Josephine, half asleep, was sitting up for her, the wax candles were guttering in their sockets, the electric light was struggling at the shutters with the sun.
“Oh, mademoiselle!” said the maid, rubbing her eyes, “I’ve been asleep, I do believe. I’ve waited to unlace your dress, though you said I need not; but I know you could never do it yourself,” beginning her task at once, whilst her equally sleepy mistress stood before the mirror and slowly removed her gloves, bangles, and diamonds, and yawned at her own reflection.
“It was splendid, mademoiselle. Jamais—pas même à Paris—did I see such a fête! I saw it well from a place behind the band. What crowds, what toilettes! but mademoiselle was the most charmante of all. Ah! there is nothing like a French dressmaker—and a good figure, bien entendu. There were some costumes that were ravishing in the ladies’ room. I helped. I saw them.”
“It went off well, I think, Josephine, and papa is pleased; but I am glad that it is over,” said her mistress, wearily. “Mind you don’t let me sleep later than twelve o’clock on any account.”
“Twelve o’clock! and it is now six!” cried Josephine in a tone of horror. “Mademoiselle, you will be knocked up—you——”
“Oh! what is this?” interrupted her mistress in a strange voice, snatching up a telegram that lay upon a table, its tan-coloured envelope as yet intact, and which had hitherto been concealed by a silver-backed hand-glass, as if it were of no importance.
“Oh, I forgot! I fell asleep, you see. It came for you at eleven o’clock last night, just as the company were arriving, and I could not disturb you. I hope it is of no consequence.”
But, evidently, it was of great consequence, for the young lady was reading it with a drawn, ghastly countenance, and her hand holding the message shook so much that the paper rattled as if in a breeze of wind.
And this is what she was reading with strained eyes. “Mrs. Holt to Miss West, 9.30.—Come immediately; there is a change.” And this was sent eight hours ago.
“Josephine,” she said, with a look that appalled the little Frenchwoman, “why did you not give me this? It is a matter of life and death. If—if,” with a queer catch in her breath, “I am too late, I shall never, never, never forgive you! Here”—with a gesture of frenzy, tearing off her dress—“take away this rag and these hateful things,” dragging the tiara out of her hair and flinging it passionately on the floor, “for which I have sold myself. Get me a common gown, woman. Quick, quick! and don’t stand looking like a fool!”