THE INDISCRETIONS OF A LADY’S MAID

[2]

“THE MASTER OF MYSTERY”

WILLIAM LE QUEUX’S NOVELS

“Mr. William Le Queux retains his position as ‘The Master of Mystery.’... He is far too skilful to allow pause for thought: he whirls his readers from incident to incident, holding their attention from the first page to the close of the book.”—Pall Mall Gazette.

“Mr. Le Queux is the master of mystery. He never fails to produce the correct illusion. He always leaves us panting for more—a brilliant feat.”—Daily Graphic.

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“Mr. Le Queux is an adept at the semi-detective story. His work is always excellent.”—Review of Reviews.

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“Mr. Le Queux has brought the art of the sensational novel to high perfection.”—Northern Whig.

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“As ‘good wine needs no bush’ so no mystery story by Mr. Le Queux, the popular weaver of tales of crime, needs praise for its skill. Any novel with this author’s name appended is sure to be ingenious in design and cleverly worked out.”—Bookseller.

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“Mr. Le Queux is the master of the art of mystery-creating.”—Liverpool Daily Post.

[3]

THE INDISCRETIONS OF A LADY’S MAID

BEING SOME STRANGE STORIES RELATED BY MADEMOISELLE MARIETTE LE BAS FEMME-DE-CHAMBRE

AND CHRONICLED BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX

“Nobody in a large household knows so much, or sees so much, as Madame’s maid—especially if Madame is ‘chic’ and inclined to be—well a trifle vain and frivolous, as is so often the case.”

LONDON EVELEIGH NASH 1912

[4]

Second Impression.

Copyright in the United States of America by William Le Queux, 1911.

[5]

CHAPTER I MADAME’S GENTLEMAN FRIEND

April 10th

Là! là! To-day, the 10th of April, at half-past three o’clock, I have entered upon my new situation—the seventeenth in the five years I have been in service as femme-de-chambre.

Though only a lady’s maid, I suppose I ought to introduce myself to those messieurs et mesdames who may be interested in reading my various adventures in England and elsewhere.

My name is Mariette Le Bas, daughter of Jacques Le Bas, peasant-proprietor of Pont-Pagny, near Auxerre in the Yonne, aged twenty-four, dark hair, bonne taille, good needlewoman and hair-dresser, and the holder of the highest references, including one from the wife of one of your English Cabinet [8]Ministers—who, by the way, was a most evil-tongued person. I speak French, Italian, English, and a little German, am told I am a good reader, and the wages I demand are forty-eight pounds a year.

Nobody in a large household knows so much, or sees so much, as Madame’s maid—especially if Madame is chic and inclined to be—well, a trifle vain and frivolous, as is so often the case. I have spent the greater part of my time in the service of English ladies, and I have seen some strange things.

Some of them I will relate, and you will, I think, agree that if the servants’ hall may not be an exactly romantic place, yet there is as much scandal and gossip there as in the drawing-room.

The last post I held before coming here, to the excessive dullness of Bournemouth, was with a certain Mrs. Engleheart, who lived in a smart, prettily-furnished house in Cleveland Square, and whose husband was engaged in business in the City.

Ah! oui, I remember well how, after being engaged through the registry office of old Mrs. Banks—who, as you know, if you read the advertisement columns, makes a speciality of foreign maids—I arrived one wintry afternoon with my trunk on the top of a four-wheeler. The manner in which the butler, a snappy old [9]Englishman named Francis, looked at me when I entered aroused my curiosity. Madame was quite affable, about my own age, a rather pretty blonde, who possessed a very smart collection of gowns, and who knew how and when to wear them—which, alas! few women do. She delighted in the daintiest of linge intime, and was a mistress whom a foreign femme-de-chambre could appreciate, and who did her maid great credit—which cannot be said of several of the coarse, over-dressed dowagers in whose service I have been.

Monsieur, too, was quite pleasant and chatty when, on his arrival for dinner, I was introduced to him. He was about thirty, tall, clean-shaven, well-groomed, and rather good-looking.

As I left the room, however, I heard him say to his wife in Italian, a language of which he believed me ignorant—

“Benissimo! She is really smart. I wonder if she’ll keep a still tongue?”

