She passed into the closet; dropped listlessly upon a joint stool.
“That is not for me—not yet,” she said. “It is only syringa. See, little minette.”
“I see, Théroigne.”
“Why do thine eyes appear to rebuke me, thou little cold woman? Yet, I think, I come to visit thee for coolness’ sake: I am so hot and dull. This lodge, it is like a woodland chapel; and here where we sit is the confessional.”
“And art thou come into it to confess?”
“To thee? to la sainte Nicette! I should expect her to shrink and close, like a sensitive leaf, to my mere approach. Tell me—What is the utmost wickedness thou hast confided to thy pillow here? I wager my littlest peccadillo would overcrow it.”
“It is for me to confess, then, it seems?”
“Only thine own sweetness, child. This bed of thine—it is planted in a ‘Garden of the Soul.’ And what grows in it, little saint?—white lilies, gentle pansies, stainless ladysmocks? Not Love-lies-bleeding, I’ll warrant.”
“Fie, Théroigne! what nonsense thou talkest.”
“Do I? My head is light and my heart heavy. Mortality weighs upon me this morning—oh, Nicette, it weighs—it weighs!”