CHAPTER III
LITTLE MRS. OTWAY
June 23rd
Tiens! My next experience was, indeed, a strange one.
Quickly back in London after leaving Lady Allardyce’s service, I had, with my excellent testimonials, no difficulty in obtaining another situation.
This time I found myself engaged by a lady named Otway, who lived at the Park Lane end of Grosvenor Street. A large house, toilettes by Worth, hats from the Rue de la Paix, smart dinner parties, brilliant entertainments every Wednesday, grand chic!
Madame was not more than thirty—petite, fair-haired, with limbs full-sized and shapely. Her head was small and gracefully poised, her neck long, her features regular, her smile fascinating. Her complexion was fair as a lily, with a faint rose blush to brighten it. Superbe!
In the first hour of my arrival I found upon her dressing-table Crême Floreine and a bottle of Rose d’Orsay. This discovery was, in itself, sufficient to stamp her as smart. She had an abundance of soft wavy hair, well arranged to suit the oval form of her expressive and intelligent face, while the mode in which it was dressed, with all the chi-chi, was the latest in Paris.
From the first moment I knew that Madame would do me credit. No second glance was required to ascertain that her couturière was not English, and that she was well used to a maid of the first order, like myself.
And so I had quickly settled down to my duties, enthusiastic, quick-handed and content.
From Joseph, the butler, I learnt that Monsieur, a tall, thin-faced and extremely active gentleman, was proprietor of a great daily journal, one of the most powerful political organs in England, and that he was one of those many men in London who have by a lucky hit got rich quick. Within ten years, by giving the public what it wanted, he had become a millionaire.
Now it is a curious anomaly in social life that while the prosperous business-man finds it extremely difficult, notwithstanding his money-bags, to enter the inner ring of London society, unless either son or daughter sell themselves for a title, yet the proprietor of any daily newspaper steps at once across the gulf, is received, even hailed, by the smartest and most exclusive set, and his wife—though she may have been bred in Brixton—is affectionately called “My dear” by dowager-duchesses.
So in the case of the Otways.
Madame, it was whispered, had been the daughter of a small grocer—what you call “stores”—at Lower Sydenham, while clean-shaven Monsieur had started life as junior clerk in an insurance office. Yet now at forty he controlled one of the several London newspapers which claim the largest-circulation-in-the-world, and was busy distributing charitable donations of a thousand pounds at a time in order to attract public attention and claim a baronetcy from his Party.
The evening of my arrival happened to be a Wednesday—the day of the weekly entertainment. The hall, staircase and reception-rooms were hung with choice roses, while about the whole place was a sweet perfume, an air of unbridled luxury and wealth. Half smart London came there to listen to the splendid music in the drawing-room. The fees to the great violinist and the renowned pianist must have run into hundreds—unless, perhaps, they performed for nothing in order to secure in Monsieur’s journal flattering notices of their public entertainments. Bien sûr, to the rich newspaper proprietor half the world falls upon its knees in these days when geniuses are so easily manufactured by “boom” and the press-agent.
But of Madame Otway I have nothing to complain. Mais non.
Monsieur, whose fine library was really the editorial room of the great offices somewhere in Fleet Street, received many strange men between the hours of six and eight each evening. Hinkson, the footman, was always busy opening the door to them, and telephones were ringing all the time. Monsieur’s room, with its ever-clicking news and stock-exchange “tapes” in the corner, was then a perfect hive of industry. Oui, vraiment, it was a house of business at that hour.
Those who came and went were of all classes, from shabby and beery broken-down journalists, to Cabinet Ministers and political peers with axes to grind.
It must not be supposed, however, that Monsieur devoted his whole time to the progress of his journal. Au contraire, he went everywhere, motored a great deal in his big six-cylinder, enjoyed himself hugely, and left Madame a great deal to her own devices.
Quite two months was I in Madame’s service before I began to know her. True, she occupied with consummate tact the position which money had so suddenly given her, yet she was extremely reserved, and would go out and return day after day without ever once letting drop where she had been, or what she had been doing.
More than once in her absence Monsieur, when he had encountered me, had spoken cheerfully and had shown himself très gentil. Curious that it might seem, yet he somehow appeared as though he wished to make friends with me. Moi, I gave him no encouragement. With the femme-de-chambre any such encouragement is always fatal. And I think I know my place too well.
Flirtation with a good-looking male servant is, of course, permissible, but with Monsieur, never.
