“Never mind, — wait a minute:
Adele is not ready to go to bed yet. My position,
Miss Eyre, with my back to the fire, and my face to
the room, favours observation. While talking
to you, I have also occasionally watched 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 e 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 cela,’ 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.”
CHAPTER XV
Mr. Rochester did, on a future occasion, explain it.
It was one afternoon, when he chanced to meet me
and Adele in the grounds: and while she played
with Pilot and her shuttlecock, he asked me to walk
up and down a long beech avenue within sight of her.
