As we had to begin the next day, being the new moon, I called on her at nine o’clock. As she had to sleep for seven successive hours before performing the ceremonies to the rising sun, she would have to go to bed before ten; and the observance of all these trifles was of importance, as anyone can understand.
I was sure that if anything could restore this lady’s voice a careful regimen would do it. I proved to be right, and at London I received a grateful letter announcing the success of my method.
Madame du Rumain, whose daughter married the Prince de Polignac, was a lover of pleasure, and haunted grand supper-parties. She could not expect to enjoy perfect health, and she had lost her voice by the way in which she had abused it. When she had recovered her voice, as she thought, by the influence of the genii, she laughed at anyone who told her that there was no such thing as magic.
I found a letter from Thérèse at Madame d’Urfe’s, in which she informed me that she would come to Paris and take her son back by force if I did not bring him to London, adding that she wanted a positive reply. I did not ask for anything more, but I thought Thérèse very insolent.
I told Aranda that his mother would be waiting for us at Abbéville in a week’s time, and that she wanted to see him.
“We will both give her the pleasure of seeing us.”
“Certainly,” said he; “but as you are going on to London, how shall I come back?”
“By yourself,” said Madame d’Urfe, “dressed as a postillion.”
“What shall I ride post? How delightful!”
“You must only cover eight or ten posts a day, for you have no need to risk your life by riding all night.”