“Never mind—wait a minute: Adèle 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 Adèle (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 à l’instant même! ’ and she rushed out of the room. She is now with Sophie, undergoing a robing process: in a few minutes she will reenter; and I know what I shall see—a miniature of Céline 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, Adèle’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 chasséed across the room till, having reached Mr. Rochester, she wheeled lightly round before him on tiptoe, then dropped on one knee at his feet, exclaiming—
“ Monsieur, je vous remercie mille fois de votre bonté; ” then rising, she added, “ C’est comme cela que maman faisait, n’est-ce pas, monsieur? ”