THE FLIGHT
Late that same afternoon, Madame Jozain was limping slowly and wearily
through a narrow street at the other end of the city, miles away
from Good Children Street, when she saw an old negro sitting on a
furniture-wagon to which two mules were harnessed.
“Is that you, Pete?” she asked, stopping and looking at him.
“Why, law, yes, it’s me, Miss Pauline, an’ I is mighty glad ter see
yer,” said the old man, climbing down.
“And I’m glad to find you, Pete. I see you’ve got a wagon. Is it yours?”
“Well, ’t ain’t edzectly mine, Miss Pauline. I is hired it. But I is
a-drivin’ it.”
“I was just looking for some one to move me to-night, Pete.”
“Ter-night, Miss Pauline? Why, we doesn’t often work a’ter sundown, an’
it’s mos’ dat now.”
“What do you charge for a load, Pete, when you move furniture?”
“I mos’ gen’ly charges two dollars a load—when it ain’t too fur, Miss
Pauline,” he answered slowly.
“Well it _is_ far, Pete; it is from Good Children Street.”
“Oh, Miss Pauline, I can’t do dat dar ter-night. My mules is too tired
for dat.”
Madame stood still and thought for a moment.
“See here, Pete,” she said at length in a tone of decision; “I want
you to remember that you belonged to our family once, and I want you
to listen to me, and do what I tell you. You’re to ask no questions,
nor answer none; mind that! You’re to keep your tongue still. Take your
mules out now, and give them a good feed, and let them rest awhile.
Then be at my house by ten this evening. That will be soon enough, for
I’ve got to pack. If you’ll move me quietly, and without any fuss, I’ll
give you ten dollars for the load.”
“Ten dollars, Miss Pauline?” and the old darky grinned. “Bress yer,
miss, I is a mind ter try it—but it’s a mighty long road!”
[Illustration: MADAME JOZAIN BARGAINS FOR HER MOVING]
“You’ve got plenty of time; you needn’t hurry. Bring a man to help,
and leave your wagon in the side street. I want the things taken out
the back way, and no noise. Mind what I say, _no noise_.”
“All right, Miss Pauline, I’ll be dar _shore_. An’ yer’ll gib me ten
dollars?”
“Yes, ten dollars,” replied madame, as she limped away to take the
street-car.
Some of Madame Jozain’s neighbors remembered afterward that they slept
badly that night—had uneasy dreams and heard mysterious noises; but
as there was a thunder-storm about daybreak, they had concluded that
it was the electricity in the air which caused their restlessness.
However, Pepsie afterward insisted that she had heard Lady Jane cry
out, and call “Pepsie!” as if in great distress or fear, and that about
the same time there were sounds of hushed voices, rumbling of wheels,
and other mysterious noises. But her mother had told her she was
dreaming.
So upset was Pepsie by the night’s experience that she looked quite
pale and ill as she sat by her window next morning, waiting for Madame
Jozain to open the shutters and doors.
How strange! It was eight o’clock, and still no sign of life in the
house opposite! The milkman had rung his bell in vain; the brick-dust
vender had set his bucket of powdered brick on the very steps, and
shrieked his discordant notes close to the door; the clothes-pole man
had sung his dismal song, and the snap-bean woman had chanted her three
syllables, not unmusically, and yet no one appeared to open the door of
Madame Jozain’s house.
At last Pepsie could endure her suspense no longer.
“You go and see what is the matter,” she said to her little handmaid.
So Tite zigzagged across the street, flew up the steps, and pounded
vigorously on the door; then she tried the shutters and the gate, and
finally even climbed the fence, and peeped in at the black windows. In
a trice she was back, gasping and wild-eyed:
“Bress yer, Miss Peps’. W’at I done tol’ yer? Dem’s all gone. Ain’t a
stick or nofin’ in dat dar house! Jes’ ez empty ez a gourd!”
At first Pepsie would not believe the dreadful news; but finally, when
she was convinced that madame had fled in the night and taken Lady
Jane with her, she sank into the very depths of woe and refused to be
comforted.
Then Paichoux and Tante Modeste were called into a family council, and
Paichoux did his very best to solve the mystery. But all he could learn
was from madame’s landlord, who said that Madame Jozain had paid her
rent and given up her key, saying that she had decided, very suddenly,
to follow her son. This was all the information the landlord could
give, and Paichoux returned dejectedly with this meager result.
“I had my plans,” he said, “and I was waiting for the right moment to
put them in operation. Now, the child has disappeared, and I can do
nothing.”
The next day Pepsie, sitting sorrowfully at her window, trying to find
consolation in a game of solitaire, saw a private carriage drive up to
the empty house and wait, while the servant made inquiries for Madame
Jozain.
“Madame Jozain _did_ live there,” said M. Fernandez politely, “but she
went away between two days, and we know nothing at all about her. There
was something strange about it, or she never would have left without
telling her friends good-by, and leaving some future address.”
The servant imparted this scanty information to the lady in the
carriage, who drove away looking greatly disappointed.
The arrival of this elegant visitor directly following upon madame’s
flight furnished a subject for romantic conjecture.
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Pepsie, “if that was Lady’s mama, who has
come back after all! Oh, how dreadful that she wasn’t here to see her!”
and then poor Pepsie cried, and would not be consoled.