Sir Maurice Jettan stood in the withdrawing-room of the Hotel Cleone
and studied himself in the glass. He smiled a little and straightened
his shoulders.
There came a swish of skirts in the passage without, and the door
opened. In walked Cleone, a fair vision in a gown of pure white satin
and lace.
Sir Maurice turned. He raised his quizzing-glass the better to inspect
his daughter-in-law.
"Upon my soul, Cleone!" he ejaculated.
Cleone swept him a curtsey, laughing.
"Is it not ridiculous? Philip insisted. Wait till you see him!" She ran
to the mirror. "Do you like the way my hair is dressed, father?"
"I am struck dumb by the whole effect!" answered Sir Maurice. "Yes, I
like that white rose in your hair."
"Oh, you must tell Philip that! He spent hours and hours trying
to place it to his entire satisfaction! It has been terrible, _je
t'assure_. Yes, I am beginning to acquire an accent, am I not? Philip
nearly tore his beautiful wig in his anxiety!" She re-arranged the
roses at her breast. "At one time I expected him to summon François to
his assistance. But he refrained, and here am I!"
Sir Maurice sat down.
"Has he been dressing you, my dear?"
"Has he--! For the past three hours, sir! He has driven my maid
distracted." She started to count on her fingers. "He spent half an
hour superintending my hair-dressing and another half an hour placing
this rose and the pearls. Then half an hour went to my patches--this is
when he nearly tore his wig!--he could not decide where to put them.
The arrangement of my gown occupied quite an hour in all. And then he
was much put out over my jewels." She held up her fingers. "I vow they
are red and sore, sir! I have had rings pushed on them, and dragged
off them, until I was nigh screaming with impatience! But now I am
dressed--and I have been told on pain of Philip's direst wrath to _n'y
toucher pas_!" She sat down on the couch beside Sir Maurice and slipped
her hand in his. "Is he not absurd? And oh, I am prodigious nervous!"
"Why, my dear? What should make you so?"
"You see, it is my first appearance in Paris--it is to be my first
ball--and I am so afraid I shall not understand what is said to me,
or--or something mortifying!"
"Not understand? Nonsense, Clo! Why, you have talked hardly any English
since you have been married."
"Yes, but I am not at all fluent. Philip says everyone will be most
amiable, but--oh, dear!"
At that moment François darted into the room, a harassed frown on his
face.
"Ah, _pardon, madame! Pardon, m'sieu'! Je cherche la tabatière de
m'sieu' Philippe!_"
"_Laquelle?_" asked Cleone. Sir Maurice was amused by her serious air.
"The one with the pearls?"
"_Mais oui, madame._ It is this fool of a Jacques who has lost it,
_sans doute_! Ah, _la voilà_!" He seized the errant box and skipped out
again. Cleone breathed a sigh of relief.
"How terrible if it had been really lost!" she said.
Sir Maurice laughed.
"Would it have been so great a catastrophe?"
"But of course! It matches his dress, you understand."
"I see." Sir Maurice smothered another laugh. "My dear, do you know
that it is three years since last I was in this city of cities?"
"Is it? Don't you think it is a wonderful place? Philip took me for a
walk yesterday, and I was enchanted! And this house--I know I shall
never bear to leave it! Philip says that the Hotel Cleone will be the
most fashionable one in Paris! I was so surprised when he brought me
here! I had no idea that there was a house waiting for me. He and
François got all ready the week before our marriage! I've never been so
happy in my life! And to-night I am to see Philip in what he calls his
milieu. He tells me he was never at home in London."
"Philip in his milieu. Paris." Sir Maurice smiled down at her. "When I
think of what Philip was not quite a year ago...."
"It seems impossible, doesn't it? But oh, I am glad now that I sent him
away. He is quite, quite perfect!"
"H'm!" said Sir Maurice.
Cleone laughed at him.
"You pretend! I know how proud you are!"
"Minx! I confess I am curious to see Philip in his Parisian Society. No
one knows that he is here?"
"Not a soul. He insisted on guarding the secret until he could make a
really dramatic appearance at the Duchesse de Sauverin's ball to-night.
He is mad, you know, quite mad! Oh, here he is!"
Philip came into the room with a rustle of stiff silks. Sir Maurice
started at him.
"Good God, Philip, what audacity!"
From head to foot his son was clad in white. The only splash of colour
was the red heels of his shoes; his only jewels were pearls and
diamonds; on the lapel of his coat he wore a single white rose.
"Isn't it ridiculous?" said Cleone. "But doesn't he look beautiful?"
"Stand up, child, and let me see you side by side.... Yes. What
audacity! Had I known, I would have attired myself in black--the old
man at the ball."
"'Twould have made an excellent foil," agreed Philip. "But no matter.
Cleone, you have re-arranged your roses!"
Cleone backed, warding him off.
"I cry your pardon, sir! Oh no, let me be!"
Philip came to her, and with deft fingers pulled the flowers into
position.
"One of them must kiss your skin, so! To show that it is no whiter than
the skin. _Voilà, c'est bien!_"
"Who is likely to be at the ball to-night, Philip?" asked his father.
"_Tout le monde._ One always goes to Madame de Sauverin's balls. It is
de rigueur."
"We shall be late!" warned Cleone. "Oh, we are late now!"
"That is also de rigueur," said Philip.
"Sir Maurice, _M'sieu', et Madame Jettan_!" announced the lackey.
There was a sudden hush. All eyes turned to the late-comers. In the
doorway stood a tall gentleman, at his side two dazzling visions in
white.
Madame de Sauverin stared for a moment in wonderment. Then she hurried
forward, hands outstretched.
"Philippe!"
"Philippe! _Le petit_ Philippe!" A score of voices took up the cry.
Nearly everyone there surged forward.
Philip kissed Madame's hand.
"_Chère madame!_ I may present my wife? My father you know."
Cleone curtseyed low.
"Your--wife!" Madame took Cleone's hands. "_Voyons, voyons, notre petit
Philippe s'est_ éspousé! _Et Maurice!_"
Philip and Cleone were at the centre of a welcoming throng. Cleone's
hand was kissed a dozen times. Delighted questions were shot at Philip.
Saint-Dantin grasped his hand.
"_Mon cher petit!_ You have returned at last? _Et madame!_" He bowed
to the blushing Cleone. "There is no need to ask who is, _madame_." He
smiled at her. "It is evident that her name is Cleone!"
De Vangrisse pressed forward.
"The mysterious Cleone! _Madame, votre serviteur!_ We have all longed
to see the lady who so consistently held Philip's heart!"
"Philippe, how long have you been in Paris?" demanded De Chatelin. "You
are going to remain? _Ah bon!_"
"Philippe, have you an ode for the occasion?" asked another laughing
voice.
Clothilde de Chaucheron pushed through the ring.
"_Le petit Philippe au c[oe]ur perdu!_" she cried.
Philip disengaged himself from the clutches of Saint-Dantin and took
his wife's hand.
"_Mademoiselle de Chaucheron, chérie_," he said, and bowed.
Clothilde gazed at Cleone for a moment. Then she swept a deep curtsey.
"_Je me trompe_," she said, smiling. "_Le petit Philippe au c[oe]ur
trouvé._"