Mme de Mecklenbourg handed the cup to Mme de Gourdon, who gave it the Princess.
Monsieur began putting on his gloves, looking, however, at his wife. Monsieur de Boisfeane was choosing a flower from the vase on the side-table, with an idea of fastening it in his cravat.
The heavy pendulum clock struck five. Madame drank.
When she had finished she moved a step away from the three ladies, the cup in one hand, the other clasped to her heart.
“My side,” she said in a tone of agony; the colour rushed into her face. “Ah!–the pain–I can no more.”
They stood staring at her, Monsieur de Boisfeane with a pink rose held in his hand.
“Ah, my God!” cried Madame; she was now livid, and the cup fell from her grasp. “Hold me up–I cannot stand.”
The Comtesse de Gamaches took her under the arms, for she was falling backwards, and Mme de la Fayette took her hands.
As her husband did not move, Mons. Boisfeane dared not offer his aid. The four ladies supported her to the door; she walked with difficulty; her head, with its fair hair outspread, sank against Mme de Gamaches’ shoulder; her pearl comb, that had been her mother’s, fell out of her locks and rattled on the smooth floor.
Monsieur, moving for the first time since her outcry, picked it up and ordered Mons. Boisfeane to call a doctor.