Georgette Heyer - Powder and Patch

“And the ladies?”

“Also charming. Did you ever meet Clothilde de Chaucheron, or Julie de Marcherand? Ah, voilà ce qui fait ressouvenir! I count that rondeau one of my most successful efforts. You shall hear it some time or other.”

“That what?” ejaculated Tom, sitting upright in his surprise.

“A rondeau: ‘To the Pearl that Trembles in Her Ear’. I would you could have seen it.”

“Which? The rondeau?”

“The pearl, man! The rondeau you shall most assuredly see.”

“Merciful heaven!” gasped Tom. “A rondeau! Philip-poet! Sacré mille petits cochons!”

“Monsieur dines at home this evening?” asked Francois.

Philip sat at his dressing-table, busy with many pots and his face. He nodded. “The uncle of Monsieur receives, without doubt?”

“A card party,” said Philip, tracing his eyebrows with a careful hand.

François skipped to the wardrobe and flung it open. With a finger to his nose he meditated aloud.

“The blue and silver … un peu trop soigné. The orange … peu convenable. The purple … the purple … essayons!”

Philip opened the rouge jar.

“The grey I wore at De Flaubert’s last month.” François clapped a hand to his head.

“Ah, sot!” he apostrophised himself. “Voilà qui est très bien.” He dived into the wardrobe emerging presently with the required dress. He laid it on the bed, stroking it lovingly, and darted away to a large chest. From it he brought forth the pink and silver waistcoat that De Bergeret had admired, and the silver lace. Then he paused. “Les bas …? Les bas aux oiseaux-mouches ..,

où sont-ils?” He peered into a drawer, turning over neat piles of stockings. A convulsion of fury seemed to seize him, and he sped to the door. “Ah, sapristi! Coquin! Jacques!” In answer to his frenzied call came the cadaverous one, shivering. François seized him by the arm and shook him.

“Thou misbegotten son of a toad!” he raved. “Where is the small box I bade you guard with your life? Where is it, I say. Thou-”

“I gave it into your hands,” said Jacques sadly. “Into your hands, your very hands, in this room here by the door! I swear it.”

“Swear it? What is it to me, your swear? I say I have not seen the box! At Dover, what did I do? Nom d’un nom, did I not say to you, lose thy head sooner than that box?” His voice rose higher and higher. “And now, where is it?”

“I tell you I gave it you! It is this bleak country that has warped your brain. Never did the box leave my hands until I gave it into yours!”

“And I say you did not! Saperlipopette, am I a fool that I should forget. Now listen to what you have done! You have lost the stockings of Monsieur! By your incalculable stupidity, the stupidity of a pig, an ass-”

“Sacré nom de Dieu! Am I to be disturbed by your shrieking?” Philip had flung down the haresfoot. He slewed round in his chair. “Shut the door! Is it that you wish to annoy my uncle that you shout and scream in his house?” His voice was thunderous.

François spread out his hands.

“M’sieur, I ask pardon! It is this âne, this careless gaillard-” “Mais, m’sieur!” protested Jacques. “It is unjust; it is false!”

“Ecoutez donc, m’sieur!” begged François, as the stern grey eyes went from his face to that of the unhappy Jacques. “It is the bandbox that contains your stockings-the stockings aux oiseaux-mouches! Ah, would that I had carried it myself! Would that-” “Would that you would be quiet!” said Philip severely. “If either of you have lost those stockings …” He paused, and once more his eyes travelled from one to the other. “I shall seek another valet.”

François became tearful.

“Ah, no no, m’sieur! It is this imbecile, this crapaud- “M’sieu’, je vous implore-

Philip pointed dramatically across the room. Both men looked fearfully in the direction of that

accusing finger.

“Ah!” François darted forward. “La voilà! What did I say?” He clasped the box to his breast. “What did I say?”

“But it is not so!” cried Jacques. “What did you say? You said you had not seen the box! What did I say? I said-”

“Enough!” commanded Philip. “I will not endure this bickering! Be quiet François! Little monkey that you are!”

“M’sieur!” François was hurt. His sharp little face fell into lines of misery. “Little monkey,” continued Philip inexorably, “with more thought for your chattering than for my welfare.”

“Ah, no, no, m’sieur! I swear it is not so! By the-”

“I do not want your oaths,” said Philip cruelly. “Am I to wait all night for my cravat, while you revile the good Jacques?”

François cast the box from him.

“Ah, miserable! The cravat! Malheureux, get thee gone!” He waved agitated hands at Jacques. “You hinder me! You retard me! You upset monsieur! Va-t-en!” Jacques obeyed meekly, and Philip turned back to the mirror. To him came François, wreathed once more in smiles.

“He means well, ce bon Jacques,” he said, busy with the cravat. “But he is sot, you understand, très sot.” He pushed Philip’s chin up with a gentle hand. “He annoys m’sieur, ah oui! But he is a good garçon, when all is said.”

