Before a toilet that shone like the altar of Notre Dame des Victoires,
Helen was seated in a little dressing-gown of black and heliotrope.
The coiffeur Cosmé was caring for her scented chevelure, and with tiny
silver tongs, warm from the caresses of the flame, made delicious
intelligent curls that fell as lightly as a breath about her forehead
and over her eyebrows, and clustered like tendrils round her neck. Her
three favourite girls, Pappelarde, Blanchemains and Loreyne, waited
immediately upon her with perfume and powder in delicate flagons and
frail cassolettes, and held in porcelain jars the ravishing paints
prepared by Châteline for those cheeks and lips that had grown a little
pale with anguish of exile. Her three favourite boys, Claud, Clair
and Sarrasine, stood amorously about with salver, fan and napkin.
Millamant held a slight tray of slippers, Minette some tender gloves,
La Popelinière--mistress of the robes--was ready with a frock of yellow
and white, La Zambinella bore the jewels, Florizel some flowers,
Amadour a box of various pins, and Vadius a box of sweets. Her doves,
ever in attendance, walked about the room that was panelled with the
gallant paintings of Jean Baptiste Dorat, and some dwarfs and doubtful
creatures sat here and there lolling out their tongues, pinching each
other, and behaving oddly enough. Sometimes Helen gave them little
smiles.
[Illustration: The Toilet of Helen]
As the toilet was in progress, Mrs. Marsuple, the fat manicure
and fardeuse, strode in and seated herself by the side of the
dressing-table, greeting Helen with an intimate nod. She wore a gown of
white watered silk with gold lace trimmings, and a velvet necklet of
false vermilion. Her hair hung in bandeaux over her ears, passing into
a huge chignon at the back of her head, and the hat, wide-brimmed and
hung with a vallance of pink muslin, was floral with red roses.
Mrs. Marsuple's voice was full of salacious unction; she had terrible
little gestures with the hands, strange movements with the shoulders,
a short respiration that made surprising wrinkles in her bodice, a
corrupt skin, large horny eyes, a parrot's nose, a small loose mouth,
great flaccid cheeks, and chin after chin. She was a wise person,
and Helen loved her more than any other of her servants, and had a
hundred pet names for her, such as Dear Toad, Pretty Poll, Cock Robin,
Dearest Lip, Touchstone, Little Cough Drop, Bijou, Buttons, Dear Heart,
Dick-dock, Mrs. Manly, Little Nipper, Cochon-de-lait, Naughty-naughty,
Blessed Thing, and Trump. The talk that passed between Mrs. Marsuple
and her mistress was of that excellent kind that passes between old
friends, a perfect understanding giving to scraps of phrases their full
meaning, and to the merest reference a point. Naturally Fanfreluche the
newcomer was discussed a little. Helen had not seen him yet, and asked
a score of questions on his account that were delightfully to the point.
The report and the coiffing were completed at the same moment.
"Cosmé," said Helen, "you have been quite sweet and quite brilliant,
you have surpassed yourself to-night."
"Madam flatters me," replied the antique old thing, with a girlish
giggle under his black satin mask. "Gad, Madam; sometimes I believe I
have no talent in the world, but tonight I must confess to a touch of
the vain mood."
It would pain me horribly to tell you about the painting of her
face; suffice it that the sorrowful work was accomplished; frankly,
magnificently, and without a shadow of deception.
Helen slipped away the dressing-gown, and rose before the mirror in a
flutter of frilled things. She was adorably tall and slender. Her neck
and shoulders were wonderfully drawn, and the little malicious breasts
were full of the irritation of loveliness that can never be entirely
comprehended, or ever enjoyed to the utmost. Her arms and hands were
loosely, but delicately articulated, and her legs were divinely long.
From the hip to the knee, twenty-two inches; from the knee to the heel,
twenty-two inches, as befitted a Goddess. Those who have seen Helen
only in the Vatican, in the Louvre, in the Uffizi, or in the British
Museum, can have no idea how very beautiful and sweet she looked. Not
at all like the lady in "Lemprière."
Mrs. Marsuple grew quite lyric over the dear little person, and pecked
at her arms with kisses.
"Dear Tongue, you must really behave yourself," said Helen, and called
Millamant to bring her the slippers.
The tray was freighted with the most exquisite and shapely pantoufles,
sufficient to make Cluny a place of naught. There were shoes of grey
and black and brown suede, of white silk and rose satin, and velvet and
sarcenet; there were some of sea-green sewn with cherry blossoms, some
of red with willow branches, and some of grey with bright-winged birds.
There were heels of silver, of ivory, and of gilt; there were buckles
of very precious stones set in most strange and esoteric devices;
there were ribbons tied and twisted into cunning forms; there were
buttons so beautiful that the button-holes might have no pleasure till
they closed upon them; there were soles of delicate leathers scented
with maréchale, and linings of soft stuffs scented with the juice of
July flowers. But Helen, finding none of them to her mind, called for
a discarded pair of blood-red maroquin, diapered with pearls. These
looked very distinguished over her white silk stockings.
Meantime, La Popelinière stepped forward with the frock.
"I shan't wear one to-night," said Helen. Then she slipped on her
gloves.
When the toilet was at an end all her doves clustered round her feet
loving to froler her ankles with their plumes, and the dwarfs clapped
their hands, and put their fingers between their lips and whistled.
Never before had Helen been so radiant and compelling. Spiridion, in
the corner, looked up from his game of Spellicans and trembled.
Just then, Pranzmungel announced that supper was ready upon the fifth
terrace. "Ah!" cried Helen, "I'm famished!"