‘I picture her dark, with hazel eyes and——’ began Mademoiselle Legendre.
‘And I guess that she is young,’ said Madame Cornuel, with a twinkle. Du Raincy sighed sentimentally.
‘Well, Monsieur, tell us what is la Jeunesse?’ said Godeau.
‘La Jeunesse?’ he cried. ‘La Jeunesse est belle; la Jeunesse est fraîche; la Jeunesse est amoureuse,’ he cried, rolling his eyes.
‘But she rarely enters the Royaume du Tendre,’ said a little man as hideous as an ape—terribly pitted by smallpox—whom they called Pellisson, with a look at Mademoiselle de Scudéry. That lady smiled back enigmatically, and Madeleine found herself pitying him from the bottom of her heart for having no hope of ever getting there himself. There was a lull, and then people began to get up and move away. The Chevalier came up to Madeleine and sat down by her. He twisted his moustache, settled his jabot, and set to.
‘Mademoiselle, I tremble for your Fate!’ Madeleine went white and repeated her formula.
‘Why do you say that?’ she asked, not able to keep the anxiety out of her voice, for she feared an omen in the words.
‘To a lady who has shown herself the mistress of so many belles connaissances, I need not ask if she knows the words of the Roman Homer: Spretæ injuria formæ?’ Madeleine stared at his smiling, enigmatical face, could it be that he had guessed her secret, and by some occult power knew her future?
‘I am to seek as to your meaning,’ she said, flushing and trembling.
‘Jésus!’ said the Chevalier to himself, ‘I had forgotten the prudery of the provinces; can it be she has never before been accosted by a galant homme?’