Lady Maude's Mania

It has been said that he might be supposed to have gained his information about the various people around by means of his two wax figures, who afterwards communicated their knowledge to him in some occult way, though the theory might hold water that the thoughts of people’s brains radiated to the ends of their hairs which were often cut off and remained in the possession of the barber for distillation, sale, or the fire.

Monsieur Hector Launay, it must be owned, was, though a lover of his country, not patriotic from a Communist, Imperialist, Royalist, or Republican point of view. Friends and compatriots often wanted him to join in this or that conspiracy.

“No,” he would say, “it is ignoble, nor is it pleasant to live here, and shave and cut and dress, but it is safe. Ma foi, no,” he would say, “I should not like to be guillotined and find myself a head short some morning; neither should I like to be sent to New Caledonia, to be cooked by the cannibals of that happy land.”

Certainly he had periodic longings sometimes, but they took the form of eau sucrée or a little cup of coffee with Justine at Versailles, on the Bois de Boulogne: so he waited, stored up knowledge, sang chansons, and invented wonderful washes for the skin or hair.

“Yes,” said Monsieur Hector, “I know what is immense. Ladies place themselves in my hands, and would I betray their confidence? Never, never. A coiffeur in a good district is the repository of the grandest secrets of life. I could write a book, but, ma foi, no, I never betray. I am a man of trust.”

Charley Melton came into his shop that morning for a periodical cut and shampoo, after sending Joby on his regular mission, and Monsieur Hector smiled softly to himself as he played with the young man’s hair.

“That good dog, monsieur, will he find his way-back?”

“What do you mean?” said Melton sharply.

“Pardon, monsieur, a mere nothing; but I should not trust a dog. They suspect yonder.”

Melton turned and gazed at him angrily.

“Yes,” said Monsieur Hector, “it is a tender subject, but I go so much that I come to know nearly all.”

“What the deuce do you mean?”

“Monsieur forgets that I dress Lady Barmouth’s hair; that the Miladi Maude often goes to the opera with her beautiful fair tresses arranged in designs of my invention. But, monsieur, they talk about the dog.”

Something very like an imprecation came from the young man’s lips, but he restrained it.

“Monsieur may trust me,” said the hairdresser. “Mademoiselle Justine is a great friend of mine. Have you not remarked her likeness to my lady of wax? She is exact. It is she – encore.”

“Oh, indeed,” said Melton, drily.

“Yes, monsieur; some day we shall return to la France together, to pass our days in simple happy joys.”

“Look here,” said Melton, bluntly, “I am an Englishman, and always speak plainly. You know all about me – about the house in Portland Place?”

“Everything, monsieur,” said the hairdresser, with a smile and a bow. “Mademoiselle Justine is désolée about the course that affairs have taken; she speaks to me of Sir Wilter as the enemy. Pah! she say he is old, bête, he is not at all a man. We discourse of you, monsieur – we lovers – and we talk of your love. We agree ourselves that it is foolish to trust a dog.”

“How the devil did you know that I trusted a dog?” said Melton furiously.

“Ma foi, monsieur is angry. Why so, with one who would serve him? Justine loves you – I then love you. How do I know?” – a shrug here – “monsieur is indiscrét. Justine could not fail to see.”

“Confusion!” ejaculated Melton.

“And yet it is so easy, monsieur – a note – a cake of soap – a packet of bloom – a bottle of scent – it is wrapped up – for Miladi Maude with my printed card outside —Voilà! who could suspect?”

“Look here,” said Melton, turning sharply round.

“Pardon, monsieur, I use the scissor; there is a little fresh growth here.”

“What do you expect to be paid for this, if I trust you? – and perhaps I shall not, for it is confoundedly dirty work.”

“Pardon, monsieur,” cried the Frenchman, laying his hand upon his breast, “I am a gentleman. Pay? Noting. Have I not told you that Justine, whom I have the honour to love, adores her young mistress. She adores monsieur, and would serve him. I in my turn adore Mademoiselle Justine. I am her slave – I am yours.”

“Let’s see – Justine? That is her ladyship’s maid?”

“True, monsieur. But this morning she say to me – ‘Hector, mon enfant, I’m désolée on the subject of those two children. Help them, mon garçon, and I will be benefactor.’”

“It is good, I say to her, and I place myself at monsieur’s disposition.”

Charles Melton frowned, and Monsieur Hector went on with his shampooing, till the head between his hands was dried, polished, and finished, when the hairdresser took up a little ivory brush, and anointed it with some fragrant preparation to be applied in its turn to the patient’s beard, till the fair hair glistened like gold, and Monsieur Hector fell back and looked at him in admiration.

“But monsieur is fit now for the arms of a goddess,” he exclaimed. “Does he accept my assistance?”

Melton looked at him for a moment, as he paid the fee usual upon such occasions, and then said bluntly —

“Monsieur Launay, I am obliged to you, and you mean well. Doubtless Mademoiselle Justine means well, and she has my thanks, but I cannot accept your assistance. Good mom – Ah, Joby, old fellow.”

He drew back into the little room as the dog came hastily in, and placed his head against his master’s leg.

“Why, Joby,” exclaimed Melton, in a low excited tone, “where is your collar? Blood too! You have been fighting. Good heavens! what shall I do! – If that note is found! – Oh, my poor darling!” he muttered, and he hurried from the place.

Chapter Twelve.

La Belle Alliance

“It’s enough to drive a man to do anything,” exclaimed Melton, as he dashed down the fashionable newspaper he had been reading, where in a short paragraph he had found that which he told himself would make him wretched for life. The paragraph was as follows —

“We understand that an alliance is on the tapis between Sir Grantley Wilters, of Morley Hall, Shropshire, and Eaton Place, and Lady Maude Diphoos, daughter of the Earl of Barmouth.”

“I seem to be crushed,” exclaimed the young man, rising and walking hastily up and down the room. “Everything goes wrong with me, and I believe I am going mad. Perhaps it is fate,” he said, gloomily, “and how to save that poor girl from wretchedness! Heigho! Joby, old fellow, I wish I could forget the unpleasant things, and then perhaps there would be some comfort in life.

“Now, what’s to be done?” he cried, as his eyes fell again upon the newspaper. “I cannot bear this. Here’s a whole month since I have heard from or seen poor little Maude, for I haven’t the heart to try any more of those clandestine tricks.”

He sat down and thought over the past month and its incidents, taking out and re-reading a note with Lady Barmouth’s crest upon it, in which her ladyship very curtly requested that Mr Melton would refrain from calling in Portland Place, for after what had occurred she could only look upon his visits as an insult. She wrote this at the request of Lord Barmouth.

“That is a monstrous fib,” said Charley Melton, angrily, “for the amiable little old man was always most friendly. But what shall I do? I must see her; I must hear from her. They are forcing this on with the poor girl, and it is like blasting her young life.

“Tom!” he ejaculated, after a pause. “No; he has not answered either of my last letters. There is something wrong there.”

He sat thinking again.

“Confound it all! It is so contemptible. I hate it, but what can I do? I must send a note through that Frenchman. Pah! how I loathe this backstairs work, but what can I do? I am debarred the front stairs, which are open to that confounded roué Wilters.”

He stamped up and down the room again till there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” he cried, and a groom entered.

“Please, sir, master’s compliments, and – and – I beg your pardon, sir, he’d be much obliged if you wouldn’t stamp up and down the room so. He’s got a bad headache, and you’re just over him.”