Powder and Patch (14 page)

“Philip, how do you like Paris?” interrupted Sir Maurice.

“I cannot tell you, sir! My feeling for Paris and my Paris friends is beyond all words.” “Ay. I thought the same. But in the end one is glad to come home.”

“May it please heaven, then, to make the end far, far away,” said Philip. “When I go back, you will go with me, Father.”

“Ah, I am too old for that now,” answered Sir Maurice. He smiled reminiscently.

“Too old? Quelle absurdité! M. de Chateau-Banvau has made me swear to bring you. M. de Richelieu asked when he was to see your face again. A score—”

“De Richelieu? Where did you meet him, boy?”

“At Versailles. He was very kind to me for your sake.” “Ay, he would be. So you went to Versailles, then!” “Often.”

“Philip, I begin to think you are somewhat of a rake. What attracted you to Versailles?” “Many things,” parried Philip.

“Female things?”

“What curiosity! Sometimes, yes, but not au sérieux.” “Little Philip without a heart, eh?”

“Who told you that?” Philip leaned forward. “Satterthwaite wrote it, or something like it.”

“Le Petit Philippe au Coeur Perdu. Most of them would give their eyes to know who the fair unknown may be!”

“Is it still Cleone?” Sir Maurice looked sharply across at him. “It has—never been anyone else,” answered Philip simply. “I am glad. I want you to marry her, Philip.”

“Sir,” said Philip superbly, “I have every intention of so doing.”

Chapter XIV. The Strange Behaviour of Mistress Cleone

“François, there is one below who desires m’sieur.”

François shook out a fine lace ruffle.

“Qu’est-ce?”

“Le père de m’sieur,” answered Jacques gloomily. François cast the ruffle aside.

“Le père de m’sieur! I go at once.” He vanished out of the door and scuttled downstairs to the library. Sir Maurice was startled by his sudden entrance, and raised his eyeglass the better to observe this very abrupt, diminutive creature.

François bowed very low.

“M’sieu’, eet ees zat my mastaire ’e ees wiz hees barbier. Eef m’sieu’ would come up to ze chamber of my mastaire?”

Sir Maurice smiled.

“Assurement. Vous allez marcher en tête?” François’ face broke into a delighted smile. “Ah, m’sieur parle français! Si m’sieur veut me suivre?”

“M’sieur veut bien,” nodded Sir Maurice. He followed François upstairs to Philip’s luxurious bedroom. François put forward a chair.

“M’sieur will be graciously pleased to seat himself? M’sieur Philippe will come very soon. It is the visit of the barber, you understand.”

“A serious matter,” agreed Sir Maurice.

“M’sieur understands well. Me, I am valet of M’sieur Philippe.” “I had guessed it. You are François?”

“Yes, m’sieur. It is perhaps that M’sieur Philippe has spoken of me?” He looked anxiously at Sir Maurice.

“Certainly he has spoken of you,” smiled Sir Maurice. “It is perhaps—that he tell you I am un petit singe?”

“No, he said no such thing,” answered Sir Maurice gravely. “He told me he possessed a veritable treasure for valet.”

“Ah!” François clapped his hands. “It is true, m’sieur. I am a very good valet—oh, but very good!” He skipped to the bed and picked up an embroidered satin vest. This he laid over a chair-back.

“The vest of M’sieur Philippe,” he said reverently.

“So I see,” said Sir Maurice. “What’s he doing lying abed so late?” “Ah, non, m’sieur! He does not lie abed late! Oh, but never, never. It is that the barber is here, and the tailor—imbeciles, both! They put M’sieur Philippe in a bad humour with their so terrible stupidity. He spends an hour explaining what it is that he wishes.” François cast up his eyes. “And they do not understand, no! They are of so great a density! M’sieur Philippe he become much enraged, naturally.”

“Monsieur Philippe is very particular, eh?”

François beamed. He was opening various pots in readiness for his master. “Yes, m’sieur. M’sieur Philippe must have everything just as he likes it.” At that moment Philip walked in, wrapped in a gorgeous silk robe, and looking thunderous. When he saw his father his brow cleared.

“You, sir? Have you waited long?”

“No, only ten minutes or so. Have you strangled the tailor?” Philip laughed.

