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I found a poem the other day, a love-song of De Musset. Do you know that you lived in this very city years ago, Fatalité, and he saw you and loved you? How else could he have written this? "Avez-vous vu en Barcelone, Une Andalouse au sein bruni, Pâle comme un beau soir d'Autômne, C'est ma maitresse, ma lionne, La Marchesa d'Amagui."
A well-approved description of a grisette should commence with her foot. The grisette is the Andalouse of Paris; she possesses the talent of being able to pass through the mire of Lutetia on tiptoe, like a dancer who studies her steps, without soiling her white stockings with a single speck of mud.
The ball was at its height when Malvina, the Andalouse of Musset's poem, heard du Tillet's voice drily advising her to take Desroches.
Isaure was one of those women who reign like queens through their weakness, such a woman as a schoolboy would feel it incumbent upon him to protect; Malvina was the Andalouse of Musset's poem. As the sisters stood together, Isaure looked like a miniature beside a portrait in oils. "'She is rich! exclaimed Godefroid, going back to Rastignac in the ballroom. "'Who? "'That young lady.
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