The indiscretions of a lady's maid

April 5th

Bon Dieu! Little Lady Lydgate was indeed extravagant.

Among the whole of your English aristocracy surely no woman could have been more reckless.

Superbe! Tonnerre de Dieu! was she not one of the beauties of England? Daughter of the hook-nosed old Countess of Hannaford, her eldest sister had married a duke, while she had become wife of the young Earl of Lydgate.

She was twenty-six, and had been married five years when she engaged me as femme-de-chambre.

Half the illustrated journals in England published her photograph—you have no doubt seen and admired her face many times—while in the society-columns her doings were always chronicled for the delectation of the bourgeoisie of suburbia.

On her marriage she went home to Lydgate Hall, the great ancestral seat of the Lydgates from the days of Henry VI, the huge mansion in Shropshire which, even to-day, is regarded as one of the show-places of England, like our châteaux of Touraine.

Milady, soon after I entered her service, sent me from London down to the château to fetch a small trunk that she stored away in an attic.

Malheureusement, a year before she had engaged me she had left Lydgate, never to return, and, with her husband, had taken up her abode in a bijou house in South Street, Park Lane.

Ma foi! the fine old château was one of the most magnificent I had ever seen. Its great vaulted hall was full of the armour of the dead-and-gone Lydgates and their retainers, while the historical associations of the grand old place were, indeed, important in the history of England. I bought a guide-book and read all about it. The Earls of Lydgate had ever been a proud and independent race, yet, quel malheur! owing to milady’s unbridled extravagance, her heavy debts at bridge and on the turf, the mortgagees had foreclosed, and the great estate now had a brand-new American owner, Mr. Silas B. Shaw, the millionaire store-keeper of Chicago.

Many of the noble oaks in the park had been cut down and turned into money, while most of the pictures, some by Reynolds and one by Frans Hals, had been knocked down at Christie’s in order to temporarily stave off financial embarrassment. But ruin had come, and surely that little white-enamelled house in South Street must have felt very close and irritating after such a stately mansion as milord’s home.

Au contraire, she never fretted for a single moment. Tall, slim, fair-haired, with a perfect figure, and a chic remarkable, her reverse of fortune did not seem to trouble her in the least. She was ever gay and light-hearted, full of high spirits, and dined out nearly every night. Possessing a host of friends among the smarter set, she and her husband—whom she affectionately termed “Tubby”—went everywhere.

Diable! The position was, indeed, pitiable. When she married, his lordship—one of the best-tempered, easy-going of men—possessed that great estate, with an ample income, and was full of all the traditions of his noble race. Yet within five years she had made ducks and drakes of everything, and he had been compelled to part with every stick in order to evade bankruptcy.

At Monte Carlo her losses during two seasons had been colossal, while at the various houses in London where bridge was played for high stakes she was known to be the most reckless of players.

Pauvre Monsieur! I pitied him. He was très gentil always, a perfect gentilhomme, long-suffering and entirely devoted to her. He saw none of her faults. His eyes were closed to her outrageous flirtations, to her reckless extravagance, and to her careless disregard of all conventionalities.

Bref, I had not been a day in milady’s service before, by a coup d’œil, I realised that she entertained no affection for the honest, upright Monsieur she had so utterly ruined. Ah! what havoc a pretty woman can cause in the world! Vraiment her face was perfect, and she was très elegant from the velvet in her soft hair to the tip of her tiny patent-leather shoe. Toilettes, linge, chapeaux, all were from maisons of the first order in Paris, but when the bills would be settled was quite another matter.

For the Countess of Lydgate to wear their creations was a valuable réclame in England, a fact which nobody was more keenly aware of than my gay little mistress herself.

With the remnant of the Earl’s fortune the small house in South Street had been furnished with exquisite taste and greatest luxury. Art nouveau was the predominating note everywhere.

We, of the personnel, discussed among ourselves milady’s unbridled extravagances and the blindness of Monsieur.

Old Mr. Thompson, the butler, hated her. A tall, grave-faced, white-haired old man, he was a typical servant of days long past. For forty-eight years he had been in the service of the Lydgates, being butler to milord’s father. Born and bred upon the estate, like his father before him, he had commenced work as a stable lad, and then had become under-footman, rising until he had become major-domo and entrusted with everything.

Proud of his long service, he had been compelled to stand by and witness the sweet-faced milady bring his young master to ruin. Was it therefore surprising that as we servants sat at table he would often break forth into bitter invectives against her, and even curse her openly.

Milady instinctively knew that Thompson detested her, and seemed rather amused by it. I had suspicion that she had tried to induce the Earl to get rid of him, but her husband had refused point-blank.

Mr. Silas B. Shaw of Chicago had, I know, offered the old man double wages to return to Lydgate, but he had indignantly refused. To us he often declared that he would stand by his young master until the end.

I admired the fine old fellow. He was true, honest, loyal and devoted to his master—which cannot be said of most butlers—but towards milady his haine was intense.

Among the smart young aristocratic idlers about town Lady Lydgate—or “Angel,” as she was familiarly known—was voted good fun. They danced with her, flirted with her, took her to theatres and to the Savoy or the Carlton afterwards, and now that she was “hard-up, poor dear,” gave her a good time.

Though half-a-dozen admirers were constantly hanging at her heels and calling at South Street, milord took no notice. He often went off yachting or shooting with his friends, and left her to her own devices.

Eh bien! As you may easily imagine, it was not long before I knew more concerning milady than she believed. She would send me off with notes hither and thither, and more than once I found some prettily-worded messages in her pockets, and on her writing-table. Quoi encore?

One day when I had dressed milady gaily and she had gone forth in the hired car to lunch with somebody at Claridge’s, Thompson took me aside, and asked me in confidence what I knew.

