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Updated: May 29, 2025
The Work of Bethlehem had certainly created a great sensation at the Tuileries. Nothing was now wanting but M. de La Perrière's visit and his report, which could not fail to be favorable, to ensure the appearance on the list of March 16th, the date of an imperial anniversary, of the glorious name of Jansoulet. The 16th of March, that is to say, within a month.
Ever since entering the cemetery he had had but one preoccupation the fear of finding himself face to face with Jansoulet, whose violence of temper he knew, and who might well forget the sacredness of the place, and even in Pere Lachaise renew the scandal of the Rue Royale.
Even after dinner she no longer had her son; he was obliged to stay with his guests, whose number grew each day as the fetes approached; not even the resource of talking to M. Paul about her grandchildren was left, for Jansoulet, a little embarrassed by the seriousness of his friend, had sent him to spend a few days with his brothers.
"First of all, my boy," said Jansoulet, closing the door softly on their interview, "answer me this question frankly. Are the motives set forth in your letter your real motives for resolving to leave me? Isn't there underneath it all one of these infamous stories that I know are being circulated against me in Paris?
They were all, or almost all, of the Sarigue species, two or three being absolutely nerveless, afflicted with partial loss of the power of speech. Such self-assurance, such eloquence had aroused their enthusiasm. When Jansoulet left the Corps Législatif, escorted to his carriage by his grateful colleague, it was about six o'clock.
A lump of white flesh perfumed with musk. And, as Jansoulet used to say with pride: "I married a Demoiselle Afchin!" Under the sky of Paris and its cold light the disillusion began.
"It's a great pity," he said in a low tone, as if he were afraid of being overheard, "that Madame Jansoulet would not come." Jansoulet replied with a gesture of despair and savage helplessness. "Too bad too bad!" said the other, blowing his nose and feeling in his pocket for his key.
Others besides Jansoulet found that death-chamber lugubrious: the windows wide open, the night and the wind entering freely from the garden, making a strong draught; a human form on a table; the body, which had just been embalmed; the hollow skull filled with a sponge, the brain in a basin. The weight of this brain of a statesman was truly extraordinary.
No one dares treat a representative of the great French nation as a mere swindler. The Hemerlingues were finely defeated. "Oh, my duke, my noble duke!" He was so full of emotion that he could not sign his name. Suddenly: "Where is the man who brought this telegram?" "Here, M. Jansoulet," replied a jolly south-country voice from the corridor. He was lucky, that postman. "Come in," said the Nabob.
"Your excellency is unwell?" asked Jansoulet, in a tone of interest which, I swear to you, had no affectation about it. "No a little weakness. I am rather anaemic wanting blood; but Jenkins is going to put me right. Aren't you, Jenkins?" The Irishman, who had not been listening, made a vague gesture. "Tonnerre! And here am I with only too much of it."
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