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Updated: June 14, 2025
Suddenly, one of them, the taller, Paul d'Henricol, pressed the arm of his comrade, Jean Renoldi, then, in a whisper, said: "Hallo, here's Madame Poincot; give a good look at her. I assure you that she's making eyes at you." She was moving along on the arm of her husband.
And Renoldi added, shrugging his shoulders: "You speak indifferently about the matter; you believe that it is easy to break with a woman who tortures you with attention, who annoys you with kindnesses, who persecutes you with her affection, whose only care is to please you, and whose only wrong is that she gave herself to you in spite of you."
She was regarded as the very type of a virtuous, uncorrupted woman. So upright that no man had ever dared to think of her. And yet for the last month Paul d'Henricol had been assuring his friend Renoldi that Madame Poincot was in love with him, and he maintained that there was no doubt of it. "Be sure I don't deceive myself. I see it clearly.
M. Poincot picked up his hat, which had fallen down near where he sat, dusted off his knees the signs of kneeling on the floor, then raising both hands sorrowfully, while Renoldi was seeing him to the door, remarked with a parting bow: "We are very unfortunate, Monsieur." Then he walked away from the house with a heavy step.
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