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Support the Monkey! Tell All your Friends and Teachers |
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Support the Monkey! Tell All your Friends and Teachers |
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126 Adele (I have my own reasons for thinking her a curious study,- reasons that I may, nay, that I shall, impart to you some day). She pulled out of her box, about ten minutes ago, a little pink silk frock; rapture lit her face as she unfolded it; coquetry runs in her blood, blends with her brains, and seasons the marrow of her bones. “Il faut que je l’essaie!” cried she, “et a l’instant meme!” and she rushed out of the room. She is now with Sophie, undergoing a robing process: in a few minutes she will re-enter; and I know what I shall see,- a miniature of Celine Varens, as she used to appear on the boards at the rising of-. But never mind that. However, my tenderest feelings are about to receive a shock: such is my presentiment; stay now, to see whether it will be realised.’ Ere long, Adele’s little foot was heard tripping across the hall. She entered, transformed as her guardian had predicted. A dress of rose-coloured satin, very short, and as full in the skirt as it could be gathered, replaced the brown frock she had previously worn; a wreath of rosebuds circled her forehead; her feet were dressed in silk stockings and small white satin sandals. ‘Est-ce que ma robe va bien?’ cried she, bounding forwards; ‘et mes souliers? et mes bas? Tenez, je crois que je vais danser!’ And spreading out her dress, she chasseed across the room; till, having reached Mr. Rochester, she wheeled lightly round before him on tip-toe, then dropped on one knee at his feet, exclaiming‘Monsieur, je vous remercie mille fois de votre bonte; then rising, she added, ‘C’est comme cela que maman faisait, n’est-ce pas, monsieur?’ ‘Pre- cise-ly!’ was the answer; ‘and, “comme cella,” she charmed my English gold out of my British breeches’ pocket. I have been green, too, Miss Eyre-ay, grass green: not a more vernal tint freshens you now than once freshened me. My Spring is gone, however, but it has left me that French floweret on my hands, which, in some moods, I would fain be rid of. Not valuing now the root whence it sprang; having found that it was of a sort which nothing but gold dust could manure, I have but half a liking to the blossom, especially when it looks so artificial as just now. I keep it and rear it rather on the Roman Catholic principle of expiating numerous sins, great or small, by one good work. I’ll explain all this some day. Good-night.’ |
