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Updated: June 8, 2025
They used to say: 'That is Renard's place; and nobody would have gone to it, not even Monsieur Plumsay, who is well known, be it said without any offense, for boning other peoples' places. "Well, I returned to my place of which I felt certain, just as if I had owned it. I had scarcely got there on Saturday, when I got into Delila, with my wife.
They would say: 'That is Renard's place'; and nobody would have gone there, not even Monsieur Plumeau, who is well known, be it said without any offense, for poaching on other people's preserves. "Well, I returned to this place of which I felt certain, just as if I had owned it. I had scarcely got there on Saturday, when I got into Delila, with my wife.
"The Mere can cook when she gives her mind to it," was Renard's meagre masculine comment, as the last morsel of the golden omelette disappeared behind his mustache. It was a gay little breakfast, with the circling above of the birds and the doves. There are duller forms of pleasure than to eat a repast in the company of an artist.
The priest, however, administered his reproof before he released him. Renard's broad shoulders received a series of pats, which turned to blows, dealt by the cure's herculean hand. "Why didn't you let me know you were here, yesterday, Hein? Answer me that. How goes the picture? Is it set up yet?
Therefore, all who had any sense among the Importants La Rochefoucauld, La Châtre, and Campion anxiously sought to hush up and terminate this deplorable affair; and Madame de Chevreuse, sedulous to pay court to the Queen at the same time that she was weaving a subtle plot against her minister, had prepared the little fête for her at Renard's garden with the design of dispersing the last remaining cloudlets of the lately-spent tempest.
To him, likewise, did Charm narrate our extraordinary experience of yesterday, with much adjunct of fiery comment, embellishment of gesture, and imitative pose. "Ye gods, what a scene to paint! You were in luck in luck; why wasn't I there?" was Renard's tribute to human pity. "Oh, you are all alike, all nothing moves you you haven't common human sympathies you haven't the rudiments of a heart!
M. Renard's reply of "God knows, Paris does not," to Madame de Castro's query as to why Madame Villefort had married her husband, contained an element of truth, and yet there were numbers of Parisian-Americans, more especially the young, well-looking, and masculine, who at the time the marriage had taken place had been ready enough with sardonic explanations.
What would you do?" He knew that she gave good advice. She answered: "You needn't be afraid; he can't live through the day. And the mayor won't stop our burying him to-morrow, because he allowed it for Maitre Renard's father, who died just during the planting season." He was convinced by this argument, and left for the fields. His wife baked the dumplings and then attended to her housework.
This was Renard's last comment of a biographical and critical nature, concerning the "historical monument," as we reseated ourselves to pursue our way to P . "Why don't you show them how it can be done?" "Would," coolly returned Renard, "if it were worth while, but it isn't in my line. Henri, did you bring any ice?"
On finding it out, sir, they made a murderous onslaught on us towards evening; the action was so hot that a good few of us were left on the field. We were completely surrounded. I was by Renard's side in the front rank, and I saw how my friend fought and charged like a demon; he was thinking of his wife.
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