It may have been because of my somewhat dignified attitude towards Monsieur that Madame grew at last less frigid. She would often laugh and gossip with me as I dressed her pretty hair, buttoned her blouse, or laced her shoes, while every now and then she would make me little presents of trifles of left-off clothing. The perquisites of the femme-de-chambre can always be turned into money, and fortunately for me Madame quickly flung aside a gown or blouse. Worth’s bill was never questioned by Monsieur, who was shrewd enough to know that half his power lay in his wife’s success.
Madame, like most mistresses, was a person of moods, and subject to headaches, real or imaginary. Diable! the cachet of antipyrine was ever at hand.
Though devoted to Monsieur, she was inclined to be—well, a trifle skittish. A woman cannot deceive her femme-de-chambre for very long. Often have I laughed at the ingenuity of some of my mistresses in their vain attempts to hide their secrets from me. They always forget that a woman has a far keener sense of intuition than a man, and that what may be hidden from Monsieur, the husband, is as open as the light of day to the girl who dresses her hair.
Secrets! Bon Dieu! I have known many. I have witnessed some amusing comedies, and more than one tragedy.
I admit, however, that I was entirely unsuspicious of Madame Otway until one evening, while brushing her motor-coat, I found a letter crumpled in the pocket—a brief little affectionate note from Isaac Blumfeld, the well-known financier, who lived around in Park Lane, and who very often dined en famille with Monsieur and Madame.
He was a short, thick-set, thick-speaking man, with a red, rather pimply, face, and an oleaginous and pompous manner. Un snob! It was said that he had once been an acrobat, until fortunate speculations in South Africa had brought him his huge fortune.
The Blumfeld group were well known in the City, but owing to certain reports he was never received by the smart set who came so regularly to Grosvenor Street every Wednesday.
And so Madame was on friendly terms with Monsieur, unknown to her husband! Pas extraordinaire!
I replaced the letter and shrugged my shoulders. Madame’s little affairs of the heart did not concern me. She was a kind, generous mistress. Assez!
An hour later, as I sat mending some lingerie in the dressing-room, Monsieur entered, saying—
“Mariette, send down your mistress’s fur motor-coat to the car. I’m going to pick her up at the theatre, and she’ll be cold.”
“Oui, m’sieur,” I replied, and then went along to get the coat. But before I handed it to him I took possession of the letter.
And I burned it.
Next evening Madame went forth alone in a walking gown, Monsieur having been called to Glasgow on business. I knew that she went to dinner with old Isaac Blumfeld at a snug little restaurant in Clifford Street, where neither would be recognised.
She returned about ten, slipped on a smart evening gown and went out to a bridge-party at old Lady Staverton’s, in Mount Street. She was an inveterate player, and often won large sums, as I knew sometimes when she came home.
I had dropped off to sleep before the fire, for it was past three when she returned, tired, short-tempered, and with a bad headache.
She looked so very pale and distressed that I asked whether she were not well, to which I received a snappy reply. So I held my tongue, wondering what had happened.
Next morning before luncheon, while dressing her hair as she sat before her big toilet-table upon which were ranged the massive silver requisites, Madame suddenly said—
“Mariette, have you ever been in love?”
Love! Moi! The question nonplussed me. I felt the colour rising to my cheeks and was compelled to give an affirmative, if halting, response.
Madame sighed, and remained silent for some moments.
“Ah!” she said at last, “though you may have loved, you cannot have realised the perils consequent upon a forbidden affection.”
I made no reply, but I knew too well to what she alluded. She was a young and pretty dame du monde, and surely it was not surprising.
“Mariette,” she said, turning to me and fixing me with her fine big eyes, “I—well, to tell you the truth I am in a great difficulty—a very great difficulty. I wonder whether, if I asked you to help me, you would ever betray me?”
“Madame, I have never yet betrayed any confidence with which my mistresses have entrusted me,” I said, not without some little dignity.
“I know, Mariette. I read honesty in your face,” she hastened to say. “Help in this unfortunate affair will mean my salvation.”
I knew that Monsieur entertained no suspicion of what might be in progress, therefore her attitude puzzled me. I had never dreamed for a moment that the stout, over-dressed financier was her admirer; but on the contrary, had believed that the Honourable Frank Carew, of the Foreign Office, was the most-favoured cavalier. The last-named, a tall, handsome, dark-haired, well-groomed young fellow, was for ever hanging at Madame’s heels, and very often took her out to the theatre, or brought her home from parties or dances.
