CONCLUSION.—CHAPTER X.
Madame Mélanie was a milliner much affected in aristocratic and financial circles.
Finance sympathises with Hungary, Poland, and oppressed nationalities, and Mélanie appertained to this section of mortality. Moreover, she made dresses beautifully, and the employment of her gratified the double sentiments of charity and vanity.
Mélanie was the daughter of a French maid-servant, in the service of a Hungarian lady. Brought up in her maternal profession—for her sire was not known—she lived under the roof of her Hungarian mistress till what she was pleased to call the “Hongarian Strockle.” Of this event she narrated striking scenes. Assuming to herself the name of her mistress, whom she had betrayed, she told how Haynau had threatened her with chastisement, and how, barefooted, she had reached a place of safety. More than once she had been invited to publish her adventures, but she was far too wise. Her ancient nobility obtained for her much greater consideration as a seamstress, and a better livelihood than Kossuth himself could procure; and in the humility of her station she was more free from detection than in a more elevated sphere.
She had begun poorly enough—working away gradually, and accumulating capital by labour and saving, by gifts from her patronesses, and also by occasionally abstracting small pieces of jewellery and money from the aristocratic dressing-rooms to which, in her capacity as a distressed noblewoman, she obtained freer access than others of her equals. True, she soon gave up the latter pursuit. Not only was it dangerous, but increasing business, by removing her from want, enabled her to resist temptation. Still she derived considerable emolument from what Italian servants term “incerti.” She did not object, for a consideration, to usurp the office of the Postmaster-General, nor did she refuse the shelter of her roof when business or charity required an interview between opulent monades of opposite sexes. On the whole, Madame Mélanie is a deserving creature. The sums she spends in alms astound the more credulous of her customers. She has sent more than one packet of linen to the lying-in hospital of the parish, and the initial “M., through a friend,” for Garibaldi’s muskets, has been traced to the same benefic source. She will not marry again, for she never can forget the Count of her early days, when they lived and loved in Hungary; but a French courier, about three years younger than herself, dwells in her house under the designation of adopted son, keeps her accounts, and transacts business with her solicitor.
Such was the person let loose in her respectable household by that careful mother, Lady Coxe. ’Ungary has done much for many disreputable foreigners. The respectability of a few has floated the depravity of the many.
On the credit of a lying assumption, Madame Mélanie had access to the homes and toilet-tables of England which would be denied to any respectable Englishwoman of the same class, however deserving.
“Good morning, Mélanie,” said Lady Coxe, as she lay back in her chaise longue.
“Good morning, miladi—always so charmante and gracieuse.”
“Git along, Mélanie,” replied miladi, playfully: when away from her daughters she laid aside that staidness of demeanour maintained before them towards her inferiors.
“Mélanie, we are going to Lady Ilminster’s dejooner.”
“Miladi go everywhere fashionable.”
“Oh yes, Mélanie, and I don’t know ’ow ever I shall be able to bear up against it. I feel so exhausted.”
“Oh, miladi does not care herself.”
“What can I do, Mélanie?—I feel so weak!”
“Miladi look very pale.”
“I think I must send for Dr Leadbitter.”
“If miladi would take a little drop of port-wine once or twice in the day.”
“You really think so, Mélanie?”
“Yes truly, miladi.”
“Just like a good creature open that cupboard. I always keep a bottle there in case Sir Jehoshaphat should drop in; you will find a glass. Per’aps there are two. Bring them, Mélanie, and take a glass yourself.”
The seamstress did as she was bid, and, placing the decanter and glasses respectfully on the table and in the manner of a skilled practician, she sat herself down in the same deferential attitude near her employer.
Lady Coxe took a bumper; then she took another, and declared herself better.
Madame Mélanie’s first glass was not half emptied.
“Well, Mélanie, what would you advise about my dress for this party? You know it is to be very shwosi.”
“Miladi shall be the best dressed and the youngest-looking miladi in the house.”
“Git along, Mélanie,” retorted miladi, stealthily filling herself another bumper.
A flush pervaded the cheek of the matron. Perhaps it was of pride.
“Miladi, I recommend moire antique—magenta, with quilled ribbons—chapeau of blonde with magenta trimmings—parasol to match.”
“Your taste is so good, Mélanie.”
“Magenta so well become miladi. Bootiful complexion—she young as Miss Constance.”
“Oh, you flattering thing! but what will you give my daughters—the Miss Coxes.”
“Oh, I talk to them myself. They not be Miss Coxe long, I think. Miss Florence make a very nice bride, and Miss Constance bootiful Comtesse.”
“Git along; but what do you mean? Fill your glass.” Lady Coxe as a fugleman showed the way.
“They tell me such a ’andsome man want to marry her—noble and rich.”
“English or furrin, Mélanie?”
“Not English.”
“You know ’im to be rich?”
“Oh yes, I know him rich. Miladi know poor woman like me obliged to make affair with all sort of people. One of my customers, Mademoiselle Dulaugier of Opera Comique. I send all her bill to Comte Rabelais, and he pay, what you call, on the nail.”
“Very satisfactory,” responded Lady Coxe. “Let me ’ope Constance may be the means of leading ’im to better things.”
“Indeed, let us hope so,” said Mélanie, and this time she held her glass to her lips for some seconds, though the liquid within was not much diminished.
“Nothing is settled, believe me, Mélanie. But then the world is talking of it.”
“Of nothing else. Who occupy London so much as your family, miladi? The Duchesse of Wiltshire, when I go to her, say to me, ‘Mélanie, tell me all about that bootiful Miladi Coques and her bootiful family. None so bootiful as the mother.’”
At this moment the door admitted Florence and Constance.
Mélanie rose in admiration.
“What bootiful colour! What roses in cheeks.”
The girls acknowledged her salute, and the rose left the cheek of Constance.
Mélanie whispered Lady Coxe, “I will make for Mademoiselle Constance bootiful dress like used to wear La Dulaugier—the Comte’s own choice.”
“Mélanie is come to take orders for Lady Ilminster’s dejooner.”
“I shall have a very simple dress,” said Florence.
“And so shall I,” chimed in Constance, in a voice low and tremulous.
“Impossible!” broke in the seamstress—“impossible!”
“Nonsense!” said Lady Coxe.
“You will ruin Constance, Mélanie,” retorted Florence.
“Mademoiselle Constance will marry a rich man, and think nothing of the trifles she spends now,” responded Mélanie, somewhat tartly.
“You know what to make,” said Lady Coxe, in a voice that admitted of no reply.
With an obsequious courtesy Mélanie left the room, and Constance, retiring to her own chamber, threw herself on her bed and wept bitterly.