“De près! François, I will be alone with m’sieur.” François bowed. He went out with his usual hurried gait. Philip sat down before his dressing-table.

“What do you think of the incomparable François?” he asked. “He startled me at first,” smiled Sir Maurice. “A droll little creature.” “But quite inimitable. You’re out early this morning, sir?” “My dear Philip, it is close on noon! I have been to see Cleone.”

Philip picked up a nail-polisher and passed it gently across his fingers. “Ah?”

“Philip, I am worried.”

“Yes?” Philip was intent on his nails. “And why?”

“I don’t understand the child! I could have sworn she was dying for you to return!” Philip glanced up quickly.

“That is true?”

“I thought so. At home—yes, I am certain of it! But now she seems a changed being.” He frowned, looking at his son. Philip was again occupied with his hands. “She is in excellent spirits; she tells me that she enjoys every moment of every day. While I was there three posies arrived from admirers. She was in ecstasies! I spoke of you and she was quite indifferent. What have you done to make her so, Philip?”

“I do not quite know. I have become what she would have had me. To test her, I aped the mincing extravagance of the typical town-gallant. She was surprised at first, and then angry. That pleased me. I thought: Cleone does not like the thing I am; she would prefer the real me. Then I waited on Lady Malmerstoke. Cleone was there. She was, as you say, quite changed. I suppose she was charming; it did not seem so to me. She laughed and flirted with her fan; she encouraged me to praise her beauty; she demanded the madrigal I had promised her. When I read it she was delighted. She asked her aunt if I were not a dreadful, flattering creature. Then came young Winton, who is, I take it, amoureux à en perdre la tête. To him she was all smiles, behaving like some Court miss. Since then she has always been the same. She is kind to every man who comes her way, and to me. You say you do not understand? Nor do I; She is not the Cleone I knew, and not the Cleone I love. She makes herself as—Clothilde de Chaucheron. Charmante, spirituelle, one to whom a man makes trifling love, but not the one a man will wed.” He spoke quietly, and with none of his usual sparkle.

Sir Maurice leaned forward, striking his fist on his knee. “But she is not that type of woman, Philip! That’s what I can’t understand!” Philip shrugged slightly.

“She is not, you say? I wonder now whether that is so. She flirted before, you remember, with Bancroft.”

“Ay! To tease you!”

“Cela se peut. This time it is not to tease me. That I know.” “But, Philip, if it is not for that, why does she do it?”

“Presumably because she so wishes. It is possible that the adulation she receives has flown to her head. It is almost as though she sought to captivate me.”

“Cleone would never do such a thing!”

“Well, sir, you will see. Come with us this afternoon. Tom and I are bidden to take a dish of Bohea with her ladyship.”

“Sally has already asked me. I shall certainly come. Mordieu, what ails the child?” Philip rubbed some rouge on to his cheeks.

“If you can tell me the answer to that riddle, sir, I shall thank you.” “You do care, Philip? Still?” He watched Philip pick up the haresfoot with fingers that trembled a little.

“Care?” said Philip. “I—yes, sir. I care—greatly.”

Lady Malmerstoke glanced critically at her niece. “You are very gay, Clo,” she remarked.

“Gay?” cried Cleone. “How could I be sober, Aunt Sally? I am employing myself so much!” Lady Malmerstoke pushed a bracelet farther up one plump arm.

“H’m!” she said. “It’s very unfashionable, my dear, not to say bourgeois.” “Oh, fiddle!” answered Cleone. “Who thinks that?”

“I really don’t know. It is what one says. To be in the mode you must be fatigued to death.”

“Then I am not in the mode,” laughed Cleone. “Don’t forget, Aunt, that I am but a simple country maid!” She swept a mock curtsy.

“No,” said her ladyship placidly. “One is not like to forget it.” “What do you mean?” demanded Cleone.

“Don’t eat me,” sighed her aunt. “’Tis your principal charm—freshness.” “Oh!” said Cleone doubtfully.

“Or it was,” added Lady Malmerstoke, folding her hands and closing her eyes. “Was! Aunt Sally, I insist that you tell me what it is you mean!” “My love, you know very well what I mean.”

“No, I do not! I—I—Aunt Sally, wake up!” Her ladyship’s brown eyes opened.

