Mademoiselle Troqueville,
Petite Rue du Paon,
Above the baker Paul,
At the Sign of the Cock,
Near the Collège de Bourgogne.
‘He wore a brave livery,’ Berthe went on, ‘the cloth must have cost several écus the yard, and good strong shoes, but no pattens. I wouldn’t let him in to stink the house, I told him——’
‘Would you oblige me by leaving me alone, Berthe?’ said Madeleine. Berthe chuckled and withdrew.
A letter brought to her by a lackey, and in a strange writing! Her heart stood still. It must either be from Mademoiselle de Scudéry or Madame de Rambouillet, it did not much matter which. She felt deadly sick. Everything danced before her. She longed to get into the air and run for miles—away from everything. She rushed back into her room, and locked the door. She still was unable to open the letter. Then she pulled herself together and broke the seal. Convinced that it was from Mademoiselle de Scudéry, she threw it down without reading it, and, giggling sheepishly, gave several leaps up and down the room. Then she clenched her hands, drew a deep breath, picked it up and opened it again. Though the lines danced before her like the reflection of leaves in a stream, she was able to decipher the signature. It was: ‘Votre obéissante à vous faire service, M. Cornuel.’ Strange to say, it was with a feeling of relief that Madeleine realised that it was not from Mademoiselle de Scudéry. She then read the letter through.
‘Mademoiselle,—My worthy friend, Madame Pilou, has made mention of you to me. Mademoiselle de Scudéry and I intend to wait on Madame de Rambouillet at two o’clock, Thursday of next week. An you would call at a quarter to two at my Hôtel, the Marais, rue St-Antoine, three doors off from the big butcher’s, opposite Les Filles d’Elizabeth, I shall be glad to drive you to the Hôtel de Rambouillet and present you to the Marquise.’
The Lord was indeed on her side! So easily had He brushed aside the hundreds of chances that would have prevented her first meeting Mademoiselle de Scudéry at the Hôtel de Rambouillet, on which, as we have seen, she had set her heart.
In a flash God became once more glorious and moral—a Being that cares for the work of His hands, a maker and keeper of inscrutable but entirely beneficent laws, not merely a Daimon of superstitious worship. Then she looked at her letter again. So Madame Cornuel had not bothered to tie it round with a silk ribbon and put it in an envelope! She was seized by a helpless paroxysm of rage.
‘In my answer I’ll call her Dame Cornuel,’ she muttered furiously. Then she caught sight of the Crucifix above her bed, and she was suddenly filled with terror. Was this the way to receive the great kindness of Christ in having got her the invitation? Really, it was enough to make Him spoil the whole thing in disgust. She crossed herself nervously and threw herself on her knees. At first there welled up from her heart a voiceless song of praise and love ... but this was only for a moment, then her soul dropped from its heights into the following Litany:—
‘Blessed Virgin, Mother of Our Lord, make me shine on Thursday.
Guardian Angel, that watchest over me, make me shine on Thursday.