AFTER THE CARNIVAL
It was 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 a much-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’t go 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, who
rustled his feathers in a ghostly sort of way, and _toned_ dismally.
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.