underwent a miraculous transformation as the tiny rays of light picked out the coppery brilliance that here was auburn, and there shaded off into a deeper reddish colour. It was like spun gold dipped in flaming cochineal. The curls in tangled disarray framed the oval, cream-coloured face. Half full lips were slightly parted, even teeth gleaming from the red frame. Mimi lay stretched on the bed, the bedclothes pushed towards its foot, her slender body covered only with the thin nightdress. Small soft breasts rose and fell gently, the promise of approaching womanhood revealed in the curves of her rapidly maturing body.
Jean looked at his daughter, his eyes half filled with joy at her warm beauty, half with troubled anxiety. He had seen too much of life to be unaware of what his child’s delicate and fragile beauty might bring to her. At times he had almost wished she were less attractive—when he walked with her along the streets he watched with envious, jealous eyes the glances Mimi, though not yet fourteen, drew instinctively from the men, young and old. He was proud of her, of course—many girls of eighteen or nineteen were not half so well formed. Yet, he feared for her and, more often than not, his apprehension swept over and wiped out his joy in her comeliness.
“Holy Mother, keep me alive—not for life alone, sweet as it is for me, but that I may be with her to guide her steps and protect her!” he often prayed as Mimi knelt beside him at mass, innocent of the anxiety bordering on agony which filled the breast of her father.
“Jean! Must I come up for you?” came again the voice from below, anger sharpening its usual petulance.
“Mimi! Get up, chérie ! At once, or we’ll both be raked over the coals!” Jean pleaded.
Mimi stirred again, opened her eyes, sat up and smiled.