THE FRENCH MAID.

New Zealand Times, Volume XXVII, Issue 5731, 28 October 1905, Page 12

THE FRENCH MAID.

(By Justus Mites Forman.)

“Well, I call that very nasty of yon," paid iV-tci-, “and very unfeeling, too. That engagement wae mack; a "week ago. What do you think I'm going to do, anyhow? Paddle a canoe five miles alone, when I’d expected to liavo you Kitting in the how under a red suuiihade? Not I, hy Jove! I won’t go to your picnic thing at all.” “Vos, you will, too," said tho girl very positively; “so don’t ho silly. It’s good for you to ho disappointed now end thorn—humbler, you, sort of. Besides, what else can I do? If ’is Oricc ’cro will corno down when ho isn’t o.\pocted, I'vo got to her civil to him, haven't I, Alexander?" “Quite so, (piite so!” said Alcxajulcr. He was a Duke, hub a very proper one. No side. “That’s a jolly poor excuse," said Peter. “Pm not pleased with you. And as I'm* Alexander," lie continued rudely, “words can’t express my contempt for Alexander. I always difdikcd him." Alexander grinned unhappily and pulled his moustache. “Oil, cheer up!” said Miss A berth cnay. “Behind tho clouds tho sun is shining. Lain do Vignot is coming tomorrow." “Ah 1” raid Peter. “To-morrow ?’’ cried Alexander, ■*Why, I thought ” “Well, you’ronob to think,” interrupted tho girl. “You camo hero for a rest. liidu will bo liero to-morrow, as I raid. Now, Peter, dear, conio to the picnic tiling like an angol. Wo shall ho fivo canoes. That’s nine. And mother and tho governor and tho Vintons are to drive over, so that’s fourteen.” "I won’t,” said Peter. “My 'feelings are hurt. Besides, I halo picnics. You sit on tho damp grass and got stained green, and you eat pato do Strasbourg and ants, and drink ante and warm champagne. I won’t come. By jovo! V-Wfi that)?”

An apparition in white and pink fluffy things under a big hat had sannt<ered out from the further wing of the house towards the lake. Miss Aborthonay dug a cruel elbow into the exclamatory Alexander, and she appeared to bo struggling with some emotion. “That?” she said at last. '‘Oh, that’s Marianne, my maid. I gave her a holiday because we’re to bo gone till evening. Pretty, isn’t she?” “Pretty?” said Peter, looking aft 31Eho apparition in pink and white; ’’pretty!” "You might bring Marianne to the picnic,” suggested Miss Aborthenay ■kindly. “I dare say she’d bo delighted. Oh, here are the others! Don’t forget those pillows, Alexander. Come along. (And Peter, angel, do be sensible I” Peter followed the party to the boatlanding, and squatted, a morose and unkindly critic on the edge of the stoop hank. Ho had one moment of unalloyed pleasure when Alexander, who ras not athletic, gob his first glimpse of the canoe which ho was to propel the distance of five miles. It was the prido of Miss Abcrthenay’s heart, an Indian-built atrocity of birch bark, wide, hog-bolliod, a.nd crank. It was humorously named Minnehaha, andhorc over itt? prow an ornate cluster of eagle plumes. “Good Heavens!” cried the outraged Alexander. “Have I got to paddle that? It’s a bally hearse! I say, is Hie lako deep, you know? Couldn't I punt tho thing with a setting-polo?”

“Swim with it, Alexander!” advised Peter gloomily from tho top of tho hank. “Take tho painter in your teeth and swim with it.” Alexander turned an appealing countenance.

“I say,” ho coaxed, “you couldn’t /end mo your canoe? If you’re not coming, you know? It’s such a jolly neat one!”

“No, I couldn’t,” said Peter firmly; •‘I couldn’t think of it. Good-bye, Alexander, and God be with you !” “You’re a beast, Peter!” cried Miss Aborthenay; but Peter sat on the bank and grinned a morose grin as Die Minnehaha pushed out froin tho low pier and swung like a barge in a tideway.

