“But why does not Madame la Princesse order a sleigh? Madame la Princesse is the lady of the house; her orders are to be obeyed.”
“You don’t understand, my poor Célèste,” Laurence said, with dawning annoyance. “The peasants have got an idea about my being created to look after them—when they are sick.” And with what she deemed a flash of genius she hastily added, “Think of it, there’s typhus in the village now; typhus, Célèste!”
Strange to state, however, Célèste did not pretend to faint. She was an extraordinarily vain and feather-brained girl, but no coward, and she merely nodded her tiny lace cap.
“Typhus! Oh yes! Old Garrassime said something of that to me a while ago, but that’s nothing. One must have sickness about sometimes, and that would not frighten Madame la Princesse, of course. As to the peasants, these boors, they really mean no harm; they grumble and curse and swear when they’re drunk—and they’re mostly drunk; they’re like our ‘Reds’ at home, all brandy and silliness! If I were Madame la Princesse I’d go out with a fat dog-whip and slash them till they’re satisfied, that’s the only way with such canaille. But it’s the silence here, and the snow, and the ennui I don’t like. I love shops and noise and electric lamps on both sides of the street, and—”
“O-o-o-o-h! Never mind what you love. Can you or can you not induce that Fidèlka of yours to take us away?” Laurence exclaimed, peevishly; and Célèste, who felt vexed at the interruption, drew back, pouting.
“How can I tell, Madame la Princesse? And then there’s Monsieur le Prince to consider; he’ll make a fine fuss when he comes back and doesn’t find us.”
“I don’t suppose he will mind not finding you!” Laurence said, witheringly and quite tactlessly. “So you needn’t bother about that part of it.”
This was going from bad to worse. Célèste’s supercilious eyebrows became ominous, and Laurence quailed. She needed Célèste badly.
“Oh, don’t be foolish! I’m only joking!” she prudently remarked, retreating from an untenable position with as much grace as she could muster. “See, it’s getting late already,” and she pointed to a little traveling-clock on the jewel-table that was nervously hurrying over the minute marks. “Why don’t you go and try at once, ma petite?”
Somewhat mollified, Célèste smoothed her eyebrows with a delicate touch. “Eight o’clock,” she consented, “and Madame la Princesse has had nothing to eat since tea; also Madame la Princesse looks frightful in that bedraggled tea-gown.”