MADAME JOZAIN
Madame Jozain was 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, her
confessor, 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 best _blanchisseuse de fin_ in 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
had squandered 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 a _blanchisseuse 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 indifferent _blanchisseuse
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 moving from 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. She had 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. _Her_ father 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 and clung 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; so she 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, seriously and 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
wish my 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.