She received me at her toilette, her
arms were uncovered, her hair disheveled, and her combing-cloth
ill-arranged. This scene was new to me; it was too powerful for my
poor head, I became confused, my senses wandered; in short, I was
violently smitten by Madam Dupin.
My confusion was not prejudicial to me; she did not perceive it. She
kindly received the book and the author; spoke with information of
my plan, sung, accompanied herself on the harpsichord, kept me to
dinner, and placed me at table by her side. Less than this would
have turned my brain; I became mad. She permitted me to visit her, and
I abused the permission. I went to see her almost every day, and dined
with her twice or thrice a week. I burned with inclination to speak,
but never dared attempt it. Several circumstances increased my natural
timidity. Permission to visit in an opulent family was a door open
to fortune, and in my situation I was unwilling to run the risk of
shutting it against myself. Madam Dupin, amiable as she was, was
serious and unanimated; I found nothing in her manners sufficiently
alluring to embolden me. Her house, at that time, as brilliant as
any other in Paris, was frequented by societies the less numerous,
as the persons by whom they were composed were chosen on account of
some distinguished merit. She was fond of seeing every one who had
claims to a marked superiority; the great men of letters, and fine
women. No person was seen in her circle but dukes, ambassadors, and
blue ribbons.
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