# The Motor Maid/Chapter 30

CHAPTER XXX
I FOLLOWED you," he said.
"I thought so," said I. "It was like you."
"I want to talk to you," he explained.
"But I don't want to talk to you," I objected.
"You 'll be sorry if you 're rude. What I came to say is for your own good."
"I doubt that!" said I, looking anxiously down one avenue of trees after another, for a figure that would have been doubly welcome now.
"Well, I can easily prove it, if you 'll listen."
"As you have longer legs than I have, I am obliged to listen."
"You won't regret it. Now, come, my dear little girl, don't put on any more frills with me. I 'm gettin' a bit fed up with 'em."
(I should have liked to choke him with a whole mouthful of "frills," the paper kind you put on ham at Christmas; but as I had none handy, I thought it would only lead to undignified controversy to allude to them.)
"I had a little conversation about you with the Duchesse de Melun night before last," Bertie went on, with evident relish. "Ah, I thought that would make you blush. I say, you 're prettier than ever when you do that! It was she began it. She asked me if I knew your name, and how Lady T. found you. Her Ladyship could n't get any ​further than 'Elise,' for, if she knew any more, she 'd forgotten it; but thanks to your friend the shuvver, I could go one better. When I told the duchess you called yourself d'Angely, or something like that, she said 'I was sure of it!' Now, I expect you begin to smell a rat—what?"
"I daresay you've been carrying one about in your pocket ever since," I snapped, "though I can't think what it has to do with me. I 'm not interested in dead rats."
"This is your own rat," said Bertie, grinning. "What 'll you give to know what the duchess told me about you?"
"Nothing," I said.
"Well, then, I 'll be generous and let you have it for nothing. She told me she thought she recognized you, but until she heard the name, she supposed she must be mistaken; that it was only a remarkable resemblance between my stepmother's maid and a girl who 'd run away under very peculiar circumstances from the house of a friend of hers. What do you think of that?"
"That the duchess is a cat," I replied, promptly.
"Most women are."
"In your set, perhaps."
"She said there was a man mixed up with the story, a rich middle-aged chap of the name of Charretier, with a big house in Paris and a new château he 'd built, near Fontainebleau. She gave me a card to him."
"He 's sure not to be at home," I remarked.
Bertie's face fell; but he brightened again. "Anyhow you admit you know him." ​"One has all sorts of acquaintances," I drawled, with a shrug of my shoulders.
"You 're a sly little kitten—if you 're not a cat. You heard me say I thought of calling at the château."
"And you heard me say the owner was n't at home."
"You seem well acquainted with his movements."
"I happened to see him, on his way south, at Avignon, some days ago."
"Did he see you?"
"Is n't that my affair—and his?"
"By Jove—you 've got good cheek, to talk like this to your mistress's stepson! But maybe you think you won't have difficulty in finding a place that pays you better—what?"
"I could n't find one to pay me much worse."
"Look here, my dear, I 'm not out huntin' for repartee. I want to have an understanding with you."
"I don't see why."
"Yes, you do, well enough. You know I like you—in spite of your impudence."
"And I dislike you because of yours. Oh, do go away and leave me, Mr. Stokes."
"I won't. I 've got a lot to say to you. I 've only just begun, but you keep interruptin' me, and I can't get ahead."
"Finish then."
"Well, what I want to say is this. I always meant we should stop at Fontainebleau."
"Oh—you damaged your stepfather's car on purpose! He would be obliged to you."
"Not quite that. I intended to get them to have tea ​here, and while they were moonin' about I was going to have a chat with you. I was goin' to tell you about that card to Charretier, and somethin' else. That the duchess asked me where we would stop in Paris, and I told her at the best there is, of course—Hotel Athenée. She said she 'd wire her friends you 'd run away from, that they could find you there; and if Charretier was n't at Fontainebleau when we passed through, these people would certainly know where to get at him. I warned you the other night, did n't I? that if you would n't be good and confide in me I 'd find out what you refused to tell me yourself; and I have, you see. Clever, aren't I?"
"You 're the hatefullest man I ever heard of!" I flung at him.
"Oh, I say! Don't speak too soon. You don't know all yet. If you don't want me to, I won't call on Charretier. Lady T. and her tuft-huntin' can go hang! And you shan't stop at the Athenée to be copped by the Duchess's friends, if you don't like. That 's what I wanted to see you about. To tell you it all depends on yourself."
"How does it depend on myself?" I asked, cautiously.