As the days went on I found the place an almost ideal one. Madame was kind, and never exacting. Monsieur, who was absent all day, was always polite, and sometimes smiled at me, while the other four servants, all of them recent arrivals, expressed themselves quite contented. The only person for whom I held an instinctive dislike was the butler, Francis. He [10]was too prying, too inquisitive regarding my family, my past situations, my friends in London, and whether I had had any little affair of the heart, as we say in French.

Parbleu! He was a bald-headed man, and his moustache was dyed. I was surprised to discover that when he waited at table he was on terms of remarkable familiarity with his mistress and master. I actually once overheard him speaking with Madame in the drawing-room as though he were her equal.

The Englehearts had a good many friends, mostly smart people, including many rather foppish young men about town. Madame went out with Monsieur almost every evening, supping two or three times each week at the Savoy or Carlton or Waldorf, and often not returning home till three or even four o’clock. Yet each morning, punctually at half-past nine, Madame’s husband kissed her good-bye, and took his taxi-cab to the City, leaving her to her own devices.

What was his profession I tried in vain to learn. To a lady’s maid Madame’s husband is often an enigma. One day, while seated at table in the servants’ hall, I expressed wonder as to Monsieur’s vocation, whereupon Francis looked up from his place sharply, saying—

“What does that concern us? The master is a gentleman. I’ve been in his service these [11]eight years, and I know. All you have to do is to keep a still tongue—and you’ll be well paid for it.”

It was curious that the finances of my master and mistress seemed to fluctuate. At one time everything was sacrificed for economy, and at others they were recklessly extravagant.

One day Madame had gone out alone to lunch with friends when, on glancing in a little drawer on the dressing-table, I found something which caused me to ponder. It was Madame’s wedding-ring. On two other occasions I found it in the same place. She seemed to have contracted a habit of leaving it behind when she went out! Figurez-vous!

I had been in the Englehearts’ service about a month when, one morning, Madame made the welcome announcement that we were to start for Monte Carlo next day. Très bien! The trunks were fetched in feverish haste from the lumber-room, and I commenced to pack. Madame’s best robes—three or four of them by the best couturières of Paris—I folded, she assisting me in eager excitement, and Francis packing Monsieur’s crocodile suit case.

Three days later we installed ourselves in one of the most expensive suites at the Hôtel de Paris, opposite the Casino.

On the day following, while I was lacing Madame’s corsets, she said—

[12]

“Mariette, I shall only require you in the morning, and to dress me again at six each evening. Therefore you can have the whole of each day to yourself. Here, in Monte Carlo, there is very little for a maid to do, so, if I were you, I should run over to Nice or to Mentone. You will find life there much more pleasant, and, with the trams, all the places are nowadays so accessible.”

I had been on the Riviera half-a-dozen times before, and knew it well. Yet, somehow, this generosity of hers in the matter of leave struck me as a little peculiar. Did she wish to get rid of me?

Very soon I decided that such was the case, for, curiously enough, Monsieur used to leave Monte Carlo each morning about eleven, generally taking the rapide to Nice, while Madame amused herself across at the Rooms as best she could.

For a chic, well-dressed young lady like Madame amusement would not be difficult. Indeed, she quickly formed the acquaintance of quite a number of people, and she played constantly at roulette or trente-et-quarante. What was the extent of her losses I have no idea, for servants are debarred entrance to the Casino. Yet each evening, as I dressed her long, luxuriant hair, she generally bewailed her bad luck. As the days passed she developed [13]a chic almost unparalleled in my experience. She used the best products of Lentheric or Houbigant, and patronised Hartog and the Maison Lewis, running up heavy bills which Monsieur willingly paid. Indeed, I believe I can say, without contradiction, that she was the best-dressed woman at Monte Carlo that season. The set she had entered was certainly one of the gayest, for about her there hung half-a-dozen wealthy men of various ages—those idlers who bask in the smiles of a pretty woman.

