That morning Monsieur Hector Launay was happy. He had been to Portland
Place, acted as executioner to the mole upon her ladyship's chin, buried
it beneath the court plaster, been paid his bill, and in going out
squeezed Justine's hand, and--_Ah, oui mes amis_--she had squeezed it
again.
"Yes, yes," he had cried, joyously, as he returned, with the
recollection of Justine's bright eyes making his own sparkle, "encore a
little more of this isle of fogs and rheums and spleen, encore a little
more of the hard cash to be made here, encore a little too much more
wait, and then _cette chere_ Justine and la France--la France--
Tralla-la--Tralla-la--Tralla-la."
From this it will be seen that Monsieur Hector Launay was joyous. It
was his nature to be joyous, but he suppressed it beneath a solemn mask
as of wax. He was as immovable as a rule as his own gentleman; that is
to say, the waxen image of his craft which looked down Upper Gimp Street
from the shop window--the gentleman who was married to the handsome lady
with the graceful turn to her neck, who always looked up Upper Gimp
Street from morning till night, saving at such times as Monsieur Hector
Launay hung old copies of the _Figaro_ or _Petit Journal_ before them,
lest the heat of the summer sun should visit their cheeks too roughly.
In fact, a neglect of this on one occasion had resulted in the wax
"giving" a little, and the lady having a slight attack of mumps.
These dwellers in a happy atmosphere behind glass were the acme of
perfection in the dressing of their hair, the lady's being the longest
and the gentleman's the shortest possible to conceive. So short was the
latter's, in fact, that it might have been used to brush that of the
former; and so occupied were they in gazing up and down the street that
they might have been the spies who furnished Monsieur Hector Launay with
the abundant information he possessed respecting the _elite_ who lived
in a wide circle round his dwelling in that most strange of London
regions--mysterious Marylebone.
He was a slim, genteel, sallow gentleman, polite in the extreme, always
the perfection of cleanliness, and, as Lord Barmouth said, smelling as
if made of scented soap. His eyes were of the darkest, so was his hair,
which was cut to the pattern in the window. He had a carefully-waxed
and pointed moustache, but shaved the rest of his face as religiously as
he did that of Lord Barmouth, every morning, passing his hand over the
skin and seeming to be always hunting for one particular bristle, which
evaded him.
It has been said that he might be supposed to have gained his
information about the various people around by means of his two wax
figures, who afterwards communicated their knowledge to him in some
occult way, though the theory might hold water that the thoughts of
people's brains radiated to the ends of their hairs which were often cut
off and remained in the possession of the barber for distillation, sale,
or the fire.
Monsieur Hector Launay, it must be owned, was, though a lover of his
country, not patriotic from a Communist, Imperialist, Royalist, or
Republican point of view. Friends and compatriots often wanted him to
join in this or that conspiracy.
"No," he would say, "it is ignoble, nor is it pleasant to live here, and
shave and cut and dress, but it is safe. _Ma foi_, no," he would say,
"I should not like to be guillotined and find myself a head short some
morning; neither should I like to be sent to New Caledonia, to be cooked
by the cannibals of that happy land."
Certainly he had periodic longings sometimes, but they took the form of
_eau sucree_ or a little cup of coffee with Justine at Versailles, on
the Bois de Boulogne: so he waited, stored up knowledge, sang
_chansons_, and invented wonderful washes for the skin or hair.
"Yes," said Monsieur Hector, "I know what is immense. Ladies place
themselves in my hands, and would I betray their confidence? Never,
never. A _coiffeur_ in a good district is the repository of the
grandest secrets of life. I could write a book, but, _ma foi_, no, I
never betray. I am a man of trust."
Charley Melton came into his shop that morning for a periodical cut and
shampoo, after sending Joby on his regular mission, and Monsieur Hector
smiled softly to himself as he played with the young man's hair.
"That good dog, monsieur, will he find his way-back?"
"What do you mean?" said Melton sharply.
"Pardon, monsieur, a mere nothing; but I should not trust a dog. They
suspect yonder."
Melton turned and gazed at him angrily.
"Yes," said Monsieur Hector, "it is a tender subject, but I go so much
that I come to know nearly all."
"What the deuce do you mean?"
"Monsieur forgets that I dress Lady Barmouth's hair; that the Miladi
Maude often goes to the opera with her beautiful fair tresses arranged
in designs of my invention. But, monsieur, they talk about the dog."
Something very like an imprecation came from the young man's lips, but
he restrained it.
"Monsieur may trust me," said the hairdresser. "Mademoiselle Justine is
a great friend of mine. Have you not remarked her likeness to my lady
of wax? She is exact. It is she--encore."
"Oh, indeed," said Melton, drily.
"Yes, monsieur; some day we shall return to la France together, to pass
our days in simple happy joys."
"Look here," said Melton, bluntly, "I am an Englishman, and always speak
plainly. You know all about me--about the house in Portland Place?"
"Everything, monsieur," said the hairdresser, with a smile and a bow.
"Mademoiselle Justine is _desolee_ about the course that affairs have
taken; she speaks to me of Sir Wilter as the enemy. Pah! she say he is
old, _bete_, he is not at all a man. We discourse of you, monsieur--we
lovers--and we talk of your love. We agree ourselves that it is foolish
to trust a dog."
"How the devil did you know that I trusted a dog?" said Melton
furiously.
"_Ma foi_, monsieur is angry. Why so, with one who would serve him?
Justine loves you--I then love you. How do I know?"--a shrug
here--"monsieur is _indiscret_. Justine could not fail to see."
"Confusion!" ejaculated Melton.
"And yet it is so easy, monsieur--a note--a cake of soap--a packet of
bloom--a bottle of scent--it is wrapped up--for Miladi Maude with my
printed card outside--_Voila_! who could suspect?"
"Look here," said Melton, turning sharply round.
"Pardon, monsieur, I use the scissor; there is a little fresh growth
here."
"What do you expect to be paid for this, if I trust you?--and perhaps I
shall not, for it is confoundedly dirty work."
"Pardon, monsieur," cried the Frenchman, laying his hand upon his
breast, "I am a gentleman. Pay? Noting. Have I not told you that
Justine, whom I have the honour to love, adores her young mistress. She
adores monsieur, and would serve him. I in my turn adore Mademoiselle
Justine. I am her slave--I am yours."
"Let's see--Justine? That is her ladyship's maid?"
"True, monsieur. But this morning she say to me--`Hector, _mon enfant_,
I'm _desolee_ on the subject of those two children. Help them, _mon
garcon_, and I will be benefactor.'"
"It is good, I say to her, and I place myself at monsieur's
disposition."
Charles Melton frowned, and Monsieur Hector went on with his shampooing,
till the head between his hands was dried, polished, and finished, when
the hairdresser took up a little ivory brush, and anointed it with some
fragrant preparation to be applied in its turn to the patient's beard,
till the fair hair glistened like gold, and Monsieur Hector fell back
and looked at him in admiration.
"But monsieur is fit now for the arms of a goddess," he exclaimed.
"Does he accept my assistance?"
Melton looked at him for a moment, as he paid the fee usual upon such
occasions, and then said bluntly--
"Monsieur Launay, I am obliged to you, and you mean well. Doubtless
Mademoiselle Justine means well, and she has my thanks, but I cannot
accept your assistance. Good mom--Ah, Joby, old fellow."
He drew back into the little room as the dog came hastily in, and placed
his head against his master's leg.
"Why, Joby," exclaimed Melton, in a low excited tone, "where is your
collar? Blood too! You have been fighting. Good heavens! what shall I
do!--If that note is found!--Oh, my poor darling!" he muttered, and he
hurried from the place.