“I think, truly,” said Alvina, “it shouldn’t be before Thursday or Friday.”
“Thursday!” repeated Madame. “You say Thursday?” There was a note of strong rebellion in her voice.
“You’ll be so weak. You’ve only just escaped pleurisy. I can only say what I truly think, can’t I?”
“Ah, you Englishwomen,” said Madame, watching with black eyes. “I think you like to have your own way. In all things, to have your own way. And over all people. You are so good, to have your own way. Yes, you good Englishwomen. Thursday. Very well, it shall be Thursday. Till Thursday, then, Kishwégin does not exist.”
And she subsided, already rather weak, upon her pillow again. When she had taken her tea and was washed and her room was tidied, she summoned the young men. Alvina had warned Max that she wanted Madame to be kept as quiet as possible this day.
As soon as the first of the four appeared, in his shirt-sleeves and his slippers, in the doorway, Madame said:
“Ah, there you are, my young men! Come in! Come in! It is not Kishwégin addresses you. Kishwégin does not exist till Thursday, as the English demoiselle makes it.” She held out her hand, faintly perfumed with eau de Cologne—the whole room smelled of eau de Cologne—and Max stooped his brittle spine and kissed it. She touched his cheek gently with her other hand.
“My faithful Max, my support.”
Louis came smiling with a bunch of violets and pinky anemones. He laid them down on the bed before her, and took her hand, bowing and kissing it reverently.
“You are better, dear Madame?” he said, smiling long at her.