The curé of St. Cloud had arrived; they argued in the ante-chamber whether he should be admitted or not; to let Madame see a confessor was to admit that she was dying.
She had now been ill for three hours. The room was full of the yellow light of lamps and candles; some of it penetrated through her bed curtains. A spasm of horror shook her. What if she never saw the sun again! She resolved to live at least till dawn–so her thoughts, panting with her pain.
Monsieur came to her bedside; she opened her eyes and looked at him as he stood holding back her curtains. He had a spray of jasmine in the buttonhole of his pink coat; she noted that. He had not worn it when she had fainted in the saloon; since then he had found time to fix it there.
“Will you see the confessor, Madame?” he asked. How little he had changed since she had first known him; she looked up into his cold face, and their eyes met.
“No,” she murmured, and her heavy lids fell. “I am not dying. I shall be better soon.”
The light hurt her eyes; she was glad when he dropped the curtain and turned away.
How she had lied to Monsieur and laughed at him–especially laughed at him–never with malice; now she was prostrate, helpless before him.
She called Madame de la Fayette.
“Cannot you do anything for me?” she whispered desperately.