LADY JANE FINDS OTHER FRIENDS
Thus Lady Jane’s new life, in the quaint old Rue des Bons Enfants,
began under quite pleasant auspices. From the moment that Pepsie, with
a silent but not unrecorded vow, constituted herself the champion and
guardian angel of the lonely little stranger, she was surrounded by
friends, and hedged in with the most loyal affection.
Because Pepsie loved the child, the good Madelon loved her also, and
although she saw her but seldom, being obliged to leave home early and
return late, she usually left her some substantial token of good will,
in the shape of cakes or pralines, or some odd little toy that she
picked up on Bourbon Street on her way to and from her stand.
Madelon was a pleasant-faced, handsome woman, always clean and always
cheery; no matter how hard the day had been for her, whether hot or
cold, rainy or dusty, she returned home at night as fresh and cheerful
as when she went out in the morning. Pepsie adored her mother, and no
two human beings were ever happier than they when the day’s work was
over, and they sat down together to their little supper.
Then Pepsie recounted to her mother everything that had happened during
the day, or at least everything that had come within her line of vision
as she sat at her window; and Madelon in turn would tell her of all she
had heard out in her world, the world of the Rue Bourbon, and after
the advent of Lady Jane the child was a constant theme of conversation
between them. Her beauty, her intelligence, her pretty manners, her
charming little ways were a continual wonder to the homely woman and
girl, who had seen little beyond their own sphere of life.
If Madelon was fortunate enough to get home early, she always found
Lady Jane with Pepsie, and the loving way with which the child would
spring to meet her, clinging to her neck and nestling to her broad
motherly bosom, showed how deeply she needed the maternal affection so
freely lavished upon her.
At first Madame Jozain affected to be a little averse to such a close
intimacy, and even went so far as to say to Madame Fernandez, the
tobacconist’s wife, who sat all day with her husband in his little
shop rolling cigarettes and selling lottery tickets, that she did not
like her niece to be much with the lame girl opposite, whose mother
was called “Bonne Praline.” Perhaps they were honest people, and would
do the child no harm; but a woman who was never called madame, and who
sat all day on the Rue Bourbon, was likely to have the manners of the
streets. And Lady Jane had never been thrown with such people; she had
been raised very carefully, and she didn’t want her to lose her pretty
manners.
Madame Fernandez agreed that Madelon was not over-refined, and that
Pepsie lacked the accomplishments of a young lady. “But they are
very honest,” she said, “and the girl has a generous heart, and is
so patient and cheerful; besides, Madelon has a sister who is rich.
Monsieur Paichoux, her sister’s husband, is very well off, a solid
man, with a large dairy business; and their daughter Marie, who just
graduated at the Sacred Heart, is very pretty, and is _fiancée_ to a
young man of superior family, a son of Judge Guiot, and you know who
the Guiots are.”
Yes, madame knew. Her father, Pierre Bergeron, and Judge Guiot had
always been friends, and the families had visited in other days. If
that was the case, the Paichoux must be very respectable; and if
“Bonne Praline” was the sister-in-law of a Paichoux, and prospective
aunt-in-law to the son of a judge, there was no reason why she should
keep the child away; therefore she allowed her to go whenever she
wished, which was from the time she was out of bed in the morning until
it was quite dark at night.
Lady Jane shared Pepsie’s meals, and sat at the table with her,
learning to crack and shell pecans with such wonderful facility that
Pepsie’s task was accomplished some hours sooner, therefore she had
a good deal of time each day to devote to her little friend. And it
was very amusing to witness Pepsie’s motherly care for the child. She
bathed her, and brushed her long silken hair; she trimmed her bang to
the most becoming length; she dressed her with the greatest taste, and
tied her sash with the _chic_ of a French milliner; she examined the
little pink nails and pearls of teeth to see if they were perfectly
clean, and she joined with Lady Jane in rebelling against madame’s
decree that the child should go barefoot while the weather was warm.
“All the little creoles did, and she was not going to buy shoes for
the child to knock out every day.” Therefore, when her shoes were
worn, Madelon bought her a neat little pair on the Rue Bourbon, and
Pepsie darned her stockings and sewed on buttons and strings with the
most exemplary patience. When madame complained that, with all the
business she had to attend to, the white frocks were too much trouble
and expense to keep clean, Tite Souris, who was a fair laundress,
begged that she might be allowed to wash them, which she did with such
good-will that Lady Jane was always neat and dainty.
Gradually the sorrowful, neglected look disappeared from her small
face, and she became rosy and dimpled again, and as contented and
happy a child as ever was seen in Good Children Street. Every one in
the neighborhood knew her; the gracious, beautiful little creature,
with her blue heron, became one of the sights of the quarter. She was
a picture and a poem in one to the homely, good-natured creoles, and
everywhere she went she carried sunshine with her.
