It was a gorgeous place, supported by great pillars of marble and bronze and hung with large, sombre pictures by Guido and Philippe de Champagne, while out of the darkness gleamed the ‘Arche d’Alliance’ with its huge sun studded with jewels.
The atmosphere though impressive was familiar—merely Catholicism in its most luxuriant form, and Madeleine took heart. She set out in quest of the Magdalene’s Chapel. Here and there a nun was kneeling, but she was the only stranger.
Yes, it was but meet that here—the grave of sweet Mademoiselle de Vigean’s love for the great Condé and of many another romantic tragedy—the Magdalene should be specially honoured.
The Chapel was small and rich, its door of fretted iron-work made it look not unlike a great lady’s alcove. It was filled with pictures by Le Brun and his pupils of scenes from the life of the Saint. There she was in a dark grove, with tears of penitence streaming from the whites of large upturned eyes. And there she was again, beneath the Cross, and there watching at the Tomb, but always torn by the same intensity of pseudo emotion, for Le Brun and Guido foreshadowed in their pictures that quality of poignant, artificial anguish which a few years later was to move all sensibilities in the tragedies of Racine.
Madeleine was much moved by the Magdalene’s anguish, and hesitated to obtrude her own request. But her throbbing desire won the day, and remembering what Berthe had said about flattery she knelt before the largest picture and began by praising the Magdalene’s beauty and piety and high place in Paradise, and then with humble importunity implored the friendship of her namesake.
When she opened her eyes, there was the Magdalene as absorbed as before in the intensity of her own emotion. Le Brun’s dramatic chiaroscuro brings little comfort to suppliants—the eternal impassivity of the Buddha is far less discouraging than an eternal emotion in which we have no part.
Madeleine felt the chill of repulse. Perhaps in Paradise as on earth the Saints were sensible to nothing but the cycle of the sacred Story, and knew no emotions but passionate grief at the Crucifixion, ecstasy at the Resurrection, awe at the Ascension, and child-like joy as the Birth comes round again.
‘I am scorned in both the worldly and the sacred alcoves,’ she told herself bitterly, nevertheless, she determined to continue her attentions.
She bought three fine candles and added them to those already burning on the Magdalen’s altar. What did the Saint do with the candles? Perhaps at night when no one was looking she melted them down, then added them to the wax of reality and moulded, moulded, moulded. Once more Madeleine fell on her knees, and there welled from her heart a passion of supplication.
Sainte Madeleine, the patron saint of all Madeleines ... of Madeleine Troqueville and of Madeleine de Scudéry ... the saint who had loved so much herself ... the successor of she whom Jacques had called ‘the beneficent and bountiful Venus’ ... surely, surely she would grant her request.