THE WARDROBE DRAWER
OCTOBER 9TH
_Oui, vraiment!_ One meets with some strange mistresses, and sometimes
unearths some ugly family skeletons.
I have some curious recollections of the Allardyces.
Within a fortnight of leaving the service of Madame Engleheart I found
myself engaged by Lady Allardyce, who lived with her husband, Sir Hubert
Allardyce, at Branksome Court, on the highlands above Bournemouth.
A fine house with high turrets, reminding one of a French château,
standing in beautiful, well-kept grounds; valuable old furniture, stained
glass, a host of servants, several motor-cars, and six men in the
gardens. One hundred francs a month—four pounds sterling—washing, and
beer—ugh! your English beer!
On arrival one morning very contented with my new place, her ladyship saw
me at once in her dressing-room—a pretty room with pale-green-and-cream
silk upholstery. She was a stout, full-faced, pleasant-voiced woman, with
skin just a trifle too white, her lips a little too red, hair a shade
too blonde, but nevertheless exceedingly well preserved—_frou-frouante_
even, with a certain commanding presence and, for an Englishwoman, a
considerable _chic_.
Perhaps I possess a keen eye. I have been told so.
It is only necessary for me to glance around a home, and more especially
the mistress’s dressing-room, and I can quickly form a pretty accurate
opinion of the habits and manners of the family. I rarely make a mistake,
for, be it remembered, I have had a long experience of the disorganised
existence, the intrigues, the hatred, the fevered life of Englishwomen
of the upper class. It is curious, but nevertheless a fact, that there
exists a kind of freemasonry, spontaneous yet indescribable, between the
old domestics and the newcomers. By the first look the new arrival is put
_au courant_ with the spirit of the household.
In the glance which the butler gave me on entering the back door of the
Allardyces, I read the expression: “This is a curious house, from top to
bottom. There is no security that you will remain very long. But it is
amusing, nevertheless.”
Therefore, on entering my lady’s _cabinet-de-toilette_ I was, in a
measure, prepared by the vague impressions I had gathered below—which
was, of course, nothing in particular. Only from the first moment that I
entered Branksome Court I instinctively knew that there was some mystery
within.
Lady Allardyce was writing letters at a small bureau. Upon the pale blue
carpet were thrown several white fur rugs, and the arm-chairs were snug
and cosy. In a small cabinet I noted some dainty _bric-à-brac_, while on
a pale green silk _chaise longue_ lay a pet Pekinese.
Madame, raising her blonde head, exclaimed—
“Ah! Mariette. So you have arrived—eh? You must have left London quite
early.” And she smiled pleasantly.
In her eyes showed that strange, inexpressible look which spoke mutely
of an interesting past. Have you ever noticed that expression in a
woman’s eyes—a certain deep unfathomable glance betraying a subtle
ingenuity—perhaps even double-dealing.
She rose and leisurely examined me, my face, my shoulders, and my
profile, muttering to herself from time to time.
“Ah, yes! She is really not half bad. Indeed, she is rather good-looking.
She’ll suit me. Excellent!”
Then brusquely she asked—
“Your friends live over in France, I suppose, Mariette?”
“Yes, Madame, in the Yonne,” I answered, in wonder at her manner of
speaking to herself.
As I spoke she regarded me from head to toe, then to herself said—
“Yes, she is good-looking. Decidedly handsome for a French girl.”
Next second she addressed me, saying with a smile—
“The fact is, Mariette, I never like any but good-looking girls about me.
It is so much more pleasant, so much more artistic.”
I was about to protest that my face was not so remarkably handsome. My
previous experience of mistresses had been that they had sneered at any
good features I might possess. It had only been the male servants who had
told me that I was handsome. Strange that English men-servants are so
very fond of the French _femme-de-chambre_!
But Madame continued to examine me minutely, then regarding my black
dress, she asked—
“Is that your best gown?”
“Yes, my lady,” was my reply.
“H’m! It is not very smart. I will see that you have others. Your linen,
too?” and taking my skirt in her hand she lifted it.
She said nothing, only made a grimace. She saw my English _moire jupon_,
with the flannel one beneath—in true style of the foggy island.
“No, Mariette,” she remarked at last, “I cannot allow you to go about
like that. Come, help me.”
She opened a big wardrobe, and pulling forth a long drawer full of
perfumed chiffons and delicate underwear, she emptied the contents
pell-mell upon the floor, saying—
“Take the lot to your room. No doubt they will have to be altered to
fit you, but that is only a small affair. They will all come in useful,
without a doubt.”
