“I asked for a cup of chicory water,” said Madame, ignoring him. “Where is Mme de Mecklenbourg?” As she spoke that lady entered with the Comtesse de Gamaches. Madame smiled at them; Monsieur turned in the window recess and looked at her; his hands held his gloves behind his back; the sunlight made stars of his spurs and twinkled on his sword-handle. Madame crossed the long room, taking no heed of him; her satin gown rippled with light. She held out her hand delicately. “I have such a pain in my side,” she said. Chicory water had eased her before. She laughed. 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. Madame, moaning, almost fainting, was half lifted, half dragged to her chamber. This was a handsome room full of the summer sunshine and overlooking the rose terrace. Madame sank across the chair before her dressing-table; Mme de la Fayette held her up while the other ladies unlaced her. In an instant they had her undressed and in a night-gown; they lifted her into the great red-curtained bed. Her constant complaints and the tears in her blue eyes startled and astonished them; they knew that she was usually patient under pain. “You are in great anguish?” asked Mme de la Fayette. “It is inconceivable,” she answered. “What have I done?” She threw herself from side to side in her agony, clutching at the pillows and her thin night-rail. Mme de Gamaches drew the silk curtains over the bright sunlight and the terraces of St. Cloud. Her first physician came, stared down at her as she lay tossing. He said she had caught a chill from her bathing, that it was nothing; he could offer no remedy. She sat up in bed, shuddering with pain. “I am wiser than you think,” she cried. “I am dying–send me a confessor.”