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Updated: May 26, 2025
Monpavon, entering the room behind Jenkins, surprised the anxious expression of the great seigneur faced by the terrible truth, and at the same time was horrified by the ravages made in a few hours upon Mora's emaciated face, in which all the wrinkles of age, suddenly evident, were mingled with lines of suffering, and those muscular depressions which tell of serious internal lesions.
They knew that at the last moment a Monpavon or a Bois-l'Héry was certain to turn up to appease the bailiffs; for all those gentlemen, being deeply involved in the affair, are interested to avoid a failure. That is just what saves our evil-minded little Governor.
"Who is that?" asked Monpavon, noticing the unfamiliar handwriting and the Irishman's nervous excitement. "Ah, doctor, if you want to read them all, we shall never have finished."
While continuing the process of making up his face, the longest, the most complicated of his morning occupations, Monpavon chatted with the doctor, told of his little ailments, and the good effect of the pills. They made him young again, he said. And at a distance, thus, without seeing him, one would have taken him for the Duc de Mora, to such a degree had he usurped his manner of speech.
"Open your window, general, it is stifling," said Monpavon, crimson, fearing for his paint, and the lowered windows exposed to the populace these high functionaries mopping their august faces, strained, agonized, by the same expression of waiting waiting for the Bey, for the storm, waiting for something, in short. Still another trimphal arch.
Of course Monpavon was too close a friend of the duke for any one else to How could he have imagined such a thing? "I imagine nothing," said the old nobleman, more subdued, but still very cold. "I simply wanted to have a perfectly frank explanation with you on this subject." The Irishman held out his broad open palm. "My dear marquis, explanations are always frank between men of honor."
"Mora is an epicurean, brought up in the ideas of how do you say you know what is it you call it? Eighteenth century. Very bad for the masses, if a man in his position ps ps ps Ah, he is the master who sets us all an example ps ps irreproachable manners!" "Then, it is all over?" said Jansoulet, overwhelmed. "There is no longer any hope?" Monpavon signed to him to listen.
But Cardailhac was too busy superintending the order and the progress of the procession to give way to the least emotion, which would, besides, have been foreign to his nature. Old Monpavon, stricken to the heart, would have considered the least bending of his linen cuirass and of his tall figure a piece of deplorably bad taste, totally unworthy of his illustrious friend.
His name Monpavon was well suited to him. Paon, peacock from Latin pavo, pavonis. Belonging to a great family, with wealthy kindred, the Duc de Mora's friendship had procured for him a receiver-generalship of the first class.
Nobody in the palace, then, except Monpavon and Louis the valet de chambre, knew of the visit of those three personages introduced mysteriously into the Minister of State's apartments. The duchess herself was ignorant of it.
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