‘But I want, I want, I want things!’ cried Madeleine.
Madame Troqueville smiled sadly, and for some moments sat in silence, stroking Madeleine’s hair, then she began tentatively,—
‘At times I feel ... that “petite-oie,” as you called it, frightened me, my sweet. It caused me to wonder if you were not apt to throw away matters of moment for foolish trifles. Do you remember how you pleased old Madame Pilou by telling her that she was not like the dog in the fable, that lost its bone by trying to get its reflection, well....’
‘I said it because I thought it would please her, one must needs talk in a homely, rustic fashion to such people. Oh, let me be! let me be!’ To have her own words used against her was more than she could bear; besides, her mother had suggested, by the way she had spoken, that there was more behind this storm than mere childish disappointment at the postponement of a party, and Madeleine shrank from her obsession being known. I think she feared that it was, perhaps, rather ridiculous.
Madame Troqueville gazed at her anxiously for some minutes, and then said,—
‘I wonder if Sirop de Roses is a strong enough purge for you. Perhaps you need another course of steel in wine; and I have heard this new remedy they call “Orviétan” is an excellent infusion, I saw some in the rue Dauphine at the Sign of the Sun. I will send Berthe at once to get you some.’
CHAPTER XIX
THE PLEASURES OF DESPAIR
The disappointment had indeed been a shattering blow, and its effects lasted much longer than the failure at the Hôtel de Rambouillet. For then her vanity or, which is the same thing, her instinct of self-preservation, had not allowed her to acknowledge that she had been a social failure. But this disappointment was a hard fact against whose fabric saving fancy beat its wings in vain. Sometimes she would play with the thought of suicide, but would shrink back from it as the final blow to all her hopes. For, supposing she should wake up in the other world, and find the old longing gnawing still, like Céladon, when he wakes up in the Palace of Galathée? She would picture herself floating invisible round Mademoiselle de Scudéry, unable to leave any footprint on her consciousness, and although this had a certain resemblance to her present state, as long as they were both in this world, there must always be a little hope. And then, supposing that the first knowledge that flashed on her keener, freer senses when she had died was that if only she had persevered a year longer, perhaps only a month longer, the friendship of Mademoiselle de Scudéry would have been hers! She took some comfort from the clammy horror of the thought. For, after all, as long as she was alive there must always be left a few grains of hope ... while she was alive ... but what if one night she should be wakened by the ringing of a bell in the street, and running to the window see by the uncertain light of the lantern he held in one hand, a macabre figure, looking like one of the Kings in the pack of cards with which Death plays against Life for mortal men, the stiff folds of his old-world garment embroidered with skulls and tears and cross-bones! And what would he be singing as he rang his bell?:—
‘Priez Dieu pour l’âme de la Demoiselle de Scudéry qui vient de trépasser.’