“Well, my dear, if you must have it, ’tis this—you make yourself cheap by your flirtatious ways.”

Cleone’s cheeks flamed.

“I—oh, I don’t f—flirt! I—Auntie, how can you say so?”

“Quite easily,” said her ladyship. “Else had I left it unsaid. Since this Mr Philip Jettan has returned you have acquired all the tricks of the sex. I do not find it becoming in you, but mayhap I am wrong.”

“It has nothing to do with Ph—Mr Jettan!”

“I beg your pardon, my dear, I thought it had. But if you wish to attract him—” “Aunt!” almost shrieked Cleone.

“I wish you would not interrupt,” complained Lady Malmerstoke wearily. “I said if you wish to attract him you should employ less obvious methods.”

“H—how dare you, Aunt Sally! I wish to attract him? I hate him! I hate the very sight of him!” The sleepy brown eyes grew more alert.

“Is that the way the wind lies?” murmured Lady Malmerstoke. “What’s he done?” she added, ever practical.

“He hasn’t done anything. He—I—” “Then what hasn’t he done?”

“Aunt Sally—Aunt Sally—you—I won’t answer! He—nothing at all! ’Tis merely that I do not like him.”

“It’s not apparent in your manner,” remarked her ladyship. “Are you determined that he shall fall in love with you?”

“Of course I never thought of such a thing! I—why should I?”

“For the pleasure of seeing him at your feet, and then kicking him away. Revenge, my love, revenge.”

“How dare you say such things, Aunt! It—it isn’t true!” Lady Malmerstoke continued to pursue her own line of thought.

“From all I can see of this Philip, he’s not the man to be beaten by a chit of a girl. I think he is in love with you. Have a care, my dear. Men with chins like his are not safe. I’ve had experience, and I know. He’ll win in the end, if he has a mind to do so.” “Mind!” Cleone was scornful. “He has no mind above clothes or poems!” Lady Malmerstoke eyed her lazily.

“Who told you that, Clo?”

“No one. I can see for myself!”

“There’s nothing blinder than a very young woman,” philosophised her ladyship. “One lives and one learns. Your Philip—”

“He isn’t my Philip!” cried Cleone, nearly in tears.

“You put me out,” complained her aunt. “Your Philip is no fool. He’s dangerous. On account of that chin, you understand. Don’t have him, my dear; he’s one of your masterful men. They are the worst; old Jeremy Fletcher was like that. Dear me, what years ago that was!” “He—he’s no more masterful than—than his uncle!”

“No, thank heaven, Tom’s an easy-going creature,” agreed her aunt. “A pity Philip is not the

same.”

“But I tell you he is! If—if he were more masterful I should like him better! I like a man to be a man and not—a—a pranked-out doll!”

“How you have changed!” sighed her aunt. “I thought that was just what you did not want. Didn’t you send your Philip away to become a beau?”

“He is not my Philip—Aunt! I—no, of course I did—didn’t. And if I d-did, it was very st-stupid of me, and now I’d rather have a—a masterful man.”

“Ay, we’re all like that in our youth,” nodded her aunt. “When you grow older you’ll appreciate the milder sort. I nearly married Jerry Fletcher. Luckily I changed my mind and had Malmerstoke. God rest his soul, poor fellow! Now, I shall have Tom, I suppose.” Cleone broke into a hysterical laugh.

“Aunt, you are incorrigible! How can you talk so?”

“Dreadful, isn’t it? But I was always like that. Very attractive, you know. I never was beautiful, but I made a great success. I quite shocked my poor mother. But it was all a pose, of course. It made me noticed. I was so amusing and novel—like you, my love, but in a different way. All a pose.”

“Why, is it still a pose, Aunt?”

“Oh, now it’s a habit. So much less fatiguing, my dear. But to return to what I was saying, you—”

“Don’t—don’t let’s talk—about me,” begged Cleone unsteadily. “I—hardly know what possesses me, but—Oh, there’s the bell!”

Lady Malmerstoke dragged herself up.

“Already? Clo, is my wig on straight? Drat the men, I’ve not had a wink of sleep the whole afternoon. A nice hag I shall look to-night. Which of them is it, my dear?” Cleone was peering out of the window.