‘Why, if we be on the subject of painted perspectives,’ said Jacques, ‘it is reported that the late cardinal in his villa at Rueil had painted on a wall at the end of his Citronière the Arch of Constantine. ’Twas a life-size cheat and so cunning an imitation of nature was shown in the painting of sky and hills between the arches, that foolish birds, thinking to fly through have dashed themselves against the wall. Chop, it would vex me sorely to see you one of these birds!’
A frightened shadow came into Madeleine’s eyes, and she furtively crossed herself. Then, once more, she smiled serenely.
For several moments they were silent, and then Jacques said hesitatingly:—
‘Dear little Chop ... I would have you deal quite frankly with me, and tell me if you mean it when you say you love me. There are moments when a doubt ... I must know the truth, Chop!’
In an almost miraculous manner the way had been made easy for her confession, and ... she put her arms round his neck (in the Place Maubert you could do these things) and feverishly assured him that she loved him with all her heart.
CHAPTER XVI
A VISIT TO THE ABBAYE OF PORT-ROYAL
Madeleine’s bitter self-reproaches for her own weakness were of no avail. She had to acknowledge once and for all that she had not the force to stand out against another personality and tell them in cold blood things they would not like. She could hedge and be lukewarm—as when Jacques wished to be formally affianced—but once she had got into a false position she could not, if the feelings of others were involved, extricate herself in a strong, straightforward way. Would God be angry that she had not set up the Bethel she had promised? No, because it was the true God she was worshipping now, not merely the projection of her own barbarous superstitions.
At any rate, to be on the safe side, she would go and visit Mère Agnès Arnauld at the Abbaye de Port-Royal (a thing she should have done long ago) for that would certainly please Him. So she wrote asking if she might come, and got back a cordial note, fixing Wednesday afternoon for the interview.
In spite of her exalted mood, she did not look forward to the meeting: ‘I hate having my soul probed,’ she told herself in angry anticipation. She could not have explained what hidden motive it was that forced her on Wednesday to make up her face with Talc, scent herself heavily with Ambre, and deck herself out in all her most worldly finery.