bowels of mercy? My mother? My father? Or could it be my brother?

I remained sitting on my grandmother's sofa, staring at the purse
which my father had left on the mantelpiece, at once pleased and vexed
that I could not withdraw my mind from the money. It is true, further
speculation was useless. My doubts had been cleared up and there was
something fine in the way my pride was spared.

Philippe has spent the morning rushing about among the various shops
and workpeople who are to undertake the task of my metamorphosis. A
famous dressmaker, by name Victorine, has come, as well as a woman for
underclothing, and a shoemaker. I am as impatient as a child to know
what I shall be like when I emerge from the sack which constituted the
conventual uniform; but all these tradespeople take a long time; the
corset-maker requires a whole week if my figure is not to be spoilt.
You see, I have a figure, dear; this becomes serious. Janssen, the
Operatic shoemaker, solemnly assures me that I have my mother's foot.
The whole morning has gone in these weighty occupations. Even a
glovemaker has come to take the measure of my hand. The underclothing
woman has got my orders.

At the meal which I call dinner, and the others lunch, my mother told
me that we were going together to the milliner's to see some hats, so
that my taste should be formed, and I might be in a position to order
my own.

This burst of independence dazzles me. I am like a blind man who has
just recovered his sight. Now I begin to understand the vast interval
which separates a Carmelite sister from a girl in society. Of
ourselves we could never have conceived it.