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Updated: May 21, 2025
"Heavens, I had forgotten all about them! What an angel is Margaret! I really can't remember these things. They ought to do themselves by clock-work. And now Fanchette and this ball are enough to drive one wild." She lifted her hands to her face and pressed back the masses of fair hair that were tumbling round it, with a gesture of weariness. "Fanchette can make your dress?"
It was quite a little fellow. He said his legs were just run off his feet," said the girl, growing confused as the moon-robe unfolded. "Poor wretch!" said Kitty, carelessly. "I'm glad I'm not an errand Blanche! you know Fanchette may be an old demon, but she has got taste! Just look at these folds, and the way she's put on the pearls! Now then make haste!"
The Descoings had draped the windows with brocatelle curtains torn from the bed of some monastic prior. To the left of the entrance-door, stood a chest or coffer, worth many thousand francs, which the doctor now used for a sideboard. "Here, Fanchette," cried Rouget to his cook, "bring two glasses; and give us some of the old wine."
He knew that Montague'd cut him to pieces. Holliday'd have tore off his lid. So I swung him to you. "And why? Because I thought you'd listen to reason. Oh, you don't believe it. Ask Dunham. Are you still such a hick that you don't know he was behind that match? Why, he's behind 'em all nine tenths of 'em. His bankroll is." "Whose right hand was it put Fanchette but?" asked Perry mildly.
This noise was followed immediately, even while we stood listening with raised fingers, by other sounds a muffled cry, and the tramp of heavy footsteps in a distant passage. Mademoiselle looked at me, and I at her woman. 'The door! I muttered. 'Is it locked? 'And bolted! Fanchette answered; 'and a great chest set against it. Let them ramp; they will do no harm for a bit.
Chance had made him, chance which had been luckless for Jimmy Montague. Montague, he said, had been selected as the logical man to meet Fanchette, the man whose record entitled him to the choice, long before any word of the proposed match had been given to the public. But Fanchette, after his prolonged inactivity, had demurred at meeting, immediately, so formidable an opponent.
She had her hand wrapped up in a 'kerchief already stained with blood; and from this I gathered that the king in his frenzy had wounded her slightly. Standing before her mistress, with her hair bristling, like a wild-cat's fur, and her arms akimbo, was Fanchette, her harsh face and square form instinct with fury and defiance.
Lute wrote a quatrain once every three months for the "Mauve Monthly," and Miss Nuncheon, tall and thin, with a mop of orange-coloured hair, contributed somewhere stories about the "smart set," "a society existing far off amid the glamour of opera-boxes, conservatories full of orchids, yachts like ocean steamships, mansions with marble stairways, Paris dresses by the gross, and hatfuls of diamonds, where the women were always discovered in boudoirs with a French maid named Fanchette in attendance, receiving bunches of long-stemmed roses from potential correspondents, while the men, all very tall and dark, possessed of interesting pasts, were introduced before fireplaces in sumptuous bachelor apartments, the veins knotted on their temples, and their strong yet aristocratic fingers clutching a photograph or a scented note."
In a few moments our preparations were complete: I had donned the old charcoal-burner's outer rags, Fanchette had assumed those of the woman, while M. d'Agen, who was for a time at a loss, and betrayed less taste for this part of the plan than for any other, ended by putting on the jerkin and hose of the man who had served us as guide.
I been doing all the headwork for you. I figured how we'd sidestep Montague and Holliday all the tough birds just as long as we could stall 'em off. And pick up a nice piece of change. Your share'd be enough so's you'd not need to worry. And we'd made a great start. They were dead sick of Fanchette. The papers were wild for somebody new.
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