It seemed to Camille that she would go frantic with suspense, it was so
long before Finette came.
Never had the thin, sallow face and beady black eyes of the French maid
looked so welcome.
“Finette, I am in bitter trouble. I sent for you to come back in
defiance of my husband’s wishes, for I shall need your help--if,
indeed, there is any help for me,” she said, quickly.
Finette protested that she was ready to go to the ends of the earth to
serve her generous mistress.
“I will tell you all my trouble,” said Camille. “I stayed at the Hotel
Française while my husband’s protégée was ill with scarlet fever. There
was a nobleman there, Lord Stuart. He seemed to admire me very much,
and paid me more attention than any other lady there. We became great
friends. I own I flirted with Lord Stuart, but it was an innocent
affair--nothing culpable, I vow.”
“I understand. But m’sieur became jealous,” Finette said,
intelligently, as her mistress paused.
“Exactly, Finette. We had a stormy interview to-day. My husband accused
me of the worst. He swore that he would chastise Lord Stuart to-night
in order to publish my alleged disgrace, and that afterward he would
take steps to procure a divorce from me.”
“And miladi--she is against the divorce?” asked the maid.
“How can you ask such a question, Finette? Surely you know I love him
more than life itself. If I lose him I shall die.”
Finette looked with polite cynicism at the burning dark eyes in the
marble-white face. She did not believe that any one was likely to die
for love. She had read Shakespeare:
“Men have died and worms have eaten them,
But not for love.”
“But, then, what can you do with that silly boy?” she said, curtly.
“That is for you to tell me. I depend upon you, Finette, to help me,
you are so worldly wise, so clever. Oh, try to keep him from getting a
divorce, and I will make you rich, Finette!”
“If madame would take my advice she would jump at the divorce from that
proud and silly boy--she would marry the nobleman,” insinuatingly.
“Finette, you are stupid, you are ridiculous! Do I not tell you I adore
Norman de Vere? I want you to help me regain his love and ward off
a divorce, not to advise me to marry some one else!” Camille cried,
stamping her dainty foot in sudden fury.
Finette smiled a little contemptuously, but with a few well-chosen
words she smoothed the beauty’s ruffled feathers, and inspired her with
some degree of hope.
“Now, let me do up your hair, and I will try to think how I can help
you,” she said.
She brushed and arranged the long, wavy red hair with deft fingers, her
fertile French brain busy.
“You are sure, miladi, you have told me all the cause of disagreement?”
“Yes,” unblushingly.
“Monsieur will not believe you are innocent?”
“No; he is so furious with anger, so blinded with jealousy, he will not
listen to one word.”
“And he will sue for a divorce on grounds of a guilty flirtation with
milord?”
“Yes.”
“You will plead not guilty?”
“Of course.”
“Then you will file one counter-charge against _votre
mari_--infidelity, of course, and cruel outrage, bringing dat
child--dat illegitimate--under your roof, refusal to take it away,
brutal disregard of your tender feelings,” Finette mused, softly; and
there was silence for a few moments.
Then Camille said, petulantly:
“But I do not see how that is to prevent the divorce. I--I--do not want
to villify my husband publicly. I would rather make up our quarrel
quietly. I have been hard upon him always. I can see that now, and I
can hardly blame him for resenting it at last. Oh, God! I will humble
myself in the dust at his feet--I will hear anything rather than to be
put away from him forever.”
“Even to a temporary separation?” Finette hazarded.
“Even that--so it should be temporary alone,” agreed Camille.
“Then, miladi, I think we can manage it.”
“How?”
“You must write m’sieur a letter. Plead all your love and innocence.
Tell him you will consent to a separation, but not a divorce. Threaten
to make a scandal about the child, and blacken his name unless he
agrees to your terms. You know his family pride. He will shrink from
exposure--he will agree to your terms.”
“Clever Finette! Oh, what a brain you have! But after--what then?”
“We will go abroad, you and I. We will let your boy-husband severely
alone for a little while. He adored you once--he will not forget you.
The scandal will die out, and you will lead a nun’s life. He will be
touched, sorry; he will hear of you at last breaking your heart in
seclusion for him, and, _voilà!_ there will be a reconciliation.”
Finette had poured out those sentences excitedly, with a mixture of
French gestures and phrases impossible to translate. Camille listened
breathlessly, her eyes on fire, her cheeks aglow.
“Oh, you give me new hope, you clever creature! Only help me to bring
it about as you say, and I will make you rich!” she repeated, appealing
to the maid’s ruling passion.