The Butterfly Plague by Timothy Findley Page B

hair tonics, hair nets, rats, falls, pins, buns; loads of jellies, jars, and Jergens; trays of pencils, rouge, lipstick, kohl, and mascara; toilet water, ice water, hot water, drinking water; mirrors, mirrors, mirrors; files, scissors, and emery boards; patience and paper bags.
    “That will be all,” said the voice. “Bring me my lace shawl, Maureen.”
    “Yes, madam.”
    It was done.
    “The visiting gentlemen,” said the voice, preoccupied in tone, “will start arriving at eleven.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Coffee, biscuits…and sherry. Nothing more.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Do you remember what I told you about the napkins?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “For God’s sake, nothing paper.”
    “No, ma’am. Never.”
    “Tell Fiona her flowers look sweet and she’s not to forget to set out the potpourri.”
    “Yes’m.”
    “Now, I want that copy of Vogue someone brought in yesterday. And Vanity Fair . And the papers the minute they arrive.”
    “Yes’m.”
    “Did you listen to Louella?”
    “Yes’m.”
    “Well?”
    “Nothing, ma’am. Not a word.”
    “Very well, then.”
    Maureen wavered doorward, her stack of trays loaded onto a sort of tea wagon specially designed for madam’s boudoir. There was much to do before eleven.
    The eyes behind the bed’s veiling shifted back to immediate matters.
    “Maureen?”
    “Yes’m?”
    “Pour a bottle of cologne into that blue bowl.”
    “Yes’m.”
    “ Bois des Isles .”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “And Maureen…”
    “Yes, madam?”
    “If you spill any on yourself…”
    “Yes, madam…”
    “Change your costume at once.”
    “Yes’m.”
    “Maureen?”
    “Yes’m.”
    “You look lovely, my dear.”
    “Thank you, madam.”
    “Don’t forget to polish your shoes.”
    “No, ma’am.”
    “Now. Get me the Vogue and the Vanity Fair .”
    “Yes’m.”
    At last Maureen managed her escape and trundled off with her wagon down the hall.
    Inside the bed there was a Virginal silence, and then a long, long sigh.

    11:00 a.m.

    “Mr. Maynard, madam.”
    “Roscoe!”
    “My dear.”
    “Come and sit over here…”
    “Thank you.”
    “You look so elegant. Tell me your news.”
    “I have spoken to Warner Niles.”
    “And?”
    “Intrigued, but at the moment, no response.”
    “I see.”
    “He was…”
    “No explanation, Roscoe. Only news. Tell me who else.”
    “Alistair Boyar.”
    “And?”
    “Intrigued…but no response…at the moment.”
    “I see.”
    “He was…”
    “I tell you, Roscoe, no explanations. On.”
    “Peter Trotsky.”
    “And?”
    “Intrigued—but no response.”
    “Who else?”
    “Ivan Dorfmann.”
    “And?”
    “Intrigued.”
    “But no response?”
    “He was…No.”
    “I see.”
    “Harold Houghton.”
    “Yes?”
    “Intrigued—but no response.”
    Pause.
    “Madam?”
    “Yes, Maureen?”
    “I’ve brought the coffee…”
    “Take it away, Maureen.”
    “But ma’am. You said…”
    “Take it away. Mr. Maynard will not be staying.”
    “Yes’m.”
    “Well, Roscoe. Anyone else?”
    “No.”
    “I see.”
    “I’d love a cup of coffee.”
    “I’m sorry, Roscoe, but I’m really rather tired.”
    “Very well.”
    “Good-bye. And thank you, Roscoe.”
    “Any time, my dear. I’m always at your service. I’m sorry things didn’t work out.”
    “No explanations, Roscoe. That is all.”
    “Very well. Good-bye.”
    “Good-bye.”
    Walking.
    “And Roscoe…?”
    Turning in the doorway. “Yes?”
    “Don’t come back. You’re fired.”
    The sound of footsteps lagging down the hall.

    11:20 a.m.

    “Mr. Carter Cooper to see you, madam.”
    “Cooper Carter.”
    “Sorry madam. Mr. Cooper Carter.”
    “That will be all, Maureen.”
    “Yes’m.”
    “Well, Cooper. Sit by the window. Show me your profile. Yes. I always love that profile.”
    “I can’t even see you, sitting way over here like this and you behind all those curtains. Does Letitia Virden hide from everyone?”
    “Never mind, you