“Oui, madame.”
“Finette, I wish you would quit your bad habit of falling into French. It is annoying, after the pains I took to have you taught good English years ago!” Mrs. de Vere cried out petulantly.
“Pardon, madame. C’est—that is, ’twas slip of the tongue,” Finette replied, meekly.
“Very well. Try to command your tongue. Now, tell me, what of the brat?”
“He left it with the old lady, madame, as I told you.”
“You heard nothing of what they said when you listened at the door?”
Finette’s beady black eyes glistened malevolently.
“Not vair mooch—they spoke too low,” she said. “As well as I could understand English—which I speak but imperfectly, madame—my master he complained bitterly of you. His mother she said it was one vair great shame you was so jealous and so cruel to him.”
The hazel eyes shot forth red lights of fury.
“Very well; I will pay her out for her interference!” she cried, in a hissing tone of rage; then she lay back on her pillow, gasping with anger.