Chp.8
"Laurence boast to me, Monica, of how marvelous you dance." Teacher Lopuobonnet bends down ahead of Monica, announcing to Monica such, as her pedagogue berates her with unrelenting & nasty barks. Monica abides with little to no heart-felt pain, but the tears come anyhow. In fact, the gross remarks out of the mouth of a bitter soul have seen remarkable improvement. Because of them, Monica has been more wanting than ever! She has advanced more than ever! And she wants more of it! "So please, please Madame Moss, continue to break my spirit!" She begs! This tenacious liaison between Monica & ballet is reason for when all the times she feels vanquished, she catches herself more efficient & stalwart in the end!
Inasmuch, ballet is Monica's true love & her love is madly.
"Thank you, teacher Lopuo." Despite the tears still, Monica breaks grin across her lips & to give appreciation she looks up to Monsieur Lopuo who too grins. Monsieur Lopuo struggles to figure how he may address the Madame Moss with his concern for the way she admonishes Monica, where he may avoid conflict between them both. Monsieur Lopuo is no docile gentleman but the benevolent pacifist, as a gentleman, prefers to circumvent uncomfortable confrontation that may provoke Madame Moss whom is so insistently aggressive in her own facts. Even so, he must admit he is on edge; very near his wrath & he refuses to subjugate himself to her penchant for foulness any longer! Let this be the only end, "Madame Moss.." Lopuo sternly mouths. His tongue is fiery & needs for God to hold it.
Madame Mossamaé's commentary has ceased & her eyes now refocus on Lopuo. Those eyes reek of fury in this sudden interruption, just as his does too. Now—it is Predator & Predator who share a spellbind stare at each other; Lion & tiger. Do wonder, who will be the remaining predator, whilst the other falls prey? "Lopuo—Monsieur Lopuobonnet—do those eyes of yours not see me preoccupied, already?!" She raises her unsteady voice. Magnificent! Monsieur Lopuo needs just any sign to trigger his reaction & that he gladly accepts! "Madame Mossamaé, you harridan, even if Monica was not as great as she is, you have overstepped speaking to her these ways! She is only the clean age of 14, mind your imprudent & noxious comments lest I have you regret your words!" Lopuo stands firm in his stance of raising arms and a furrowed brow countenance, as he perfervidly chastises. And unforeseen to Lopuo, Mossamaé laughs derisively with her palm on her stomach. "Carefully understand who you speak to, Monsieur Lopuo—LEST I have those you don't know, have your head!" She hollers. "Since you know zilch of who I am, Do not dare to seek out the worst side of who I am!"
During this all, Monica humorously observed the situation, rueful and still she is quite contrite that her dear teacher has to be attacked with such words to the defense of her. But, he has chosen to fortify her. Within this tame gentleman, A silent & overflowing spleen builds with digestion of Madame Mossamaé's response. "Madame, you are a pitiful, hard-headed woman. You do not produce any happiness, do you? You are as a miserable tramp. Have my head, will you? You're naive to threaten me with execution whilst knowing a cowardly wench such as you wouldn't dare budge to complete yourself! Once again, this is final Mossamaé, don't let your mouth linger anywhere lest I make you regret your words, dear." Teacher Lopuo, once he notices, puts his finger that he pointed towards Madamé Mossamaé down. Despite seemingly repeating already said words, in this instance anyone could tell of his aberration: What was then exclaimed was now demanded with disdain. He exhales & is much relieved now that he has emitted of these pounding emotions. Madame Mosssmaé turns her head towards Monica with no defining expression. Dumbfounded, is she? Or is she repudiating; refusing to accept these demeaning circumstances. Monica recognizes Lopuo's care for her & as a result she grins at him, and gives him a thumbs up, to show her gratitude. "Thank, you Lopuo!" She mouths silently. Though Monica is grateful to the entirety, what may become of her when Madamé Mossamaé eschews the use of her own harsh language. Will this prove hindrance to her ability? "Depart from my building, immediately!" Madamé Mossamaé orders, after her long interval in which you may label it: an interval period of self recollection—never reflection. Her head turns the opposite direction from Lopuo. Monsieur Lopuo gently takes hold of Monica's hand, and the two depart just as wished. They smile at each other & thereafter go to visit the lonesome swamp of neglected love that has no Mr. Lopuobonnet to shelter it. It's somber scenery is beautiful. It is beautifully depressing.
