The message once delivered, Mrs. Sandboys began to question the girl as to the cause of her delay. The maid, in a confused manner, endeavoured to stammer out that she couldn’t make the gentlemen understand her.
Mrs. Sandboys, however, observing, on a close scrutiny of the girl’s appearance, that her cap was awry, desired her to come closer to her, and then taking hold of her, she turned the maid round, and to her horror discovered imprinted on her cheek a series of exact copies in “cire de moustache” of every shape and variety of mustachio. Then seizing the girl by the arm, she dragged her round to the looking-glass, and begged to be informed whether it was necessary for the Frenchmen’s lips to be placed so near to her before they could make her understand what they meant.
Ann Lightfoot coloured crimson as she perceived that the black wax with which the Parisians were in the habit of darkening their beards, had left its mark upon her skin, and bursting into tears, she said it was impossible for her to get away from them; for first it was one, and then the other, till at last she really thought that they would have torn her to pieces among them, and if there was one, added the girl, that was wuss than another, it was the one as said he only wished he could have caught hold of you, mum, if you please, the other night.
Mrs. Sandboys gave a faint scream at the bare idea of such an accident having occurred to her; and feeling in no way inclined to continue the conversation, after the unpleasant turn it had taken, she desired the girl to go below, and take good care how she trusted herself again within a mile of those impudent foreigners.
Some two or three days after the above occurrence, Mrs. Wewitz, who now began to keep a strict eye upon all the movements of the detachment of the Garde Nationale quartered within her domicile, hastened up to the sitting-room of Mrs. Sandboys to inform her that she verily believed every one of the fellows had left the house for a stroll. She had counted forty-seven of them go out of the gate, and she was convinced she must have made a mistake of one somewhere, for though she had been up to their room, and listened at the door for nearly half-an-hour, she could not hear a soul stirring—and now she added, “My dear, it will be a good opportunity for us to see the state in which the room really is, for, with the exception of Ann Lightfoot, not a creature has ever been in it—no, not even to make their beds, since the first day they took possession of the place.”
Mrs. Sandboys was as eager for the survey as Mrs. Wewitz herself, and accordingly they started off together, intent upon having what the ladies called a “good rout out” of all the things during the absence of the Frenchmen.
On reaching the bed-room, they stood for some few minutes outside, listening, but hearing no sound within, they ventured to push the door open, so that they might be able to have a full view of the apartment, and satisfy themselves of there being no one in it before they ventured upon entering.
Not a creature was to be seen, so the two ladies crept cautiously in; and no sooner did Mrs. Wewitz set eyes on the coffee colour of the once white dimity bed-curtains, than she threw up her hands, as if in despair of ever seeing them a “good colour” again. Then placing the corner of the counterpane to her nose, the smell of stale tobacco was almost overpowering. How she should ever sweeten them for the young ladies, was more than she could tell.
Mrs. Sandboys next drew her attention to the state of the boards—the very boards which it was her pride to hear all who saw them say they could eat their dinner off them—and now, owing to the four dozen foreigners not possessing so much as one spittoon among them, they were stained over with the juice and ashes of tobacco. The bright bars and sides of the stove, too, were all spotted red with rust.
On a chair in the middle of the room stood the blacking bottle and brushes, and beside them, on one of the white toilet-covered tables, was a basin half full of inky water, in which the gallant sons of “la belle France” had recently rinsed their hands and faces—near this was a bottle of bandoline for gumming down the hair, and an old tooth-brush standing up in it—the only tooth-brush to be seen in the place. Lying next to these was a dirty, mangy-looking hair-brush, with several sticks of different coloured cires de moustache—looking like the ends of candles—and a bottle of lavender water. On the mantelpiece stood a pair of curling-tongs, a leaden whisker-comb, and a pot of patent polish for the boots, while above were ranged the entire pipes of the fraternity. Pinned to a string that stretched across the room from bed to bed, hung a couple of shirt fronts, left to dry, together with several dozen pairs of fresh-cleaned, lemon-coloured kid gloves, that emitted a strong smell of turpentine.