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Updated: June 26, 2025
"There you acted very unwisely," observed M. Francis upon this Monpavon's Francis, Monpavon the old beau whose solitary tooth shakes about in the centre of his mouth at every word he says, but whom the young ladies regard with a favourable eye all the same on account of his fine manners. "Yes, you were unwise.
With this sudden revelation, the speaker stopped a moment, like an actor making his point; and in the heavy silence weighing on the assembly, the noise of a closing door was heard. It was the Governor Paganetti leaving the tribune, his face white, the eyes wide open, his mouth half opened, like some Pierrot scenting in the air a formidable blow. Monpavon, motionless, expanded his shirtfront.
Monsieur de Monpavon is walking to his death. He goes thither by the long line of the boulevards, all aflame in the direction of the Madeleine, treading once more the springy asphalt like any loiterer, his nose in the air, his hands behind his back. He has plenty of time, there is nothing to hurry him, the hour for the rendezvous is within his control.
Some evil thought triumphed in him for the moment, but he instantly imposed silence upon it, and, completely transformed, puffing out his cheeks as if his head were filled with water, he sighed profoundly as he pressed the old nobleman's hands: "Poor duke! Poor duke! Ah! my friend, I am in despair." "Have a care, Jenkins," said Monpavon coldly, withdrawing his hands.
But when Monpavon returned, he summoned him to his bedside, and, confronted by the lie visible even beneath the make-up of the decrepit old man, remarked: "Oh, you know no humbug! From you to me, truth. What do they say? I am in a very bad way, eh?"
Some one might come." Monpavon took up the writing-table, which was not heavy, and signed to the valet de chambre to go before him with a light. But Jenkins sprang forward: "Stay here, Louis; the duke may want you."
As she moved away, the Marquis de Monpavon, proud and well-dressed, a flower in his coat, saluted her at a distance with that sweep of the hat so dear to women's vanity, the well-bred brow, with the hat lifted high above the erect head.
The most striking thing about this mock-heroic physiognomy was a large curved nose all shiny with cold cream, and an eye alive, keen, too young, too bright, for the heavy and wrinkled eyelid which covered it. Jenkins's patients all had that eye. Monpavon must indeed have been deeply moved to show himself thus devoid of all prestige.
M. de Monpavon walks to his death! Now he is entering the complicated labyrinth of noisy streets, where the clatter of the omnibus mingles with the thousand humming trades of the working city, where the heat of the factory chimneys loses itself in the fever of a whole people struggling against hunger.
Monpavon went on, as if he did not hear: "And all because the horses came from Mora's stable!" "To be sure, the dear Nabob's heart is set on the duke. So that I shall make him very happy when I tell him " The doctor stopped, in some embarrassment. "When you tell him what, Jenkins?"
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