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Updated: May 31, 2025
"Ah," sighed the big Doulce, "what a terrible slavery it is! Every woman who cannot control her senses is lost to art." Nanteuil shrugged her pretty shoulders, which still retained something of the angularity of youth. "Oh, my great-grandmother! Don't try to kid the youngsters! What an idea! In your days, did actresses control their how did you put it? Fiddlesticks!
Their strength inspired them with audacity to war with the gods, therein following the example of the Giants, Jupiter, unable to brook such insolence " "Michon, doesn't my petticoat hang too low on the left?" asked Nanteuil. "Resolved," continued the doctor, "to render them less strong and less daring.
But the devastation is complete when woman carries her ravages into the sacred centre of her empire." Dwelling upon a favourite subject, he enumerated one by one the deformities of the bones and muscles caused by the wearing of stays, in terms now fanciful, now precise, now droll, now lugubrious. Nanteuil laughed as she listened.
Socrates, who was a wise man, took the kiss as a gift from the gods, knowing full well that it was not intended for him, but was dedicated to glory and to love. Nanteuil realized herself that in her intoxication she had perhaps charged her lips with too ardent a breath, for, throwing her arms apart, she exclaimed: "It can't be helped! I am so happy!"
Nanteuil was tormenting herself in this fashion in her box, when Jenny Fagette came to join her there; Jenny Fagette, slender and fragile, the incarnation of Alfred de Musset's Muse, who at night wore out her eyes of periwinkle-blue by scribbling society notes and fashion articles. A mediocre actress, but a clever and wonderfully energetic woman, she was Nanteuil's most intimate friend.
Then, with a sympathetic glance at Nanteuil; he added: "Only women and physicians know how necessary untruthfulness is, and how beneficial to man." And, as Pradel, Constantin Mate, and Romilly were taking their leave, he said: "Pray go out by the dining-room. I've just received a small cask of old Armagnac. You'll tell me what you think of it!"
It was not the road to Paris, now, that they asked for it was the way to Nanteuil, Ermenonville, the direction of the Marne. On the faces of the officers, one seemed to read disappointment and anxiety. Close to us, on the east, the guns were speaking, every day more fiercely. What was happening?"
Mechanical applause broke out at the back of the theatre, and a few members of the orchestra, murmuring inaudibly, clapped their hands slowly and noiselessly. Nanteuil had just given her last reply to Jeanne Perrin. "Brava! Brava! She is delightful, dear little woman!" sighed Madame Doulce. In his jealous anger, Chevalier was disloyal.
"What have you got there?" asked Turner, pointing with his stick at the carpet-bag. "A kitten?" "No no," replied Marvin, looking this way and that, to make sure that none could overhear. "A Nanteuil engraved from his own drawing, Jack a real Nanteuil. I have just been to a man I know the print-shop opposite the statue on the Quai Voltaire to have my own opinion verified. I was sure of it.
The prisoners were remorsefully shot, as it would have been impossible to bring them away under the heavy fire. We jogged on to Nanteuil, all of us very pleased with ourselves, particularly the Duke of Wellington's, who were loaded with spoils, and a billeting officer who, running slap into some Uhlans, had been fired at all the way from 50 yards' range to 600 and hadn't been hit.
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