Hugo was secretly furious with his old associates; they had not shown half enough enthusiasm; with regard to his bride, their congratulations had been tepid. He had expected them to figuratively prostrate themselves, and worship the girl he had delighted to honour; and as for the outer world, he anticipated that they would crane their necks, or even mount on chairs (as in the case of a renowned beauty) in order to catch sight of the famous Mrs. Blagdon!
He stared over at Letty, seated a little aloof from Lola and Lord Robbie,—who had now been joined by two vivacious ladies, and a man resembling a brigand chief. Yes, she certainly was a bit out of the picture, among these well-dressed, well-corseted, animated women; there was no liqueur glass by her, no cigarette between her lips, her hands were tightly clasped in her lap, and she looked for all her lovely face, forlorn and badly dressed,—the picture of conscious insignificance. Her attitude, too, not lounging in careless ease, but cramped up, with her feet tucked under her chair, suggested a fear of mice. There were no mice in this magnificent lounge. The truth he could divine. Letty was afraid of her guests—a pretty condition for a hostess!
Lady Slater’s criticisms were not thrown away; for the following day, the amazed and indignant Tucker received her wages and her congé. Mrs. Corbett had, for her part, kindly undertaken to find a good French maid, also to help Letty to select several really fashionable hats and gowns.
“For goodness’ sake get her something she can be seen in,” urged Blagdon; “frocks that will make all the neighbours open their eyes—le dernier cri—and that sort of thing, real smart. Money no object!”
As the atelier of Madame Tartare was close to their hotel, the two ladies proceeded thither on foot. They were received by a dignified man-servant, and conducted up a great staircase into a lofty suite of rooms, carpeted with moss-green Axminster, and lined with long mirrors and presses. After a moment’s delay, Madame appeared, a middle-aged woman with a clever face and a marvellously fitting gown: all gracious exclamations and gestures of welcome, until she realised that her chère Madame Corbett had come not in peace, but in war!
As Letty listened to her companion’s denunciations, she felt terrified; never had she assisted at such a scene, or beheld anyone make such an absolute surrender to fury. What a frantic temper, who could withstand it? How could anyone cope with such violent vituperation, such frenzied threats? She felt half inclined to creep out of sight, and hide herself in one of the great wardrobes.
Meanwhile Mrs. Corbett figuratively brandishing the copied gown, raged and stormed: in voluble French she rent the discomfited dressmaker, who presently finding spirit and speech, in ten times more fluent language, poured forth her plausible apologies. The uproar was such, that milliners and mannequins assembled at a discreet distance, in order to hear and to see.
“Tiens! c’était Madame Cor—bett—quelle femme!”
After a time the battle waned, the fury of the customer abated. She had gained her point, the gown was to be taken back!
Deceitful Tartare, believing Madame had departed for England, had ventured to make several copies of what was termed “La Robe Odalisque.”