Georgette Heyer - Powder and Patch

François spread out his hands.

“M’sieur, I ask pardon! It is this âne, this careless gaillard-” “Mais, m’sieur!” protested Jacques. “It is unjust; it is false!”

“Ecoutez donc, m’sieur!” begged François, as the stern grey eyes went from his face to that of the unhappy Jacques. “It is the bandbox that contains your stockings-the stockings aux oiseaux-mouches! Ah, would that I had carried it myself! Would that-” “Would that you would be quiet!” said Philip severely. “If either of you have lost those stockings …” He paused, and once more his eyes travelled from one to the other. “I shall seek another valet.”

François became tearful.

“Ah, no no, m’sieur! It is this imbecile, this crapaud- “M’sieu’, je vous implore-

Philip pointed dramatically across the room. Both men looked fearfully in the direction of that

accusing finger.

“Ah!” François darted forward. “La voilà! What did I say?” He clasped the box to his breast. “What did I say?”

“But it is not so!” cried Jacques. “What did you say? You said you had not seen the box! What did I say? I said-”

“Enough!” commanded Philip. “I will not endure this bickering! Be quiet François! Little monkey that you are!”

“M’sieur!” François was hurt. His sharp little face fell into lines of misery. “Little monkey,” continued Philip inexorably, “with more thought for your chattering than for my welfare.”

“Ah, no, no, m’sieur! I swear it is not so! By the-”

“I do not want your oaths,” said Philip cruelly. “Am I to wait all night for my cravat, while you revile the good Jacques?”

François cast the box from him.

“Ah, miserable! The cravat! Malheureux, get thee gone!” He waved agitated hands at Jacques. “You hinder me! You retard me! You upset monsieur! Va-t-en!” Jacques obeyed meekly, and Philip turned back to the mirror. To him came François, wreathed once more in smiles.

“He means well, ce bon Jacques,” he said, busy with the cravat. “But he is sot, you understand, très sot.” He pushed Philip’s chin up with a gentle hand. “He annoys m’sieur, ah oui! But he is a good garçon, when all is said.”

“It is you who annoy me,” answered Philip. “Not so tight, not so tight! Do you wish to choke me?”

“Pardon, m’sieur! No, it is not François who annoys you! Ah, mille fois non! François-perhaps he is a little monkey, if m’sieur says so, but he is a very good valet, n’est-ce pas? A monkey, if m’sieur pleases, but very clever with a cravat. M’sieur has said it himself.”

“You are a child,” said Philip. “Yes, that is very fair.” He studied his reflection. “I am pleased with it.”

“Aha!” François clasped his hands delightedly. “M’sieur is no longer enraged! Voyons, I go to fetch the vest of m’sieur!”

Presently, kneeling before his master and adjusting his stockings, he volunteered another piece of information,

“Me, I have been in this country before. I understand well the ways of it. I understand the English, oh, de part en part! I know them for a foolish race, en somme-saving always m’sieur, who is more French than English-but never, never have I had the misfortune to meet so terrible Englishman as this servant of m’sieur’s uncle, this Moggat. Si entêté, si impoli! He looks on me with a suspicion! I cannot tell m’sieur of his so churlish demeanour! He thinks, perhaps, that I go to take his fine coat. Bah! I spit upon it! I speak to him as m’sieur has bid me-très doucement. He pretends he cannot understand what it is I say! Me, who speak English aussi bien que le français! Deign to enter into these shoes, m’sieur! I tell him I hold him in contempt! He makes a reniflement in his nose, and he mutters ‘damned leetle frog-eater!’ Grand Dieu, I could have boxed his ears, the impudent!” “I hope you did not?” said Philip anxiously.

