‘Oh! But what did you say?’ Madeleine’s face was all screwed up with nerves, and she twisted her fingers.
‘Oh! Madeleine, dear!’ sighed her mother wearily. ‘What a pother about nothing! I said that chagrin had made you quite ill, and he was moved to compassion. Was there aught amiss in that?’
‘Oh, no, doubtless not. But ... er ... I hope he won’t acquaint Mademoiselle de Scudéry with the extent of my chagrin!’
‘Well, and what if he did? She would in all likelihood be greatly flattered!’
‘Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! do you think he will? I’d kill myself if I thought he had!’
Madame Troqueville gave up trying to reduce Madeleine’s emotions to reason, and said soothingly, ‘I’m certain, my dearest, he’ll do nothing of the kind, I dare swear it has already escaped his memory.’ And Madeleine was comforted.
She ran into her own room, her emotions all in a whirl, and flung herself on her bed.
Then she sprang up, and, after all these leaden-footed weeks, she was again dancing.