The Classic Mystery Collection - Arthur Conan Doyle [5230]
One endowed with such a temperament is as a rule unreasonably jealous of youth and good looks in another. I could not determine if Madame's attitude were to be ascribed to complacent self-satisfaction or to a nobler motive. It sufficed for me that she took an unfeigned joy in the youthful sweetness of her companion.
"Val, dear," she said, presently, addressing the girl, "you should make those sleeves shorter, my dear."
She had a rapid way of speaking, and possessed a slightly husky but fascinatingly vibrant voice.
"Your arms are very pretty. You should not hide them."
Val Beverley blushed, and laughed to conceal her embarrassment.
"Oh, my dear," exclaimed Madame, "why be ashamed of arms? All women have arms, but some do well to hide them."
"Quite right, Marie," agreed the Colonel, his thin voice affording an odd contrast to the deeper tones of his cousin. "But it is the scraggy ones who seem to delight in displaying their angles."
"The English, yes," Madame admitted, "but the French, no. They are too clever, Juan."
"Frenchwomen think too much about their looks," said Val Beverley, quietly. "Oh, you know they do, Madame. They would rather die than be without admiration."
Madame shrugged her shoulders.
"So would I, my dear," she confessed, "although I cannot walk. Without admiration there is"--she snapped her fingers--"nothing. And who would notice a linnet when a bird of paradise was about, however sweet her voice? Tell me that, my dear?"
Paul Harley aroused himself and laughed heartily.
"Yet," he said, "I think with Miss Beverley, that this love of elegance does not always make for happiness. Surely it is the cause of half the domestic tragedies in France?"
"Ah, the French love elegance," cried Madame, shrugging, "they cannot help it. To secure what is elegant a Frenchwoman will sometimes forget her husband, yes, but never forget herself."
"Really, Marie," protested the Colonel, "you say most strange things!"
"Is that so, Juan?" she replied, casting one of her queer glances in his direction; "but how would you like to be surrounded by a lot of drabs, eh? That man, Mr. Knox," she extended one white hand in the direction of Colonel Menendez, the fingers half closed, in a gesture which curiously reminded me of Sarah Bernhardt, "that man would notice if a parlourmaid came into the room with a shoe unbuttoned. Poof! if we love elegance it is because without it the men would never love _us_."
Colonel Menendez bent across the table and kissed the white fingers in his courtier-like fashion.
"My sweet cousin," he said, "I should love you in rags."
Madame smiled and flushed like a girl, but withdrawing her hand she shrugged.
"They would have to be _pretty_ rags!" she added.
During this little scene I detected Val Beverley looking at me in a vaguely troubled way, and it was easy to guess that she was wondering what construction I should place upon it. However:
"I am going into the town," declared Madame de Staemer, energetically. "Half the things ordered from Hartley's have never been sent."
"Oh, Madame, please let _me_ go," cried Val Beverley.
"My dear," pronounced Madame, "I will not let you go, but I will let you come with me if you wish."
She rang a little bell which stood upon the tea-table beside the urn, and Pedro came out through the drawing room.
"Pedro," she said, "is the car ready?"
The Spanish butler bowed.
"Tell Carter to bring it round. Hurry, dear," to the girl, "if you are coming with me. I shall not be a minute."
Thereupon she whisked her mechanical chair about, waved her hand to dismiss Pedro, and went steering through the drawing room at a great rate, with Val Beverley walking beside her.
As we resumed our seats Colonel Menendez lay back with half-closed eyes, his glance following the chair and its occupant until both were swallowed up in the