Blessed Saint Magdalene, make me shine on Thursday.
Blessed Virgin, Mother of Our Lord, give me the friendship of Mademoiselle de Scudéry.
Guardian Angel, that watchest over me, give me the friendship of Mademoiselle de Scudéry.
Blessed Saint Magdalene, give me the friendship of Mademoiselle de Scudéry.’
She gabbled this over about twenty times. Then she started a wild dance of triumphant anticipation. It was without plot, as in the old days; just a wallowing in an indefinitely glorious future. She was interrupted by her mother’s voice calling her. Feeling guilty and conciliatory, as she always did when arrested in her revels, she called back:—
‘I am coming, Mother,’ and went into the parlour. Madame Troqueville was mending a jabot of Madeleine’s. Monsieur Troqueville was sitting up primly on a chair, and Jacques was sprawling over a chest.
‘My love, Berthe said a lackey brought a letter for you. We have been impatient to learn whom it was from.’
‘It was from Madame Cornuel, asking me to go with her on Thursday to the Hôtel de Rambouillet.... Mademoiselle de Scudéry is to be there too.’
(Madeleine would much rather have not mentioned Mademoiselle de Scudéry at all, but she felt somehow or other that it would be ‘bearing testimony’ and that she must.)
Madame Troqueville went pink with pleasure, and Jacques’s eyes shone.