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PinkMonkey.com Digital Library - PinkMonkey.com Digital Library-Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte


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.’
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