One night I had noticed when he bade her farewell in the hall that her hand had rested in his just a second longer than it might have done. And from that I had formed my own conclusions.
Chacun son idée! But that letter of Isaac Blumfeld’s had been sufficient to place all doubt at rest.
Madame was, I believe, about to reveal to me some further secret, when there came a tap at the door, and Hinkson announced that Lady Staverton was below, and wished to see Madame very urgently.
My mistress started, turned slightly pale, and after a moment’s hesitation gave orders for her to be shown up-stairs.
“You may go, Mariette,” she added curtly. “I shall want you again presently.”
So I finished Madame’s hair hurriedly, helped her off with her lace dressing-jacket and handed her a warm wrap. Then as I left I encountered the thin-faced, middle-aged woman upon the threshold.
When at last my bell rang and I re-entered the room I found Madame bathing her face in eau-de-Cologne, her eyes betraying signs of recent tears.
“Mariette,” she said one day about a fortnight afterwards, “Do you know Mr. Blumfeld’s house in Park Lane—the big white one on the corner, with the glass-covered verandah?”
“Oui, Madame.”
“Well—I want you to do something in strict secrecy,” Madame said, “for my sake, to help me.”
“Volontairement.”
“Remember, the servants must know nothing, otherwise they will talk. You will not say a word to Hinkson. Promise me.”
“Madame may repose the most perfect confidence in me,” I assured her. “Am I not Madame’s femme-de-chambre?”
“Well, what I want you to do may strike you as somewhat curious—yet it is highly necessary. All depends upon it—upon your shrewdness,” she said. “I want you to put on another dress and go and watch outside Mr. Blumfeld’s to see whether a gentleman calls there—a gentleman you have seen here—Mr. Carew. You know him, of course.”
“Parfaitement, Madame.”
“You must go now, as soon as possible, and watch the house—if necessary till midnight. Mr. Carew has left his rooms, and I am unaware of his whereabouts. I shall remain here awaiting your report. If he calls, then hurry round at once in a taxi and let me know. Or—or better. I think he does not know you. If you see him in the street, go straight up to him and tell him that, before he enters Mr. Blumfeld’s, a friend wishes to see him. Suggest that he goes somewhere to await the mysterious friend—the lounge of the Criterion is quiet. Send him there—and come round to me at once.”
“Bien, Madame; and my dress?”
“Put on your best dress. The police will not then suspect you of loitering. If so, refer the constable to me. They all know my husband. So run along, eat your lunch quickly, and go out to watch.”
My mission was certainly of interest. I swallowed my meal quickly, dressed, and telling Hinkson that I was going out upon an errand for Madame, hurried along Grosvenor Street into Park Lane, where, turning to the left, was soon before the big white mansion of the great financier—a mansion well known, I expect, to most readers of these my memoirs.
As idling opposite by the park railings I watched the big front-door of Blumfeld’s house, I saw several persons arrive and depart; a man in a yellow motor-car, two telegraph messengers and a tall, rather elderly lady in a hansom. To the latter the footman announced “not at home,” and the same reply was given to two other men of distinctly business air. And though I never relaxed my vigilance all the cold, dry afternoon, yet Madame’s friend did not come.
Your London policeman is always suspicious of the loitering woman. I had attracted the attention of the constable on the beat. Therefore, just as twilight was falling, I was compelled to go within the park-railings and watch from there.
It grew dark soon after four o’clock, the street-lamps were lit, but the traffic of taxis and motor-buses remained unceasing. The few people passing up and down in the Park had gradually disappeared, while I remained there alone upon the iron seat, watching eagerly from out the darkness.
Suddenly, about six o’clock, just as rain began to fall, I saw a tall, well-dressed young man in soft felt hat and dark overcoat approach the house from Piccadilly.
Ere I recognised that it was the man for whom I was watching, he had ascended the steps.
In an instant I had dashed along the railings to the nearest gate in an endeavour to prevent him from entering. But unfortunately, before I could gain the house, he had been admitted. Isaac Blumfeld was evidently at home to him.
I hailed a passing taxi, and within five minutes had told Madame. She started, put on her hat and coat hurriedly, and sped round to Park Lane.
When she returned half-an-hour or so later, I found her in her boudoir white as death and trembling in every limb.
