PART XII
DIGNITY UNDER DIFFICULTIES
In the Housekeeper's Room at Wyvern; Mrs. Pomfret, the Housekeeper, in a black silk gown and her smartest cap, is seated in a winged armchair by the fire, discussing domestic politics with Lady Culverin's maid, Miss Stickler. The Chef, M. Ridevos, is resting on the sofa, in languid converse with Mlle. Chiffon, Miss Spelwane's maid; Pilliner's man, Louch, watches Steptoe, Sir Rupert's valet, with admiring envy, as he makes himself agreeable to Miss Phillipson, who is in demi-toilette, as are all the other ladies' maids present.
Miss Stickler (in an impressive undertone). All I do say, Mrs. Pomfret, ma'am, is this: if that girl Louisa marches into the pew to-morrow, as she did last Sunday, before the second laundry maid—and her only under-scullery maid—such presumptiousness should be put a stop to in future!
Mrs. Pomfret (wheezily). Depend upon it, my dear, it's her ignorance; but I shall most certainly speak about it. Girls must be taught that ranks was made to be respected, and the precedency into that pew has come down from time immemoriable, and is not to be set aside by such as her while I'm 'ousekeeper here.
Mlle. Chiffon (in French, to M. Ridevos). You have the air fatigued, my poor friend! Oh, there—but fatigued!
M. Ridevos. Broken, Mademoiselle, absolutely broken. But what will you? This night I surpass myself. I achieve a masterpiece—a sublime pyramid of quails with a sauce that will become classic. I pay now the penalty of a veritable crisis of nerves. It is of my temperament as artist.
"BROKEN, MADEMOISELLE, ABSOLUTELY BROKEN."
Mlle. Chiffon. And me, my poor friend, how I have suffered from the cookery of these others—I who have the stomach so feeble, so fastidious! Figure to yourself an existence upon the villainous curry, the abominable "Iahristue," beloved by these barbarians, but which succeed with me not at all—oh, but not at all! Since I am here—ah, the difference! I digest as of old—I am gay. But next week to return with mademoiselle to the curry, my poor friend, what regrets!
M. Ridevos. For me, dear mademoiselle, for me the regrets—to hear no more the conversation, so spiritual, so sympathetic, of a fellow-countrywoman. For remark that here they are stupid—they comprehend not. And the old ones they roll at me the eyes to make terror. Behold this Gorgon who approaches. She adores me, my word of honour, this ruin!