I knew nothing—and that I hadn't spoken!
The name had popped out, because the Duchesse de Melun is the only American-born duchess of my acquaintance, and because I was hoping very hard that the duchess of the Château de Roquemartine might not be the Duchesse de Melun. What bad luck that the Roquemartines had selected that particular duchess for this particular house party, when they must know plenty, and could just as well have chosen another specimen!
"I have heard her name," I admitted, primly. And so I had, too often. "A friend of mine was—was with her, once."
"As her maid?"
"Not exactly."
"Another sort of servant, I suppose?"
As her ladyship stated this as a fact, rather than asked it as a question, I ventured to refrain from answering. Fortunately she didn't notice the omission, as her thoughts had jumped to another subject. But mine were not so readily displaced. They remained fastened to the Duchesse de Melun; and while Lady Turnour talked, I was wondering whether I could successfully contrive to keep out of the duchess's way. She is quite intimate with Cousin Catherine; and I told myself that she was pretty sure already to have heard the truth about my disappearance. Or, if even with her friends, Cousin Catherine clings to conventionalities, and pretends that I'm visiting somewhere by her consent, people are almost certain to scent a mystery, for mysteries are popular. "If that duchess woman sees me, she'll write to Cousin Catherine at once," I thought. "Or I wouldn't put it past her to telegraph!"
("Put it past" is an expression of Cousin Catherine's own, which I always disliked; but it came in handy now.)
I tried to console myself, though, by reflecting that, if I were careful, I ought to be able to avoid the duchess. The ways of great ladies and little maids lie far apart in grand houses and—
"There is going to be a servants' ball to-morrow night," announced Lady Turnour, while my thoughts struggled out of the slough of despond. "And I want you to be the best dressed one there, for my credit. We're all going to look on, and some of the young gentlemen may dance. The marquise and Miss Nelson say they mean to, too, but I should think they are joking. I may not be a French princess nor yet a marquise, but I am an English lady, and I must say I shouldn't care to dance with my cook, or my chauffeur."
Her chauffeur would be at one with her there! But I could think of nothing save myself in this crisis. "Oh, miladi, I can't go to a servants' ball!" I exclaimed.
She bridled. "Why not, I should like to know? Do you consider yourself above it?"
"It isn't that," I faltered. (And it wasn't; it was that duchess!) "But—but—" I searched for an excuse. "I haven't anything to wear."
"I will see to that," said my mistress, with relentless generosity. "I intend to give you a dress, and as you have next to nothing to do to-morrow, you can alter it in time. If you had any gratitude in you, Elise, you'd be out of yourself with joy at the idea."
"Oh, I am out of myself, miladi," I moaned.
"Well, you might say 'Thank your ladyship,' then."
I said it.
"When you have unpacked the big luggage in the morning, I will give you the dress. I have decided on it already. Sir Samuel doesn't like it on me, so I don't mind parting with it; but it's very handsome, and cost me a great deal of money when I was getting my trousseau. It is scarlet satin trimmed with green beetle-wing passementerie, and gold fringe."
My one comfort, as I gasped out spasmodic thanks, was this: I would look such a vulgar horror in the scarlet satin trimmed with green beetle-wings and gold fringe, that the Duchesse de Melun might fail to recognize Lys d'Angely.
Chapter XXVII
I dusted and shook out every cell in my brain, during the night, in the hope of finding any inspiration which might save me from the servants' ball; but I could think of nothing, except that I might suddenly come down with a contagious disease. The objection to this scheme was that a doctor would no doubt be sent for, and would read my secret in my lack of temperature.
When morning came, I was sullenly resigned to the worst. "Kismet!" said I, as I unfolded her ladyship's dresses, and was blinded by the glare of the scarlet satin.
"Try it on," commanded my mistress. "I want to get an idea how you will look."
Naturally, the red thing was a Directoire thing; and putting it on over my snug little black frock, I was like a cricket crawling into an empty lobster-shell. But to my surprise and annoyance, the lobster-shell was actually becoming to the cricket.
I didn't want to look nice and be a credit to Lady Turnour. I wanted to look a fright, and didn't care if I were a disgrace to her. But the startling scarlet satin was Liberty satin, and therefore had a sheen, and a soft way of folding that redeemed it somewhat. Its bright poppy colour, its emerald beetle-wings shading to gold, and its glittering fringes that waved like a wheat-field stirred by a breeze, all gave a bizarre sort of "value," as artists say, to my pale yellow hair and dark eyes. I couldn't help seeing that the dreadful dress made my skin pearly white; and I was afraid that, when I had altered the thing, instead of looking like a frump, I should only present the appearance of a rather fast little actress. I should be looked at in my scarlet abomination. People would stare, and smile. The Duchesse de Melun would say to the Marquise de Roquemartine: "Who is that young person? She looks exactly like someone I know—that little Lys d'Angely the millionaire-man, Charretier, is so silly about."
"You see, you can alter it very easily," said Lady Turnour.
"Yes, miladi."
"Have you got any dancing slippers?"
"No—that is—I don't know—"
"Don't be stupid. I will give you ten francs to buy yourself a pair of red stockings and red slippers to match. The stockings needn't be silk. They won't show much. Dane can take you in the car to Clermont-Ferrand this afternoon. I want you to be all right, from head to feet—different from any of the other maids."
I didn't doubt that I would be different—very different.
Tap, tap, a knock at the door.
"Ontray!" cried her ladyship.
The door opened. Mr. Herbert Stokes stood on the threshold.
"I say, Lady T—" he began, when he saw the scarlet vision, and stopped.
"What is it?" inquired the wife of his stepfather—rather a complicated relation.
"I—er—wanted—" drawled Bertie. "But it doesn't matter. Another time."
"You needn't mind her," said Lady Turnour, with a nod toward me. "It's only my maid. I'm giving her a dress for the servants' ball to-night."
Bertie gave vent to the ghost of a whistle, below his breath. He looked at me, twisting the end of his small fair moustache, as he had looked at Jack Dane last night; and though his expression was different, I liked it no better.
"Thought it was a new guest," said he.
"I suppose you didn't take her for a lady, did you?" my mistress was curious to know. "You pride yourself on your discrimination, your stepfather says."
"There's nothing the matter with my discrimination," replied the young man, smiling. But his smile was not for her ladyship. It was for me; and it was meant to be a piquant little secret between us two.
How well I remembered asking the chauffeur, "Could you know a Bertie?" And how he answered that he had known one, and consequently didn't want to know another. Here was the same Bertie; and now that I too knew him, I thought I would prefer to know another, rather than know more of him. Yet he was good-looking, almost handsome. He had short, curly light