CHAPTER XXIIPAICHOUX MAKES A PURCHASE
“Justto think,” said Pepsie to her mother, the next morning, “Madame Jozain wasn’t the least anxious last night about Lady. I don’t believe she cares for the child, or she’d never be willing to let her stay away from her the most of the time, as she does. She’s always fussing about her great, overgrown son, ifhe’sout of her sight.”
“And no wonder,” returned Madelon. “Poor woman, she has trouble enough with him. She keeps it to herself and pretends to be proud of him; but, my dear, he’s a living disgrace to her. I often hear him spoken of on the Rue Bourbon; he dresses fine and never works. Where does he get his money,ma petite? If people are poor and don’t work they must steal. They may call it by some other name, but I call it stealing. Madame Jozain can’t make money enough in that little shop to support herself and keep that boy in idleness. Wemustn’t be too hard on her. She has trouble enough, I can see it in her face; she looks worn out with worry. And we’ll do all we can for that little darling. It’s a pleasure; she’s so sweet and grateful. I only wish I could do more. I’d work my fingers to the bone for you two, my darling.”
“Bonne maman,” said Pepsie, clinging to her neck, and kissing her fondly, “have you thought of what I asked you—have you, mama?”
“Yes, my dear, I have, I’ve thought of it a great deal; but I don’t see my way clear quite yet.”
“Why, you’ve got the money in the bank, mama?”
“I can’t touch that money, my dear; it’s for you. If anything should happen to me, and you were left alone.”
“Hush, hush, mama; I shouldn’t need any money then, for I should die too.”
“No, my dear, not if it was the good God’s will that you should live. I don’t want to spend that; I want to feel that you’ve something. A piano costs a great deal of money; besides, what would your uncle and aunt think if I should do such a thing?”
“They’d think you did it becauseIwanted you to,” returned Pepsie slyly.
“That would be a reason certainly,” said Madelon, laughing, “and I’ll try to do it after a while. Have a little patience, dear, and I think I can manage it without touching the money in the bank.”
“Oh, I hope you can, mama, because Mam’selle Diane says Lady learns very fast, and that she ought to practise. I hate to have her kept back for the need of a piano, and Madame Jozain will never get one for her. You know you could sell it afterward, mama,”—and Pepsie went on to show, with much excellent reasoning, that Lady Jane could never make a greatprima donnaunless she had advantages. “It’s now, while her fingers are supple, that they must be trained; she ought to practise two hours a day. Oh, I’d rather go without the money than to have Lady kept back. Try,bonne maman, try to get a piano very soon, won’t you?”
And Madelon promised to try, for she was devoted to the child; but Pepsie had begun to think that Lady Jane was her own—her very own, and, in her generous affection, was willing to sacrifice everything for her good.
And Madelon and Pepsie were not the only ones who planned and hoped for the little one with almost a mother’s love and interest. From the first daythat Lady Jane smiled up into the sad, worn face of Diane d’Hautreve, a new life had opened to that lonely woman, a new hope, a new happiness brightened her dreary days; for the child’s presence seemed to bring sunshine and youth to her. Had it not been for her mother, she would have kept the gentle little creature with her constantly, as the sweetest hours she knew, or had known for many a weary year, were those she devoted to her lovely little pupil. It was a dream of delight to sit at the tinkling piano with Lady Jane nestled close to her side, the sweet, liquid notes mingling with hers, as they sang an old-fashioned ballad, or a tender lullaby. And the child never disappointed her; she was always docile and thoughtful, and so quiet and polite that even Diane’s mother, captious and querulous though she was, found no cause for complaint, while the toleration with which she had at first received Lady Jane was fast changing into affection. The more they became interested in her, the more they wondered how she could be kin to such a woman as Madame Jozain; for Mam’selle Diane had been obliged to show how exclusive she could be in order to keep madame where she belonged.
At first Madame Jozain had annoyed them greatlyby trying to intrude upon their seclusion; and it had taken several polite, but unmistakable rebuffs to reach her that they were d’Hautreves, and that the child would be received gladly where the aunt must not expect to enter.
Madame swallowed her mortification and said nothing, but she bided her time to take her revenge. “I’llshow them before long that I know how poor they are; and that funny little story I got out of Tite Souris, about Mam’selle Diane cleaning herbanquettewith a veil over her face—every one in the neighborhood shall know it. Poor, proud, old thing, she thought she could insult me and I wouldn’t resent it!”
And while Madame was planning her little revenge, and rehearsing her grievances to herself, Madame d’Hautreve and Mam’selle Diane were wondering if something couldn’t be done to get the child out of the clutches of such an aunt.
“It seems dreadful,” Mam’selle Diane would say, sadly, “to leave her with that woman. I can’t think she has any right to her; there’s a mystery about it, and it ought to be investigated. Oh, mama dear, if we had some money I’d hire a lawyer to find out. If she really is the child’s next-of-kin, I suppose shehas a legal right to her, and that no one could oblige her to relinquish that right; but one mightbuythe child; I think she is just the woman to be moved by money. Oh, mama, if our claim had only gone through! If we’d only got what we ought to have had, I would try—if you had no objections—to get the child.”
