‘“Who is she now that thou would’st fain have Peitho lead to thy desire? Who, Sappho, does thee wrong? For who flees, she shall pursue; who spurns gifts, she shall offer them; who loves not, willy-nilly she shall love.”
‘Now, even now, come to me! Lift from me the weight of hungry dreams, consummate whatever things my soul desires, and do thou thyself fight by my side.’
He looked at her, his eyes screwed up into two hard, bright points. Madeleine continued to gaze in front of her—silent and impassive.
‘Well, is it to your liking?’ he asked.
‘What?’ she cried with a start, as if she had been awakened from a trance. ‘Is it to my liking? I can scarcely say. To my mind ’tis ... er ... er to speak ingenuously, somewhat blunt and crude, and lacking in galanterie.’
He broke into a peal of gay laughter, the hostile look completely vanished.
‘Galanterie, forsooth! Oh, Chop, you are a rare creature! Hark’ee, in the “smithy of Vulcan,” as you would say, weapons are being forged of the good iron of France—battle-axes à la Rabelais, and swords à la Montaigne—and they will not tarry to smash up your fragile world of galanterie and galimatias into a thousand fragments.’
Madeleine in answer merely gave an abstracted smile.
Madame Troqueville came in soon afterwards to turn out Jacques and order Madeleine to bed. Madeleine could see that she wanted to talk about the Troguin’s ball, but she was in no mood for idle conjectures, and begged her to leave her to herself.
As soon as she was alone she flung herself on her knees and offered up a prayer of solemn triumphant gratitude. That of her own accord she should have come to the conclusion reached centuries ago by the Paris Sappho’s namesake—that the perfect amitié tendre can exist only between two women—was a coincidence so strange, so striking, as to leave no doubt in her mind that her friendship with Mademoiselle de Scudéry was part of the ancient, unalterable design of the universe. Knowing this, how the Good Shepherd must have laughed at her lack of faith!