“No, no!” He shook his head and his fat cheeks bulged with a smile which I believe he intended to express a respectful roguishness. “Mademoiselle Ward” (he pronounced it “Ware”) “is magnificent; every one must fly to obey when she opens her mouth. If she did not like the ocean there below the chateau, the ocean would have to move! It needs only a glance to perceive that Mademoiselle Ward is a great lady—but MADAME D’ARMAND! AHA!” He rolled his round eyes to an effect of unspeakable admiration, and with a gesture indicated that he would have kissed his hand to the stars, had that been properly reverential to Madame d’Armand. “But monsieur knows very well for himself!”
“Monsieur knows that you are very confusing—even for a maitre d’hotel. We were speaking of the present chatelaine of Quesnay, Mademoiselle Ward. I have never heard of Madame d’Armand.”
“Monsieur is serious?”
“Truly!” I answered, making bold to quote his shibboleth.
“Then monsieur has truly much to live for. Truly!” he chuckled openly, convinced that he had obtained a marked advantage in a conflict of wits, shaking his big head from side to side with an exasperating air of knowingness. “Ah, truly! When that lady drives by, some day, in the carriage from the chateau—eh? Then monsieur will see how much he has to live for. Truly, truly, truly!”
He had cleared the table, and now, with a final explosion of the word which gave him such immoderate satisfaction, he lifted the tray and made one of his precipitate departures.
“Amedee,” I said, as he slackened down to his sidelong leisure.
“Monsieur?”
“Who is Madame d’Armand?”
“A guest of Mademoiselle Ward at Quesnay. In fact, she is in charge of the chateau, since Mademoiselle Ward is, for the time, away.”