PAICHOUX MAKES A PURCHASE
“Just to 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, if _he’s_ out 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. We mustn’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 because _I_ wanted 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 great _prima donna_ unless 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 day that 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 greatly by 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’ll_ show 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 her _banquette_ with 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 she has a legal right to her, and
that no one could oblige her to relinquish that right; but one might
_buy_ the 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; but _you_ are an exception, Diane. I will
give you the credit 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.”
“You _did_ succeed, 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 try anything 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 wide eyes 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 watch and 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’t _give_ you 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 said after 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 to keep
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 as they’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.