THE CHRISTIAN VENUS
The sane and steady procedure of the last few weeks—to prepare for the
arousing of Admiration in Mademoiselle de Scudéry by a course in the art
of pleasing—now seemed to Madeleine inadequate and frigid. She felt she
could no longer cope with life without supernatural aid.
Once more her imagination began to pullulate with tiny nervous fears.
There would be onions for dinner—a vegetable that she detested. She would
feel that unless she succeeded in gulping down her portion before her
father gave another hiccough, she would never gain the friendship of
Mademoiselle de Scudéry. She would wake up in the middle of the night
with the conviction that unless, standing on one leg, she straightway
repeated ‘_cogito, ergo sum_’ fifteen times, Conrart would be seized by
another attack of gout which would postpone her visit.
But these little fears—it would be tedious to enumerate them all—found
their source in one great fear, to wit _lest the Sapphic Ode and the
adventures of Nausicaa formed one story_.
The Ode tells how Venus appeared to Sappho and promised her rare things;
but were these promises fulfilled? The Ode does not tell us, but we know
that Sappho leapt from a cliff into the cold sea. The Virgin appears
to Nausicaa, and although her promises are not as explicit as those of
Venus, they are every whit as enticing, and what do they lead to? To a
maiden disillusioned, deserted, and heart-broken, finding her final
consolation in the cold and ravishing embraces of an Angel.
She, too, by omens and signs had been promised rare things; she had
abandoned God, but had she ceased to believe in His potency? She
remembered the impression left on Jacques by the fourth book of the
_Eneid_, and Descartes’ discarded hypothesis of an evil god, _le grand
trompeur_—the ‘great cheat,’ he had called Him. Perhaps He had sent the
Virgin to Nausicaa, Dame Venus to Sappho, and to herself a constellation
of auspicious stars, to cozen them with fair promises that He might have
the joy of breaking them—and their hearts as well.
One evening when her nerves were nearly cracking under the strain of this
idea, she went to the kitchen to seek out Berthe.
‘Berthe,’ she said, ‘when you do strangely desire a thing shall come to
pass, what means do you affect to compass it?’
Berthe gave her a sly look and answered: ‘I burn a candle to my patron
saint, Mademoiselle.’
‘And is the candle efficacious to the granting of your prayers?’
‘As to their granting, it hangs upon the humour of Saint Berthe.’
‘Do you know of any charm that will so work upon her as to change her
humour from a splenetic to a kindly one?’
‘There is but two charms, Mademoiselle, that will surely work upon the
humours of the great—be they in Paradise or on the earth—they be flattery
and presents. Albeit, I am a good Catholic, I hold my own opinions on
certain matters, and I cannot doubt that once the Saints are safe in
Paradise they turn exceeding grasping, crafty, and malicious. Like
financiers, they are glutted on the farthings of the poor—a pack of
Montaurons!’
‘And in what manner does one flatter them?’
‘Why, by novenas and candles and prostrating oneself before their
images. As for me, except I have a prayer I strangely desire should be
granted, I do never affect to kneel at Mass, I do but bend forward in
my seat. In Lorraine we hold all this bowing and scraping as naught but
Spanish tomfoolery! You’d seek long before you found one of _us_ putting
ourselves to any discomfort for the Saints, except it did profit us to do
so!’ and for at least a minute she chuckled and winked.
Well, here was a strange confirmation of her theory—a wicked hierarchy
could only culminate in a wicked god. Yes, but such ignoble Saints
would surely not be incorruptible. Might not timely bribes change their
malicious designs? Also, it was just possible that Nausicaa and Sappho
had neglected the rites and sacrifices without which no compact is valid
between a god and a mortal. But could she not learn from their sad
example? _Her_ story was still in the making, by timely rites she might
bring it to a happy issue.
With a sudden flash of illumination she felt she had discovered the
secret of her failure. It was due to her neglect of her own patron
saint, Saint Magdalene, who was as well the patron saint of Madeleine de
Scudéry, a mystic link between their two souls, without which they could
never be united.
