CHAPTER XXIAFTER THE CARNIVAL
Itwas nearly dark, and the day had been very long to Pepsie, sitting alone at her window, for Madelon must remain all day and until late at night on the Rue Bourbon. A holiday, and especially Mardi-gras, was a day of harvest for her, and she never neglected a chance to reap nickels and dimes; therefore Pepsie began to look anxiously for the return of the merry party in the milk-cart. She knew they were not to remain to see the night procession; at least, that had not been the intention of Tante Modeste when she left, and she could not imagine what had detained them. And Tite Souris,—ungrateful creature! had been told to return as soon as the procession was over, in order to get Pepsie’s dinner. Owing to the excitement of the morning, Pepsie had eaten nothing, and now she was very hungry, as well as lonesome; and even Tony, tired of waiting, was hopping about restlessly, straining at his cord, and pecking the floor viciously.
Madame Jozain had returned some time before, and was even then eating her dinner comfortably, Pepsie had called across to know if she had seen anything of the Paichoux and Lady Jane; but madame had answered stiffly that she had been in her friend’s gallery all the time, which was an intimation that she had been in no position to notice a milk-cart, or its occupants. Then she observed indifferently that Madame Paichoux had probably decided to remain on Canal Street in order to get good positions for the night procession.
Pepsie comforted herself somewhat with this view of the case, and then began to worry about the child’s fast. She was sure Tante Modeste had nothing in the cart for the children to eat, and on Mardi-gras there was such a rush that one could hardly get into a restaurant, and she doubted whether Tante Modeste would try with such a crowd of young ones to feed. At length when she had thought of every possible reason for their remaining so late, and every possible plan by which they could be fed, she began to think of her own hunger, and of Tite Souris’s neglect, and had worked herself up to a very unenviable state of mind, when she saw her ungrateful handmaid plunging across the street, looking like amuch-abused scarecrow, the remnants of her tatters flying in the wind, and her long black legs, owing to the unexpected abbreviation of her skirts, longer and thinner than ever, while her comical black face wore an expression impossible to describe.
“Oh, Miss Peps’,” she gasped, bursting into Pepsie’s presence like a whirlwind, “Ma’m Paichoux done sont me on ahead ter tell yer how Miss Lady’s done got lost.”
“Lost, lost?” cried Pepsie, clasping her hands wildly and bursting into tears. “How, where?”
“Up yon’er, on Cunnul Street. We’s can’t find ’er nowhar.”
“Then you must have let go of her,” cried Pepsie, while her eyes flashed fire. “I told you not to let go of her.”
“Oh laws, Miss Peps’, we’s couldn’t holp it in dat dar scrimmage; peoples done bus’ us right apart, an’ Miss Lady’s so littl’ her han’ jes slip outen mine. I’se tried ter hole on, but’t ain’t no use.”
“And where was Tiburce? Did he let go of her too?”
“He war dar, but Lor! he couldn’t holp it, Mars’ Tiburce couldn’t, no more en me.”
“You’ve broken my heart, Tite, and if you don’tgo and find her I’ll hate you always. Mind what I say, I’ll hate you forever,” and Pepsie thrust out her long head and set her teeth in a cruel way.
“Oh laws, honey! Oh laws, Miss Peps’, dey’s all a-lookin’, dey’s gwine bring ’er back soon; doan’t git scart, dat chile’s all right.”
“Go and look for her; go and find her! Mind what I tell you; bring her back safe or—” Here Pepsie threw herself back in her chair and fairly writhed. “Oh, oh! and I must stay here and not do anything, and that darling is lost, lost!—out in the streets alone, and nearly dark. Go, go and look for her; don’t stand there glaring at me.Go, I say,” and Pepsie raised her nutcracker threateningly.
“Yes, Miss Peps’, yes, I’ll bring ’er back shore,” cried Tite, dodging an imaginary blow, as she darted out, her rags and tatters flying after her.
When she had gone Pepsie could do nothing but strain her eyes in the gathering darkness, and wring her hands and weep. She saw the light and the fire in Madame Jozain’s room, but the door was closed because the evening was chilly, and the street seemed deserted. There was no one to speak to; she was alone in the dark little room with only Tony, whorustled his feathers in a ghostly sort of way, andtoneddismally.
Presently, she heard the sound of wheels, and peering out saw Tante Modeste’s milk-cart; her heart gave a great bound. How foolish she was to take on in such a wild way; they had found her, she was there in the cart, safe and sound; but instead of Lady Jane’s blithe little voice she heard her Uncle Paichoux, and in an instant Tante Modeste entered with a very anxious face.
“She hasn’t come home, has she?” were Tante Modeste’s first words.
“Oh, oh!” sobbed Pepsie, “then you haven’t brought her?”
“Don’t cry, child, don’t cry, we’ll find her now. When I saw I couldn’t do anything, I took the young ones home, and got your uncle. I said, ‘If I have Paichoux, I’ll be able to find her.’ We’re going right to the police. I dare say they’ve found her, or know where she is.”
“You know I told you—” moaned Pepsie, “you know I was afraid she’d get lost.”
“Yes, yes; but I thought I could trust Tiburce. The boy will never get over it; he told me the truth,thank Heaven; he said he just let go her hand for one moment, and there was such a crowd. If that fly-away of a Tite had kept on the other side it wouldn’t have happened, but she ran off as soon as they got on the street.”
“I thought so. I’ll pay her off,” said Pepsie vindictively.
“Come, come, Modeste,” called Paichoux from the door, “let’s be starting.”
“Oh, uncle!” cried Pepsie, imploringly, “do find Lady Jane.”
“Certainly, child, certainly, I’ll find her. I’ll have her back here in an hour or so. Don’t cry. It’s nothing for a young one to get lost Mardi-gras; I dare say there are a dozen at the police stations now, waiting for their people to come and get them.”
Just at that moment there was a sound of voices without, and Pepsie exclaimed: “That’s Lady Jane. I heard her speak.” Sure enough, the sweet, high-pitched little voice chattering merrily could be distinctly heard; and at the same instant Tite Souris burst into the room, exclaiming:
“Her’s here, Miss Peps’, bress der Lor’! I’s done found her”; and following close was Lady Jane, still holding fast to little Gex.
“Oh, Pepsie! Oh, I was lost!” she cried, springing into her friend’s arms. “I was lost, and Mr. Gex found me; and I struck a boy in the face, and he tore off my domino and mask, and I didn’t know what to do, when Mr. Gex came and kicked him into the gutter. Didn’t you, Mr. Gex?”
“Just to think of it!” cried Tante Modeste, embracing her, and almost crying over her, while Paichoux was listening to the modest account of the rescue, from the ancient dancing-master.
“And I had dinner with Mr. Gex,” cried Lady Jane joyfully; “such a lovely dinner—ice cream, and grapes—and cake!”
“And one leetle bird, vith a vairy fine salad, my leetle lady,—vasn’t it—one vairy nice leetle bird?” interrupted Gex, who was unwilling to have his fine dinner belittled.
“Oh, yes; bird, and fish, and soup,” enumerated Lady Jane, “and peas, Pepsie, little peas.”
“Oh,mon Dieu! oh, leetle lady!” cried Gex, holding up his hands in horror, “you have it vairy wrong. It vas soup, and fish, and bird. M. Paichoux, you see the leetle lady does not vell remember; and you must not think I can’t order one vairy fine dinner.”
“I understand,” said Paichoux, laughing. “I’ve no doubt, Gex, but what you could order a dinner fit for an alderman.”
“Thank you, thank you, vairy much,” returned Gex, as he bowed himself out and went home to dream of his triumphs.