"All you have to do, to get off scot free is to be a little kind to poor Bertie. You can begin by givin' him a kiss, here in the poetic and what-you-may-call-'em forest of Fontainebleau."
"I wouldn't kiss you if you were made of gold and diamonds, and I could have you melted down to spend!" I exclaimed. And as I delivered this ultimatum, I turned to run. His legs might be longer than mine, but ​I weighed about one-third as much as he, which was in my favour if I chose to throw dignity to the winds.
As I whisked away from him, he caught me by the dress, and I heard the gathers rip. I had to stop. I could n't arrive at the hotel without a skirt.
"You 're a cad—a cad!" I stammered.
"And you 're a fool. Look here, I can lose you your job and have you sent to the prison where naughty girls go. See what I 've got in my pocket."
Still grasping my frock, he scooped something out of an inner pocket of his coat, and held it for me to look at, in the hollow of his palm. I gave a little cry. It was Lady Turnour's gorgeous bursting sun.
"I nicked that off the dressin' table the other night, when you were n't looking. Has Lady T. been askin' for it?"
"No," I answered, speaking more to myself than to him. "She—she's had too much to think of. She did n't count her things that night; and at Nevers she did n't open the bag."
"So much the worse for you, my pet, when she does find out. She left her jewels in your charge. When I came into the room, they were all lyin' about on the dressin' table, and you were playin' with 'em."
"I was putting them back into her bag."
"So you say. Jolly careless of you not to know you had n't put this thing back. It 's about the best of the lot she had n't got plastered on for the servants' ball."
"It was careless," I admitted. "But it was your fault. You came in, and were so horrid, and upset me ​so much that I forgot what I 'd put into the bag already, and what I had n't."
"Lady T. does n't know I went back to her room."
"I 'll tell her!" I cried.
"I 'll bet you 'll tell her, right enough. But I can tell a different story. I 'll say I did n't go near the room. My story will be that I was walkin' through the woods this afternoon on my way to Charretier's château when I saw you with the thing in your hands, lookin' at it. Probably goin' to ask the shuvver to dispose of it for you—what? and share profits."
"Oh, you coward!" I exclaimed, and snatched the diamond brooch from him.
Instantly he let go my dress, laughing.
"That's right! That's what I wanted," he said. "Now you 've got it, and you can keep it. I 'll tell Lady T. where to look for it—unless you 'll change your mind, and give me that kiss."
I was so angry, so stricken with horror and a kind of nightmare fear which I had not time to analyze, that I stood silent, trembling all over, with the brooch in my hand. How silly I had been to play his game for him, just like the poor stupid cat who pulled the hot chestnut out of the fire! I don't think any chestnut could ever have been as hot as that bursting sun!
I wanted to drop it in the grass, or throw it as far as I could see it, but dared not, because it would be my fault that it was lost, and Lady Turnour would believe Bertie's story all the more readily. She would think he had seen me with the jewel, and that I 'd hidden it because I was afraid of what he might do.
​"To kiss, or not to kiss. That's the question," laughed Bertie.
"Is it?" said Jack. And Jack's hand, inside Mr. Stokes's beautiful, tall collar, shook Bertie back and forth till his teeth chattered like castanets, and his good-looking pink face grew more and more like a large, boiled beetroot.
I had seen Jack coming, long enough to have counted ten before he came. But I did n't count ten. I just let him come.
Bertie could not speak: he could only gurgle. And if I had been a Roman lady in the amphitheatre of Nîmes, or somewhere, I 'm afraid I should have wanted to turn my thumb down.
"What was the beast threatening you with?" Jack wanted to know.
"The beast was threatening to make Lady Turnour think I 'd stolen this brooch, which he 'd taken himself," I panted, through the beatings of my heart.
"If you didn't kiss him?"
"Yes. And he was going to do lots of other horrid things, too. Tell Monsieur Charretier—and let my cousins come and find me at the Hotel Athenée, in Paris, and ⸺"
"He won't do any of them. But there are several things I am going to do to him. Go away, my child. Run off to the house, as quick as you can."
I gasped. "What are you going to do to him?"
"Jack's hand, inside Mr. Stokes's beautiful, tall collar, shook Bertie back and forth till his teeth chattered like castanets"
​Bertie had come out into the woods with a neat little stick, which during part of our conversation he had tucked jauntily under his arm. It now lay on the ground.
I saw Jack glance at it.
"Ah!"—I faltered. "Do—do you think you'd better?"
"I know I had. Go, child."
I went.
I had great faith in Jack, faith that he knew what was best for everyone.