All the company had sat in rapt attention during this discourse, except Madeleine, who had fidgeted and wriggled and several times had attempted to break in with some remark of her own. Now she took advantage of the slight pause that followed to cry out aggressively: ‘Italian and Spanish may be the language of les honnêtes gens, but Greek is certainly that of les gens gallants, if only for this reason, that it alone possesses the lover’s Mood.’ Madeleine waited to be asked what that was, and the faithful Chevalier came to her rescue.
‘And what may the lover’s mood be, Mademoiselle?’ he asked with a smile.
‘What they call the Optative—the Mood of wishing,’ said Madeleine. The Chevalier clapped delightedly, and Conrart, now quite restored to good humour, also congratulated her on the sally; but Mademoiselle de Scudéry looked supremely bored.
The violins started a light, melancholy dance, and from behind the trees ran a troop of little girls, dressed as nymphs, and presented to each of the ladies a bouquet, showing in its arrangement the inimitable touch of the famous florist, La Cardeau. Madeleine’s was the biggest. Then they got up and moved on to a little Italian grotto, where they seated themselves on the grass, Madame Conrart insisting that her husband should sit on a cloak she had been carting about with her for the purpose all the afternoon. He grumbled a little, but sat down on it all the same.
‘And now will the wise Agilaste make music for us?’ he asked. All looked invitingly towards Mademoiselle Boquet. She expressed hesitation at performing in a garden where such formidable rivals were to be found as Conrart’s famous linnets, but she finally yielded to persuasion, and taking her lute, began to play. It was exquisite. First she played some airs by Couperin, then some pavanes by a young Italian, as yet known only to the elect and quite daring in his modernity, by name Lulli, and last a frail, poignant melody of the time of Henri IV., in which, as in the little poem of the same period praised by Alceste, ‘la passion parlait toute pure.’
Madame Conrart listened with more emotion than any of them, beating time with her foot, her eyes filling with tears. When Mademoiselle Boquet laid down her lute, she drew a deep sigh. ‘Ah! Now that’s what I call agreeable!’ Conrart frowned at her severely, but Mademoiselle de Scudéry and the Chevalier were evidently much amused. The poor lady, realising that she had made a faux pas, looked very unhappy.
‘Oh! I did not mean to say ... I am sure ... I hope you will understand!’ she said to the company, but looking at Conrart the while.
‘We will understand, and indeed we would be very dull if we failed to, that you are ever the kindest and most hospitable of hostesses,’ said Mademoiselle de Scudéry. Madame Conrart looked relieved and said,—
‘I am sure you are very obliging, Mademoiselle.’ Then she turned to Madeleine, ‘And you, Mademoiselle, do you sing or play?’ Madeleine said in a superior tone that she did not, and the Chevalier, invariably adequate, said: ‘Mademoiselle is a merciful Siren.’
And so the afternoon passed, until it was time to take their leave. The Conrarts were very kind and friendly and hoped Madeleine would come again, but Mademoiselle de Scudéry had so many messages to send by Mademoiselle Boquet to friends in Paris, that she forgot even to say good-bye to her.