“How the devil did you know that I trusted a dog?” said Melton furiously.
“Ma foi, monsieur is angry. Why so, with one who would serve him? Justine loves you—I then love you. How do I know?”—a shrug here—“monsieur is indiscrét. Justine could not fail to see.”
“Confusion!” ejaculated Melton.
“And yet it is so easy, monsieur—a note—a cake of soap—a packet of bloom—a bottle of scent—it is wrapped up—for Miladi Maude with my printed card outside—Voilà! who could suspect?”
“Look here,” said Melton, turning sharply round.
“Pardon, monsieur, I use the scissor; there is a little fresh growth here.”
“What do you expect to be paid for this, if I trust you?—and perhaps I shall not, for it is confoundedly dirty work.”
“Pardon, monsieur,” cried the Frenchman, laying his hand upon his breast, “I am a gentleman. Pay? Noting. Have I not told you that Justine, whom I have the honour to love, adores her young mistress. She adores monsieur, and would serve him. I in my turn adore Mademoiselle Justine. I am her slave—I am yours.”
“Let’s see—Justine? That is her ladyship’s maid?”
“True, monsieur. But this morning she say to me—‘Hector, mon enfant, I’m désolée on the subject of those two children. Help them, mon garçon, and I will be benefactor.’”