Characters like Hercules have such weaknesses occasionally. Was the one
I had fallen in love with at all beautiful? No. I can see her now. She
had a splotch of vermilion on either cheek, short soft arms, horrible
wooden hands, and long sprawling legs. Her flowered petticoat was
fastened at the waist with two pins. It was a decidedly vulgar
doll--smelt of the faubourg. I remember perfectly well that, even child
as I was then, before I had put on my first pair of trousers, I was
quite conscious in my own way that this doll lacked grace and
style--that she was gross, that she was coarse. But I loved her in
spite of that; I loved her just for that; I loved her only; I wanted
her. My soldiers and my drums had become as nothing in my eyes. I ceased
to stick sprigs of heliotrope and veronica into the mouth of my
rocking-horse. That doll was all the world to me. I invented ruses
worthy of a savage to oblige Virginie, my nurse, to take me by the
little shop in the Rue de la Seine. I would press my nose against the
window until my nurse had to take my arm and drag me away. "Monsieur
Sylvestre, it is late, and your mamma will scold you." Monsieur
Sylvestre in those days made very little of either scoldings or
whippings. But his nurse lifted him up like a feather, and Monsieur
Sylvestre yielded to force.
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