Monsieur’s attitude was always one of utter unconcern. His eyes seemed closed to his wife’s flirtations, which were outrageous, especially with a certain clean-shaven, pale-faced young American who was immensely wealthy. His name was Oswald B. Ogden, and he had, a few months before, inherited a colossal fortune from his father, who was one of the princes of Wall Street, for he had two years previously made over a million and a half sterling by cornering leather. The young man had been on the Riviera the whole season, and had become most popular everywhere. All the women with marriageable daughters buzzed about him, but his only intimate friend seemed to be my pretty young mistress.

Truly they were a charming, well-dressed pair. I saw them together everywhere, seated [14]together on the terrace, at the café, at Ciro’s lunching, or out in Mr. Ogden’s big yellow motor-car. More than once he had the audacity to send Madame a big basket of roses or carnations, yet Monsieur never objected. Really some husbands are so easily blinded by their wife’s kisses. Ah! if you would watch domestic happiness, and realise the deep cunning of a clever woman, you should become a femme-de-chambre. Your eyes would be opened to a good deal of the unsuspected.

For fully three weeks Madame and the young American were inseparable. Monsieur went almost daily over to Nice; so constantly, indeed, that it seemed as though business took him there.

Of a sudden Madame’s leniency of manner towards me changed; for one evening, while fastening her corsage, she suddenly exclaimed in a petulant tone—

“Mariette, you go over to Nice far too much. I suppose you’ve found a lover there, eh?”

“Madame is quite mistaken,” I replied, laughing; “I have no lover. My cousin Justine is in service with the Baronne Montvallier, at the Villa Magnan, and I go often to see her.”

“Well, I think, in future, you had better remain here. I so often want you,” she said.

“As Madame desires,” was my reply.

[15]

Nevertheless, as that was Justine’s night out, I went over to Nice as usual after Madame had gone with Mr. Ogden to dine at the Hermitage. Justine went with me to the Casino Municipal for an hour, and afterwards we strolled back in the moonlight along the wide, palm-lined Promenade des Anglais.

We were chatting and laughing, for as we had passed a gentleman he had spoken to us, as is the habit of the vieux marcheur in France. We had, however, hurried on, when, of a sudden, I caught sight of two other gentlemen approaching us, one of whom I recognised by his white felt hat was my master.

The form of the other seemed familiar, yet I did not at first realise whom it could be. The pair were deep in conversation, Monsieur Engleheart striking his open palm with his fist as though clenching an argument.

Then, as they passed, the moonlight fell full upon their faces, and in an instant—ah! voilà! I saw that my master’s companion was none other than Francis, our butler at Cleveland Square!

Extraordinaire!

I could scarce believe my eyes. There, walking beside Monsieur Engleheart, on terms of equality, was Francis, dressed fashionably, wearing a smart straw hat stuck jauntily upon [16]his head and swinging his cane with all the carelessness of an idler.

I halted for a second, utterly stupefied, then, next moment, hurried on, for fortunately they had not seen me.

Tiens! What could this mean?

I recollected the familiar attitude of Francis towards my mistress, and the air of proprietorship, unbecoming a servant, with which he went about the house. I also recollected his advice to me to “keep a still tongue.”

I resolved to watch; therefore, excusing myself to Justine that I had to catch my train, I left her and, turning, followed the pair. Was the reason of Madame forbidding me to come to Nice because she did not wish me to discover Francis’s presence!

The two men walked leisurely along the Promenade, engrossed in their conversation. Then suddenly they halted, and after a few moments parted, Francis turning back in my direction.

I drew into the shadow beneath one of the big palms which line the handsome roadway, and watched him cross and enter a big new hotel which faced the sea.

It was, I saw, the Hôtel Royal—the same hotel where Oswald Ogden had a suite of rooms.

So when he had passed in I also crossed, [17]and approaching the gold-laced concierge who was standing outside the door, asked in French—

“Could you tell me the name of the gentleman who has just entered? I am a femme-de-chambre, and my mistress is anxious to ascertain.”

I added those words, knowing that one servant is always ready to give information to another.

“The gentleman in the straw hat. Ah! That is Monsieur Vernon—un Anglais, très riche.”

“You have Monsieur Ogden, the rich young American here. Is Monsieur Vernon a friend of his?”

