...of a spinster

And after that, nothing more happened to young Bouilloux. The Parisians never returned, and nor did any other Parisian visitors. Houette, Honce, the Leriche boy, the commercial travellers with golden watch-chains dangling across their bellies, the soldiers on leave and the bailiff's clerks climbed up our steep street in vain, at the hours when she strode down it, an elegantly coiffured seamstress who passed by with a straight back and a mere nod. They waited for her at dances, where she drank lemonade with an air of distinction and replied to all requests, 'Many thanks, but I'm not dancing, I'm too tired'. Their feelings were hurt, and after a few days, they started to say, with a snigger, 'She's tired all right - she's got the kind of tiredness that lasts thirty-six weeks!' and they kept a sharp eye on her stomach... But nothing happened to young Bouilloux, neither that nor anything else. She was waiting, that was all. She was waiting, imbued by a proud faith, fully aware of what she was owed by the random destiny that had forearmed her so well. She was waiting for... that Parisian in white serge? No. The stranger, the ravisher. Her proud wait made her pure and silent, and she turned down, with a little smile of surprise, Honce, who wished to elevate her to the rank of a legitimate chemist's wife, and the bailiff's senior clerk. Without ever abasing herself again, and retrieving in one go all the things she had thrown away on her doters - laughter, glances, the glowing bloom on her cheek, her small, red, childlike lips, and a bosom with barely a blue shadow of cleavage - she awaited her reign, and her unknown prince.

[Claudine's House, Colette, S-G.]