“Madame is unwell!” I cried in alarm. “May I telephone for the doctor?”
“No, Mariette,” she responded in a low, hard voice, and as she turned to me I saw that she had strangely altered. Her countenance bore a haunted, haggard look, and she seemed greatly agitated. “No, there is no necessity. All the doctors in the world can—can be of no avail!”
“But cannot I assist Madame?” I urged in alarm. “Let me order something.”
“No. I—I want no dinner. I’ll go to my room,” and with uneven steps she walked along to her dressing-room, where I divested her of coat and hat, and soon she was lying upon the couch in her pretty pink kimono.
Ma foi! What could have happened!
I sat with her all that evening, but she hardly spoke a dozen words; she lay with her eyes fixed upon the fire in thoughtful silence.
About eleven o’clock, just as I had taken in a cup of hot milk to her as usual, Monsieur, who had returned, burst in, crying—
“I say, Lucy! A most terrible thing has happened. Carr, the news-editor, has just rung up to tell me that poor old Blumfeld has been found dead in his library! The butler was speaking with him just after six, but at half-past he went in again with a telegram, and found him dead on the floor—shot. The curious feature of the affair was that Blumfeld is said to have received a mysterious visitor by appointment, and opened the door to this unknown person himself. The police suspect murder.”
Madame sat open-mouthed, a deathlike pallor upon her cheeks. For a second her startled eyes met mine, then she sat rigid, staring straight at her unsuspecting husband.
“Murder!” she echoed. “They suspect!”
“Yes; awful, isn’t it? He was such a good old sort, too. I suppose I’ll have to go to the funeral.”
And then Monsieur hurried back to the library, where several callers awaited him.
Madame, rising, staggered across to the door and turned the key.
Then she said in a hoarse whisper—
“Mariette, you—you alone saw Mr. Carew enter there. While your lips remain closed he is safe!”
“Madame need have no apprehension,” I replied. “I have already forgotten all that I saw.”
“And you will continue to assist me?” she asked eagerly. “Ah! you do not know how strange are the facts, or how great the sacrifice.”
“Madame has but to command. I am her servant,” was my brief response.
She reflected a moment, then rose and passed into her bedroom. Five minutes later she returned with a sealed note, saying—
“Take this at once to Mr. Carew. You know where he lives—in Carlos Place. Give it into his own hand. If he is not at home, wait until he returns.”
Twenty minutes later I rang at the door of the rooms of Madame’s admirer. I was invited by his man into an ideal bachelor’s abode, a book-lined room, which smelt strongly of cigars, and where the pictures and photographs were mostly of my own sex—some, perhaps, a little risky.
Presently Monsieur came in, his face almost transparent in its paleness, and starting in surprise at finding a visitor. Next second he smiled pleasantly when I explained who I was, and taking Madame’s note he broke it open and eagerly read it.
His brows contracted, and he bit his lip.
“Your mistress says that we can trust you implicitly,” he said, as he closed the door and looked straight at me. He had fine dark eyes, and was très gentil.
“Oui, m’sieur.”
“A certain—well—a certain unfortunate affair will be in the papers to-morrow,” he said hesitatingly in a hard, strained voice. “Some inquiries may be made. Possibly they will be awkward ones, mademoiselle. If the truth became known it would not only mean ruin to your mistress and to myself, but there would be exposed a great secret which, at all hazards, must be kept. I want to speak quite frankly, so that you may realise the true seriousness of the situation. With a word I could clear up the whole matter, but by doing so that secret—a great and most important one—would become revealed. The irony of the whole thing is that your master is seeking to learn that secret, to publish it in his paper and create a sensation through the country. He little dreams that he is working in direct opposition to your mistress, who, for the preservation of her own honour, must, of necessity, prevent the truth from becoming known.”
“But what is the secret, m’sieur?” I inquired eagerly.
“Ah! That, I regret to say, I am not permitted to divulge. Sufficient for you to know that your mistress and I have united to safeguard it. Yet, by our joint action, many evil-disposed persons will probably scent scandal.”
Madame had spoken of a sacrifice. Had this young man sacrificed himself for her sake? Vraiment! The mystery of it all became very puzzling.
“Your mistress was in peril—a deadly peril,” he added slowly, “—until this evening. The danger has now been removed.”
“By the death of Isaac Blumfeld,” I said, in a low meaning whisper.