“Oh, yes, a very intimate friend. They are always motoring together.”

I thanked him, and, passing outside, strolled slowly back towards the station, absolutely convinced that some plot was in progress. But its nature I failed to imagine.

As the warm, fevered days of winter gaiety went on, Madame grew more irritable, more addicted to nerves, fuller of fads and fancies. Her dresses did not suit her, so she ordered two new evening gowns from Migno, in Nice, and an exquisite hat.

Mr. Ogden liked her in turquoise, so she ordered yet another gown of pale turquoise [18]chiffon, an exact replica of a beautiful creation that Mademoiselle Helya Terry, one of the leaders of the mode, was wearing on the stage at the Gymnase in Paris.

Yet she grew melancholy. Her losses at roulette were severe, I supposed. Besides, I had a suspicion that there was a little difficulty about that week’s hotel bill. A letter from Griffiths, the head housemaid at Cleveland Square, told me that mysterious persons had been calling of late, inquiring for Monsieur. It seemed as though financial difficulties had again arisen, for two writs had been left at the door. Francis, or “Mr. Jennings,” as Griffiths called him, had gone on a holiday to his brother at Yarmouth, and things at Cleveland Square were horribly dull. The others, she said, envied me the sunshine, the flowers, and the gaiety of the Riviera. I read and re-read that letter, full of gravest doubts.

Evidemment, Madame in the last few weeks had developed certain idiosyncrasies. She had taken to standing before the long mirror, admiring her bust and her waist. Indeed, she said to me one day—

“Mariette, tell me the truth now; I wear my clothes properly, do I not? If I don’t, just tell me.”

“Madame wears her robes perfectly,” was my prompt reply, as I placed her black silk [19]stocking upon her white, well-shapen foot. “I have never seen an English lady who looks so tout à fait parisienne,” I declared.

This was in no sense of flattery, for Madame Engleheart, wherever she had learnt the art of dressing, dressed uncommonly well. Ah, you should have seen her! She was très chic.

I espied Francis another afternoon, a week later, seated at one of the tables in front of the Café de la Régence, in Nice. He was with Monsieur, smoking leisurely and drinking bock, while Madame was, I supposed, lunching with Mr. Ogden at Ciro’s, or at the Reserve over at Beaulieu, as had now become their daily habit.

That same night, while I was arranging Madame’s hair, she being already in her robe de nuit, a marvel of delicate lingerie adorned with pale blue ribbons, Monsieur suddenly entered, pale and agitated.

“I want to speak to you, dear. I——” he said, and then he glanced apprehensively at me.

“Mariette,” she exclaimed, “you can go. Good-night.”

I put down the brush, and, wishing my master and mistress bon soir, promptly retired.

But, having traversed the corridor some distance, I crept back to the door and listened.

[20]

I was rewarded. They were speaking low and earnestly—so low that I had great difficulty in catching any words. But by placing my ear at the key-hole—for which I hope in the circumstances the reader will forgive me—I overheard Monsieur exclaim—

“Look here, Lucy! This game is all very fine, but it can’t last any longer. Francis is determined—so am I. We must make hay while the sun shines. If we don’t act quickly the golden chance will slip through our fingers.”

“If you hurry it, you’ll spoil it, mark me,” was Madame’s quick reply.

“Francis has all in his hand at present—but it won’t be for long,” Monsieur said. Then he added: “I hope that girl Mariette doesn’t suspect anything, eh?”

“Not in the least,” laughed my mistress. “She is such a good girl that evil never enters her mind.”

“But she knows that Oswald is always with you. She must have seen that. Francis’s advice is to discharge her at once. Give her five hundred francs, and let her go.”

“I shall do nothing of the kind,” was my mistress’s reply. “Mariette is a treasure. I will not part with her. Besides, she is pretty, remember—so she may be useful in several ways.”

[21]

Then she dropped her voice to a whisper, and though I strained my ear at that key-hole for a long time I heard no more.

What ingenious manœuvre was intended? I was not alarmed, for in my capacity of femme-de-chambre I had witnessed many strange things, some of which it is my intention to relate in these reminiscences.