The Transformation of Philip Jettan

  “’Twould have made an excellent foil,” agreed Philip. “But no matter. Cleone, you have rearranged your roses!”

  Cleone backed, warding him off.

  “I cry your pardon, sir! Oh no, let me be!”

  Philip came to her, and with deft fingers pulled the flowers into position.

  “One of them must kiss your skin, so! To show that it is no whiter than the skin. Voilà, c’est bien!”

  “Who is likely to be at the ball to-night, Philip?” asked his father.

  “Tout le monde. One always goes to Madame de Sauverin’s balls. It is de rigueur.”

  “We shall be late!” warned Cleone. “Oh, we are late now!”

  “That is also de rigueur,” said Philip.

  “Sir Maurice, M’sieu’, et Madame Jettan!” announced the lackey.

  There was a sudden hush. All eyes turned to the late-comers. In the doorway stood a tall gentleman, at his side two dazzling visions in white.

  Madame de Sauverin stared for a moment in wonderment. Then she hurried forward, hands outstretched.

  “Philippe!”

  “Philippe! Le petit Philippe!” A score of voices took up the cry. Nearly everyone there surged forward.

  Philip kissed Madame’s hand.

  “Chere madame! I may present my wife? My father you know.”

  Cleone curtseyed low.

  “Your—wife!” Madame took Cleone’s hands. “Voyons, voyons, notre petit Philippe s’est éspousé! Et Maurice!”

  Philip and Cleone were at the centre of a welcoming throng. Cleone’s hand was kissed a dozen times. Delighted questions were shot at Philip.

  Saint-Dantin grasped his hand.

  “Mon cher petit! You have returned at last? Et madame!” He bowed to the blushing Cleone. “There is no need to ask who is, madame.” He smiled at her. “It is evident that her name is Cleone!”

  De Vangrisse pressed forward.

  “The mysterious Cleone! Madame, votre serviteur! We have all longed to see the lady who so consistently held Philip’s heart!”

  “Philippe, how long have you been in Paris?” demanded De Chatelin. “You are going to remain? Ah bon!”

  “Philippe, have you an ode for the occasion?” asked another laughing voice.

  Clothilde de Chaucheron pushed through the ring.

  “Le petit Philippe au coeur perdu!” she cried.

  Philip disengaged himself from the clutches of Saint-Dantin and took his wife’s hand.

  “Mademoiselle de Chaucheron, chérie,” he said, and bowed.

  Clothilde gazed at Cleone for a moment. Then she swept a deep curtsey.

  “Je me trompe,” she said, smiling. “Le petit Philippe au coeur trouvé.”

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