“You better make dem black legs fly, too, ’cause madame’s in a towerin’ rage, her face as white as snow, her eyes a-blazin’, and her hair hangin’ down her back all tangled up like she been a-tearin’ of it out by de han’fuls. ’Spect dat’s why she done sent for Mamzellie Frenchy to come and fix it up in style like she useter.” CHAPTER XX. It seemed to Camille that she would go frantic with suspense, it was so long before Finette came. Never had the thin, sallow face and beady black eyes of the French maid looked so welcome. “Finette, I am in bitter trouble. I sent for you to come back in defiance of my husband’s wishes, for I shall need your help--if, indeed, there is any help for me,” she said, quickly. Finette protested that she was ready to go to the ends of the earth to serve her generous mistress. “I will tell you all my trouble,” said Camille. “I stayed at the Hotel Française while my husband’s protégée was ill with scarlet fever. There was a nobleman there, Lord Stuart. He seemed to admire me very much, and paid me more attention than any other lady there. We became great friends. I own I flirted with Lord Stuart, but it was an innocent affair--nothing culpable, I vow.” “I understand. But m’sieur became jealous,” Finette said, intelligently, as her mistress paused. “Exactly, Finette. We had a stormy interview to-day. My husband accused me of the worst. He swore that he would chastise Lord Stuart to-night in order to publish my alleged disgrace, and that afterward he would take steps to procure a divorce from me.” “And miladi--she is against the divorce?” asked the maid. “How can you ask such a question, Finette? Surely you know I love him more than life itself. If I lose him I shall die.” Finette looked with polite cynicism at the burning dark eyes in the marble-white face. She did not believe that any one was likely to die for love. She had read Shakespeare: “Men have died and worms have eaten them, But not for love.” “But, then, what can you do with that silly boy?” she said, curtly. “That is for you to tell me. I depend upon you, Finette, to help me, you are so worldly wise, so clever. Oh, try to keep him from getting a divorce, and I will make you rich, Finette!” “If madame would take my advice she would jump at the divorce from that proud and silly boy--she would marry the nobleman,” insinuatingly. “Finette, you are stupid, you are ridiculous! Do I not tell you I adore Norman de Vere? I want you to help me regain his love and ward off a divorce, not to advise me to marry some one else!” Camille cried, stamping her dainty foot in sudden fury. Finette smiled a little contemptuously, but with a few well-chosen words she smoothed the beauty’s ruffled feathers, and inspired her with some degree of hope. “Now, let me do up your hair, and I will try to think how I can help you,” she said. She brushed and arranged the long, wavy red hair with deft fingers, her fertile French brain busy.