CHAPTER IIIMADAME JOZAIN
Madame Jozainwas a creole of mixed French and Spanish ancestry. She was a tall, thin woman with great, soft black eyes, a nose of the hawk type, and lips that made a narrow line when closed. In spite of her forbidding features, the upper part of her face was rather pleasing, her mild eyes had a gently appealing expression when she lifted them upward, as she often did, and no one would have believed that the owner of those innocent, candid eyes could have a sordid, avaricious nature, unless he glanced at the lower part of her face, which was decidedly mean and disagreeable. Her nose and mouth had a wily and ensnaring expression, which was at the same time cruel and rapacious. Her friends, and she had but few, endowed her with many good qualities, while her enemies, and they were numerous, declared that she was but little better than a fiend incarnate; but Father Ducros, herconfessor, knew that she was a combination of good and evil, the evil largely predominating.
With this strange and complex character, she had but two passions in life. One was for her worthless son, Adraste, and the other was a keen desire for the good opinion of those who knew her. She always wished to be considered something that she was not,—young, handsome, amiable, pious, and the bestblanchisseuse de finin whatever neighborhood she hung out her sign.
And perhaps it is not to be wondered at, that she felt a desire to compensate herself by duplicity for what fate had honestly deprived her of, for no one living had greater cause to complain of a cruel destiny than had Madame Jozain. Early in life she had great expectations. An only child of a well-to-do baker, she inherited quite a little fortune, and when she married the débonnair and handsome André Jozain, she intended, by virtue of his renown and her competency, to live like a lady. He was a politician, and a power in his ward, which might eventually have led him to some prominence; but instead, this same agency had conducted him, by dark and devious ways, to life-long detention in the penitentiary of his State—not, however, until he hadsquandered her fortune, and lamed her for life by pushing her down-stairs in a quarrel. This accident, had it disabled her arms, might have incapacitated her from becoming ablanchisseuse de fin, which occupation she was obliged to adopt when she found herself deprived of her husband’s support by the too exacting laws of his country.
In her times of despondency it was not her husband’s disgrace, her poverty, her lameness, her undutiful son, her lost illusions, over which she mourned, as much as it was the utter futility of trying to make things seem better than they were. In spite of all her painting, and varnishing, and idealizing, the truth remained horribly apparent: She was the wife of a convict, she was plain, and old, and lame; she was poor, miserably poor, and she was but an indifferentblanchisseuse de fin, while Adraste, or Raste, as he was always called, was the worst boy in the State. If she had ever studied the interesting subject of heredity, she would have found in Raste the strongest confirmation in its favor, for he had inherited all his father’s bad qualities in a greater degree.
On account of Raste’s unsavory reputation and her own incompetency, she was constantly movingfrom one neighborhood to another, and, by a natural descent in the scale of misfortune, at last found herself in a narrow little street, in the little village of Gretna, one of the most unlovely suburbs of New Orleans.
The small one-story house she occupied contained but two rooms, and a shed, which served as a kitchen. It stood close to the narrow sidewalk, and its green door was reached by two small steps. Madame Jozain, dressed in a black skirt and a white sack, sat upon these steps in the evening and gossiped with her neighbor. The house was on the corner of the street that led to the ferry, and her greatest amusement (for, on account of her lameness, she could not run with the others to see the train arrive) was to sit on her doorstep and watch the passengers walking by on their way to the river.
On this particular hot July evening, she felt very tired, and very cross. Her affairs had gone badly all day. She had not succeeded with some lace she had been doing for Madame Joubert, the wife of the grocer, on the levee, and Madame Joubert had treated her crossly—in fact had condemned her work, and refused to take it until made up again; and Madame Jozain needed the money sorely. Shehad expected to be paid for the work, but instead of paying her that “little cat of a Madame Joubert” had fairly insulted her. She, Madame Jozain, née Bergeron. The Bergerons were better than the Jouberts.Herfather had been one of the City Council, and had died rich, and her husband—well, her husband had been unfortunate, but he was a gentleman, while the Jouberts were common and always had been. She would get even with that proud little fool; she would punish her in some way. Yes, she would do her lace over, but she would soak it in soda, so that it would drop to pieces the first time it was worn.
Meantime she was tired and hungry, and she had nothing in the house but some coffee and cold rice. She had given Raste her last dime, and he had quarreled with her and gone off to play “craps” with his chums on the levee. Besides, she was very lonesome, for there was but one house on her left, and beyond it was a wide stretch of pasture, and opposite there was nothing but the blank walls of a row of warehouses belonging to the railroad, and her only neighbor, the occupant of the next cottage, had gone away to spend a month with a daughter who lived “down town,” on the other side of the river.