With murmured thanks I regarded the heap upon the floor—silk stockings,
satin corsets, underwear of finest batiste and lace, pretty blouses, and
lovely underskirts _fanfreluches_. From them arose a sweet perfume—a new
scent like a basket of fresh flowers which I had not before met with—the
perfect _odeur d’amour_.
My lady noted my confusion and said in explanation—
“You see, Mariette, I only like pretty, well-dressed girls about me. You
will note that in this house. They must all be elegant. Perhaps I am a
little exacting; indeed, it is almost a mania with me. I only like pretty
things, so all my maids are good-looking and elegant. You are dark. See!
Here is a red silk under-skirt for you. Take it, and have it altered to
fit you at once.”
“Really, Madame is extremely kind,” I managed to exclaim. “I do not
deserve all these favours. I hardly——”
“If you serve me well,” said Lady Allardyce, “you will find me a good
mistress. But, remember, never let me see you looking prim and dowdy,
like the ordinary lady’s maid. I want you always to appear _chic_ and
smart—and to use this.” And she handed me a big and expensive bottle of
one of the latest and most fashionable perfumes.
Surely it was a very remarkable situation, I thought. But Madame gave
me no time for reflection. She chatted on, in an easy, familiar, almost
maternal manner, giving me certain intimate details regarding her mode of
living. Then she showed me her bedroom adjoining, her hats, her wardrobes
and their contents, and where everything was kept. Afterwards she said—
“Every woman—no matter who, maid or mistress—should always be well
dressed.”
And then she conducted me to my own room, at the end of a long corridor
in the same wing of the house.
That evening I dressed my lady in a magnificent gown of black net and
sequins—for there was a dinner-party—and, later on, in the servants’ hall
I learnt something regarding the _ménage_.
Monsieur had been in the Diplomatic Service—British Minister to one of
the South American republics—but had retired when, by the death of a near
relative, he had inherited Branksome Court and a very comfortable income.
I met Monsieur in the up-stairs corridor late that evening. He was a
short, stout, somewhat pompous man with a red, plethoric face, a broad
expanse of shirt-front, and a tiny white moustache. His air was that of
a _bon vivant_, and his dress was smart, even dandified. His monocle was
held by a narrow black silk ribbon, and his dress-cravat was neatly tied.
He had the air of a Government official and the sturdy uprightness which
betrays the golfer.
He stared at me in surprise, but said nothing.
They entertained the _haut monde_ of Bournemouth, it seemed. I saw some
of the gowns that night. _Bon Dieu!_ they were of a style forgotten in
Paris. Truly the English _couturière_ is a droll person.
A fortnight went by. Whenever I mentioned my lady in the servants’
hall my companions shrugged their shoulders and pulled grimaces. There
was something mysterious about that _ménage_, but what it was I failed
to discover. Both Monsieur and Madame were eminently notables of
Bournemouth—that invalid town of much _réclame_. We had family prayers
each morning in the dining-room, for Monsieur was a churchwarden, and
Madame was constantly assisting at charity bazaars and church teas.
Madame always treated me with greatest consideration; and Monsieur,
I found, beneath a rather austere exterior, was extremely kind and
pleasant. He was always joking good-humouredly.
Yet the atmosphere of mystery about them increased rather than diminished.
Madame seemed, somehow, to regard me with a slight distrust. Why, I
cannot tell.
One day, however, I noticed her extremely pale and nervous. A luncheon
party she postponed by telephone on account of being unwell, and
spent all the morning in the _chaise longue_ before the fire in her
dressing-room.
“Mariette!” she called to me. “Come here. I wish to speak to you.”
“_Oui, Madame._”
“Mariette,” she went on, raising her eyes to mine, “I have come to the
conclusion that you suit me admirably, yet—yet I am still just a little
doubtful regarding your loyalty to myself.”
“Madame has no need to be anxious upon that score,” I assured her. “No
mistress has ever been more kind and considerate.”
“I like you, Mariette, because your eyes are not always upon the men.
Henry, the footman, is hanging after every girl. I note, however, that
you keep him at arm’s length, and you never look into your master’s eyes.”
“I hope, Madame, that I am not a flirt,” I said modestly. “I know my
place.”
“Well, if I trust you further, Mariette, I hope you will never betray my
confidence,” she said softly, “never tell a soul—not even the master or
any of them in the servants’ hall—eh?”
“I promise, Madame.”