He T.-a belied bho little fleet make its way up tho narrow stretch of water and disappear behind an island, and then rc«e to his feet scowling. He felt rather ill-nsed and resentful and oufc i of temper, and ho could think of nothing 'to do which, promised any amusement. .He paused undecidedly for a moment, and at last descended tho wooden stops wliich led to the pier and the water’s «dge. He meant to go home—for ho .was not stopping at the Abortbecnay’s, but across the bay at a club camp—but something he saw as ho readied tho base of tho steps halted him suddenly. Miss Aborthonay’s maid was picldng her way along the narrow beach towards tho landing. She had raised a white sunshade of bewildering lacinese and was twirling it over her Blonder, and it seemed to the gloom-enfolded Peter that she presented a singularly charming picture. "Aline must give her frocks and hats and things,” he reflected; "but upon my word, Aline never looked like that in them.” Then after a moment ho laughed. “It might ho- a lark,” he said obscurely. “Anyhow, it would bo a great joke on Aline,” and ho wanted, still laughing under his breath, till the French maid was near him. “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” said he. Tho French maid opened very wide and round and somewhat startled eyes upon him, and looked as if meditating flight. “Bonjour, monsieur,” she said, and Peter thought that ho discovered an infinitesimally tiny smile somewhere about the corners of her mouth. “They’ve all gone off and loft me,” he complained bitterly. '‘Ah, oru-olle!” said tho French maid In a tone of agonised l sorrow. Sho added that sho was desolated at Monsieur’s ill-fortune, and the infinitesimally tiny smile became merely tiny. Peter noted with approbation that she was not tho ordinary sort of French maid, Belgian or Swiss or Toulousaino, but really and truly Parisian, with nice flat vowels and no r’s. “And they’ve left you, too,” he observed brilliantly. “A co qu’il parait,” said the French maid, and looked out over the cool lake ivitli a little sigh. “Now, I had an idea,” said Peter. Tho French maid looked at the canoe. “It would be a groat lark,” said he. “And it seems a pity,” he said, “to stop here on shore doing nothing when the take’s right at hand. And the canoe, too.” Tho French maid regarded him silent!ly for several seconds. Then they both laughed, and the French maid’s laugh was like altar-bells, like tho trill of an Italian aria. "Just tho veoy Httlest promenade around tho island yonder,” she suggested. “There are other islands beyond,” said Peter; but the French maid began to look frightened, and ho said no more.

Th© picnic party had left half a dozen superfluous cushions on the landing-

float, and Peter arranged them in his trim canoe, one for hi.s own knees, the* others lor tho well-being of tho \ t in pink ami while. Then he hold tho c-.k iuk; wir.h one hand. and a foot, and, lor ji single pleasant moment, lie held tho French maid v/iUi tho oJicr hand, and made her comfortable in tho bow, lacing him. She looked a bit alarmed whop ho began taking oft his jacket and rolling up Hie jdc-ovcs of Ids .shirt, but there followed, at the night of Peter's good arms, a gleam of admiration in her eye which set PeteFs modest soul a-swug-gerjjig and made him long for a bathing jersey. Tiie morning was young and fresh and beautiful—very like tho French maid. Them was a little hazy veil of cloud to dim tho sunlight, and a little aromatic breath of summer wind to film Hio water. A loon cried frotfully over behind one of tho islands, and a pair of divers, swift and intent and busi-ness-like, tamo down tho lake, flying low, on affairs of importance. There was a blue heron cocked up on one leg among some reeds on a shoal, lor all the world like a stork on a Christinas card, and very gorgeous little dragonflies loafed about over the water as if they had nothing to do but play. Potor turned in under the high-wood-ed bank, and they slipped along up the hike—it is a chain of Jakes, narrow as a r iv er —*vith no sound but tho drip oi water from tho blade of Peter’s paddle. Now, there is no other such cade need perfection of movement as the propulsion of a canoo by a single blade —paddling is such a futilo name for it! Paddling sounds so- trivial and dufferish and ungainly—no such balanced rhythmic swing of body and arms. Tho French, maid watched the clean, strong dip and recover of Peter’s blade, and sho watched tho bend and sway of Peter’s shoulders as ho swung outboard and in, laying tho weight of Ids body over tho stroke. ,

“Why don’t wo go round and round and round?” she demanded.