Little Gex, a tiny, shrunken, bent Frenchman, who kept a small fruit
and vegetable stall just above Madelon’s, felt that the day had been
dark indeed when Lady Jane’s radiant little face did not illumine his
dingy quarters. How his old, dull eyes would brighten when he heard her
cheery voice, “Good morning, Mr. Gex; Tante Pauline”—or Pepsie, as the
case might be—“would like a nickel of apples, onions, or carrots”; and
the orange that was always given her for _lagniappe_ was received with
a charming smile, and a “Thank you,” that went straight to the old,
withered heart.
Gex was a quiet, polite little man, who seldom held any conversation
with his customers beyond the simple requirements of his business; and
children, as a general thing, he detested, for the reason that the
ill-bred little imps in the neighborhood made him the butt of their
mischievous ridicule, for his appearance was droll in the extreme: his
small face was destitute of beard and as wrinkled as a withered apple,
and he usually wore a red handkerchief tied over his bald head with
the ends hanging under his chin; his dress consisted of rather short
and very wide trousers, a little jacket, and an apron that reached
nearly to his feet. This very quaint costume gave him a nondescript
appearance, which excited the mirth of the juvenile population to such
a degree that they did not always restrain it within proper bounds.
Therefore it was very seldom that a child entered his den, and such a
thing as one receiving _lagniappe_ was quite unheard of.
[Illustration: MR. GEX AT THE DOOR OF HIS SHOP]
All day long he sat on his small wooden chair behind the shelf
across his window, on which was laid in neat piles oranges, apples,
sweet potatoes, onions, cabbages, and even the odorous garlic; they
were always sound and clean, and for that reason, even if he did
not give _lagniappe_ to small customers, he had a fair trade in the
neighborhood. And he was very neat and industrious. When he was not
engaged in preparing his vegetables, he was always tinkering at
something of interest to himself; he could mend china and glass, clocks
and jewelry, shoes and shirts; he washed and patched his own wardrobe,
and darned his own stockings. Often when a customer came in he would
push his spectacles upon his forehead, lay down his stocking and
needle, and deal out his cabbage and carrots as unconcernedly as if he
had been engaged in a more manly occupation.
From some of the dingy corners of his den he had unearthed an old
chair, very stiff and high, and entirely destitute of a bottom; this he
cleaned and repaired by nailing across the frame an orange-box cover
decorated with a very bright picture, and one day he charmed Lady Jane
by asking her to sit down and eat her orange while he mended his jacket.
She declined eating her orange, as she always shared it with Pepsie,
but accepted the invitation to be seated. Placing Tony to forage on a
basket of refuse vegetables, she climbed into the chair, placed her
little heels on the topmost rung, smoothed down her short skirt, and,
resting her elbows on her knees, leaned her rosy little cheeks on her
palms, and set herself to studying Gex seriously and critically. At
length, her curiosity overcoming her diffidence, she said in a very
polite tone, but with a little hesitation: “Mr. Gex, are you a man or a
woman?”
Gex, for the moment, was fairly startled out of himself, and, perhaps
for the first time in years, he threw back his head and laughed
heartily.
“_Bon! bon!_ ’Tis good; ’tis vairy good. Vhy, my leetle lady, sometime
I don’t know myself; ’cause, you see, I have to be both the man and the
voman; but vhy in the vorld did you just ask me such a funny question?”
“Because, Mr. Gex,” replied Lady Jane, very gravely, “I’ve thought
about it often. Because—men don’t sew, and wear aprons,—and—women
don’t wear trousers; so, you see, I couldn’t tell which _you_ were.”
“Oh, _my foi_!” and again Gex roared with laughter until a neighbor,
who was passing, thought he had gone crazy, and stopped to look at him
with wonder; but she only saw him leaning back, laughing with all his
might, while Lady Jane sat looking at him with a frowning, flushed
face, as if she was disgusted at his levity.
“I don’t know why you laugh so,” she said loftily, straightening up in
her chair, and regarding Gex as if he had disappointed her. “I think
it’s very bad for you to have no one to mend your clothes, and—and to
have to sew like a woman, if—if you’re a man.”
“Vhy, bless your leetle heart, so it is; but you see I am just one
poor, lonely _creature_, and it don’t make much difference vhether I’m
one or t’ other; nobody cares now.”
“I do,” returned Lady Jane brightly; “and I’m glad I know, because,
when Pepsie teaches me to sew, _I’m_ going to mend your clothes, Mr.
Gex.”
“Vell, you are one leetle angel,” exclaimed Gex, quite overcome. “Here,
take another orange.”
“Oh, no; thank you. I’ve only bought one thing, and I can’t take two
_lagniappes_; that would be wrong. But I must go now.”
And, jumping down, she took Tony from his comfortable nest among the
cabbage-leaves, and with a polite good-by she darted out, leaving the
dingy little shop darker for her going.
For a long time after she went Gex sat looking thoughtfully at his
needlework. Then he sighed heavily, and muttered to himself: “If Marie
had lived! If she’d lived, I’d been more of a man.”