He nodded gravely, but no word escaped his pursed-up lips.
“Mariette,” he said at last, “you are loyal to your mistress, and are prepared to help her—are you not?”
“Certainly, m’sieur.”
“To assist her, you must also assist me,” he declared quickly, in a voice that betrayed eagerness and apprehension. “If there are any inquiries, Mariette, will you be prepared to declare that from half-past five o’clock till seven this evening you were here in my rooms with me?”
“M’sieur!” I cried, with indignation.
“I know it is much to ask of you,” he said, très sérieux. “I am asking you to condemn yourself in order—well, to—to save me!”
“To save m’sieur!” I echoed, pretending not to understand.
“Yes, yes,” he cried quickly. He seemed very nervous and unstrung. “Later on you shall know everything. For the present I only desire to be assured that I may rely upon you to prove that I was at home here between half-past five and seven.”
“But I returned to Grosvenor Street before half-past six.”
“Who saw you?”
“Only Madame. I remained in her room while she went out for half-an-hour—round to Monsieur Blumfeld’s.”
“To Blumfeld’s!” he cried, starting quickly. “Did your mistress go round to Park Lane after six o’clock?” he demanded in amazement.
“Certainly she did.”
He sank back in his arm-chair with a deep sigh, covering his face with both his hands.
“Then she knows—she—she suspects?” he asked of me suddenly, regarding me with a strange expression.
“Suspects what?”
“That Isaac Blumfeld——”
“I know nothing, m’sieur,” I declared. “Nothing,” I protested.
“Ah, yes, Mariette,” he said very earnestly, with an attempt to smile, “you are diplomatic. You know nothing—good—and you will stand my friend—and Madame’s friend also, will you not?” he added appealingly, holding forth his hand.
I was silent. Truly I had been drawn into a pretty complication. My word could save an assassin! Pensez à ça!
His hand was stretched towards me, but I shrank from taking it.
I merely replied that, in order to shield Madame from any unpleasantness, I was willing to do as he requested.
By this he became at once reassured. He poured out a glass of wine and insisted that I should drink it, while he swallowed a liqueur-glass of cognac to steady his nerves.
“I shall not write to your mistress,” he said. “Letters are always dangerous. Tell her that I shall lunch at the Berkeley to-morrow, and ask her to meet me there by accident. Tell her that I acted as I promised. She will understand.”
Then, with reiterated expressions of thanks, and confidence in my judgment, he wished me a laughing bon soir, and bowed me out.
Malheureusement, next day in the papers I read of the discovery of the mysterious murder of Isaac Blumfeld, and the search for the missing visitor suspected of the crime. Just before six, it appeared, the great financier had told the butler that he expected a visitor, and would open the door himself. This was not unusual, for the deceased, like other financiers, had been in the habit of receiving strange people in strictest secrecy—people who were supposed to furnish him with confidential information—and the library being close to the front door, these persons arrived and departed without being seen by the servants.
The tragic affair was shrouded in mystery, and, as such, was made the most of by the Press.
Madame put on a smart walking-gown and her sables and went forth to the Berkeley about one o’clock, not returning till half-past three. Afterwards, when we were alone in the boudoir, she said—
“Mariette, Mr. Carew has told me of your generous promise. You do not know what great assistance you are now rendering us. You will be well rewarded—never fear.”
“I look for no reward,” I replied. “I know Madame is very unhappy, and it is surely my duty to help her.”
“Hardly your duty to be ready even to lie to save a man for whom you have no affection,” she remarked kindly.
“For Madame’s sake,” I said simply.
Autre chose. I could only put the crime down as being due to jealousy. To me, it now seemed plain that Monsieur Carew had made a secret appointment with Blumfeld, and that Madame had, by some means, learnt of it. The two men had quarrelled, and the younger had raised his weapon and fired.
If not, why did Monsieur Carew so earnestly beseech of me to tarnish my own reputation by clearing him of suspicion?
Ah! quel monde! An anxious week went by. The coroner’s jury had returned a verdict of “Wilful murder against some person unknown,” and the dead man had been buried, Monsieur following at the funeral.
One night three weeks later Monsieur Carew came to dine at Grosvenor Street, and Madame’s husband seemed particularly cordial.
When they returned to the library to smoke, I went down at Madame’s suggestion and listened eagerly at the door.
