There was also a small shop-keeper,
covered with jewels. She sat very rigid, far forward on the bench,
compressed into a terrible corset which forced her breast and back
into the humps of a punchinello; her legs hanging just short of the
floor. Her daughter paced up and down the long room like a colt
snorting impatiently to be put through its paces. She had the beauty
of a classic type, without spot or blemish, but her joints looked too
heavy and her neck was thrust without grace between her large
shoulders. Anyone who looked into the future would have been able to
predict for her, with some certainty, an honourable career as a
tragedian in the provinces.
Madame Darbois seated herself on the only chair in the little office.
When the official had read Esperance's birth certificate, he
exclaimed, "What! Mademoiselle is the daughter of the famous professor
of philosophy?'"
The two women looked at each other with amazement.
"Why, ladies," went on the official, radiantly, "my son is taking
courses with M. Darbois at the Sorbonne. What a pleasure it is to meet
you--but how does it happen that M. Darbois has allowed...?" His
sentence died in his throat. Madame Darbois had become very pale and
her daughter's nostrils quivered. The official finished with his
papers, returned them politely to Madame Darbois, and said in a low
tone, "Have no anxiety, Madame, the little lady has a wonderful future
before her.
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