He laughed.
“Is it not? Ah, Cleone! Tell me, my dearest, what is in your locket?”
“Something I meant to burn,” she murmured.
“But did not?”
“No—I could not.” She fumbled at her bosom and drew out the trinket. “See for yourself, Philip.”
He opened it. A rolled lock of brown hair fell out and a torn scrap of parchment. Philip turned it over.
“Yours till death, Philip,” he read. “Cleone, my love.”
She buried her face on his shoulder.
“Your—hair—your poor hair!” she said.
“All gone! Look up, Cleone!”
She lifted her face. He gazed down at her, rapt.
“Oh, Cleone—I shall write a sonnet to your wonderful eyes!” he breathed.
XX
Mademoiselle de Chaucheron Rings Down the Curtain
Sir Maurice Jettan stood in the withdrawing-room of the Hotel Cleone and studied himself in the glass. He smiled a little and straightened his shoulders.
There came a swish of skirts in the passage without, and the door opened. In walked Cleone, a fair vision in a gown of pure white satin and lace.
Sir Maurice turned. He raised his quizzing-glass the better to inspect his daughter-in-law.
“Upon my soul, Cleone!” he ejaculated.
Cleone swept him a curtsey, laughing.
“Is it not ridiculous? Philip insisted. Wait till you see him!” She ran to the mirror. “Do you like the way my hair is dressed, father?”
“I am struck dumb by the whole effect!” answered Sir Maurice. “Yes, I like that white rose in your hair.”
“Oh, you must tell Philip that! He spent hours and hours trying to place it to his entire satisfaction! It has been terrible, je t’assure. Yes, I am beginning to acquire an accent, am I not? Philip nearly tore his beautiful wig in his anxiety!” She rearranged the roses at her breast. “At one time I expected him to summon François to his assistance. But he refrained, and here am I!”
Sir Maurice sat down.
“Has he been dressing you, my dear?”
“Has he—! For the past three hours, sir! He has driven my maid distracted.” She started to count on her fingers. “He spent half an hour superintending my hairdressing and another half an hour placing this rose and the pearls. Then half an hour went to my patches—this is when he nearly tore his wig!—he could not decide where to put them. The arrangement of my gown occupied quite an hour in all. And then he was much put out over my jewels.” She held up her fingers. “I vow they are red and sore, sir! I have had rings pushed on them, and dragged off them, until I was nigh screaming with impatience! But now I am dressed—and I have been told on pain of Philip’s direst wrath to n’y toucher pas!” She sat down on the couch beside Sir Maurice and slipped her hand in his. “Is he not absurd? And oh, I am prodigious nervous!”
“Why, my dear? What should make you so?”
“You see, it is my first appearance in Paris—it is to be my first ball—and I am so afraid I shall not understand what is said to me, or—or something mortifying!”
“Not understand? Nonsense, Clo! Why, you have talked hardly any English since you have been married.”
“Yes, but I am not at all fluent. Philip says everyone will be most amiable, but—oh, dear!”
At that moment François darted into the room, a harassed frown on his face.
“Ah, pardon, madame! Pardon, m’sieu’! Je cherche la tabatière de m’sieu’ Philippe!”
“Laquelle?” asked Cleone. Sir Maurice was amused by her serious air. “The one with the pearls?”
“Mais oui, madame. It is this fool of a Jacques who has lost it, sans doute! Ah, la voilà!” He seized the errant box and skipped out again. Cleone breathed a sigh of relief.
“How terrible if it had been really lost!” she said.
Sir Maurice laughed.
“Would it have been so great a catastrophe?”
“But of course! It matches his dress, you understand.”
“I see.” Sir Maurice smothered another laugh. “My dear, do you know that it is three years since last I was in this city of cities?”
“Is it? Don’t you think it is a wonderful place? Philip took me for a walk yesterday, and I was enchanted! And this house—I know I shall never bear to leave it! Philip says that the Hotel Cleone will be the most fashionable one in Paris! I was so surprised when he brought me here! I had no idea that there was a house waiting for me. He and François got all ready the week before our marriage! I’ve never been so happy in my life! And tonight I am to see Philip in what he calls his milieu. He tells me he was never at home in London.”
“Philip in his milieu. Paris.” Sir Maurice smiled down at her. “When I think of what Philip was not quite a year ago. …”
“It seems impossible, doesn’t it? But oh, I am glad now that I sent him away. He is quite, quite perfect!”
“H’m!” said Sir Maurice.
Cleone laughed at him.
“You pretend! I know how proud you are!”
“Minx! I confess I am curious to see Philip in his Parisian Society. No one knows that he is here?”
“Not a soul. He insisted on guarding the secret until he could make a really dramatic appearance at the Duchesse de Sauverin’s ball tonight. He is mad, you know, quite mad! Oh, here he is!”
Philip came into the room with a rustle of stiff silks. Sir Maurice started at him.
“Good God, Philip, what audacity!”
From head to foot his son was clad in white. The only splash of colour was the red heels of his shoes; his only jewels were pearls and diamonds; on the lapel of his coat he wore a single white rose.
“Isn’t it ridiculous?” said Cleone. “But doesn’t he look beautiful?”
“Stand up, child, and let me see you side by side. … Yes. What audacity! Had I known, I would have attired myself in black—the old man at the ball.”
“ ’Twould have made an excellent foil,” agreed Philip. “But no matter.
