‘Dear Chop,—I am moving to the lodgings of a friend for a few days, and then I go off to join the Army in Spain. Take no blame to yourself for this, for I have always desired strangely to travel and have my share in manly adventures, and would, ’tis likely, have gone anyhow. I would never have made a good Procureur. I have written to Aunt Marie to acquaint her with my sudden decision, in such manner that she cannot suspect what has really taken place.
‘Oh, dear! I had meant to rail against you and I think this is nothing toward it! ’Tis a strange and provoking thing that one cannot—try as one will—be moved by real anger towards those one cares about! Not that I have any real cause to be angry upon your score—bear in mind, Chop, that I know this full well—but in spite of this I would dearly like to be!
‘Jacques.’
As she read it, she realised that she had made a big sacrifice. Surely it would be rewarded!
She dressed in a sort of trance. Her excitement was so overwhelming, so vibrantly acute, that she was almost unconscious.
Then the Chevalier, with little Mademoiselle Boquet, drove up to the door, and Madeleine got in, smiling vaguely in reply to the Chevalier’s compliments, and they drove off, her mother and Berthe standing waving at the door. On rolled the carrosse past La Porte Sainte-Antoine, through which were pouring carts full of vegetables and fruit for the Halles, and out into the white road beyond; and on rolled the smooth cadences of the Chevalier’s voice—‘To my mind the highest proof that one is possessed of wit and that one knows how to wield it, is to lead a well-ordered life and to behave always in society in a seemly fashion. And to do that consists in all circumstances following the most honnête line and that which seems most in keeping with the condition of life to which one belongs. Some rôles in life are more advantageous than others; it is Fortune that casts them and we cannot choose the one we wish; but whatever that rôle may be, one is a good actor if one plays it well ...’ and so on. Fortunately, sympathetic monosyllables were all that the Chevalier demanded from his audience, and these he got from Mademoiselle Boquet and Madeleine.
And so the journey went on, and at last they were drawing up before a small, comfortable white house with neatly-clipped hedges, shrubberies, and the play of a sedate fountain. Madame Conrart, kind and flustered, was at the door to meet them, and led them into a large room in which Conrart in an arm-chair and Mademoiselle de Scudéry busy with her embroidery in another arm-chair sat chatting together. Conrart’s greeting to Madeleine was kindness itself, and Mademoiselle de Scudéry also said something polite and friendly. She pretended not to hear her, and moved towards Madame Conrart, for as soon as her eyes had caught sight of Sappho, she had been seized by the same terrible self-consciousness, the same feeling of ‘nothing matters so long as I am seen and heard as little as may be.’
Then came some twenty minutes of respite, for Mademoiselle Boquet with her budget of news of the Court and the Town acted as a rampart between Madeleine and Mademoiselle de Scudéry. But at dinner-time her terror once more returned, for general conversation was expected at meals. ‘Simple country fare,’ said Conrart modestly, but although the dishes were not numerous, and consisted mainly of home-reared poultry, there were forced peaches and grapes and the table was fragrant with flowers.
‘Flora and Pomona joining hands have never had a fairer temple than this table,’ said the Chevalier, and all the company, save Madeleine, added their tribute to their host’s bounty. But Madeleine sat awkward and tongue-tied, too nervous to eat. The precious moments of her last chance were slipping by; even if she thought of a thousand witty things she would not be able to say them, for her tongue felt swollen and impotent. Descartes on the Will was just an old pedant, talking of what he did not understand.