“It is you who annoy me,” answered Philip. “Not so tight, not so tight! Do you wish to choke me?”

“Pardon, m’sieur! No, it is not François who annoys you! Ah, mille fois non! François-perhaps he is a little monkey, if m’sieur says so, but he is a very good valet, n’est-ce pas? A monkey, if m’sieur pleases, but very clever with a cravat. M’sieur has said it himself.”

“You are a child,” said Philip. “Yes, that is very fair.” He studied his reflection. “I am pleased with it.”

“Aha!” François clasped his hands delightedly. “M’sieur is no longer enraged! Voyons, I go to fetch the vest of m’sieur!”

Presently, kneeling before his master and adjusting his stockings, he volunteered another piece of information,

“Me, I have been in this country before. I understand well the ways of it. I understand the English, oh, de part en part! I know them for a foolish race, en somme-saving always m’sieur, who is more French than English-but never, never have I had the misfortune to meet so terrible Englishman as this servant of m’sieur’s uncle, this Moggat. Si entêté, si impoli! He looks on me with a suspicion! I cannot tell m’sieur of his so churlish demeanour! He thinks, perhaps, that I go to take his fine coat. Bah! I spit upon it! I speak to him as m’sieur has bid me-très doucement. He pretends he cannot understand what it is I say! Me, who speak English aussi bien que le français! Deign to enter into these shoes, m’sieur! I tell him I hold him in contempt! He makes a reniflement in his nose, and he mutters ‘damned leetle frog-eater!’ Grand Dieu, I could have boxed his ears, the impudent!” “I hope you did not?” said Philip anxiously.

“Ah, bah! Would I so demean myself, m’sieur? It is I who am of a peaceable nature, n’est-ce pas? But Jacques-voyons, c’est autre chose! He is possessed of the hot temper, ce pauvre Jacques. I fear for that Moggat if he enrages our Jacques.” He shook his head solemnly, and picked up the grey satin coat. “If m’sieur would find it convenient to rise? Ah, bien!” He coaxed Philip into the coat, bit by bit. “I say to you, m’sieur, I am consumed of an anxiety. Jacques he is a veritable fire-eater when he is roused, not like me, who am always doux comme un enfant. I think, perhaps, he will refuse to remain in the house with this pig of a Moggat.”

Philip shook out his ruffles.

“I have never noticed that Jacques showed signs of a so violent temper,” he remarked. “But no! Of a surety, he would not exhibit his terrible passion to m’sieur! Is it that I should permit him?”

“Well,” Philip slipped a ring on to his finger, “I am sorry for Jacques, but he must be patient. Soon I shall go to a house of my own.”

François’ face cleared as if by magic.

“M’sieur is kind! A house of his own. Je me rangerai bien! M’sieur contemplates a mariage, perhaps?”

Philip dropped his snuff-box.

“Que diable-!” he began, and checked himself. “Mind your own business, François!”

“Ah, pardon, m’sieur!” replied the irrepressible François. “I but thought that m’sieur had the desire to wed, that he should return to England so hurriedly!”

“Hold your tongue!” said Philip sharply. “Understand me, François, I’ll have no meddling bavardage about me either to my face or below stairs! C’est entendu?” “But yes, m’sieur,” said François abashed. “It is that my tongue runs away with me.” “You’d best keep a guard over it,” answered Philip curtly.

“Yes, m’sieur!” Meekly he handed Philip his cane and handkerchief. Then, as his master still frowned, “M’sieur is still enraged?” he ventured.

Philip glanced down at him. At the sight of François’ anxious, naive expression, the frown faded, and he laughed.

“You are quite ridiculous,” he said.

François broke into responsive smiles at once.

But when Philip had rustled away to join his uncle, the little valet nodded shrewdly to himself and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“En verité, c’ast une femme,” he remarked. “C’est ce que j’ai cru.”

françois endured the detestable Moggat for a week. He was then rewarded for his patience by the news that Philip was shortly to move into a small house in Curzon Street, which belonged to a friend of Tom. This gentleman consented to let his house for the space of two months, as he was going abroad for that time. Philip went to inspect the prospective abode, and found it to be furnished in excellent style. He closed with its owner and went back to Half-Moon Street to break the joyful news to François. From that moment the excitable valet’s spirits soared high. He would manage the affairs of the house for m’sieur; he would find m’sieur a chef. Philip was content to waive responsibility. François sallied forth with the air of one about to conquer, to find, so he told Philip, the son of his aunt, a very fair chef and a good garçon. Philip had no idea that François possessed any relations, much less one in London. When he said this, François looked very waggish, and admitted that he himself had forgotten the existence of this cousin until the moment when m’sieur told him of the new home.