She no longer doubts her beauty. She is loved.
She saw him secretly. He is vivacious and sprightly. He is famous. He has already had an affair with Finfin, the fille de chambre, and poor Finfin is desolate. He is noble. She knows he is the son of Madame la Baronne Couturiere. She adores him.
She affects not to notice him. Poor little thing! Hippolyte is distracted—annihilated—inconsolable and charming.
She admires his boots, his cravat, his little gloves—his exquisite pantaloons—his coat, and cane.
She offers to run away with him. He is transported, but magnanimous. He is wearied, perhaps. She sees him the next day offering flowers to the daughter of Madame la Comtesse Blanchisseuse.
She is again in tears.
She reads “Paul et Virginie.” She is secretly transported. When she reads how the exemplary young woman laid down her life rather than appear en deshabille to her lover, she weeps again. Tasteful and virtuous Bernardin de Saint-Pierre!—the daughters of France admire you!
All this time her doll is headless in the cabinet. The mud pie is broken on the road.
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