Part 7

"_Ecoutez donc, m'sieur!_" begged François, as the stern grey eyes went from his face to that of the unhappy Jacques. "It is the band-box 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 _imbécile_, 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, _misérable_! 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 an 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, naïve 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 vérité, c'est une femme_," he remarked. "_C'est ce que j'ai cru._"

Twelve

Philip Plays a Dangerous Game

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.

"Then, _subitement_, I remember, for m'sieur will require a _chef_ is it not so?"

"Assuredly," said Philip. "But your cousin may not wish to take service with me, in which case I shall seek an English cook."

"An English cook? Ah, bah! Is it that I would permit m'sieur to be so ill served? No! M'sieur shall have a French _chef, bien sûr_. What does an Englishman know of the _cuisine_? Is m'sieur to be insulted by the tasteless, watery vegetables of such as the wife of Moggat? No! I go to find my cousin!"

"Very well," said Philip.

"And then we have a household _bien tenu_. It is our poor Jacques who could not support an Englishman in the house."

"I hope I am not to be excluded?" smiled Philip.

"_M'sieur se moque de moi!_ Is it that m'sieur is English? M'sieur is _tout comme un Français_." He bustled away, full of importance.

The cousin was forthcoming, a stout, good-tempered soul, who rejoiced in the name of Marie-Guillaume. François exhibited him with pride, and he was engaged. That ended all Philip's responsibility. François gathered up the reins of government, and in a week they were installed in Curzon Street. Philip had done no more than say that he wished to enter his new abode on Thursday. On Thursday he went out to Ranelagh; when he returned to Half-Moon Street he found that his baggage had gone. He took his leave of Tom, and walked up the road and round the corner, into Curzon Street. His house was as neat as a new pin; his baggage was unpacked; François was complacent. They might have lived in the house for months; there was no disorder, no fuss, none of the slow settling down. François, Jacques and Marie-Guillaume had fitted into their respective niches in one short hour. Philip was moved to inform François that he was a treasure.

That evening he went to a ball given by the Duchess of Queensberry. And there he met Cleone, for the first time since his return to England.

The Duchess welcomed him effusively, for already Philip was a _persona grata_ in Society, and much sought after by hostesses. Tom had lost no time in introducing him to the Fashionable World. The ladies were captivated by his French air, and ogled him shamelessly. Then men found that he was, for all his graces, singularly modest and unaffected at heart, and they extended the hand of friendship towards him. People began to look for him, and to be disappointed if he were absent.

Until now, however, Philip had seen nothing of Cleone, but on all sides he had heard of her. She was, he learned, London's newest beauty.

* * * * *

She was dancing when Philip saw her first, smiling up at her partner with blue eyes that seemed bluer than ever, and lips that lay in a happy curve. Her golden hair was unpowdered and piled in curls upon the top of her head. Philip thought she was more beautiful than ever.

He stood apart, watching her. She had not seen him; she was not even thinking of him; those eyes were clear and joyous. Who was her partner? Brainless-looking fool! Simpering ninny! Ay, that was all she cared for! Philip's hand clenched slowly on his snuff-box.

"Aha, Jettan! You have espied the lovely Cleone?"

Philip turned. Lord Charles Fairfax stood at his elbow.

"Yes," he said.

"But how stern and forbidding!" exclaimed Fairfax. "What ails you?"

Philip's mouth lost its hard line.

"I am struck dumb," he answered gaily. "Can you wonder at it?"

"So are we all. She is very beautiful, is she not?"

"Ravishing!" agreed Philip. He saw Cleone's partner lead her to a chair. "Will you present me?"

"What! And destroy my own chances? We have heard of your killing ways with the fair sex!"

"I protest I have been maligned!" cried Philip. "I do implore your mercy! Present me!"

"Against my will, then!" said his lordship roguishly. He walked forward to where Cleone sat.

"Mistress Cleone, have you no smile for the humblest of your admirers?"

Cleone turned her head.

"Oh, Lord Charles! Give you good even, sir! Do you know you have not been near me the whole evening? I am monstrous hurt, I assure you!"

