his light upon those secret correspondences, deciphering and classifying despatches. Ranking higher than a mere bourgeois, his position at the ministry was superior to that of the other subalterns.
I am in a room which is reached only by an interior staircase. Ask for Monsieur Camuset. Adieu; I kiss your forehead, my darling." Jacquet looked at Jules with a sort of honest terror, the sign of a true compassion, as he made his favorite exclamation in two separate and distinct tones, "The deuce! the deuce!" "That seems clear to you, doesn't it?" said Jules.
"Monsieur," said Jacquet, "we want to know where Madame Jules is buried." "Madame Jules who?" he asked. "We've had three Madame Jules within the last week. Ah," he said, interrupting himself, "here comes the funeral of Monsieur le Baron de Maulincour! A fine procession, that! He has soon followed his grandmother. Some families, when they begin to go, rattle down like a wager.
I am in a room which is reached only by an interior staircase. Ask for Monsieur Camuset. Adieu; I kiss your forehead, my darling." Jacquet looked at Jules with a sort of honest terror, the sign of a true compassion, as he made his favorite exclamation in two separate and distinct tones, "The deuce! the deuce!" "That seems clear to you, doesn't it?" said Jules.
The extreme delicacy with which he had managed the susceptibilities of a man both poor and modest; the respect with which he had surrounded him; the ingenious cleverness he had employed to nobly compel him to share his opulence without permitting it to make him blush, increased their friendship. Jacquet continued faithful to Desmarets in spite of his wealth.
But Florent Guillaume, on his knees in the mud, held him back by the skirt of his jacket. "Never go that way, messire! not that way. You might meet Jacquet Coquedouille, and you would be all in an instant turned into stone. Better encounter the basilisk than Jacquet Coquedouille.
When I was at Dresden I had read in a number of the Cologne Gazette that "Master Casanova has returned to Warsaw only to be sent about his business again. The king has heard some stories of this famous adventurer, which compel him to forbid him his Court." I could not stomach language of this kind, and I resolved to pay Jacquet, the editor, a visit, and now my time had come.
Jacquet he was one of those who are worthy of Plutarch as biographer saw that he had made a mistake in his management of the affair, and had, in fact, rendered it impossible by trying to proceed legally.
In his own home, Jacquet was an easy-going king, an umbrella-man, as they say, who hired a carriage for his wife which he never entered himself.
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