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. She was told that they had sent to Paris for a doctor, to Versailles for the King’s physician. “Versailles,” she repeated; her eyes lit. Madame de la Fayette put her arm about her and held her up in bed; she seemed for the moment a little eased of her agony. M. Vyelen roused her as she lay in this half swoon to bleed her arm. All her poor vanity was roused; there was a great ballet on Thursday–she might be there yet–and her arms were her especial beauty. “My foot!” she pleaded; “Monsieur, bleed my foot.” He insisted; her husband came and added his authority; she must be bled in the arm if M. Vyelen commanded it. She protested still and moaned; Monsieur helped to support her while the doctor bared her arm. She looked so pale, so worn with pain, so patient, she lifted her eyes with such a look of dumb helplessness that Monsieur was troubled and turned his face away. The doctor opened a vein; she shuddered to see the blood run into the basin; she began to make complaint when all his bandaging would not stop the bleeding and her pillow began to be stained with the quick-spreading red. Monsieur Vyelen had lost his nerve and cut too deeply. Madame de la Fayette had to hold Madame’s arm up. Monsieur moved away; the sight of blood made him sick. Madame, lamentably feeble, strove with a clutching fear of death and demanded the confessor. They endeavoured to dispersuade her, vowing she was better. She shook her head with such a look of anguish that they cleared the room and brought the priest. Madame de la Fayette remained, holding her up. She was too weak to do more than repeat the formula of the church. When the priest had gone she lay back and tried hard to think of her real sins, but hopeless confusion engulfed her.