Chapter Eleven.
The Exile.
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 chère 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 acmé 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 élite 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 sucrée 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 désolée about the course that affairs have taken; she speaks to me of Sir Wilter as the enemy. Pah! she say he is old, bête, 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 indiscrét. 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—Voilà! 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 désolée on the subject of those two children. Help them, mon garçon, 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.