It must have been for about a quarter of an hour that Madeleine waited, sitting rigid and expressionless.
At last the Chevalier arrived, fresh from his valet’s hands, in a gorgeous Chinese dressing-gown, scented and combed. He held out both his hands to her and his eyes were sparkling, to Madeleine it seemed with a sinister light, and she found herself wondering, as she marked the dressing-gown, if he were Descartes. Anything was possible in this Goblin-world.
She suddenly realised that she must find the ‘urgent business’ that had wrenched the Chevalier from his morning sleep. She could not very well blurt put ‘Did Mademoiselle de Scudéry like me?’ but what could she say?
‘Dear Rhodanthos, I cursed my valet for not being winged when I heard it was you, and—as you see—my impatience was too great for a jerkin! What brings you at this hour? That you should turn to me in your trouble, if trouble it is, is a prettier compliment than all les fleurettes of all the polite Anthologies. What has metamorphosed the Grecian rose into a French lily?’
Madeleine blushed, and stammered out that she did not know. Then the Chevalier took matters into his own hands. This behaviour might smack of the reign of Louis XIII., but it was very delicious for all that.
He took her in his arms. Madeleine lay there impassive. After all, it saved her the trouble of finding a reason; for the one thing that was left in this emotional ruin was the old shrinking from people knowing how much it mattered. But as to what he might think of her present behaviour, ’twas a matter of no moment whatever. She held him at arm’s length from her for a minute.
‘Tell me,’ she said archly, ‘did you find yesterday a pleasant diversion?’ His cheeks were flushed, and there was the dull drunken look in his eyes which is one of the ways passion expresses itself in middle-aged men. ‘Come back to me!’ he muttered thickly, without answering her question.
‘First tell me if you found it diverting!’ she cried gaily, and darted to the opposite end of the room. He rushed after her.
‘Don’t madden me, child,’ he muttered, and took her in his arms again. Again Madeleine broke away from him laughing.
‘I won’t come to you till—let me see—till you tell me if I took the fancy of Mademoiselle de Scudéry.’ She was, when hard-driven, an excellent actress, and the question tripped out, light and mocking, as if it had just been an excuse for tormenting him. There she stood with laughing lips and grave, wind-swept eyes, keeping him at bay with her upraised hand. ‘In earnest,’ she cooed tormentingly, ‘you must first answer my question.’ For a moment, the pedagogue broke through the lover.