“Why?”

“Because I take you into custody on a charge of murder, and you don’t need to be told it.  Now, I want to be polite to one of your sex and a foreigner if I can.  If I can’t, I must be rough, and there’s rougher ones outside.  What I am to be depends on you.  So I recommend you, as a friend, afore another half a blessed moment has passed over your head, to go and sit down upon that sofy.”

Mademoiselle complies, saying in a concentrated voice while that something in her cheek beats fast and hard, “You are a devil.”

“Now, you see,” Mr. Bucket proceeds approvingly, “you’re comfortable and conducting yourself as I should expect a foreign young woman of your sense to do.  So I’ll give you a piece of advice, and it’s this, don’t you talk too much.  You’re not expected to say anything here, and you can’t keep too quiet a tongue in your head.  In short, the less you parlay, the better, you know.”  Mr. Bucket is very complacent over this French explanation.

Mademoiselle, with that tigerish expansion of the mouth and her black eyes darting fire upon him, sits upright on the sofa in a rigid state, with her hands clenched—­and her feet too, one might suppose—­muttering, “Oh, you Bucket, you are a devil!”

“Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,” says Mr. Bucket, and from this time forth the finger never rests, “this young woman, my lodger, was her ladyship’s maid at the time I have mentioned to you; and this young woman, besides being extraordinary vehement and passionate against her ladyship after being discharged—­”

“Lie!” cries mademoiselle.  “I discharge myself.”

“Now, why don’t you take my advice?” returns Mr. Bucket in an impressive, almost in an imploring, tone.  “I’m surprised at the indiscreetness you commit.  You’ll say something that’ll be used against you, you know.  You’re sure to come to it.  Never you mind what I say till it’s given in evidence.  It is not addressed to you.”

“Discharge, too,” cries mademoiselle furiously, “by her ladyship!  Eh, my faith, a pretty ladyship!  Why, I r-r-r-ruin my character by remaining with a ladyship so infame!”

“Upon my soul I wonder at you!” Mr. Bucket remonstrates.  “I thought the French were a polite nation, I did, really.  Yet to hear a female going on like that before Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet!”

“He is a poor abused!” cries mademoiselle.  “I spit upon his house, upon his name, upon his imbecility,” all of which she makes the carpet represent.  “Oh, that he is a great man!  Oh, yes, superb!  Oh, heaven!  Bah!”

“Well, Sir Leicester Dedlock,” proceeds Mr. Bucket, “this intemperate foreigner also angrily took it into her head that she had established a claim upon Mr. Tulkinghorn, deceased, by attending on the occasion I told you of at his chambers, though she was liberally paid for her time and trouble.”

“Lie!” cries mademoiselle.  “I ref-use his money all togezzer.”