“Ah,” sighed her ladyship, whose noble bust rose and fell from the excess of her emotions; “mine is far from a happy life; but go, Justine, go now: I feel as if I could sleep. A nap might do me good. I trust you, Justine. You shall have a gold watch and chain the day my daughter becomes Lady Wilters. Let her go at once.”
“Thank you, dear milady; merci beaucoup,” cried the Frenchwoman, bending down and kissing her ladyship’s extremely white and beringed plump hand.
A minute later she was in Maude’s room.
“Go!” faltered the girl, trembling. “No, no, Justine, I cannot—I dare not.”
“How—miladi is timide,” said the Frenchwoman, laying her hand upon the girl’s soft tresses. “Would she have all this fall, so that when Sir Wilter, your dear husband, would pass his hand through and say, ‘Ah, ma belle ange, your fair tresses are adorable,’ and kiss them, and become fou with delight as he pass them over his face, would you have them thin and come out in his fingaire?”
Maude’s face was a study as she gazed at the maid while she spoke. She shuddered, and her features assumed a look of unutterable loathing.
“Quick, give me my hat and scarf. I will have a veil.”
“You shall, my sweet young lady. Her ladyship wills that you go often to save your beautiful hair. Ah, I would that Monsieur Hector could attend you himself, but he will be busy. You must be content wis ze assistant.”
“Justine,” said Maude quietly, “do not forget our positions.”
“Ma chère young lady, I will not,” said the French woman. “Pardon, I was foolish. I do not forrgette. Miladi will let me put on the tick veil.”