Conrart smiled good-naturedly.
‘Oh, ’twill pass, I dare swear, as soon as you have seen Sappho. There is an indescribable mixture of gentleness and raillery in her manners that banishes bashfulness for ever from her ruelle.’
‘Well, I must confess I did not find it so, to say truth she didn’t charm me; her ugliness frightened me, and I thought her manners as harsh as her voice,’ Madeleine found herself saying. Conrart opened his small innocent eyes as wide as they would go.
‘Tut-tut, what blasphemy, and I thought you were a candidate for admission to our agreeable city!’ he said in mild surprise. ‘But here we are!’
They had pulled up before a small narrow house of gray stone. Madeleine tried to grasp the fact in all its thrillingness that she was entering the door of Mademoiselle de Scudéry’s house, but somehow or other she could not manage it.
‘I expect they will be in the garden,’ said Conrart. ‘Courage!’ he added over his shoulder, with a kind twinkle. In another moment Madeleine was stepping into a tiny, pleasant garden, shadowed by a fine gnarled pear-tree in late blossom, to the left was seen the vast, cool boscage of the Templars’ gardens, and in front there stretched to the horizon miles of fields and orchards.
The little garden seemed filled with people all chattering at once, and among them Madeleine recognised, to her horror, the fine figure of Madame Cornuel. Then the bony form of Mademoiselle de Scudéry, clad in gray linen, detached itself from the group and walked towards them. She showed her long teeth in a welcoming smile. Mignonne, her famous dove, was perched on her shoulder.
‘This is delicious, Cléodomas,’ she barked at Conrart, and then gave her hand with quite a kind smile to Madeleine. ‘Mignonne affirms that all Dodona has been dumb since its prophet has been indisposed. Didn’t you, my sweeting?’ and she chirped grotesquely at the bird.
‘Jésus!’ groaned Madeleine to herself. ‘A child last time and now a bird!’
‘Mignonne’s humble feathered admirer at Athis sends respectfully tender warblings!’ Conrart answered, with an emphasis on ‘tender,’ as he took Mademoiselle de Scudéry’s hand, still looking, in spite of himself, ridiculously paternal.