MADAME JOZAIN CALLS UPON MAM’SELLE DIANE
It was somewhere about the time that Paichoux bought the watch when
Mam’selle Diane was surprised one morning by a visit from Madame
Jozain, who entered the little green gate with an air of haughty
severity and insolent patronage that was insufferable; and she had
evidently come on business, for, after the first formalities had passed
between them, she drew a well-filled purse from her pocket and asked in
a lofty tone if Mam’selle Diane had her bill prepared.
“My bill, Madame Jozain? What bill?” said Mam’selle Diane, looking at
her with cold surprise. “I am not aware that you owe me anything.”
“I owe you for teaching Lady Jane music; you’ve been giving her lessons
now for some months, and I’m sure you must need your money.”
“Oh, Madame,” gasped Mam’selle Diane, “you are laboring under a
mistake. I never thought of receiving money for the pleasure I have
had with the child. I offered to teach her. It was my own offer. You
surely did not think that I expected to be paid?”
“I certainly did. Why should you teach her for nothing when I am able
to pay?” returned madame haughtily, while she fingered her roll of
notes. “In your circumstances you can’t afford to throw away your time,
and I’m quite willing to pay you the usual price. You’re a very good
teacher, and I’m very well satisfied with the child’s progress.”
For a moment, Mam’selle Diane was quite overcome by the woman’s
insolence. Then, remembering that she was a d’Hautreve, she drew
herself up, and said calmly and without the least hauteur, “I regret,
Madame, that you thought me a teacher of music. I make no claim to
any professional knowledge, therefore I could not take the pay of a
teacher. I thank you very much, but I am not a teacher.”
“It doesn’t matter. I insist on paying you.” And madame held out a
bank-note for such a large amount that Mam’selle Diane’s eyes were
fairly dazzled.
“I assure you it is impossible,” said Diane gently. “It is useless to
discuss the matter. Will you permit me to open the gate for you?”
“Very well, then,” exclaimed madame, hotly. “I sha’n’t allow my niece
to come here again. I won’t accept favors from any one. She shall have
a teacher that isn’t too proud to take pay.”
“I hope you will not deprive us of the pleasure of seeing Lady Jane. We
are very fond of her,” said Mam’selle Diane, almost humbly, while the
tears gathered on her eyelashes. “Of course you must do as you think
best about the lessons.”
“I sha’n’t allow her to run about the neighborhood any more,” replied
madame, tartly; “she’s losing her pretty manners. I shall keep her
with me in the future,” and with this small parting thrust and a curt
good-morning she went out of the little green gate, and left Mam’selle
Diane to close it behind her with a very heavy heart.
The interview had taken place on the gallery, and Madame d’Hautreve had
heard but little from her bed. “Diane, what did that woman want? What
sent her here at this hour?” quavered the old lady sharply.
“She came on business, mama,” replied Mam’selle Diane, brushing away a
tear.
“Business, business; I hope you have no business with her.”
“She pretended to think I expected to be paid for the lessons I have
given Lady Jane.”
Madame groaned. “I told you we would regret opening our doors to that
child.”
“Oh, mama, I don’t regret it. I only regret that I have lost the
pleasure of seeing her. Madame Jozain will not allow her to come any
more.”
“Ungrateful creature, to insult you after your condescension.”
“Mama, she didn’t insult me,” interrupted Mam’selle Diane, proudly.
“Must I remind _you_ that I am above her insolence?”
“True, my dear, true, and I hope you made her feel that she is a
Jozain.”
“I didn’t wish to be unkind to her, mama. Perhaps she is not so wrong
after all. Sometimes I think it would have been better to have let our
friends know our real circumstances. Then they would have helped me
to get pupils, and I could have earned more teaching music than I can
making pen-wipers, and I am sure it would be more respectable and more
agreeable.”
“Oh, Diane, you surprise me,” cried Madame d’Hautreve, tremulously.
“Think of it! a granddaughter of the Counts d’Hautreve and d’Orgenois
teaching the children of grocers and bakers to play the piano. No, no;
I would rather bury myself here and die in poverty than disgrace our
name in that way.”
Mam’selle Diane made no reply, and after a few moments madame turned on
her pillow to finish her morning nap. Then the last of the d’Hautreves
went into the little garden, and drawing on a pair of old gloves she
dug and trimmed and trained her flowers for some time, and afterwards
gathered up the small piles of seeds from the white papers.
“Oh, oh!” she said wearily, seeing how few they were, “even the flowers
refuse to seed this year.”
After she had finished her work in the garden, she went dejectedly back
to the little room where her mother still slept, and opening a drawer
in her _armoire_ she took out a small box. She sighed heavily as she
raised the lid. Inside on a blue velvet lining lay a slender bracelet
set with turquoises and diamonds. “It must go,” she said sadly to
herself. “I have kept it till the last. I hoped I wouldn’t be obliged
to part with it, but I must. I can’t let poor mama know how needy we
are. It’s the only thing I can spare without telling her. Yes, I must
give it up. I must ask Madame Jourdain to dispose of it for me.” Then
she sat for a long time looking at it silently, while the hot tears
fell on the blue velvet. At last, with a sigh, she bravely wiped her
eyes, and laid the little box under the ducklings in the black basket.
For more than a week Mam’selle Diane did not see Lady Jane, and the
poor woman’s eyes had a suspicious look of tears, as she went about
her duties, silent and dejected. Her only pleasure was no longer a
pleasure; she could not go near the piano for some days. At last, one
evening, she sat down and began to play and sing a little song she had
taught the child, when suddenly she heard, outside the window, the
sweet treble voice she loved so well.
“It’s Lady Jane!” she cried, and springing up so hastily that she upset
the piano-stool she grappled with the rusty bolts of the shutters, and,
for the first time in years, threw them boldly open, and there stood
the child, hugging her bird to her breast, her wan little face lit up
with her sparkling eyes and bright, winsome smile.
Mam’selle Diane went down on her knees, and Lady Jane clung to her neck
and kissed her rapturously over and over.
“Diane, Diane, what are you thinking of, to open that shutter in the
face of every one?” said the old lady feebly.
But Mam’selle Diane did not hear her mother; she was in an ecstasy of
happiness, with the child’s soft lips pressed to her faded cheeks.
“Tante Pauline says I mustn’t come in,” whispered Lady Jane, between
her kisses, “and I must mind what she says.”
“Yes, darling, you must obey her.”
“I’ve been here every day listening, and I haven’t heard you sing
before.”
“Dear child, I couldn’t sing; I missed you so I couldn’t sing.”
“Don’t cry, Mam’selle Diane; I love you dearly. Don’t cry, and I’ll
come every day to the window. Tante Pauline won’t be angry at that.”
“I don’t know, my dear; I’m afraid she will.”
“Diane, close that window instantly,” cried Madame d’Hautreve, quite
beside herself. “A pretty exhibition you’re making before all the
neighbors, on your knees crying over that child.”
“Good-by, darling; come sometimes. Mama don’t like me to open the
window, but I’ll open the gate and speak to you,” said Diane, hastily
returning to herself and the exigencies of her position.
“Forgive me, mama, I really couldn’t help it, I was so glad to see the
child,” and Mam’selle Diane closed the window with a brighter face than
she had shown for several days.
“I think you must be insane, Diane, I surely think you must be, to let
all these common people know that a _blanchisseuse de fin_ will not
allow her child to come into our house, and that you are obliged to go
on your knees and reach out of the window to embrace her. Oh, Diane,
Diane, for the first time you’ve forgotten that you’re a d’Hautreve!”