CHAPTER VII
THE MERCHANTS OF DAMASCUS AND DAN
Madeleine woke up the following morning to the sense of a most precious new possession.
She got out of bed, and, after having first rubbed her face and hands with a rag soaked in spirit, was splashing them in a minute basin of water—her thoughts the while in Lesbos—when the door opened and in walked Madame Troqueville.
‘Jésus! Madeleine, it cannot be that you are again at your washing!’ she cried in a voice vibrant with emotion. ‘Why, as I live, ’twas but yesterday you did it last. Say what you will, it will work havoc with your sight and your complexion. I hold as naught in this matter the precepts of your Précieuses. You need to sponge yourself but once a week to keep yourself fresh and sweet, a skin as fine and delicate as yours——’
But Madeleine, trembling with irritation that her mother should break into her pleasant reverie with such prosaic and fallacious precepts, cried out with almost tearful rage: ‘Oh, mother, let me be! What you say is in the last of ignobility; ’tis the custom of all honnêtes gens to wash their hands and face each day.... I’ll not, not, not be a stinking bourgeoise!’
It was curious how shrill and shrewish these two outwardly still and composed beings were apt to become when in each other’s company.
Madame Troqueville shrugged her shoulders: ‘Well, if you won’t be ruled! But let that go—I came to say that we should do well to go to the Foire Saint-Germain this morning to provide you with some bravery for the Troguin’s ball——’
‘The Troguin’s ball, forsooth! Ever harping on that same string! Are you aware that I am for the Hôtel de Rambouillet on Thursday? That surely is a more staid and convenient event on which to hang your hopes!’
‘Is it?’ said Madame Troqueville, with a little smile. ‘Well, what shall you wear on that most pregnant day? Your flowered ferrandine petticoat and your crimson sarge bodice?’