‘You didn’t! Oh! Oh! Oh! ’Tis not possible you told him that!’ wailed Madeleine, her eyes suddenly filling with tears.
‘But come, my dear heart, where was the harm?’ Madeleine covered her face with her hands and writhed in nervous agony, giving little short, sharp moans.
‘Oh! Oh! I would liefer have died.’
‘Come, my heart, don’t be so fantastical, he was so concerned about it, and you haven’t yet heard the pleasantest part of my news!’
‘What?’ asked Madeleine breathlessly, while wild hopes darted through her mind, such as Mademoiselle de Scudéry having confessed a secret passion for her to Conrart.
‘This Saturday, he is coming in his coach to fetch you to wait on her!’
Madeleine received the news with a welter of different emotions—wriggling self-consciousness, mortification at the thought of Conrart knowing, and perhaps telling Mademoiselle de Scudéry, how much she cared, excitement bubbling up through apprehension, premature shyness, and a little regret for having to discard her misery, to which she had become thoroughly accustomed. She trembled with excitement, but did not speak.
‘Are you pleased?’ her mother asked, taking her hands. She felt rather proud of herself, for she disliked taking the field even more than Madeleine did, and she had had to admonish herself sharply before making up her mind to cross the road and throw herself on Conrart’s mercy.
‘Oh! yes ... yes ... I think I am,’ and Madeleine laughed nervously. Then she kissed her mother and ran away. In a few minutes she came back looking as if she wanted to say something.