"Dear lady, how was I to come near you?" protested Fairfax. "Until this moment you have been surrounded."

Cleone gave a happy little laugh.

"I am sure 'tis untrue, sir! You delight in teasing me!" Her eyes wandered past him to Philip.

Fairfax drew him forward.

"Mistress Cleone, may I present one who is newly come from Paris, and is, he swears, struck dumb by your beauty? Mr. Jettan, of whom we all know some naughty tales!"

The colour drained from Cleone's cheeks. She felt faint all at once, and her fingers gripped together over her fan. For one moment she thought she must be mistaken. This was not Philip, this foppish gentleman who stood bowing so profoundly! Heavens, he was speaking! It _was_ Philip! How could she mistake that square chin?

"Mademoiselle, this is a scarce-hoped-for honour," he said. "I have watched and I have hungered. Lord Charles took pity on me, for which I shall never cease to thank him."

Cleone tried to answer, and failed. Dazedly she stared at him, from the powdered curls of his wig to the diamond buckles on his shoes. Philip! _Philip!_ Philip in stiff silks and laces! Philip patched and painted! Philip with jewels scattered about his person, and polished nails! Was she dreaming? This foppish gentleman her blunt Philip? It was incredible, impossible! What was he saying now?

"I little thought to find you here, mademoiselle! You are with Madame Charteris, no doubt?"

Cleone collected her scattered wits. An awful numbness was stealing over her.

"No, I--I am with my aunt, Lady Malmerstoke," she answered.

"Lady Malmerstoke?..." Philip raised his quizzing-glass with one delicate white hand, and through it scanned the room. "Ah yes, the lady in the apple-green toilette! I remember her well, that lady."

"Oh--do you--do you know her?" asked Cleone. She could not drag her eyes from his face.

"I had the felicity of meeting her some nights ago. I forget where."

"R--really?" Cleone decided that this was a nightmare.

Philip sat down beside her.

"You have been long in town, mademoiselle? You find all this very fatiguing, no doubt?" He waved a languid hand.

Indignation was dispersing the numbness. How dared Philip drawl at her like this? How dared he behave as though they were strangers?

"I have been in London nigh on a month. I do not find it fatiguing at all. I enjoy it."

Slowly the straight brows rose.

"But how refreshing!" said Philip. "When everyone is _ennuyé_ à _l'agonie_, how delightful to meet one who frankly enjoys." He looked at her admiringly. "And enjoyment becomes you better than boredom becomes other women."

Cleone felt that she was drifting further and further into the nightmare.

"I am happy to find favour in your eyes, sir. When did you return from Paris?"

"A fortnight since. In a fog which chilled me to the marrow. Almost I fled back to France. But now"--he bowed gracefully--"I thank a kindly Fate which forbade me to retreat thus precipitately."

"Indeed?" said Cleone tartly. "How do you find Sir Maurice?"

"As yet I have not found him," replied Philip. There was a laugh at the back of his eyes. How dared he laugh at her? "I have written to beg him to honour my house with his presence."

"You do not propose to go to him?" Cleone's voice trembled.

Philip started.

"Mademoiselle speaks _en plaisantant_? The country in this weather?" He shuddered.

"I see," said Cleone, and thought that she spoke the truth. Her foot tapped the ground angrily. Philip eyed it through his glass.

"That little foot ..." he said softly. It was withdrawn. "Ah, cruel! It inspired me with--I think--a madrigal. Cased in silver satin.... Ah!"

"It pleases you to make merry of my foot, sir?"

"_Jamais de ma vie!_" Philip threw out his hands. "It is neither food for merriment nor sighs. It is food for pure joy. My eye, _chère mademoiselle_, is susceptible to beauty, be it beauty of face, or beauty of foot; the eye whispers to the brain, and a madrigal blossoms. I dare swear you have listened to an hundred such? Everywhere I have heard tell of your conquests until I am nigh dead with jealousy."

"How very absurd!" tittered Cleone.

"Absurd? Ah, if I could think that!"

