‘But, Monsieur, it tells us itself that it is a lineal descendant of the affres so famous in the reign of Corneille the Great, a descendant who has emigrated to the kingdom of adjectives. It is ravishing, Monsieur; I hope it may be granted eternal fiefs in our language!’ said Mademoiselle de Scudéry courteously to poor Chapelain, who had begun to look rather discomfited. Madeleine realised with a pang that Mademoiselle de Scudéry had quite as much invention as she had herself, for the friend of her dreams had just enough wit to admire Madeleine’s.
‘Affreux—it is——’ cried Conrart, seeking a predicate that would adequately express his admiration.
‘Affreux,’ finished the elegant young man with a malicious smile. Mademoiselle de Scudéry frowned at him and suggested their moving into the house. Godeau (for he was also there) stroked the wings of Mignonne and murmured that she had confessed to him a longing to peck an olive branch. Godeau had not recognised Madeleine, and she realised that he was the sort of person who never would.
They moved towards the house. Through a little passage they went into the Salle. The walls were covered with samplers that displayed Mademoiselle de Scudéry’s skill in needlework and love of adages. The coverlet of the bed was also her handiwork, the design being, somewhat unsuitably, considering the lady’s virtue and personal appearance, a scene from the amours of Venus and Adonis. There were also some Moustier crayon sketches, and portraits in enamel by Petitot of her friends, and—by far the most valuable object in the room—a miniature of Madame de Longueville surrounded by diamonds. Madeleine looked at them with jealous eyes; why was not her portrait among them?
Poor Chapelain was still looking gloomy and offended, so when they had taken their seats, Mademoiselle de Scudéry, with a malicious glance at the others, asked him if he would not recite some lines from La Pucelle. The elegant young man, who was sitting at the feet of Mademoiselle Legendre closed his eyes, and taking out an exquisite handkerchief trimmed with Point du Gênes with gold tassels in the form of acorns, used it as a fan. Madame Cornuel smiled enigmatically.
‘Yes, Monsieur, pray give us that great pleasure!’ cried Conrart warmly. Chapelain cleared his throat, spat into the fireplace and said,—
‘It may be I had best begin once more from the beginning, as I cannot flatter myself that Mademoiselle has kept the thread of my argument in her head.’ ‘Like the thread of Ariadne, it leads to a hybrid monster!’ said the elegant young man, sotto voce.
In spite of Mademoiselle de Scudéry’s assurances that she remembered the argument perfectly, Chapelain began to declaim with pompous emphasis,—
‘Je chante la Pucelle, et la sainte Vaillance
Qui dans le point fatal, où perissait la France,