THE MADAME AT HER SOLICITOR’S.
“The miserable hath no other medicine
But only hope.”--SHAKESPEARE.
“The Madame bereaved! of whom, I wonder?” mused Floy, riding along in
the almost empty street-car. “Has she discovered the existence of a
relative only to see him or her snatched away by death? Ah, poor woman!
so unhappy before, what will she be now?”
Leaving the car, the young girl quickly passed over the short
intervening distance, and glancing up at the Madame’s house as she
approached it, saw that the shutters of every window were bowed with
white ribbon, while several yards of white cashmere tied with the same
were hanging from the bell-pull.
“A child!” said Floy to herself in increasing surprise, as she went up
the steps and gave a very gentle ring.
The door was opened as usual by Kathleen, who recognized our heroine
with a faint, rather watery smile.
“I’m plazed to see you, miss.”
“Who is dead, Kathleen?” Floy asked as she stepped in and the door
closed behind her.
“Sure, miss, an’ it’s just himself--the Madame’s pet, that was always
wid her night an’ day; an’ it’s just breakin’ her heart about him she
is, poor dear, that hasn’t a chick nor a child left! An’ it’s sad an’
sore me own heart is whin I think o’ niver seeing the little baste at
its purty thricks no more.”
“Frisky, her lap-dog!” exclaimed Floy. “I thought it must be a
relative.”
“Yes, miss, an’ sure she always thrated the little baste like a
Christian, an’ she’s kapin’ on wid that now it’s dead.”
“What ailed it?”
“Well, miss, the docther he said ’twas just laziness and
over-feedin’--only he put it into grand words, you know--and the Madame
didn’t like it; but it’s dead an’ gone he is, annyhow, the purty
darlint!”
“Is it Miss Kemper?” asked Mary, appearing at the head of the stairs.
“Please walk right up, miss.”
Floy was ushered at once into the Madame’s dressing-room, where she
found that lady weeping bitterly over her dead favorite as it lay stiff
and stark in her lap.
“He’s gone, Miss Kemper!” she sobbed, looking up piteously into Floy’s
face, with the tears running fast down her own; “he’s gone, my pretty
darling--the only thing I had left to love, and the only one that had
any love for poor me!”
The young girl scarcely knew what consolation to offer; she could only
express her sympathy and hope that he might be replaced by another as
pretty and playful.
“Never, never!” exclaimed the Madame indignantly; “no other ever could
or ever shall fill his place. And he shall have a splendid funeral,”
she went on, with a fresh burst of grief, “the finest casket money can
buy, and a white satin shroud; a monument over his dear little grave
too; and I’ll put on mourning as I would for a child.”
For a moment Floy was silent with surprise; then recovering herself,
“This is handsomer than satin, Madame,” she said, gently touching the
silky floss of the dog’s own natural coat; “and what a pity to bury it:
would it not be better to have it stuffed? for then you need not lose
your pet entirely, but can keep him here, caress him, and deck him with
ribbons as you have been used to doing.”
“Bless you for the suggestion!” cried the mourner, drying her tears.
“So I can; and it will be better than hiding him away out of my sight.
“Mary, you needn’t send the order for the casket or the digging of
the grave; but, instead, go out at once and inquire who is the best
taxidermist in the city.”
Left alone with the Madame, Floy set herself to the task of persuading
her out of the absurd notion of putting on mourning, her main argument
being that it was an unwholesome dress and the lady’s health already
poor enough.
“That is true; nobody knows what I suffer every day of my life,”
assented the Madame; “and as I’m not going to quite lose the darling,”
hugging the dead dog lovingly in her arms as she spoke, “I’ll give it
up; that is, I’ll wear white instead; and you shall stay all the same
and make me some lovely white morning dresses, tucked, ruffled, and
trimmed with elegant lace.”
“How immense she will look in them!” was Floy’s mental comment; but she
wisely kept her thoughts to herself.
In the mean time Mary was executing her commission with such promptness
and energy that within an hour Frisky’s remains had been taken
away--the Madame parting from them with many tears and caresses--and
the insignia of mourning removed from the outside of the house.