“I didn’t know you wanted to go round and round and round,” said Peter.

“But you put that—that oar in on only one side,” said sho. “It’s not an oar,” objected Peter; “it’s a paddle.” “Paddle?” said tho French, maid. “When I made a promenade in a canot before,” said sho, “the-—person who made it go had two little oars—paddles, one on each, end of a long stick. That was at Enghien.” Peter shook his head sorrowfully. “All Frenchmen aro duffers,” he said.

Tho girl sat up in sudden indigna/tiem, but tho canoe, aided somewhat by the resourceful Peter, rocked so alarmingly that she instantly sank back again with a smothered scream. “Yon mustn’t lose your temper in a canoe,” said Peter. “I said French men, anyhow. Would you caro to know what I think of French women—girls?” Miss Abertihenay’s maid turned a scornful profile; but as it was even more beautiful than scornful, Peter didn’t mind. They crossed the narrow stretch to a little high-banked wooded island, whore underbrush stood thick and impenetrable, and gnarled branches Ming far out over the lake. And they slipped in under one of these houghs so that Peter could take a turn about with the stern painter. Two squirrels halted in tho middle ef a most interesting fight to peer indignantly down at them, and a cormorant flapped squawking from the reeds near by. “We might,” said Peter thoughtfully, “go on up the lake to the picnic thing. Aline suggested that I should bring you.” Tho French maid held up two hor-ror-stricken hands and said “Mon Dieu, quo ca serait cpatantl” And Peter said: 'Yes, rather.” Still, he was willing to go if she’d care to. A little puff of sweet summer air boro in from nowhere in particular and stirred certain crinkly locks of tho French maid’s hair, blew them across her eyes and across her tiny ncso—which, being French, she had dabbed with powder—till she wrinkled it most adorably. Peter hold on by a thwart of the canoe before his knees.

“Oh, wrinkle it again!” he whispered, and didn’t know that ho spoke.JThe French maid flushed from hair to t-Kfoat —and possibly tho rest of tho way, but Peter sat marvelling at the exquisite loveliness of her, drinking it in with wide eyes that could nob drink their fill, for sho was more beautiful than may bo told—something out of a poem —something dreamed. “And yon a maid!” cri&d Peter to his soul. “You a machine to do another woman’s hair and tie another woman’s shoes! Good Heavens, it’s monstrous! Upon my faith and honour, you’re tho loveliest tiling I ever saw, and you a maid!” He stared at her through a sudden wave of vicarious shame and humiliation, a sudden sickness at tho thought of how this girl’s life was spent; and it seemed to him that Providence made, sometimes, blunders that any child might correct. Ho had expected tho girl to be so very different I Ho had expected her to bo rather pert and over-familiar and cheaply flirtatious, and he had thought that this might prove amusing for a half-hour—at any rate, that it would bo something with wliich ho might, later on, annoy Miss Aborthenay. “A maid !” cried Peter- to his soul, and stared at her bitterly. “Oh, please, please 1” begged tho French maid very low, and her eyes dropped and the flush came again. “Please, monsieur 1” “Eh?” said Peter, and eat up blinking. “Did I stare at you? I—didn’t moan to, I have little fits of insanity at times. Don’t mind me.” Ho slipped the painter and took up his paddle, and they stood out into tho sunshine heading up tho lake. “Wo are not going to the—picnic? No?” ventured the French maid anxiously. “Mademoiselle Aline would die of tho horror—but die!” she said. 'T think she’d weather it,” said Peter. “And I know I’d make a friend for life of Alexander. Alexander’s a connoisseur.” “Tho Due?” she inquired. “The Due,” said Peter. “And, by the way, there’s a Duke’s daughter coming on, to-morrow, away from Paris—via Newport—Lulu do Vignot, tho daughter of the Due do Yignot-Severao.” Tho French maid sighed. “So far from Paris!” said she. “Poor Mademoiselle I Sho will have mat du pays—nostalgic What do you say? Home-sickness.” ‘‘Are you homesick for Paris, mademoiselle?” asked Peter. But tho French, maid looked away to tho blue hills, and her hands twisted i.) her lap and her undcrlip trembled a little. , “Oh, monsieur!” she cried in a halfwluspcr. “Oh, monsieur! the lilacs in the Luxembourg gardens, and the chestnuts along tho Boulevard' St Germain ! Oh, monsieur! the little flower shops everywhere that overflow on tho pavement, red and pink and blue and white; the smell of the green trees along tho street, monsieur; tho ton-asses of the cafes; tho marchands d’habits and the marchandes do monies—“La moule est fraioho. la moulo est bonne!’ The child-