—
Instanter Louis's departure from the chateau to find the young lady, he realised he knew absolutely nought of her, causing for him to aggravatingly report back to the palace.
Currently, Louis investigates his belief that his father may know something hence why he now inquires persistently of his father's knowledge. "Father, who from last evening, performed in the play?" The clock is 2:00 and comes close to 3:00, & King Louis XIV's valet & personal servants prepare for his afternoon hunting. Dauphin Louis's Of France, likewise. His eyes tell of his lack of sleep from the night before (solely for the purpose of information) . The dark area under each eye is bright on his insipidly pale face. Louis is sitting with his leg over another; a typical position whilst he panders over the girl. He is in his befitting attire for the hunt & his silk hair lay down nicely & with no flying hairs it is combed into one bun. King Louis stands as his valet, Fraise, attaches one clothing to another on his corpulent body. Louis watches as this happens. He mentally takes note, that he should achieve to not take after his father's rebarbative & ghastly body. But through his distaste he recaptures that dissipating pride in his appearance;
He is verily proud of how thin he is—and how thin his father is not. Louis holds the title for "most thinnest," and the others? They do not & that is partially what makes the title worth carrying. Also, because being thin, to Louis, is simply most beautiful. "You must take liken to one of the cast? Tell me who, son." King Louis XIV voices a small chuckle, following. "Yes. I have. So, please will you tell me specifically who the distinctive brown girl is? Never has she crossed my sight before."
"Do not dare to curse your noble blood & I with grandchildren who's skin will look more familiar to a dirty coin than any of us. Nevertheless, that child was not a planned participant in that play!" King Louis admits. Louis's eyes slightly but noticeably widen. His father's first words goes unacknowledged, for Louis's focus is solitary on what his father said thereafter. "Perhaps, that is why father left the table during dining." Louis believes. "It is time to scavenge!" King Louis holds his decorous brown piraube in the air as he shouts. "I have chosen the best woods of France filled with boars and stags. This will be nothing short of entertaining!"
Louis gets up from his chair & grabs his weapons from his valet. They were brown except for one painted pink with jewels all over them. Of course, Louis wishes to further the bland decor of the guns very soon. "Have you found out who she is, then?" Louis walks up to his father, wanting to be heard. "You worry too much & that is why you have those dark spots beneath your eyes, son! Hunt & be free! Even if it only be for this moment!" King Louis XIV yells liken to a crazed maniac. "Plus, as said before—by me & I am certain your plethora of relatives—I wish not for you to fiddle the breast of a girl who is brown." He leans in and whispers to Louis. This whole facetious scene is rather crudely comical but Louis finds no comedy in it. He wants this girl. "Well, Father just tell me who the girl is & I will have nothing to worry about!" Louis retorts. King Louis XIV returns back to his position and begins walking; he has ignored Louis. "How dare you ignore me, you old man!" Louis stomps to his father. His father keeps at it. "You are so stubborn & irritating! Tell me!" He yells. "You bratty child, you are so rotten with gold. You cannot always get what you desire!" King Louis XIV speaks. "Is she a peasant or noble?" Louis begs. "You do not have to tell me anymore, only if you gift this piece of knowledge to me." King Louis shrugs. "She is a peasant!" King Louis gives no reaction. "Father, is she a peasant? Confide in me! Please!"
"She looked seemingly famished, father. She's a peasant, isn't she?" Louis egged on with a slight grin. "Son, you are famished."
Louis sent a scoff with a sneering smile in response to his father's petty comment that even in the scoff, he felt revitalized, having his accomplishment be recognized. "You're also paunchy, perhaps you should adopt my lifestyle."
"Speaking foolishly to the beholder of your answers, I see." King Louis has yet to look at Louis in his eye. "Excuse my words, father. Please, spare me an hint at least!" Louis, aberrant to his usual stubborn refusals, immediately apologizes.
"She is a peasant, child." King Louis XIV discloses. "Where is her home?" Louis asks. "If we knew where the dear child lie, I would take her & recruit her as my protege." Louis beams of great joy, and forthwith, he drops his weapons & runs up the hill towards the palace. He has gotten an answer finally, & so will he soak out the entire advantage it offers!
"Where has my son ventured off too? You mischievous pathetic boy using your dear father for treasure, I see!" King Louis yells intentionally so that a diligent Louis may hear as his legs step diligently, hurriedly exiting. .
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