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Updated: May 15, 2025
By the way, tell me about your handsome suitor, Maitre Quennebert; how is he getting along?" "You look very knowing, Trumeau: have you heard of anything happening to him?" "No, and I should be exceedingly sorry to hear that anything unpleasant had happened to him." "Now you are not saying what you think, you know you can't bear him." "Well, to speak the truth, I have no great reason to like him.
I am weary of meeting with nothing from you but snubs, scorn, and abuse. You think me a slanderer when I say, 'This gallant wooer of widows does not love you for yourself but for your money-bags. He fools you by fine promises, but as to marrying you never, never!" "May I ask you to repeat that?" broke in Madame Rapally, "Oh! I know what I am saying. You will never be Madame Quennebert."
As for me, I shall never see you again; but the recollection of this meeting, the joy of having served you, will be my consolation." Angelique raised her beautiful eyes, and gave the chevalier a long look which expressed her gratitude more eloquently than words. "May I be hanged!" thought Maitre Quennebert, "if the baggage isn't making eyes at him already!
While his pretended uncle was making himself at home most unceremoniously, Quennebert remarked that the chevalier at once began to lay siege to his fair hostess, bestowing tender and love-laden glances on her behind that uncle's back. This redoubled his curiosity.
I am in great trouble, and how to get out of it I don't know." "But tell me what it is," said the widow, standing up in her turn. Maitre Quennebert took three long strides, which brought him to the far end of the room, and asked "Why do you want to know? You can't help me. My trouble is of a kind a man does not generally confide to women." "What is it? An affair of honour? "Yes." "Good God!
"But I only saw him for an instant," said Angelique, "and I can't recall "Write, and don't talk. I can recall everything, and that is all that is wanted." "'Height about five feet. The chevalier," said Quennebert, interrupting himself, "is four feet eleven inches three lines and a half, but I don't need absolute exactness." Angelique gazed at him in utter stupefaction.
This man was, as the reader will have already guessed, Maitre Quennebert.
Just as we make her acquaintance this happy individual was a certain Maitre Quennebert, a notary of Saint Denis, and the comedy played between him and the widow was an exact counterpart of the one going on in the rooms of Mademoiselle de Guerchi, except that the roles were inverted; for while the lady was as much in love as the Duc de Vitry, the answering devotion professed by the notary was as insincere as the disinterested attachment to her lover displayed by the whilom maid of honour.
"No;" he said, "I am going to sleep at Maitre Terrasson's, rue des Poitevins; I have sent him word to expect me. But although his house is only a few yards distant, I must leave you earlier than I could have wished, on account of this money." "Will you think of me?" "How can you ask?" replied Quennebert, with a sentimental expression.
"Idiot!" muttered Maitre Quennebert; "swallow the honey of his words, do But how the deuce is it going to end? Not Satan himself ever invented such a situation." "But then I could never believe you guilty without proof, irrefutable proof; and even then a word from you would fill my mind with doubt and uncertainty again.
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