_Forget not your great patron saint in your devotions. It was her
particular virtue that she greatly loved_, had been the words of Mère
Agnès. _She greatly loved_—why, it was all as clear as day; was she not
the holy courtesan, and as such had she not taken over the functions of
the pagan Venus, she who had appeared to Sappho? As the Christian Venus,
charm and beauty and wit and _l’air galant_, and all the qualities that
inspire Admiration must be in her gift, and Madeleine had neglected her!
It was little wonder she had failed. Why, at the very beginning of her
campaign against _amour-propre_ she should have invoked her aid—‘the
saint who so greatly loved.’
Thus, link by link, was forged a formidable chain of evidence proving the
paramount importance of the cult of Saint Magdalene.
What could she do to propitiate her? The twenty-second of July was her
Feast, just a few days before the visit to Conrart. That was surely a
good omen. She made a rapid calculation and found that it would fall on
a Sunday, what if ... she shuddered, for something suddenly whispered to
her soul a sinister suggestion.
* * * * *
That afternoon the Chevalier de Méré came to wait on her, and in the
course of his elegantly didactic monologue, Madeleine inadvertently
dropped her handkerchief: he sprang to pick it up, and as he presented it
to her apostrophised it with a languorous sigh,—
‘Ah, little cambric flower, it would not have taken a seer to foretell
that happiness as exquisite as yours should precede a fall!’
Then, according to his custom of following up a concrete compliment by a
dissertation on the theory of _Galanterie_ he launched into an historical
survey of the use to which the _Muse Galante_ had made, in countless
admirable sonnets, of the enviable intimacy existing between their fair
wearer and such insensible objects as a handkerchief or a glove.
‘But these days,’ he continued, ‘the envy of a poet _à la mode_ is not
so much aroused by gloves of _frangipane_ and handkerchiefs of Venetian
lace, in that a franchise far greater than _they_ have ever enjoyed has
been granted by all the Belles of the Court and Town to ignoble squares
of the roughest cloth—truly evangelical, these Belles have exalted the
poor and meek and——’
‘I don’t take your meaning, pray explain,’ Madeleine cut in.
‘Why, dear Rhodanthos, have you never heard of Mère Madeleine de
Saint-Joseph of the Carmelites?’
‘That I have, many a time.’
‘Well, as you know, in her life time she worked miracles beyond the
dreams of Faith itself, and at her death, as in the case of the founder
of her Order, the great Elias, her virtue was transmitted to her cloak,
or rather to her habit, portions of which fortunate garment are worn
by all the _belles dévotes_ next ... er ... their ... er next ... er
... their sk ... next their secret garden of lilies, with, I am told,
the most extravagant results; it is her portion of the miraculous habit
that has turned Madame de Longueville into a penitent, for example, but
its effects are sometimes of a more profane nature, namely—breathe it
low—success in the tender passion!’ Madeleine’s eyes grew round.
‘Yes, ’tis a veritable cestus of Venus, which, I need hardly remind a
lady of such elegant learning as Mademoiselle, was borrowed by Juno when
anxious to rekindle the legitimate passion in the bosom of Jove. And
speaking of Juno I remember——’
But Madeleine had no more attention to bestow on the urbane flow of the
Chevalier’s conversation. She was ablaze with excitement and hope ...
Mère _Madeleine_ de Saint-Joseph, the mystical name again! And the cestus
of Venus ... it was surely a message sent from Saint Magdalene herself.
The Chevalier had said that these relics had usurped the rôle previously
played in the world of fashion by lace handkerchiefs and gloves of
_frangipane_, in short of the feminine _petite-oie_. Thus, by obtaining
a relic, she would kill two birds with one stone; she would absorb the
virtue of Saint Magdalene and at the same time destroy for ever the
bad magic of that _petite-oie_ of bad omen which she had bought at the
Foire St. Germain. The very next day she would go to the Carmelites,
and perhaps, _perhaps_, if they had not long ago been all distributed,
procure a piece of the magical habit. At any rate she would consolidate
her cult for Saint Magdalene by burning some candles in the wonderful
chapel set up in her honour in the Church of the Carmelites.