“Then, I want you to do something for me this afternoon—something in
strictest confidence. Go on the Pier, and at three o’clock take a seat
in the first sheltered recess from this end, on the right-hand side
where the skating is allowed. You will carry this bag,” and she showed
me a bright mauve bag with a small watch let into the side. “The person
you will meet will recognise you by this. You will either take a verbal
message for me, or else you will be given a note. Will you assist me in
strictest confidence?”
“Of course, I will do exactly as Madame orders,” was my quick response,
for my curiosity was now aroused.
_Eh bien!_ I went to the Pier, found the seat indicated, and settled
myself upon it, displaying my mauve bag. A strong east wind was blowing,
and the band was playing to a rather poor audience. I eyed each passer-by
expectantly, but without result, until I began to fear that the
mysterious appointment would not be kept.
At last a queer, ill-dressed little old woman in faded black bonnet and
shabby jacket, trimmed with rabbit’s-fur, hobbled along and took a seat
beside me.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, in a low, squeaky voice. “You are Lady Allardyce’s
new maid, I see—the French girl we’ve heard about—eh?”
I admitted that I was.
“Will you give your mistress this message—that Mr. Charles must have what
she promised to-night. He will wait for her in the Invalids’ Walk at nine
o’clock. He must see her. It is most urgent.”
“Is that all?” I asked.
“Yes, young woman,” was her snappy response. “Tell her that. She’ll
understand.” And the ugly old person gave vent to a low, dry laugh. When,
half-an-hour later, I stood in Madame’s boudoir and gave her the message,
she went pale to the lips.
“I go to the Invalids’ Walk at night! I—I can’t do that!” she cried.
“It’s monstrous! Why, I should be recognised in an instant. No, Mariette,
you must go and meet him—humour him—make love to him, if necessary—for my
sake.”
“I do not understand Madame’s meaning,” I said much puzzled.
“Simply this, Mariette. The gentleman in question admires a pretty
face—and—well, I shall not be in the least annoyed if you flirt with him.”
“But—Madame——”
“Ah, of course, you cannot understand!” she exclaimed. “Well, this
gentleman and I are—are very great friends. Sir Hubert must never
know—you understand? My future, Mariette, is in your hands. If—if any
discovery were ever made you could easily declare that the gentleman was
your lover—that he came to Bournemouth—to this house in order to visit
you—eh?”
“And by such declaration save Madame’s reputation?” I remarked.
“_Parfaitement!_”
My lady nodded. I saw by her manner that she was terribly anxious. That
old woman’s message was suspiciously like a threat.
That night, at nine o’clock, I sauntered along the Invalids’ Walk, that
pretty pine-clad valley through which the Bourne brook flows, where, by
day, pale-faced consumptives enjoy the sunshine and by night amorous
couples stroll beneath the electric lamps.
I sat upon a seat beneath one of the lamps, and displayed my violet
bag, when, after ten minutes or so, a tall, well-dressed, refined, and
extremely good-looking man, glanced at me in surprise, crossed, and
seated himself beside me. He was about my own age, and had the easy
manner of a gentleman.
“You are Mariette, I presume?” he asked, lifting his hat politely.
Then, when I admitted that I was, and that I bore a message from Madame,
he laughed, and with a sigh exclaimed—
“More excuses, I suppose?”
I explained that Madame feared recognition, but that she would meet him
on the following night at ten o’clock, in the lower grounds of Branksome
Court, at a spot I indicated.
He smiled faintly, apparently disappointed; but next instant the shadow
passed, and he looked at me with merry, mischievous glance.
He was pleased to meet me, he declared. He liked French people. He had
heard of me, and he hoped I was happy with Madame. _Et patati ... et
patata!_
And, in the end, he invited me to take a stroll with him, which I did.
He was _très gentil_, was Monsieur. And yet was it not strange that I,
Madame’s maid, was walking out with Madame’s lover? _Oh là! là!_
Truly the _ménage_ of the Allardyces was a strange one.
We went for quite a long walk through the gardens in the direction of
Branksome Court, and once or twice he placed his hand upon my arm to
emphasise his words, and squeezed it.
He had travelled a great deal. I, who have been about, and know
Continental hotels pretty well, am quick to realise the cosmopolitan.
Monsieur Charles was a man after my own heart. Perhaps I might have
fallen in love with him, only—well, I was only a _femme-de-chambre_. His
name was Shaw—Charlie Shaw—he told me. He lived sometimes in London, but
was mostly on the Continent. And he spoke French very well.
