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CHAPTER XII
A few days later, Ulrik Frederik was spending the
morning at Lynge. He was crawling on all fours in the
little garden outside of the house where Karen Fiol lived.
One hand was holding a rose wreath, while with the other
he was trying to coax or drag a little white lapdog from
under the hazel bushes in the corner.
“Boncœur! Petit, petit Boncœur! Come, you little
rogue, oh, come, you silly little fool! Oh, you brute,
you—Boncœur, little dog,—you confounded obstinate
creature!”
Karen was standing at the window laughing. The dog
would not come, and Ulrik Frederik wheedled and swore.
“Amy des morceaux delicats,”
sang Karen, swinging a goblet full of wine:
“Et de la debauche polie
Viens noyer dans nos Vins Muscats
Ta soif et ta mélancolie!”
She was in high spirits, rather heated, and the notes of
her song rose louder than she knew. At last Ulrik Frederik
caught the dog. He carried it to the window in triumph,
pressed the rose chaplet down over its ears, and, kneeling,
presented it to Karen.
“Adorable Venus, queen of hearts, I beg you to accept
from your humble slave this little innocent white lamb
crowned with flowers—”
At that moment, Marie Grubbe opened the wicket. When
she saw Ulrik Frederik on his knees, handing a rose
garland, or whatever it was, to that red, laughing woman, she
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