MADELEINE IS AWOKEN by the reek of roses, and when she opens her eyes, she sees the gypsy mama, swabbing off her dusky complexion with a handkerchief soaked in rosewater. Beneath, her skin is tuber pale and porous.
So you are not a real gypsy? Madeleine asks, extracting herself from the depths of a flabby divan.
Heavens no! the woman exclaims. I was only acting.
Then please take me back to Sister Clavel, Madeleine says with decision.
The woman laughs, and her voice pirouettes in the air like one of her willowy acrobats: You may call me Marguerite, she says.
And then she resumes at the mirror.