“You will, I hope, Mariette, be good and faithful to Madame,” he said,
growing serious again. “She has had much trouble with her maids. The last
was far too flighty, and aroused Madame’s jealousy. Sir Hubert is only
human, after all, and few men can resist a pretty face. The worst of it
is that Lady Allardyce will always have good-looking girls about her.”
“That is not judicious,” I laughed, “if Monsieur is susceptible.”
“Exactly. Well, good-bye, Mariette,” he said, suddenly halting. “Here’s
something to buy yourself a pair of gloves.” And he pressed into my hand
half a louis in English.
When, later, I told Madame of what had transpired she seemed greatly
relieved.
Next evening, Monsieur—poor unsuspicious Monsieur—had some men friends
in to smoke, and Madame retired early, pleading _migraine_. Then swiftly
she slipped on a dark gown and crept through the conservatory, while I
remained on guard. Afterwards, when I had seen her flit down the drive in
the shadows, and on down the step hill among the pines, I breathed more
freely, and stood gazing away to where the myriad lights of Bournemouth
lay deep in the valley by the sea.
An hour later the butler locked the conservatory door, but when he had
gone I unlocked it again, and in the darkness awaited Madame’s return.
When we had mounted to her dressing-room I noticed that her eyes were red
and swollen. She was very nervous, and had been crying. Why, I wondered?
Had she quarrelled with Monsieur Charles?
Three weeks went by uneventfully. My lady never mentioned Mr. Shaw; yet I
saw that, day after day, she seemed to grow paler and more apprehensive.
For hours she would sit in her boudoir staring into the fire without
uttering a word. Something was seriously troubling her.
Twice she went on mysterious visits to London unknown to Monsieur. Why?
One afternoon, when Madame had gone out _en automobile_ with Monsieur,
for a run through the New Forest, I chanced to note that in one of the
drawers in the big wardrobe—a drawer which Madame always kept locked—the
key had been inadvertently left.
As my lady had told me that particular drawer was her private one,
which the key to the others would not fit, my curiosity, naturally, was
aroused, and, unlocking it, I ventured to peer within.
Its contents were what I might have expected—quantities of old letters
done up in bundles and many odds-and-ends, souvenirs without doubt. As I
turned them over I came across a photograph of Mr. Shaw, evidently taken
some years before; but, when my fingers touched the bottom of the drawer,
it sounded hollow. Then I noticed that it was more shallow than it should
be. It had a false bottom! What secrets of Madame’s were concealed below?
Quickly I drew out the drawer, removed the contents, and with some
manipulation lifted out the mahogany board, when my eyes fell upon a
miscellaneous collection of jewels, splendid diamond necklaces, ornaments
for the corsage, brooches of rubies and emeralds, hundreds of fine rings
and bracelets set with diamonds, sapphires, opals and emeralds, together
with several screwed-up packets of newspaper. One of the latter I opened.
It was full of unset stones, most of them of great size and value.
As I took up the treasures by handfuls I found beneath them a small, but
very serviceable plated revolver, several curious-looking steel tools
such as I had never seen before, and a black velvet _loup_, or half-mask,
such as is worn at the carnival balls in the Midi.
_Figurez-vous_ my blank astonishment! Was this secret hoard the proceeds
of many robberies? Some of the larger stones in the more costly ornaments
had been knocked from their settings, while the revolver, the mask, and
the burglarious implements told their own tale.
Was Madame, the exemplary wife of his Excellency the ex-Minister,
actually a jewel thief? _Quelle drôle d’idée!_
I placed one of the diamond necklets around my own throat and went to
the mirror to admire it. May I be forgiven! Even in the grey light of
afternoon the stones were full of fire. To whom, I wondered, had it
belonged?
As I stood staring at my reflection, I suddenly heard Madame’s voice
speaking with Monsieur. She was ascending the stairs slowly, on account
of her heart. Quick as lightning I tore off the jewels, replaced the
false bottom in the drawer, flung in the letters and odds-and-ends, and
locked it back in its place.
Then, throwing myself into the chair near the fire, I sank my chin upon
my breast, and closed my eyes in pretence of being asleep.
All this was accomplished none too quickly, for next instant my lady
swept into the room.
“Why, Mariette!” she cried. “Asleep! How lazy! I thought you were at
needle-work!”
I stirred slowly, opened my eyes in surprise, and then jumped up, as
though startled.
“_Pardon, Madame!_” I exclaimed. “I—I was not very well, and I must have
dropped off to sleep.”
But my lady only gave vent to a grunt of disapprobation, and I at once
began my duties, helping her off with her motor-coat and veil.