“Dear, dear, Diane, how absurd you are! What would you do with her?”
“Why, you could adopt her, mama, and I could have the care of her.”
“But, my child, that is all romancing. We have no money, and we never shall have any. It is useless to think of that claim, it will never be considered; and even if we had money, it would be a great risk to take a child we know nothing of. I think with you that there’s some mystery, and I should like to have it looked into, yet I don’t think it’s worth while worrying about; we have troubles enough of our own.”
“Oh, mama, we need not be selfish because we are poor,” said Diane, gently.
“We can’t help it, child; selfishness is one of the results of poverty. It is self, self, constantly; butyouare an exception, Diane. I will give you thecredit of thinking more of others’ interest than of your own. You show it in everything. Now, about that bird. Madame Jourdain should have paid you for it, and not thrown it on your hands.”
“Oh, mama, she couldn’t sell it,” said Mam’selle Diane, rejectedly. “It wouldn’t be right to expect her to lose the price of it. She says it didn’t ‘take’ as well as the ducks.”
“Well, she might have thrown in the wool,” insisted Madame d’Hautreve, querulously, “she might have given the wool against your time.”
“But she didn’t ask me to experiment with a new model, mama dear. It wasn’t her fault if I didn’t succeed.”
“Youdidsucceed, Diane. It was perfect; it was most life-like, only people haven’t the taste to recognize your talent.”
“Madame Jourdain said that her customers didn’t like the bird’s bill, and they thought the neck too long,” returned Mam’selle Diane, humbly.
“There, there; that shows how little the best educated people know of ornithology. It is a species of crane; the neck is not out of proportion.”
“They thought so, mama, and one can’t contend with people’s tastes and opinions. I shall not tryanything new again. I shall stick to my ducks and canaries.”
“You know I advised you to do so in the first place. You were too ambitious, Diane, you were too ambitious!”
“Yes; you are right, mama, I was too ambitious!” sighed Mam’selle Diane.
One morning in August, about a year from the time that Madame Jozain moved into Good Children Street, Tante Modeste was in her dairy, deep in the mysteries of cream-cheese and butter, when Paichoux entered, and laying a small parcel twisted up in a piece of newspaper before her waited for her to open it.
“In a moment,” she said, smiling brightly; “let me fill these molds first, then I’ll wash my hands, and I’m done for to-day.”
Paichoux made no reply, but walked about the dairy, peering into the pans of rich milk, and whistling softly.
Suddenly, Tante Modeste uttered an exclamation of surprise. She had opened the paper, and was holding up a beautiful watch by its exquisitely wrought chain.
“Why, papa, where in the world did you get this?” she asked, as she turned it over and over, and examined first one side and then the other. “Blue enamel, a band of diamonds on the rim, a leaf in diamonds on one side, a monogram on the other. What are the letters?—the stones sparkle so, I can hardly make them out. J, yes, it’s a J, and a C. Why, those are the very initials on that child’s clothes! Paichoux, where did you get this watch, and whose is it?”
“Why, it’s mine,” replied Paichoux, with exasperating coolness. He was standing before Tante Modeste, with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, whistling in his easy way. “It’s mine, and I bought it.”
“Bought it! Where did you buy a watch like this, and wrapped up in newspaper, too? Do tell me where you got it, Paichoux,” cried Tante Modeste, very much puzzled, and very impatient.
“I bought it in the Recorder’s Court.”
“In the Recorder’s Court?” echoed Tante Modeste, more and more puzzled. “From whom did you buy it?”
“From Raste Jozain.”
Tante Modeste looked at her husband with wideeyes and parted lips, and said nothing for several seconds; then she exclaimed, “I told you so!”
“Told me what?” asked Paichoux, with a provoking smile.
“Why, why, that all those things marked J. C. were stolen from that child’s mother; and this watch is a part of the same property, and she never was a Jozain—”
“Not so fast, Modeste; not so fast.”
“Then, what was Raste Jozain in the Recorder’s Court for?”
“He was arrested on suspicion, but they couldn’t prove anything.”
“For this?” asked Tante Modeste, looking at the watch.
“No, it was another charge, but his having such a valuable watch went against him. It seems like a providence, my getting it. I just happened to be passing the Recorder’s Court, and, glancing in, I saw that precious rascal in the dock. I knew him, but he didn’t know me. So I stepped in to see what the scrape was. It seems that he was arrested on the suspicion of being one of a gang who have robbed a number of jewelry stores. They couldn’t prove anything against him on that charge; but the watchand chain puzzled the Recorder like the mischief. He asked Raste where he got it, and he was ready with his answer, ‘It belonged to my cousin who died some time ago; she left it to my mother, and my mother gave it to me.’”
“‘What was her name?’ asked the Recorder.
“‘Claire Jozain,’ the scamp answered promptly.
