"
"Now, madam," said Mrs. Petulengro, "I have braided your hair in
our fashion: you look very beautiful, madam; more beautiful, if
possible, than before." Belle now rose, and came forward with her
tire-woman. Mr. Petulengro was loud in his applause, but I said
nothing, for I did not think Belle was improved in appearance by
having submitted to the ministry of Mrs. Petulengro's hand. Nature
never intended Belle to appear as a gypsy; she had made her too
proud and serious. A more proper part for her was that of a
heroine, a queenly heroine,--that of Theresa of Hungary, for
example; or, better still, that of Brynhilda the Valkyrie, the
beloved of Sigurd, the serpent-killer, who incurred the curse of
Odin, because, in the tumult of spears, she sided with the young
king, and doomed the old warrior to die, to whom Odin had promised
victory.
Belle looked at me for a moment in silence; then turning to Mrs.
Petulengro, she said, "You have had your will with me; are you
satisfied?" "Quite so, madam," said Mrs. Petulengro, "and I hope
you will be so too, as soon as you have looked in the glass." "I
have looked in one already," said Belle; "and the glass does not
flatter." "You mean the face of the young rye," said Mrs.
Petulengro; "never mind him, madam; the young rye, though he knows
a thing or two, is not a university, nor a person of universal
wisdom.
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