I made evasive replies. It was never my habit to discuss my mistress’s private affairs, I said.

“But, Mariette,” he cried, glaring at me fiercely, “you know that she has no love for him. Look how she disregards her two poor children, little Lord Staverton and Lady Enid. They’ve been thrown upon old Lady Middlecoombe’s hands, and she hasn’t seen them for a year. It’s disgraceful.”

I shrugged my shoulders. The old man was always criticising her actions.

“I quite agree, Thompson,” I said. “I wonder milord does not open his eyes.”

“Ah, mademoiselle, if he did,” declared the old man sadly, “the shock would kill him. He loves her so.”

“Bien sûr,” I said. “I call it scandalous!”

“And so it is, mademoiselle,” he cried, striking the dining-table fiercely with his fist. “She’s ruined my poor young master, and now she flirts with every good-looking young fellow she comes across. Women such as she possess the power of the very Evil One himself. I—I’d—by God!” cried the old fellow. “I feel as though I—I could strangle her!”

And his thin, bony hands clenched themselves, while his eyes flashed angrily with a murderous fire of hatred in them.

That afternoon, plus tard, when milady returned she seemed rather cross and upset. Milord was away at Cowes, spending the week-end.

“Mariette,” she said, as I was about to get out her black net evening-gown from the wardrobe, “I’ll put on my blue serge walking-dress to-night, and go and dine alone in some restaurant. Captain Fletcher was to have taken me to dinner at the Ritz and on to the Opera, but he’s been called back to his regiment at York, so I’m alone to-night. And I really can’t bear to be waited upon by Thompson—he’s such a cantankerous old imbecile. I always wonder whatever Lord Lydgate can see in him to keep him. I expect you must have most uncomfortable times with him in the servants’ hall.”

Moi, I only smiled. What could I reply?

More than once milady had sought to ascertain from me what Thompson had said concerning her. But it is the duty of a femme-de-chambre to be discreet—extremely discreet.

Alors I evaded her question and began to tell her of a new toilette-cream about which my sister Jeanne had written me—a new product of Lentheric which greatly interested her. C’est une idée.

And so she put on a walking-gown—fine blue serge, with broad black braid, one of Doeuillet’s—and after I had pinned her veil and placed a single drop of Rose d’Orsay—that hall-mark of the chic woman—upon her handkerchief, she slowly drew on her long white gloves.

Thompson came, with servile politeness, to inquire if her ladyship were dining at home, whereupon his mistress snapped back that she was not.

“It isn’t a very gay function—dinner alone, with you to wait on me!” she added. “When I’m alone you look like a funeral mute!”

The old man bowed and descended the stairs, muttering to himself. I heard it, but, fortunately perhaps, milady did not.

After she had gone out Thompson came to me, with a sigh.

“Ah, mademoiselle! when I recollect the dear old days at Lydgate my blood boils. She now insults me—she who has brought us to bankruptcy! My poor young master!”

Chose singulière! I thought I detected hot tears welling in the old man’s eyes.

One afternoon—it was the first of October—Lord Lydgate had gone down by car into Berkshire to have the first day with the pheasants on the estate of a friend, while milady had left to spend the day with some people living at Richmond.

About three o’clock the car unexpectedly returned, and we were startled by seeing milord being lifted from it, and carried up the steps.

A l’instant the truth was told. There had been an accident, and milord had been shot in the side. Thompson was beside himself with grief. The household was all confusion, and as soon as Monsieur had been put to bed a well-known surgeon was telephoned for from Harley Street.

He came, a thin-faced, alert man, but half-an-hour later, when he emerged from the room, I overheard him say to the grave old butler—

“You had better summon her ladyship as soon as possible, Thompson. I fear the worst—the wound is a most dangerous one, and much aggravated by the journey back from Berkshire.”

“Mariette, telephone to m’lady,” the butler said to me in a hard voice.

Vite I went into the hall and obeyed at once. But though I got through to the house of milady’s friends at Richmond, I received a reply that they had not seen her there that day, and had no idea where she was.

Juste Ciel! When I told Thompson he seemed relieved.

“A good job,” he declared. “We can do without her hateful presence.”

At six o’clock two surgeons held a consultation, and an operation was performed, yet at seven came the dread news from the sick room that milord was unconscious and slowly sinking.

Just after half-past seven a messenger-boy brought a note in milady’s handwriting, addressed to milord.

I handed it to Thompson, who was standing alone in the dining-room, and who, after glancing at it, cried—

“My poor master will, alas! never live to read what this contains. I will open it.”

With thin, trembling fingers the old man tore it open and read the message.

He stood rigid, open-mouthed, pale as death, while the note fell from his nerveless fingers to the floor.

I picked it up and looked at it.

Then we exchanged glances in silence. Tiens! The truth was out! C’est ça!

It was milady’s adieu! La malheureuse Comtesse had left for Paris that afternoon—with Captain Fletcher.

Old Mr. Thompson, with pale face, slowly ascended the stairs to his young master’s room.

He entered alone, while I remained outside.

I heard the poor old fellow sobbing bitterly as he threw himself beside the bed where lay the dying earl. He had grasped the white, inert hand and was kissing it fondly.

“My boy!” he cried hoarsely in his emotion. “My poor boy! Thank God that you will never know! My poor Hubert—my—my poor dear son!”

I crept away down the stairs. Assez.

But a quarter of an hour later Mr. Thompson descended to us in the kitchen, grave-faced, sad, yet perfectly calm.

“I regret to tell you,” he announced in a low voice, “that our poor master, the seventeenth Earl of Lydgate, is dead!”

Quel monde! Ah! Quel monde!