"I do not understand you, sir!"

"I can only beg that I, too, may worship at those little feet."

"Mr. Jettan, I can only beg that you will cease to make yourself ridiculous."

"If it is ridiculous to adore, then must I refuse to obey you, fairest. For the sake of one smile, all would I do, save that which is without my power."

Cleone's eyes glittered.

"You have become very adept at flattery, sir."

"But no! Flattery shall never be among my accomplishments, even were it necessary, which here"--he smiled ardently--"it most assuredly is not."

"You surprise me, sir! I thought Paris to be the home of flattery."

"_On l'a diffamée._ Paris teaches appreciation."

"La!" Cleone, too, could be affected. "You go too deep for me, Mr. Jettan! I fear I am no match for your wit. I am but newly come from the country." The words bit.

"It is almost inconceivable," he said, studying her with the air of a connoisseur.

"Almost as inconceivable as the fact that little more than six months ago you despised all this!" She made a gesture with her fan towards his shimmering coat.

"Was it only six months? It seems to belong to another life. You remember so well, mademoiselle."

"I?" Cleone saw her mistake, and made haste to cover it. "No, sir. It is dear Sir Maurice who remembers." Her eyes sought his face for some change of expression. But not an eyelash flickered; Mr. Jettan was still smiling.

"Now I am desolated!" he sighed. "Mademoiselle Cleone does not remember the manner of my going? But I see that it is so. She is blessed with forgetfulness."

Cleone's heart leaped. Was there a note of _pique_, of hurt, in the smooth voice?

"My memory is not of the longest either, mademoiselle, but I am sure that I am indebted to you."

"Really? I think you must be mistaken, sir."

"It is possible," he bowed. "Yet I seem to recollect that 'twas you who bade me go--to learn to be a gentleman."

Cleone laughed carelessly.

"Did I?--It is so long ago, I have forgotten. And--and here is Mr. Winton come to claim me!"

Philip glanced round quickly. Young James Winton was threading his way towards them. Philip sprang up.

"James!" He held out his hands to the puzzled youth. "You have forgotten, James? And it is, so Mademoiselle tells me, but six months since I saw you every day."

Winton stared. Then suddenly he grasped Philip's jewelled hand.

"Jettan--Philip! Merciful heavens, man, is it indeed you?"

"He is quite transformed, is he not?" said Cleone lightly. A little barb was piercing her heart that Philip should show such pleasure at seeing James, and merely bored affectation with her.

Philip's gay laugh rang out.

"I shall write a sonnet in melancholy vein," he promised. "A sonnet to "Friends Who Knew Me Not." It will be a _chef-d'[oe]uvre_, and I shall send it you tied with a sprig of myrtle."

Winton stepped back the better to observe him.

"Thunder and turf, tis marvellous! What's this about a sonnet? Don't tell me ye have turned poet!"

"In Paris they do not love my verses," mourned Philip. "They would say, 'No, _le petit Philippe se trompe_.' But you shall see! Where are you staying?"

"With Darchit--in Jermyn Street. I came to London in my lady's train." He bowed to Cleone.

Philip's eyes narrowed.

"Aha! James, you will come to a card-party that I am giving to-morrow? I am at 14 Curzon Street."

"Thank you very much, I shall be delighted. Have you set up a house of your own?"

"Sir Humphrey Grandcourt has hired his house to me for a month or so. My _ménage_ will amuse you. I am ruled by my valet, the redoubtable François."

"A French valet!"

"But yes! He would allow no English servant to insult me with his boorishness, so I have his cousin for _chef_." He threw a laughing glance at Cleone. "You would smile, Mademoiselle, could you but hear his so fierce denunciation of the English race."

Cleone forced a laugh.

"I suppose he does not regard you as English, Mr. Jettan?"

