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Updated: June 1, 2025
They looked with indifferent eyes at Petitot's enamels, spaced over crimson velvet, set in three frames of marvelous workmanship.
Soon afterwards, covered with rouge, and redolent of perfume a la Richelieu, surrounded by negro boys, delicate-shaped greyhounds and shrieking parrots, she died on a crooked silken divan of the time of Louis XV., with an enamelled snuff-box of Petitot's workmanship in her hand and died, deserted by her husband; the insinuating M. Courtin had preferred to remove to Paris with her money.
"What are you, mon ami?" asked Cyrillon; scarcely glancing at the notes but fixing a searching glance on the messenger who had brought them. "I?" and the clerk coughed nervously and blushed, "Oh, I am nothing, Monsieur! I am Monsieur Petitot's clerk, that is all!" "And does he pay you well?" "Thirty francs a week, Monsieur.
Richelieu did all in his power to win her over, and not being able to succeed, he treated her as an enemy worthy of himself. Mdme. de Motteville. Mémoires, Petitot's Collection, 2nd series, vol. li. p. 339.
The words were Petitot's. "I? No! I have not let him escape, but those who forced my hand!" Blondel retorted in passion, so real, or so well simulated, that it swept away the majority of his listeners. "They have let him escape! Those who had no patience or craft! Those whose only notion of statesmanship, whose only method of making use of the document we had under our hand was to tear it up.
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