Suddenly her eye caught the key in the drawer, and she started, glancing
apprehensively at me; but, without remark, she removed it and locked it
safely in her jewel-case.
_Peugh!_ it was this mystery which I had scented ever since I had crossed
the threshold of the Allardyces. _Eh bien!_ I would watch.
One day I overheard Monsieur and Madame having a few high words.
“Well?” I heard Madame exclaim angrily. “You married me for my money,
after all! Why treat me to all these long eulogies of your first wife?
They are really wearisome, Hubert. I don’t know how you would have got on
without my money. Why, you’d have been in the Bankruptcy Court long ago!”
And they jangled on as they sometimes did, each trying to mix politeness
with sarcasm. Every _femme-de-chambre_ quickly learns the family secrets.
Most mistresses have manias in more or less pronounced form. Some have a
mania for cleanliness, some for wearing jewels, some for perfumes, some
for economy, and some for fresh air. The mania of Lady Allardyce was the
elegant dressing of her maids, who, when they went down into the town,
presented the appearance of ladies.
And yet the kitchen fare was of the plainest, even most wretched
description.
Bournemouth society is a curious set—circles within circles. The
retired butcher’s wife from Manchester will not know the retired
baker’s wife from Newcastle. It apes Brighton, and yet is so horribly
provincial—suburbanly provincial. Ah! yes, the English are a droll
people. Oh! the churches and chapels and the Sunday silk hats in
Bournemouth, the big prayer-books carried to Sunday parade, and the ugly
old ladies who hold little courts because they happen to be wives of
Jubilee knights! _Extraordinaire!_
And Madame was the centre of it all.
Day after day, as I dressed my lady or undressed her, handed her her
face-cream—which I got for her from Paris—sewed lace into her blouses, or
repaired her _lingerie_, I used to glance at that locked drawer in the
wardrobe—and wonder.
One evening she sent me at eight o’clock to the Arcade, there to meet
Monsieur Charles.
He was punctual, smart, well-dressed, _très gentil_ as ever. He greeted
me merrily, and as we walked out of the light and along the main street
he handed me a small brown-paper packet for Madame. I felt something hard
inside.
He plied me with many questions concerning Madame—and Monsieur—yet
somehow, in what manner I could not tell, he seemed to have altered.
“Mariette,” he said earnestly at last, “I want to take you into my
confidence. The fact is that Madame refuses to see me, and sends you as
her deputy. Now I must see her. I want to speak with her very seriously.
Will you help me?”
“Help you, m’sieur?” I exclaimed. “How?”
“If Lady Allardyce will not come to see me, then I must go to see her,”
was his reply. “I shall be near the conservatory door at twelve o’clock
to-morrow night. You must be there, Mariette, to let me in and conduct me
to her.”
“_Ah, non_, m’sieur, impossible!”
“I say yes, Mariette,” he declared, with a quiet smile, patting me upon
the shoulder. “You will be there to meet me—at twelve o’clock.”
“Not if Madame objects.”
“Lady Allardyce will not meet me out because she fears recognition. She
will not object to meeting me in her own house—if you take care that Sir
Hubert knows nothing,” he added meaningly.
“It is as Madame wishes,” I said, and then, with a cheery laugh, he
squeezed my hand. At the corner of Branksome Park Road we parted, and
half-an-hour later I gave Madame the little packet—a little present,
without a doubt. She made a little grimace.
_Oui, vraiment_, I was in the midst of an ingenious intrigue. Nobody
would suspect Madame of possessing a lover.
Next night, when every one had retired and all was quiet, I unlocked the
conservatory door, and Monsieur Charles, creeping silently across the
lawn, entered noiselessly, and was conducted by me to Madame’s boudoir
where she received him.
I heard her affectionate greeting, how she kissed him fondly as soon as
he entered.
Then I discreetly withdrew to the head of the broad, thickly-carpeted
staircase, taking up my post in the darkness, ready to warn Madame should
unsuspecting Monsieur by chance emerge from his room, which was on the
opposite side of the house. _Pauvre Monsieur!_
The lady of the house can do little, indeed, without the connivance of
her _femme-de-chambre_. The judicious husband is the one always friendly
and generous with his wife’s maid—if he wishes to know what transpires in
his absence.
The quiet was unbroken save for the slow, solemn ticking of the big
grandfather clock below in the front hall, and I suppose I had been there
for perhaps a quarter of an hour when, of a sudden, I heard a sound
below, and peeping over the balustrade, was, to my amazement, the flash
of a bull’s-eye lantern.