“Ah, bah! Would I so demean myself, m’sieur? It is I who am of a peaceable nature, n’est-ce pas? But Jacques-voyons, c’est autre chose! He is possessed of the hot temper, ce pauvre Jacques. I fear for that Moggat if he enrages our Jacques.” He shook his head solemnly, and picked up the grey satin coat. “If m’sieur would find it convenient to rise? Ah, bien!” He coaxed Philip into the coat, bit by bit. “I say to you, m’sieur, I am consumed of an anxiety. Jacques he is a veritable fire-eater when he is roused, not like me, who am always doux comme un enfant. I think, perhaps, he will refuse to remain in the house with this pig of a Moggat.”

Philip shook out his ruffles.

“I have never noticed that Jacques showed signs of a so violent temper,” he remarked. “But no! Of a surety, he would not exhibit his terrible passion to m’sieur! Is it that I should permit him?”

“Well,” Philip slipped a ring on to his finger, “I am sorry for Jacques, but he must be patient. Soon I shall go to a house of my own.”

François’ face cleared as if by magic.

“M’sieur is kind! A house of his own. Je me rangerai bien! M’sieur contemplates a mariage, perhaps?”

Philip dropped his snuff-box.

“Que diable-!” he began, and checked himself. “Mind your own business, François!”

“Ah, pardon, m’sieur!” replied the irrepressible François. “I but thought that m’sieur had the desire to wed, that he should return to England so hurriedly!”

“Hold your tongue!” said Philip sharply. “Understand me, François, I’ll have no meddling bavardage about me either to my face or below stairs! C’est entendu?” “But yes, m’sieur,” said François abashed. “It is that my tongue runs away with me.” “You’d best keep a guard over it,” answered Philip curtly.

“Yes, m’sieur!” Meekly he handed Philip his cane and handkerchief. Then, as his master still frowned, “M’sieur is still enraged?” he ventured.

Philip glanced down at him. At the sight of François’ anxious, naive expression, the frown faded, and he laughed.

“You are quite ridiculous,” he said.

François broke into responsive smiles at once.

But when Philip had rustled away to join his uncle, the little valet nodded shrewdly to himself and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“En verité, c’ast une femme,” he remarked. “C’est ce que j’ai cru.”

françois endured the detestable Moggat for a week. He was then rewarded for his patience by the news that Philip was shortly to move into a small house in Curzon Street, which belonged to a friend of Tom. This gentleman consented to let his house for the space of two months, as he was going abroad for that time. Philip went to inspect the prospective abode, and found it to be furnished in excellent style. He closed with its owner and went back to Half-Moon Street to break the joyful news to François. From that moment the excitable valet’s spirits soared high. He would manage the affairs of the house for m’sieur; he would find m’sieur a chef. Philip was content to waive responsibility. François sallied forth with the air of one about to conquer, to find, so he told Philip, the son of his aunt, a very fair chef and a good garçon. Philip had no idea that François possessed any relations, much less one in London. When he said this, François looked very waggish, and admitted that he himself had forgotten the existence of this cousin until the moment when m’sieur told him of the new home.

“Then, subitement, I remember, for m’sieur will require a chef, is it not so?” “Assuredly,” said Philip. “But your cousin may not wish to take service with me, in which case I shall seek an English cook.”

“An English cook? Ah, bah! Is it that I would permit m’sieur to be so ill served? No! M’sieur shall have a French chef, bien sûr. What does an Englishman know of the cuisine? Is m’sieur to be insulted by the tasteless, watery vegetables of such as the wife of Moggat? No! I go to find my cousin!”

“Very well,” said Philip.

“And then we have a household bien tenu. It is our poor Jacques who could not support an Englishman in the house.”

“I hope I am not to be excluded?” smiled Philip.

“M’sieur se moque de moi! Is it that m’sieur is English? M’sieur is tout comme un Français.” He bustled away, full of importance.