ren with their nou-nous in the Champs KJysoo.s; the river beats that fly so fast; the gendarmes and thobk: cuirassiers ! Paris, monsieur, Paris!” “Yes. yes!” said peter eagerly, and the paddle trailed from his slack hand. ‘•Ye.s, I know. Pvo lived tin rc. I lived' there for three years once end for two years another time. Don’t I know?” .

Tho French maid looked up at him with a quiet little laugh, and her eyes were very wide and there were tears in them. “You—know, then,” sho said, nodding. “Do you suppose heaven is like Paris, monsieur?’’ she demanded. “I havo heard that it is, mademoiselle,” said Peter, “but X do not know. I should eay that heaven is probably more like a canoe, of a summer morning, with very blue eyes in one end of it.” ... , ,

“Such a tiny heaven!” criticised the French maid.

‘T would not ask a greater one,” said Peter. “I’m selfish, and in a broader heaven the blue eye;; might escape me. Pin safe in a canoed’ “I wonder,” said the French maid. 'T lied,” said Peter humbly. “Sale? I’m lasi—oh, utterly!” Tho French maid looked around her. “Lost ?” she deprecated. “Oh, utterly!” sighed Peter, and sent tho canoe through a mask of reeds into a queer little wide bay, clouded with lily-pads and starred with watorlilies. Tho bay was shallow, and - clumps of cat-tails and wild rice steed hero and there.

The French maid gave a cry of delight, and pulled a lily whose stem appeared to be fastened to tho opposite crust of the earth. Peter, by a miracle of agility, saved the canoe from an upset. By the time, thp girl had finished, tho craft had much the appearance of tho barge which once descended from Astolat—save that this time Elaine eat up. “You’ve a lob of yellow pollen on the end of your nose,” said Peter. The French maid put down the lily in which sho-had rapturously been burying her face. r T don’t care,” said sho. “They are beautiful I but beautiful! —tho most beautiful things in the world!” “Not so beautiful as you,” said Peter to his soul. “Oh, girl, nob so beautiful as yoiv!” And the veins throbbed at his temples. “A maid! Good Heavens, a maid!” ho said, but It meant nothing to him. Ho didn’t care. The girl omitted a small scream and hold up two fingers, across which a crimson stain was spreading. Watergrass has a wire edge. “Have you a handkerchief?” demanded Peter. “No, not a silly bit of lace like that. Here, catch!” ITo tossed her his own handkerchief—it was generous enough to have bandaged an amputated arm—but the girl made but poor work of it. Tho bandage loosened and slipped, and would not be knotted. She raised helpless, appealing eyes to Peter.

“I cannot tie it,” she said. Peter made a gesture of distress. “What can I do?” said he. “I can’t come to you. One can’t stroll about in a canoe. Ah 1 wait a bit 1” He shoved tho canoe over a submerged sandbar till it grounded lightly in throe or four inches of water. Then ho stepped out with great care—the French maid gave a cry of alarm—and knelt hesido the bow of tho canoe where the girl sat.