"If I suggest such a thing he accuses me of mocking him. Ah, there is Miss Florence who beckons me! Mademoiselle will excuse me?" He bowed with a great flourish. "I shall hope to be allowed to wait on madame, your aunt. James, do not forget! To-morrow at 14 Curzon Street!" He swept round on his heel and went quickly to where Mistress Florence Farmer was seated. Cleone watched him kiss the lady's plump hand, and saw the ogling glances that Florence sent him. Desperately she sought to swallow the lump in her throat. She started to flirt with the adoring James. Out of the corner of his eye Philip watched her.

* * * * *

Scalding tears dropped on to Cleone's pillow that night. Philip had returned, indifferent, _blasé_, even scornful! Philip who had once loved her so dearly, Philip who had once been so strong and masterful, was now a dainty, affected Court gallant. Why, why had she sent him away? And, oh, how dared he treat her with that mocking admiration? Suddenly Cleone sat up.

"I hate him!" she told the bed-post. "I hate him, and hate him, and hate him."

* * * * *

Philip was smiling when François disrobed him, a smile that held much of tenderness.

"_Cela marche_," decided François. "I go to have a mistress."

Thirteen

Sir Maurice Comes to Town

A tall gentleman rang the bell of Mr. Thomas Jettan's house with some vigour. The door was presently opened by the depressed Moggat.

"Where's your master, Moggat?" demanded the visitor abruptly.

Moggat held the door wide.

"In the library, sir. Will you step inside?"

Sir Maurice swept in. He gave his cloak and hat to Moggat and walked to the library door. Moggat watched him somewhat fearfully. It was not often that Sir Maurice showed signs of perturbation.

"By the way--" Sir Maurice paused, looking back. "My baggage follows me."

"Very good, sir."

Sir Maurice opened the door and disappeared.

* * * * *

Thomas was seated at his desk, but at the sound of the opening door he turned.

"Why, Maurry!" He sprang up. "Gad, this is a surprise! How are ye, lad?" He wrung his brother's hand.

Sir Maurice flung a sheet of paper on to the table.

"What the devil's the meaning of _that_?" he demanded.

"Why the heat?" asked the surprised Thomas.

"Read that--that impertinence!" ordered Sir Maurice.

Tom picked up the paper and spread it open. At sight of the writing he smiled.

"Oh, Philip!" he remarked.

"Philip? Philip write me that letter? It's no more Philip than--than a cock-robin!"

Tom sat down.

"Oh, yes it is!" he said. "I recognise his hand. Now don't tramp up and down like that, Maurry! Sit down!" He glanced down the sheet and smothered a laugh.

"'My very dear Papa,'" he read aloud. "'I do trust that you are enjoying your Customary Good Health and that these fogs and bitter winds have not permeated so far as to Little Fittledean. As you will observe by the above written address, I have returned to this most barbarous land. For how long I shall allow myself to be persuaded to remain I cannot tell you, but after the affinity of Paris and the charm of the Parisians, London is quite insupportable. But for the present I remain, _malgré tout_. You will forgive me, I know, that I do not come to visit you at the Pride. The mere thought of the country at this season fills me with incalculable dismay. So I suggest, dear Father, that you honour me by enlivening with your presence this house that I have acquired from Sir Humphrey Grandcourt. Some small entertainment I can promise you, and my friends assure me that the culinary efforts of my _chef_ are beyond compare. An exaggeration, believe me, which one who has tasted the wonders of a Paris _cuisine_ will easily descry. I have to convey to you the compliments of M. de Château-Banvau and others. I would write more but that I am in labour with an ode. Believe me, Dear Father, thy most devoted, humble, and obedient son,--PHILIPPE.'" Tom folded the paper. "Very proper," he remarked. "What's amiss?"

Sir Maurice had stalked to the window. Now he turned.

"What's amiss? Everything's amiss! That Philip--my son Philip!--should write me a--an impertinent letter like that! It's--it's monstrous!"

"For God's sake, sit down, Maurry! You're as bad as Philip himself for restlessness! Now I take this as a very dutiful, filial letter."

"Dutiful be damned!" snorted Sir Maurice. "Has the boy no other feelings than he shows in that letter? Why did he not come down to see me?"

Tom re-opened the letter.

"The mere thought of the country at this season appalled him. What's wrong with that? You have said the same."