‘There is a bit of hagiology for you to interpret, Monsieur de Grasse,’ he cried triumphantly, suddenly in quite a good temper, and looking round to see if the others were amused. Godeau looked interested and serious.
‘That must be a most rare and delicate tabouret, Mademoiselle,’ he said; ‘do you know what the saint’s name is?’
‘No, I thank you,’ she answered politely, but wearily, and they all again went into peals of laughter.
‘My love,’ said Madame de Rambouillet. ‘I am certain Monsieur de Grasse and that lady,’ nodding towards Mademoiselle de Scudéry, ‘would be enchanted by those delicious verses you wrote for my birthday, will you recite them?’
But the child shook her head, backwards and forwards, the more she was entreated, the more energetically she shook her head, evidently enjoying the process for its own sake. Then she climbed on to her grandmother’s bed and whispered something in her ear. Madame de Rambouillet shook with laughter, and after they had whispered together for some minutes the child left the room. Madame de Rambouillet then told the company that Marie-Julie’s reason for not wishing to recite her poem was that she had heard her father say that all hommes de lettres were thieves and were quite unprincipled about using each other’s writings, and she was afraid that Mademoiselle de Scudéry or Monsieur de Grasse might, if they heard her poem, publish it as their own. There was much laughter, and Montausier was in ecstasies.
‘I am impatient for you to hear the poem,’ said Madame de Rambouillet. ‘It is quite delicious.’
‘Yes, my daughter promises to be a second Neuf-germain!’[3] said Madame de Montausier, smiling.
‘What a Nemesis, that a mother who has inspired so many delicious verses, and a father——’ began Mademoiselle de Scudéry, but just then the child came back with her head disappearing into a large beplumed man’s hat, and carrying a shepherd’s crook in her hand.
‘I am a Muse,’ she announced, and the company exchanged delighted, bewildered glances.