Two strange men were moving noiselessly, having entered, I suppose, by
the conservatory. They were conversing in whispers.
In fright, I slipped along to Madame’s boudoir, and tapped, interrupting
a _tête-à-tête_, saying in a low whisper, “It is I—Mariette!”
Whereupon, in alarm, my lady at once opened the door, quietly asking what
was the matter.
I told her of the two strangers below in the hall, when, in an instant,
Monsieur Charles’s face went as pale as death.
“Then they have seen me!” he gasped. “They are here! I’m lost!”
“You must escape—fly!” Madame urged, white and trembling. “Down the back
stairs.”
“Yes,” he said hoarsely, “they must not arrest me here. They’ve followed
me from Paris! I suspected it when I was watched on the Calais boat. But
they must not take me here. Think of the terrible scandal—_for you_!”
“Arrest?” I gasped, looking from one to the other. “Are those men the
police?”
“I fear they are, Mariette,” said Madame. “But I will go below and speak
to them while you get Mr. Charles out by the stairs, past the butler’s
room.”
It was an exciting moment, for on the slightest noise Madame’s husband
would most certainly appear.
I slipped forth from the room, followed by Monsieur Charles on tip-toe,
and we had traversed the whole length of the dark corridor without a
sound.
_Ah! Quel malheur! Quel grand malheur!_ We were suddenly confronted by
the two men who had come up the staircase we intended to descend! The
lantern was flashed full into our faces.
“I am a police officer,” exclaimed the elder of the pair, “and I arrest
you, George Gamlen, _alias_ Shaw, upon a warrant issued in Paris for
the theft of certain jewellery belonging to the Baronne Veuillot, at
Versailles, and upon other similar charges.”
“Hush!” I cried. “_Dieu!_ not so loud. You will wake Sir Hubert!”
At that instant Madame flew along to me, and, taking me aside, whispered,
“Say that Mr. Charles is your lover. It will clear me when they give
evidence at the police court.”
Therefore, in accordance with her wishes, I pretended to be deeply in
love with the prisoner, and admitted that he had come to the house in
order to visit me clandestinely.
“Make no noise, _messieurs_!” I urged frantically. “_Bon Dieu!_ I shall
be dismissed!”
“I think, Lady Allardyce, that this arrest is rather opportune,” said the
detective to Madame when we were in the hall below a few moments later,
and out of hearing. “This gentleman probably had an eye upon your jewels
also. We have ascertained that he has been in the habit of crossing from
France and coming here to Bournemouth, and that the Paris police strongly
suspect that he has carried with him stolen property from time to time.
Has he given any of it to you, mademoiselle?” inquired the detective,
turning to me. “If so, your best plan would be to restore it at once, or
you, too, may find yourself under arrest.”
“He has never given me any jewellery,” I declared with truth.
Then we entered the dark drawing-room. There was a pathetic leave-taking
between us, and we watched the detectives and their prisoner pass out of
the conservatory into the night.
Next evening the papers reported how, at Bow Street, the police had
given evidence of arresting one of the most daring jewel thieves in
Europe at Branksome Court, Bournemouth, where he had gone to visit the
French _femme-de-chambre_, but ostensibly to commit a robbery. The police
declared the prisoner to be an Englishman of good birth and head of a
dangerous and most ingenious gang, who had been responsible for many
great jewel robberies during the past four or five years.
A week later Monsieur and Madame suddenly left Bournemouth for a long
tour in India and Japan, Madame’s doctor having ordered her abroad as
she was suffering from nerves.
After I had packed her trunks, Madame made me a very handsome present and
told me, with deep regret, that Monsieur would not allow her—after the
scandal of Monsieur Charles’s visit to me—to keep me in her service.
Therefore I must leave her. _Eh bien!_ It was only what I had expected.
“But, Mariette,” she added, her hand placed tenderly upon my shoulder as
she looked straight into my eyes, “you have saved me! Sir Hubert knows
nothing—he suspects nothing. He must never suspect the truth. Heaven
knows, I have tried all I could to shield Mr. Charles, to hide his
thefts, to assist him—ah! to reform him! But, alas! all to no purpose.
Poor Charles! You may imagine what I feel—my chagrin, my sorrow—what a
terrible blow all this has been to me. Charles is—_is my son_!”
Three months later Monsieur Charles was transported from Paris to Devil’s
Island, and for aught I know to the contrary, the stolen jewels still
repose in the bottom of that locked wardrobe drawer at Branksome Court.
_Flûte!_