Now, it must be written to the lasting credit of the French maid that at this crisis she did not laugh. Any man kneeling devotedly at a girl’s feet in four inches of water—apparently in the middle of a lake—is a trying sight. As for Peter, he was far beyond any, sense of tho humorous. He bathed the wounded fingers with a torn fragment of the handkerchief till the bleeding bad ceased and he bound them smoothly in dry linen and fastened tho bandage with a bit of cord which ho found in his pocket. And then he crouched there for a long time, holding tho bandaged hand between his own and staring up at the exquisite, flushed cheek of the French maid, who had turned her head away. He didn’t care that she was a French maid, and his heart was beating much faster than a man’s heart should beat, for it has been said that ho was far beyond any sense of the humorous. He stared so long that, after a time, the girl turned back to him and met his eyes, and drew a quick little breath, and could not look away again. Tho bandaged hand between Peter’s shook a bit. “Monsieur 1” said the French maid under her breath. “Monsieur 1” “Oh!” said Peter in a queer whisper. "Oh, there are no words for the loveliness of you 1 I’m tongue-tied—stam-mering with what I can’t say ?” Tho French maid drew away from him to arm’s and her face was crimson. “Monsieur 1” she cried sharply. “Do you forgot, or are you trying to insult me? I’m a maid, monsieur! I’m Mademoiselle Aline’s maid I You are mad, monsieur.” And then Peter reached his height. There was good blood in Peter. Ho smiled into the French maid’s angry eyes—a confident, scornful, easy smile. ‘You’re the loveliest thing I have ever seen in all my life,” said he. ‘‘What do ypu suppose I care whether you brush another woman’s hair or not? Should I love you more if some one else brushed your hair?” “Love!” she cried, still in a sharp voice, half angry: “love! What have you and Ito do with love? Love at first sight? That is for tho romances, monsieur. It does not occur in life!” “That’s not true!” said Peter fiercely. “They lie when they tell you there’s no love at first sight. It’s happening every day. There’s no such thing as acquiring love. You can acquire fondness, affection—aU that; but love comes like a flash, mademoiselle. Why, history has been made out of love at first sight—made and unmade and altered and made again. They lie when they tell you otherwise. Loveliest, they lie!” Tho French maid drew nearer to him, and she laid her free hand over his, but her eyes were still very wide and incredulous. “Is it—possible,” she said slowly, as if she spoke to herself, “that there are such—men in the world—such men? I had not believed—l had never met— I—oh, monsieur, monsieur!” She leaned over him, where he knelt in tho water, for one little moment, with her flushed face full of the most heavenly tenderness that Peter had ever seen—save once in a dream. “And what—then, monsieur?” she asked. “Why, what,” said Peter, in honest surprise, “what but one thing?” Tho French maid gave a quick little glad cry, hut it broke in a fit of nervous, hysterical laughter, and she pulled her hands away from him. “Ah, no!” she cried. “Ah, no, no! Monsieur, I—l did not mean it; I—was—joking. It was not Oh, monsieur, we—go too far! No, you shall nob speak! Come back into the canot. Wo will—go to the picnic party. Quick, monsieur! No, you shall not speak—• not a word all tho long way!”

Peter climbed carefully into tho canoo, and dropped his wet knees on Die cushion in the -stem, and he pushed off from the :-andbar, and broke once more through the mud: of roods, and turned up the lake. They were nearly an hour on the way, though they went swiftly, but tho’girl would not allow the mystified Peter so much as a word. She sat among her likes, flushed a little and smiling oddly, and sho sang, under her breath, from time to time, foolish old songs of the nursery—but she’d a voice like velvet. “Heaven knows,” said Peter grimly to himself, “what Aline will say; but hero we go I” And he swung the canoo into the little bay where the picnic was to take place. The others were there on the beach, and they waved their arms to him, and Alexander, closely followed by Aline Aberthonay, came down to the water's edge to catch the prow of the canoe ami help out the .French maid. Both lie and MUs Aborthenay were laughing. “Oh, Pfler!” said sho, “you’re very, very easy: but how did you And out that it was Lulu!” Peter looked at the French maid, and his heart gave one magnificent and unparalleled leap: but he smiled quizzically at Miss Aborthenay. “Oh, I knew it all the time,” said he. And that was a lie. But late that night, Miss Aborthenay, up in her room, took her friend by the shoulders and shook her violently. “You’vo robbed me of my Peter, I ,she said. “You’ro a deceitful, designing cat!”

And # that was the truth.—“ Windsor Magazine.”