“I don’t know how to thank you enough, miss,” the maid said aside to
Floy. “It was just awful to me--the idea of a grand funeral for a dog,
and all the neighbors lookin’ on an’ thinkin’ us a pack o’ fools. I
wish in my heart you lived here all the time, for you can do more to
make the Madame hear reason than all the rest of us put together.”
“Can that be so?” said Floy. “I should not have expected my influence
to be nearly so great as yours.”
“Nor I,” said the maid, and Floy wondered at the earnest, curious gaze
she bent upon her.
Mary was thinking of the miniature to which the young girl bore so
strong a resemblance; but perceiving that Floy observed her scrutiny,
she turned hastily away and left the room.
Several times afterward, during this sojourn in the house, Floy was
aware of a repetition of Mary’s fixed, searching look, and that the
Madame also, in the pauses of her grief, regarded her more than once in
much the same manner.
Each time it struck our heroine as strange, but she soon forgot it in
thoughts of Espy or the lost parent of whom she was still in quest.
Now that she had not Frisky to take her attention, the Madame took to
poring over the miniature again, often weeping bitterly the while;
sometimes Mary overheard such murmured words as these:
“Pansy, Pansy, my little Pansy! Oh, I can never forgive myself! My
darling, my darling!”
One morning Madame Le Conte awoke with a sudden resolution, and
surprised her maid with an unusual order.
“Mary,” she said, “I shall call upon my solicitor to-day. Tell Rory
to have the carriage at the door at eleven o’clock. Then bring me my
breakfast and dress me at once for the street.”
“What’s up now?” inquired Mary of herself as she hastened downstairs in
obedience to the order; “is she going to make a will and leave a lot of
money to that pretty Miss Kemper? And all because she looks like that
picture in the locket? Well, well, if it had only happened to be me
now, how lucky ’twould have been!”
Having come to her resolve, Madame Le Conte was in feverish haste
to carry it out, scolded because her breakfast was not ready on the
instant, and fretted and fumed over her toilet, accusing Mary of being
intentionally and exasperatingly slow.
But the maid bore it with unruffled equanimity, perhaps looking to the
possibility of a fat legacy.
The Madame entered her carriage in a tremor of excitement and haste,
which, however, calmed down somewhat during the drive.
Arrived at their destination, Mary assisted her to alight and ascend
the three or four steps leading into the hall of the building.
“Stop! it is this first door,” said the Madame, panting and wheezing,
slight as the exertion had been. “Wait a minute till I recover breath.
I want a private interview, and you will stay outside. Rap now.”
Mary obeyed, and hearing a loud “Come in!” opened the door and stepped
back to let her mistress enter.
“Ah! Madame Le Conte! how d’ye do?” said the lawyer, rising and
offering a hand to his rich client; then, with a sudden recollection,
dropping it at his side and contenting himself with pushing forward an
arm-chair.
“Sit down, Madame,” he said. “You are quite a stranger here, but I have
been out of town, and may have missed a call from you.”
“No,” she panted, “I’ve--not--been here since I saw you last.”
“Ah? Well, my dear Madame, what can I do for you to-day?”
“You have heard nothing--learned nothing yet?”
“Nothing whatever, as I am sorry to say.”
She sighed deeply.
“I think I should give it up,” he said.
“No, no, no!” she cried with vehemence. “I would have you renew and
redouble your efforts.”
“What can I do that has not already been done?”
“I don’t know, but you must try to think of something. Write a new
advertisement; send it to every paper in the land.”
“It will be putting you to very great expense, and uselessly, I am
almost sure.”
“That is my affair,” she wheezed, wiping the perspiration from her
face with a delicate cambric handkerchief.
“Certainly,” he replied, with a slight bow of acquiescence; “the money
is your own to use as you please, but it is a pity to throw it away.
And how long have we been engaged in this search?”
“Ten years!” she sighed half despairingly; “but,” brightening a little,
“we’ve almost let it drop for months past. I’d nearly lost heart, but
we must begin again and never mind expense. I’d give half my fortune to
succeed.”
“I wish you may; though I have not much hope of it, I must confess,”
he answered indifferently, “but of course your instructions shall be
promptly carried out.”