I have a copy before me.

The knaves are not looking their best, but the grouping is superb.

_The Toilet of Venus_ makes a most exquisite background.

CHAPTER XI

HOW BERRY PUT OFF HIS MANHOOD, AND ADeLE SHOWED A FAIR PAIR OF HEELS

But for Susan, I should not have seen the Chateau, and, but for the merest accident, we should not have revisited Gavarnie. And that would have been a great shame.

It was the day before we were spared this lasting reproach that my brother-in-law stood stiffly before a pier-gla.s.s in his wife's bed-chamber. Deliberately Berry surveyed himself.

We stood about him with twitching lips, not daring to trust our tones.

At length--

"But what a dream!" said my brother-in-law. "What an exquisite, pluperfect dream!" Jill shut her eyes and began to shake with laughter. "I suppose it was made to be worn, or d'you think someone did it for a bet? 'A Gentleman of the Court of Louis XIV.' Well, I suppose a French firm ought to know. Only, if they're right, I don't wonder there was a revolution. No self-respecting nation could hold up its head with a lot of wasters shuffling about Versailles with the seats of their breeches beginning under their hocks. That one sleeve is three inches shorter than the other and that the coat would comfortably fit a Boy Scout, I pa.s.s over. Those features might be attributed to the dictates of fashion. But I find it hard to believe that even in that fantastic age a waistcoat like a loose cover ever really obtained."

Adele sank into a chair and covered her eyes.

With an effort I mastered my voice.

"I think, perhaps," I ventured, "if you wore them for an hour or two, they might--might shake down. You see," I continued hurriedly, "you're not accustomed----"

"Brother," said Berry gravely, "you've got it in one. I'm not accustomed to wearing garments such as these. I confess I feel strange in them. Most people who are not deformed would. If I hadn't got any thighs, if my stomach measurement was four times that of my chest, and I'd only one arm, they'd be just about right. As it is, short of mutilation----"

"Can't you brace up the breeches a little higher?" said Daphne.

"No, I can't," snapped her husband. "As it is, my feet are nearly off the ground."

Seated upon the bed, Jonah rolled over upon his side and gave himself up to a convulsion of silent mirth.

"The sleeves and the waistcoat," continued my sister, "are nothing.

Adele and I can easily alter them. What worries me is the breeches."

"They'd worry you a d.a.m.ned sight more if you had 'em on," said Berry.

"And if you think I'm going to wear this little song-without-words, even as amended by you and Adele, you're simply unplaced. To say I wouldn't be seen dead in it conveys nothing at all."

"My dear boy," purred Daphne, "be reasonable. It's far too late to get hold of anything else: it's the ball of the season, and fancy dress is _de rigueur_. I'm sure if you would only brace up----"

With an unearthly shriek, Berry collapsed in my arms.

"Take her away!" he roared. "Take her away before I offer her violence. Explain my anatomy. Tell her I've got a trunk. Conceal nothing. Only...."

Amid the explosion of pent-up laughter, the rest of the sentence was lost.

As soon as we could speak coherently, we endeavoured to smooth him down.

At length--

"It's transparently plain," said Jonah, "that that dress is out of the question." Here he took out his watch. "Let's see. It's now three o'clock. That gives us just seven hours to conceive and execute some other confection. It shouldn't be difficult."

"Now you're talking," said Berry. "I know. I'll go as a mahout. Now, that's easy. Six feet of b.u.t.ter muslin, four pennyworth of woad, and a harpoon. And we can lock the elephant's switch and park him in the rhododendrons."

"Why," said Jonah, "shouldn't you go as Mr. Sycamore Tight? You're not unlike him, and the excitement would be intense."

After a little discussion we turned the suggestion down.

For all that, it was not without merit.

Mr. Sycamore Tight was wanted--wanted badly. There was a price upon his head. Two days after he had landed in France, a large American bank had discovered good reason to believe that Mr. Tight had personally depleted its funds to the tune of over a million.

Daily, for the last four days, the gentleman's photograph had appeared in every French paper, ill.u.s.trating a succinct and compelling advertis.e.m.e.nt, which included a short summary of his characteristics and announced the offer of a reward of fifty thousand francs for such information as should lead to his arrest.

The French know the value of money.

If the interest excited at Pau was any criterion, every French soul in France went about his business with bulging eyes. Indeed, if Mr.

Sycamore Tight were yet in the country, there was little doubt in most minds that his days were numbered.

"No," said Berry. "It's very nice to think that I look so much like the brute, but I doubt if a check suit quite so startling as that he seems to have affected could be procured in time. Shall I go as Marat--on his way to the bath-room? With a night-shirt, a flannel, and a leer, I should be practically there. Oh, and a box of matches to light the geyser with."

"I suppose," said Daphne, "you wouldn't go as a clown? Adele and I could do that easily. The dress is nothing."

"Is it, indeed?" said her husband. "Well, that would be simplicity itself, wouldn't it? A trifle cla.s.sical, perhaps, but most arresting.

What a scene there'd be when I took off my overcoat. 'Melancholy'

would be almost as artless. I could wear a worried look, and there you are."

"Could he go as a friar?" said Jill. "You know. Like a monk, only not so gloomy. We ought to be able to get a robe easily. And, if we couldn't get sandals, he could go barefoot."

"That's right," said Berry. "Don't mind me. You just fix everything up, and tell me in time to change. Oh, and you might write down a few crisp blessings. I shall get tired of saying '_Pax vobisc.u.m_' when anyone kicks my feet."

"I tell you what," said Adele. "Would you go as 'a flapper'?"

"A what?" said my brother-in-law.

"'A twentieth-century miss,'" said Adele. "'The golf girl,' if you like. Daphne and I can fit you out, and you can wear your own shoes.

As for a wig--any _coiffeur_'ll do. A nice fluffy bobbed one would be best--the same shade as your moustache."

Instinctively none of us spoke.

The idea was so admirable--the result would be so triumphant, that we hardly dared to breathe lest Berry should stamp upon our hopes.

For one full slow-treading minute he fingered his chin....