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Updated: June 26, 2025
"My dear duke, allow me to present to you " Monpavon, solemn of face, with padded calves, attempted to make the introduction so anxiously expected; but His Excellency, in his preoccupation, did not hear and kept on toward the large salon, borne onward by one of those electric currents that break the monotony of social life.
For instance, M. Francis has a certain habit of drawing himself up and displaying his linen shirtfront, a mania for raising his arms to pull down his cuffs, which is Monpavon to the life. But there is one who does not resemble his master in the least, that is Joe, Dr. Jenkins' coachman.
He shivers a little, but does not lose courage, and walks on with head erect and unfaltering gait. Monsieur de Monpavon is walking to his death.
Monpavon prefaced his reply by a significant pause; then roughly, cynically, for fear of showing emotion at the words: "Damnation, my poor Auguste!" The duke received it between the eyes without winking. "Ah!" he said, simply. He twisted his moustache mechanically; but his features did not change. And in an instant his resolution was formed.
The deal fell to the Prince. He had the pack in his hand when he spoke across to Carigny. "Carigny," he said. The blind man lifted his face to listen. "The last game was a short one." The other nodded. "Make it as short as you like," he said. "Make it one hand, if it pleases you, Monpavon. I shall be satisfied." "One hand!" "Certainly; if that is short enough for you," said Carigny.
The festivities were to be divided into days, as at Vaux, when Fouquet entertained Louis XIV. One day a play; another day Provencal games, dances, bull-fights, local bands; the third day And already the manager's hand sketched programmes, announcements; while Bois l'Hery slept, his hands in his pockets, his chair tilted back, his cigar sunk in the corner of his sneering mouth; and the Marquis de Monpavon, always on his best behaviour, straightened his shirt-front to keep himself awake.
Tall and beautiful, with her long dress of black gauze, her shoulders wrapped in a lace mantle, her hat trimmed with a garland of autumn leaves, she disappeared in the midst of other elegant women in the balmy atmosphere; and the thought that his eyes were going to close forever on this delightful sight, whose pleasures he knew so well, saddened Monpavon a little, and took the spring from his step.
There is nothing to be ashamed of in giving a good hug to the boy you haven't seen all these years. Besides, all these gentlemen are our friends. This is the Marquis de Monpavon, the Marquis de Bois d'Hery. Ah! the time is past when I brought you to eat vegetable soup with us, little Cabassu and Jean-Batiste Bompain. You know M. de Gery?
The Paganetti who was so humble and spiritless just now, goes away with the assurance of a man worth four hundred thousand francs, while Monpavon, carrying it even higher than usual, follows after him in his steps, and watches over him with a more than paternal solicitude. "That's a good piece of business done," says the Nabob to himself. "I can drink my coffee now."
Old Monpavon, although he was struck to the heart, would have considered the slightest crease in his linen breastplate, the slightest bending of his tall figure, as lamentably bad form, altogether unworthy his illustrious friend. Some one was weeping, however, among the members of the committee, but that some one was shedding ingenuous tears on his own account.
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