A Traveller’s Notes
Seven o’clock. A whistle blows; we are off. The train passes over the turnplates with the
circumstances.
“Four years ago next autumn I found myself without a maid. I had tried five or six hopeless creatures one after another, and was about despairing of ever finding one, when I read, in the advertisement columns of a paper, that a young girl with knowledge of sewing, embroidery, and hairdressing was looking for a place and that she could supply excellent references. Also, she spoke English.
“I wrote to the address indicated, and next day the person in question came to see me. She was fairly tall, slender, and rather pale, with a very timid bearing. She had beautiful black eyes, a charming complexion, and I was attracted to her at once. I asked her for her references; she gave me one in English, for she had just left, she said, the service of Lady Rymwell, with whom she had been ten years.
“The letter stated that the girl had left of her own free will in order to go back to France, and that her mistress had found nothing to reproach her with, during her long service, except some slight indications of ‘French coquetry.’
“The puritanical flavour of the English phrase made me smile, and I engaged her at once as my maid. She began her duties the same day; her name was Rose.
“By the end of a month I adored her.
“She was a magnificent find, a pearl, a marvel.
“Her taste in hairdressing was perfect; she could trim a hat better than the best shops, and was a dressmaker into the bargain.
“I was amazed at her ability. Never had I had such a maid.
“She dressed me rapidly, and her hands were uncommonly light. I never felt her fingers on my skin, and there is nothing I dislike so much as the touch of a servant’s hand. I grew more and more indolent, it was such a pleasure to be dressed from head to foot, from chemise to gloves, by this tall, timid girl, whose cheeks always wore a faint blush, and who never spoke. After my bath she used to rub me and massage me while I dozed on my sofa; upon my word, I thought of her as a friend of humble rank rather than as a mere servant.
“One morning the porter made a mysterious request that he might speak to me. I was surprised, and sent for him. He was a very steady man, an old soldier who had been my husband’s orderly.
“He seemed embarrassed by what he had to tell, and at last faltered:
“ ‘Madame, the district inspector of police is in the hall.’
“ ‘What does he want?’ I asked sharply.
“ ‘He wants to search the house.’
“The police are a useful body, but I loathe them. I don’t think it’s a noble profession. Irritated and disturbed, I replied:
“ ‘Why this search? What is it for? I won’t have them in.’
“ ‘He says there is a criminal here,’ replied the porter.
“This time I was frightened, and told him to send up the inspector to explain. He was a fairly well-bred man, decorated with the Legion of Honour. He made excuses and begged my pardon, and eventually announced that one of my servants was a convict!
“I was thoroughly annoyed; I replied that I would vouch for the entire staff of the house, and went through them one after another.
“ ‘The porter, Pierre Courtin, an old soldier.’
“ ‘That’s not the man.’
“ ‘The coachman, François Pingau, a peasant from Champagne, the son of one of the farmers on my father’s estate.’
“ ‘Not the man.’
“ ‘A stable-boy, also from Champagne, the son of some peasants with whom I am acquainted; and the footman you have just seen.’
“ ‘That’s not he.’
“ ‘Then, monsieur, it must be clear to you that you have made a mistake.’
“ ‘Excuse me, madame, but I am quite sure that there is no mistake on my part. As a dangerous criminal is in question will you have the goodness to have all your servants brought here before you and me?’
“I refused at first, but at last I gave way, and made them all come up, men and women.
“The inspector cast but a single glance at them, and declared:
“ ‘That is not all.’
“ ‘I am sorry, monsieur; the only one missing is my own maid, a girl whom you could not possibly mistake for a convict.’
“ ‘May I see her too?’ he asked.
“ ‘Certainly.’
“I rang for Rose, who promptly appeared. She had scarcely entered the room when the inspector made a sign, and two men whom I had not seen, hidden behind the door, flung themselves upon her, seized her hands, and bound them with cords.
“A cry of rage escaped me, and I was ready on the instant to run to her defence. The inspector stopped me:
“ ‘This girl, madame, is a man named Jean Nicolas Lecapet, condemned to death in 1879 for murder preceded by rape. His sentence was commuted to imprisonment for life. Four months ago he escaped. We have been searching for him ever since.’
“I was bewildered, thunderstruck. I could not believe it. With a laugh the inspector continued:
“ ‘I can give you only one proof. His right arm is tattooed.’
“The sleeve was rolled up. It was true. The police officer added, rather tactlessly:
“ ‘You will have to trust us to verify the remaining details.’
“And they led my maid away!
“Now—would you believe it?—the feeling strongest in me was not anger at the way I had been tricked, duped, and made ridiculous; it was not the shame of having been dressed and undressed, handled and touched, by that man … but a … profound humiliation … the humiliation of a woman. Do you understand?”
“No, not quite.”
“Oh, think. … That fellow had been sentenced … for rape. … I thought, don’t you know … of the woman he had ravished … and it … it humiliated me. … Now do you understand?”
Madame Margot did not speak. She gazed straight in front of her with a queer, absent stare, at the two gleaming buttons of the coachman’s livery, her lips curved in the inscrutable smile a woman sometimes wears.
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