“Oh, you are really too pretty, my angel!” said Madame de P., kissing me on the forehead, after the moist fashion peculiar to her, and then sitting down in the large Louis XVI armchair.

My maid had not been allowed to undress me, so that all of them, taking off their gloves, set to work to render me this service.  They tangled the laces, caught their own lace in the hooks, and laughed heartily all the while.

“It is the least that the oldest friend of the family,”—­she loved to speak of herself as such—­“should make herself useful at such a moment,” muttered Madame de P., holding her eyeglass in one hand and working with the other.

I passed into a little boudoir to complete my toilette for the night, and found on the marble of the dressing-table five or six bottles of scent, tied up with red, white, and blue ribbons—­an act of attention on the part of my Aunt Laura.  I felt the blood flying to my head; there was an unbearable singing in my ears.  Now that I can coolly weigh the impressions I underwent, I can tell that what I felt above all was anger.  I would have liked to be in the farthest depths of the wildest forest in America, so unseemly did I find this curious kindness which haunted me with its attentions.  I should have liked to converse a little with myself, to fathom my own emotion somewhat, and, in short, to utter a brief prayer before throwing myself into the torrent.

However, through the open door, I could hear the four ladies whispering together and stifling their outbursts of laughter; I had never seen them so gay.  I made up my mind.  I crossed the room, and, shaking off the pretty little white slippers which my mother had embroidered for me, jumped into bed.  I was not long in finding out that it was no longer my own narrow little bed.  It was immense, and I hesitated a moment, not knowing which way to turn.  I felt nevertheless a feeling of physical comfort.  The bed was warm, and I do not know what scent rose from its silken coverlet.  I felt myself sink into the mass of feathers, the pillows, twice over too large and trimmed with embroidery, gave way as it were beneath me, burying me in a soft and perfumed abyss.

At length the ladies rose, and after giving a glance round the room, doubtless to make sure that nothing was lacking, approached the bed.

“Good-night, my dear girl,” said my mother, bending over me.

She kissed me, carried her handkerchief, now reduced to a wet dab, to her eyes, and went out with a certain precipitation.

“Remember that the old friend of the family kissed you on this night, my love,” said Madame de P., as she moistened my forehead.

“Come, my little lamb, good-night and sleep well,” said my aunt, with her smile that seemed to issue from her nose.  She added in a whisper:  “You love him, don’t you?  The slyboots! she won’t answer!  Well, since you love him so much, don’t tell him so, my dear.  But I must leave you; you are sleepy.  Goodnight.”