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Updated: June 26, 2025
Amarilly breathed a devout prayer of thankfulness that the last surplice had been removed and was now being put to soak by her mother. Colette's eyes were dancing with the delight of mischief-making as she directed, in soft but mirthful tones: "Tell Mr. St. John about your choir and concert." Amarilly's eyes lowered in consternation.
When Christophe met them in the street he took a malicious pleasure in looking the other way and ignoring them. But their discomfiture never lasted long: a yard or so farther on they would start strutting for the next comer. But the young men of Colette's little circle were rather more subtle: their coxcombry was mental: they had two or three models, who were not themselves original.
It was a lecture on free love, full of talk about manners, propriety, good taste, nobility, beauty, truth, modesty, morality, a regular Berquin for young girls who wanted to go wrong. It was, for the moment, the Gospel in which Colette's little court rejoiced, while they paraphrased it.
He concealed his condition, but he found it hard to keep himself going. However, the happiness of his children made him so happy that he managed to support the long ordeal of the religious ceremony without disaster. But he had hardly reached Colette's house than his strength gave out: he had just time enough to shut himself up in a room, and then he fainted. He was found by a servant.
Living with the Stevens was a little girl of thirteen or fourteen, to whom Christophe had given lessons at the same time as Colette. She was a distant cousin of Colette's, and her name was Grazia Buontempi.
M. le Curé stretched his hand out a little way, laughed, and repeated, "Everywhere, in spite of all and always." The goodnight bell sounded all of a sudden, and M. le Curé went off, down the avenue of linden trees. For a long time afterwards I used to repeat the words I had heard them say, but I could never fit them in to poor Colette's story.
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