So much had happened since then. She had been maid of all work in Paris to Mademoiselle Yvonne de St. Cyr, a popular actress at the Folies Parisiennes, and had learned to keep her mouth shut and her eyes open for fifty francs a month, wine included. Then the young marquis died, and his noble family buried him, and Yvonne was turned out for debt, and gave Marie her sick Caniche poodle in payment for two months’ wages, together with her signed photograph and a note of recommendation—a scribbled eulogy on highly scented paper, hastily recommending Marie to the world at large, which Marie carried in her portmonnaie from one intelligence office in Paris to another, until it became so dirty, creased, and worn she was ashamed to show it to a lady, and was finally perused and accepted by Mrs. Van Cortlandt, who was at her wit’s end that sultry September day to find a maid, finish with the dressmaker, and sail for America. C’est la vie—quoi? Marie often consoled herself by tearfully exclaiming, which many a French girl had said before her under far worse circumstances.
It seemed this morning, the day before the smart event, that the postman had brought the last of the acceptances. As Marie entered her mistress’s bedroom Rose Van Cortlandt sat propped up in bed among the lace pillows, the glistening folds of her dark hair falling about her fine shoulders, contrasting charmingly with a pale-pink peignoir. She received the breakfast tray piled with notes which Marie slid deftly across her knees, with the eager delight of a child, and began to open the notes hastily—one after the other. One she reread twice, Marie noticed, as she busied herself laying out her mistress’s things, read it again, her black eyes merry with delight, a smile playing about the corners of her lips.
“You’re a dear!” she heard her mistress exclaim. She thrust the note aside from the rest, quickly finished her coffee and toast, scanned the remainder of the notes, ordered her bath and her coupé at the same time, and before three-quarters of an hour had elapsed was dressed and out of the house. First down to Park & Tilford’s, then up to Delmonico’s, to be sure they understood about the terrapin. Then on to see for herself about the palms, the roses, the awning, and a wagon-load of gilded chairs. So it was not until her mistress was well out of the house that Marie could read the note her lady had lingered over.
Marie turned up the lace pillows. It was not there. She opened one drawer after another, and finally discovered it tucked between her mistress’s evening gloves.
It ran as follows:
My Dear Lady,
Of course I’ll come. Who could ever refuse you anything? You’re a dear to want me. I fear I made a wretched botch of my accompaniments the other afternoon for your little protégée. If so, forgive me. Gladys has gone to Saratoga with the Verniers for two weeks at least. You know how I hate travelling, besides New York is amusing enough. Thank you again, dear friend. Au revoir—à bientôt, and my kindest regards to your good husband.
Your ever devoted,
Pierre Lamont.
Marie tucked it back among the gloves in the precise position it had lain, and closed the drawer. “Quel numéro! ce Monsieur Lamont!” she smiled to herself as she emptied her lady’s bath.
As for Sam Van Cortlandt, he too had left his house this morning after an early breakfast, which Griggs, his butler, served him in silence in the gloomy, sumptuous dining-room, and which his master barely touched. As Griggs handed him his coat, hat, and stick in the brighter light of the hall, the butler noticed a marked change in his master’s manner. His short, wiry body moved in jerks. He was intensely nervous. His firm, smug, clean-shaven face wore an expression little short of haggard. He drove his short arms impatiently into the sleeves of the light-gray overcoat Griggs held for him, grasped his proffered stick and derby, briskly shot out of the door to his waiting coupé, and sprang into it. His coachman, noticing his haste, drove him at a faster pace than usual down to his office in William Street.