Lady Maude's Mania

“Stop a moment,” said Tom, who had slipped out and intercepted the French maid in the corridor. “Here, I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

“No, no, Milor Thomas, nevaire now,” cried Justine, “pas de petites soupers. I am engage.”

“Engaged, are you? What, to be married?”

“Yes, milor, to be married.”

“Then good luck to you, ma’amselle. But I say, you are a nice one, you are.”

“I do you not understand, sir.”

“Not understand?” cried Tom, catching her by the wrist. “None of your nonsense. Come now, you were in the secret.”

“Sir, I will never divulge the secret of her ladyship; no, not even to milor.”

“Get out!”

“You loose my arm, milor. Her ladyship wait for me.”

“So do I,” said Tom. “Hang her ladyship’s hair-dye and all her other secrets; I mean about the organ – Mr Melton. Ah, you’re a nice one, Justine.”

“Milor, you think I know about that tair-rible affaire?” cried Justine very Frenchly.

“Yes, and so you did.”

“Faith of a woman, sir; it is not ter-r-rue,” cried Justine, excitedly.

“Gammon! Come, Justine, the game’s up, and I know you were at the bottom of it all.”

“Non – non – non – non – non – non,” cried Justine, shaking her head quite dangerously.

“Oui – oui – oui – oui – oui,” said Tom. “Now come, confess.”

“And you go tell her ladyship, you bad, weeked lil man.”

“Not I. I’m only too glad things have turned out so right.”

“You deed not like Sir Viltaire?”

“Like him!”

“You will not tell her ladyship, I confess,” said Justine in a mysterious, whisper. “You will not what you English call ze peach.”

“Peach? not I, old girl. Come, you did know?”

Justine screwed up her eyes, and made her mouth a tight line as she laughed silently.

“Then you put Mr Melton up to the dodge?”

“Parole d’honneur, no, Milor Tom. Ze plot was hatch by Monsieur Shairlie himself. I say noding about ze hair come out,” she added to herself.

“Well, all I can say is, that Charley Melton was a plucky one. And you knew this all the time?”

“Yes, milor.”

“You’re a deep one, Justine.”

“I love ze secret, monsieur, and I cannot bear to see Miladi Maude soffaire.”

“So you helped, eh?”

“Faith of a woman, no, sare; I only look on, and see and say noding at all.”

“By George, Justine, you’ve been a trump! and I’ll give you a ring for this.”

“Then give me dat one now, sare,” said Justine, sharply, as she pointed to the signet on Tom’s finger.

“But that’s too big and ugly for you, my girl. It is a gentleman’s ring.”

“Ma foi, Milor Thomas, do I not tell you I have a gentleman?”

“Then you’re going to marry old waxworks.”

“No, no, sare, I go to be Madame Launay when we return; and if Milor Tom do require my help – a thank you, ze ring is charmant– you shall say to me, ‘Justine, her ladyship go to marry la belle Ma’amselle Tryphie to Sir Viltaire,’ I am at your sairvice, for I am the guardian of her ladyship’s secret, but vive l’amour.”

“Vive l’amour, Justine,” cried Tom, giving her a kiss.

“Bad, weeked lil mans. But I forgive you. I go to her ladyship. Au revoir.”

“Charley, old fellow,” said Viscount Diphoos before they parted for the night, “hang me if I don’t stick to that organ, and have it on a stand in my room; and so long as I am at home, every time the old girl gets in one of her tantrums, I’ll go and turn the handle till she comes and makes a truce.”

Viscount Diphoos did not kep his word about that organ, being at the time in profound ignorance of the fact, that two days after he left town, and while the house was still in a state of turmoil, an Italian gentleman with very dark eyes, very black beard, and a smile that reached from one ear-ring to the other, called for the organ that had been left in the area; slinking down to the kitchen door, and wheedling the page a little. That young gentleman thought it rather fun to put the strap over his shoulder, and carry the instrument to the door, when it was borne off, and, in truth, entirely forgotten by all concerned.

But on the return to town her ladyship seemed to recover her elasticity somewhat, and Tom began to find that he was to have a fight yet to win his game.

“Seems precious hard,” he said, “and perhaps I shall have to make my plans, but no organ, thank you – the accordion, white mice, or guinea pigs would be more in my line.”

Just in the worst time of his trouble he called upon Monsieur Hector one morning, to have his weary brain relieved by a course of hair-cutting, and the refreshing shampoo.

Monsieur Hector was delicacy itself in his manipulations, and as delicate in his diplomacy.

“Ah bah!” he said, “what is cutting and shaving and dressing the hair? It is not by them that I must live and save for ma chère Justine. Why was I not in the bureau of the police? I am a great student of life – a very receptacle for the secrets of the aristocracy.”

“Monsieur suffers,” he said, softly, as he held Tom’s head, lathered all over with soap; “I am troubled to see monsieur look in such bad health.”

“Bother!” said Tom.

Monsieur Hector waited a few moments until the shampooing should begin to soften down some of the hard crystals of brain trouble from which Tom was suffering, and then he tried again.