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Updated: May 20, 2025
Was it by chance or calculation that a fold of her dress disarranged displayed the slender foot, with its arched instep set off by the delicate brodequin, a labor of love to the Parisian Crispin and the straight, beautifully-turned ankle, cased in dead-white silk? The latter, I think; for Flora knew how to fall as well as Cæsar or Polyxena, and had studied her part to its minutest shade.
The brothers were both shod with deerskin buskins, but the other two of the party wore the shoe of civilization, one a brodequin, that despite its rough and substantial materials could but reflect a grace from the dainty foot within it; the other showed the stubby shapes deemed meet for the early stages of the long tramp of life.
We are in the age of the juste-milieu; and this is appropriate enough. The brodequin is in its right place half-way between shoes and boots. These ill-dressed men are surrounded by women blazing in jewels and diamonds, coronets and diadems.
If, in walking up the schoolroom, I pass near her, she puts out her foot that it may touch mine; if I do not happen to observe the manoeuvre, and my boot comes in contact with her brodequin, she affects to fall into convulsions of suppressed laughter; if I notice the snare and avoid it, she expresses her mortification in sullen muttering, where I hear myself abused in bad French, pronounced with an intolerable Low German accent.
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