“‘But this is J. C.,’ said the Recorder, examining the letters closely. ‘I should certainly say that the J. came first. What do you think, gentlemen?’ and he handed the watch to his clerk and some others; and they all thought from the arrangement of the letters that it was J. C., and while this discussion was going on, the fellow stood there smiling as impudent and cool as if he was the first gentleman in the city. He’s a handsome fellow, and well dressed, and the image of his father. Any one who had ever seen André Jozain would know that Raste was his son, and he’s in a fair way to end his days in Andre’s company.”
“And they couldn’t find out where he got the watch?” interrupted Tante Modeste impatiently.
“No, they couldn’t prove that it was stolen. However, the Recorder gave him thirty days in the parish prison as a suspicious character.”
“They ought not to have let him off so easily,” said Tante Modeste decidedly.
“But you know they couldn’t prove anything,” continued Paichoux, “and the fellow looked blue at the prospect of thirty days. I guess he felt that he was getting it pretty heavy. However, he put on lots of brass and began talking and laughing with some flashy-looking fellows who gathered around him. They saw the watch was valuable, and that there was a chance for a bargain, and one of them made him an offer of fifty dollars for it. ‘Do you think I’m from the West?’ he asked, with a grin, and shoved it back into his pocket! ‘I’m pretty hard up, I need the cash badly; but I can’tgiveyou this ticker, as much as I love you.’ Then another fellow offered him sixty, and he shook his head. ‘No, no, that’s nowhere near the figure.’
“‘Let me look at the watch,’ I said, sauntering up. ‘If it’s a good watch I’ll make you an offer.’ I spoke as indifferently as possible, because I didn’t want him to think I was anxious, and I wasn’t quite sure whether he knew me or not. As he handed me the watch he eyed me impudently, but I saw that he was nervous and shaky. ‘It’s a good watch,’ I saidafter I examined it closely; ‘a very good watch, and I’ll give you seventy-five.’
“‘No, you don’t, old hayseed; hand it here.’ I was so taken aback at his calling me hayseed—you see, Modeste, I had on my blouse,” and Paichoux looked a little guilty while referring to his toilet.
“Well papa, haven’t I told you not to go uptown in your blouse?” said Tante Modeste sharply. “I should think now, for Marie’s sake, that you would wear a coat; the Guiots all wear coats.”
“Oh, never mind that. I don’t. I’m an honest man, and I can afford to wear a blouse anywhere. I didn’t take any notice of his impudence, but I offered him a hundred. You see I happened to have the money with me. I was on my way to pay Lenotre for those last Jerseys I bought from him, so I took my wallet out and began counting the bills. That brought him; the fellow needed the money, and he wanted to get rid of the watch. If I hadn’t thought that there was something crooked about it, my conscience wouldn’t have let me take such a valuable thing for such a price, but I considered the child. I thought it might be all the proof that we would ever have if anything came up, and in any case it’s money well invested for her.”
“You did right to buy it, Paichoux. It’s a good deal of money for a watch, especially just now, when we have to get so much for Marie; but if we can do anything for that darling by having it, I don’t mind.” And Tante Modeste sat for some time looking intently at the beautiful, sparkling object that lay on her white apron.
“I wish it could speak,” she said at length; “I wish it could speak.”
“I mean to make it by and by,” returned Paichoux decidedly.
“But now, at this moment, what a story it could tell if it had a voice! Well, I’m glad we’ve got it out of that scamp’s clutches.”
“So am I,” returned Paichoux, opening the case as he spoke and showing Tante Modeste something on the inside of it. “I can get a trace through this, or I’m mistaken; but put it away now in my safe, and say nothing about it,—I don’t want even Madelon to know that we’ve got it, and, Modeste, whenever you see that woman, be on the alert for something that will give us a clue.”
“Oh, Paichoux, you don’t know her. She’s as close as the grave, and too cunning to betray herself. I’m always watching her, and I mean tokeep on; but I don’t think it’s any use. I wish we could employ a detective to unravel the mystery.”
“Yes, yes; but that would cost a good deal, Modeste; let’s wait awhile, something’s going to turn up to put us on the right track.”
“And in the mean while the poor little darling is in the power of that woman. The child never complains, but my heart aches for her. She has changed this summer; she looks thin and weak, and that woman takes no more care of her than she would of a dog. If it wasn’t for Madelon and Pepsie, and Mam’selle d’Hautreve, the little creature would suffer; and our good milk that I send to Madelon has helped her through the hot weather. Pepsie herself goes without, to give it to the child. If the sweet little thing hadn’t made friends, she would have perished.”
“Let her come down here and play with our young ones; there’s room enough,” said Paichoux good-naturedly, “and she’s no more trouble than a bird hopping about.”
“I wanted to have her, but madame won’t let her come; she’s taken it in her head to keep the child shut up most of the time. Pepsie and Mam’selle Diane complain that they don’t have her as often asthey’d like to. I think she’s afraid that the child may talk. You see she’s getting older, and she may remember more than madame likes her to.”
“Well,” said Paichoux deliberately, “I’ve made a plan, and by and by I’m going to put it in operation. Just keep quiet and wait until I’m ready to put my plan in operation.”
And Tante Modeste promised to wait.