The cousin was forthcoming, a stout, good-tempered soul, who rejoiced in the name of Marie-Guillaume. François exhibited him with pride, and he was engaged. That ended all Philip’s responsibility. François gathered up the reins of government, and in a week they were installed in Curzon Street. Philip had done no more than say that he wished to enter his new abode on Thursday. On Thursday he went out to Ranelagh; when he returned to Half-Moon Street he found that his baggage had gone. He took his leave of Tom, and walked up the road and round the corner, into Curzon Street. His house was as neat as a new pin; his baggage was unpacked; François was complacent. They might have lived in the house for months; there was no disorder, no fuss, none of the slow settling down. François, Jacques, and Marie-Guillaume had fitted into their respective niches in one short hour. Philip was moved to inform François that he was a treasure.

That evening he went to a ball given by the Duchess of Queensberry. And there he met Cleone, for the first time since his return to England.

The Duchess welcomed him effusively, for already Philip was a persona grata in Society, and much sought after by hostesses. Tom had lost no time in introducing him to the Fashionable World. The ladies were captivated by his French air, and ogled him shamelessly. The men found that he was, for all his graces, singularly modest and unaffected at heart, and they extended the hand of friendship towards him. People began to look for him, and to be disappointed if he were absent.

Until now, however, Philip had seen nothing of Cleone, but on all sides he had heard of her. She was, he learnt, London’s newest beauty.

She was dancing when Philip saw her first, smiling up at her partner with blue eyes that seemed bluer than ever, and lips that lay in a happy curve. Her golden hair was unpowdered and piled in curls upon the top of her head. Philip thought she was more beautiful than ever. He stood apart, watching her. She had not seen him; she was not even thinking of him; those eyes were clear and joyous. Who was her partner? Brainless-looking fool! Simpering ninny! Ay, that was all she cared for! Philip’s hand clenched slowly on his snuffbox. “Aha, Jettan! You have espied the lovely Cleone?”

Philip turned. Lord Charles Fairfax stood at his elbow. “Yes,” he said.

“But how stern and forbidding!” exclaimed Fairfax. “What ails you?” Philip’s mouth lost its hard line.

“I am struck dumb,” he answered gaily. “Can you wonder at it?” “So are we all. She is very beautiful, is she not?”

“Ravishing!” agreed Philip. He saw Cleone’s partner lead her to a chair. “Will you present me?”

“What! And destroy my own chances? We have heard of your killing ways with the fair sex!” “I protest I have been maligned!” cried Philip. “I do implore your mercy! Present me!” “Against my will, then,” said his lordship roguishly. He walked forward to where Cleone sat. “Mistress Cleone, have you no smile for the humblest of your admirers?” Cleone turned her head.

“Oh, Lord Charles! Give you good even, sir! Do you know you have not been near me the whole evening? I am monstrous hurt, I assure you!”

“Dear lady, how was I to come near you?” protested Fairfax. “Until this moment you have been surrounded.”

Cleone gave a happy little laugh.

“I am sure ’tis untrue, sir! You delight in teasing me!” Her eyes wandered past him to Philip. Fairfax drew him forward.

“Mistress Cleone, may I present one who is newly come from Paris, and is, he swears, struck dumb by your beauty? Mr Jettan, of whom we all know some naughty tales!” The colour drained from Cleone’s cheeks. She felt faint all at once, and her fingers gripped together over her fan. For one moment she thought she must be mistaken. This was not

Philip, this foppish gentleman who was bowing so profoundly! Heavens, he was speaking! It was Philip! How could she mistake that square chin?

“Mademoiselle, this is a scarce-hoped-for honour,” he said. “I have watched and I have hungered. Lord Charles took pity on me, for which I shall never cease to thank Cleone tried to answer, and failed. Dazedly she stared at him, from the powdered curls of his wig to the diamond buckles on his shoes. Philip! Philip! Philip in stiff silks and laces! Philip patched and painted! Philip with jewels scattered about his person, and polished nails! Was she dreaming? This foppish gentleman her blunt Philip? It was incredible, impossible. What was he saying now?

“I little thought to find you here, mademoiselle! You are with Madame Charteris, no doubt?” Cleone collected her scattered wits. An awful numbness was stealing over her. “No, I-I am with my aunt, Lady Malmerstoke,” she answered.