There were three candles already
alight in the room, but she lit others and set them in line--brass
candlesticks, plated candlesticks, candlesticks of chinaware--fourteen
candlesticks in all, and fresh candles in each. Laying a finger on her
lip, she stepped to the big bed and unfastened the corking-pins which
held the green curtains together. As she pushed the curtains back I
lifted myself on an elbow.
It was into a real theatre that I looked. She had transformed the whole
level of the bed into a miniature stage, with buildings of cardboard,
cleverly painted, and gardens cut out of silk and velvet and laid down,
and rose-trees gummed on little sticks, and a fish-pond and brook of
looking-glass, with embroidered flowers stuck along their edges, and
along the paths (of real sand) a score of little dolls walking, all
dressed in the uniform of the Grey Nuns. I declare it was so real, you
could almost hear the fountain playing, with its _jet d'eau_ of
transparent beads strung on an invisible wire.
"But how pretty, mademoiselle!" I cried.
She clasped her hands nervously. "But is it _like_, Yann? It is so
long ago that I may have forgotten. Tell me if it is like; or if there
is anything wrong. I promise not to be offended."
"It is exactly like, mademoiselle."
"See, here is the Mother Superior; and this is Soeur Gabrielle. I have
to make the dresses full and stiff, or they wouldn't stand up.
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