So, as she sat there alone, she looked around her with an expression of great dissatisfaction, yawning wearily, and wishing that she was not so lame, so that she could run out to the station, and see what was going on: and that boy, Raste, she wondered if he was throwing away her last dime. He often brought a little money home. If he did not bring some now, they would have no breakfast in the morning.
Then the arriving train whistled, and she straightened up and her face took on a look of expectancy.
“Not many passengers to-night,” she said to herself, as a few men hurried by with bags and bundles. “They nearly all go to the lower ferry, now.”
In a moment they had all passed, and the event of the evening was over. But no!—and she leaned forward and peered up the street with fresh curiosity. “Why, here come a lady and a little girl and they’re not hurrying at all. She’ll lose the ferry if she doesn’t mind. I wonder what ails her?—she walks as if she couldn’t see.”
Presently the two reached her corner, a lady in mourning, and a little yellow-haired girl carefully holding a small basket in one hand, while she clung to her mother’s gown with the other.
Madame Jozain noticed, before the lady reached her, that she tottered several times, as if about to fall, and put out her hand, as if seeking for some support. She seemed dizzy and confused, and was passing on by the corner, when the child said entreatingly, “Stop here a minute, mama, and rest.”
Then the woman lifted her veil and saw Madame Jozain looking up at her, her soft eyes full of compassion.
“Will you allow me to rest here a moment? I’m ill and a little faint,—perhaps you will give me a glass of water?”
“Why, certainly, my dear,” said madame, getting up alertly, in spite of her lameness. “Come in and sit down in my rocking-chair. You’re too late for the ferry. It’ll be gone before you get there, and you may as well be comfortable while you wait—come right in.”
The exhausted woman entered willingly. The room was neat and cool, and a large white bed, which was beautifully clean, for madame prided herself upon it, looked very inviting.
The mother sank into a chair, and dropped her head on the bed; the child set down the basket andclung to her mother caressingly, while she looked around with timid, anxious eyes.
Madame Jozain hobbled off for a glass of water and a bottle of ammonia, which she kept for her laces; then, with gentle, deft hands, she removed the bonnet and heavy veil, and bathed the poor woman’s hot forehead and burning hands, while the child clung to her mother murmuring, “Mama, dear mama, does your head ache now?”
“I’m better now, darling,” the mother replied after a few moments; then turning to madame, she said in her sweet, soft tones, “Thank you so much. I feel quite refreshed. The heat and fatigue exhausted my strength. I should have fallen in the street had it not been for you.”
“Have you traveled far?” asked madame, gently sympathetic.
“From San Antonio, and I was ill when I started”; and again she closed her eyes and leaned her head against the back of the chair.
At the first glance, madame understood the situation. She saw from the appearance of mother and child, that they were not poor. In this accidental encounter was a possible opportunity, but how far she could use it she could not yet determine; soshe said only, “That’s a long way to come alone”; then she added, in a casual tone, “especially when one’s ill.”
The lady did not reply, and madame went on tentatively, “Perhaps some one’s waiting for you on the other side, and’ll come back on the ferry to see what’s become of you.”
“No. No one expects me; I’m on my way to New York. I have a friend living on Jackson Street. I thought I would go there and rest a day or so; but I did wrong to get off the train here. I was not able to walk to the ferry. I should have gone on to the lower station, and saved myself the exertion of walking.”
“Well, don’t mind now, dear,” returned madame, soothingly. “Just rest a little, and when it’s time for the boat to be back, I’ll go on down to the ferry with you. It’s only a few steps, and I can hobble that far. I’ll see you safe on board, and when you get across, you’ll find a carriage.”
“Thank you, you’re very good. I should like to get there as soon as possible, for I feel dreadfully ill,” and again the weary eyes closed, and the heavy head fell back against its resting-place.
Madame Jozain looked at her for a moment, seriouslyand silently; then she turned, smiling sweetly on the child. “Come here, my dear, and let me take off your hat and cool your head while you’re waiting.”
“No, thank you, I’m going with mama.”
“Oh, yes, certainly; but won’t you tell me your name?”
“My name is Lady Jane,” she replied gravely.
“Lady Jane? Well, I declare, that just suits you, for you are a little lady, and no mistake. Aren’t you tired, and warm?”
“I’m very hungry; I want my supper,” said the child frankly.
Madame winced, remembering her empty cupboard, but went on chatting cheerfully to pass away the time.
Presently the whistle of the approaching ferryboat sounded; the mother put on her bonnet, and the child took the bag in one hand, and the basket in the other. “Come, mama, let us go,” she cried eagerly.
“Dear, dear,” said madame, solicitously, “but you look so white and sick. I’m afraid you can’t get to the ferry even with me to help you. I wishmy Raste was here; he’s so strong, he could carry you if you gave out.”
“I think I can walk; I’ll try,” and the poor woman staggered to her feet, only to fall back into Madame Jozain’s arms in a dead faint.