After some desultory conversation, I heard Monsieur exclaim in a persuasive way—
“My dear Carew, you know the truth. You could easily get me a copy of those documents. I’d make it well worth your while.”
“Thanks, but I’m not so desperately hard-up as I was a little time ago. I got two or three rather good tips on the Stock Exchange.”
“Glad to hear it; nevertheless, I’m very anxious, you know, to publish the whole thing. It would create such a scandal that our political opponents would be ruined and crushed. It would turn the elections in our favour.”
“And I’m afraid you would be ruined also, while at Downing Street they would know that I had betrayed them.”
“Ruined! How?”
“Well, among the official correspondence there unfortunately is a report from one of the embassies concerning certain heavy subsidies paid to your journal by a foreign power, in consideration that you foster the belief that the country is perfectly safe from attack—rather damaging, in face of the belief in your unwavering patriotism.”
“Good heavens!—but how do you know this?” gasped Monsieur, alarmed.
“The papers have been through my hands, and——”
“Come, Carew, now out with it, man! I see by your face there’s something wrong. Tell me the truth, and let me face the music. Who knows this beside yourself?”
“An enemy knew—but, fortunately, you have been saved.”
“Saved! Who saved me?” he cried.
“Ask your wife to come here. If she permits, then I will speak.”
I heard the bell ring, so I slipped away.
Presently I caught the frou-frou of Madame’s skirts as she passed along the hall, and next moment I was again listening at the door.
“Yes, Frank—speak, if you like,” I heard her say in a low, hoarse voice quite unusual to her.
“Then simply this, Otway,” explained the young man. “Your wife, I believe, lost heavily at bridge at Lady Staverton’s a few weeks ago, and that old scoundrel Blumfeld offered to lend her the money to pay. She accepted, rather than admit to you she had been gambling. I, too, was hard up, and a month ago, I’m sorry to confess, sold to Blumfeld for a big price a copy of that secret treaty you want, together with all the correspondence.”
Whereupon Madame interrupted.
“With the letters he threatened me,” I heard her declare. “He vowed that if I refused to meet him in secret he would publish the whole of the official correspondence, and ruin you, Jack! He had lent me money, and I had fallen entirely into his power.”
“Well?” asked Monsieur hoarsely.
“I defied him, and I told Frank, who—who came forward as my friend.”
“Your friend—my enemy, eh?” snarled Monsieur.
“Perhaps, Otway, I had better reveal the truth—make a clean breast of it,” exclaimed the young man. “When your wife told me the use to which the secret information was to be put I was horrified. I thought he only wanted it for financial reasons. Therefore I made an appointment to see the fellow in secret, and came from Paris for that purpose. Your wife knew I was coming. The fellow opened the door to me, and I, having raised all the ready money I possibly could, endeavoured to buy back the copy of the treaty and the correspondence. But unfortunately he would not part with them. I failed, and so after a quarter of an hour, I left.”
“Listen,” I heard Madame again interrupt. “On that evening I also had an appointment with the man who intended to crush and ruin us both, Jack,” she said. “He watched me as I passed his window, and opened the door to me. Alone in his room, for Frank had gone, I begged him to have pity upon me, and give me back those incriminating papers. He had them spread before me upon his table, and answered brutally that as I had refused to meet him in secret he should, that same night, hand them over to an opposition newspaper. He—he seized me by the wrist, and tried to kiss me. In desperation I drew your revolver, which I had taken with me, and threatened to shoot myself. He tried to get possession of it, but—I—I struggled—and—and in the struggle, Jack—it went off! In horror, I saw him stagger back and sink to the floor—dead! I hardly know what I did next, save that I seized the papers lying upon his table, and stole noiselessly out. No one saw me enter; no one saw me leave! And—and no one knows the truth!”
Both men uttered cries of dismay. It was evident that Monsieur Carew was quite as much astounded at the confession as was her husband.
“And does no one suspect you, Lucy?” asked Monsieur in a low, strained voice.
“Nobody—except, perhaps, Mariette. I was compelled to take her into my confidence.”
“Then we must not take any risks. Mariette must be paid well and dismissed,” Monsieur said in a decisive tone. “If she remained, it would constantly remind us both of the very ugly affair. To-morrow I shall give her a little present of a hundred pounds.”
Eh bien! And this Monsieur did, in Madame’s presence, after breakfast on the following morning.
Pou!—Pou!!—Pou!!! Mort aux Juifs!