Chapter XII: Tante Modeste’s Suspicions

“Paichoux,” said Tante Modeste to her husband, that same night, before the tired dairyman went to bed, “I’ve been thinking of something all the evening.”

“_Vraiment!_ I’m surprised,” returned Paichoux facetiously; “I didn’t know you ever wasted time thinking.”

“I don’t usually,” went on Tante Modeste, ignoring her husband’s little attempt at pleasantry; “but really, papa, this thing is running through my head constantly. It’s about that little girl of Madame Jozain’s; there’s something wrong about the _ménage_ there. That child is no more a Jozain than I am. A Jozain, indeed!—she’s a little aristocrat, if ever there was one, a born little lady.”

“Perhaps she’s a Bergeron,” suggested Paichoux, with a quizzical smile. “Madame prides herself on being a Bergeron, and the Bergerons are fairly decent people. Old Bergeron, the baker, was an honest man.”

“That may be; but she isn’t a Bergeron, either. That child is different, you can see it. Look at her beside our young ones. Why, she’s a swan among geese.”

“Well, that happens naturally sometimes,” said the philosophic Paichoux. “I’ve seen it over and over in common breeds. It’s an accident, but it happens. In a litter of curs, there’ll be often one stylish dog; the puppies’ll grow up together; but there’ll be one different from the others, and the handsomest one may not be the smartest, but he’ll be the master, and get the best of everything. Now look at that black filly of mine; where did she get her style? Not from either father or mother. It’s an accident—an accident,—and it may be with children as it is with puppies and colts, and that little one may be an example of it.”

“_Nonsense_, Paichoux!” said Tante Modeste sharply. “There’s no accident about it; there’s a mystery, and Madame Jozain doesn’t tell the truth when she talks about the child. I can feel it even when she doesn’t contradict herself. The other day I stepped in there to buy Marie a ribbon, and I spoke about the child! in fact, I asked which side she came from, and madame answered very curtly that her father was a Jozain. Now this is what set me to thinking: To-day, when Pepsie was putting a clean frock on the child, I noticed that her under-clothing was marked ‘J. C.’ Remember, ‘J. C.’ Well, the day that I was in madame’s shop, she said to me in her smooth way that she’d heard of Marie’s intended marriage, and that she had something superior, exquisite, that she’d like to show me. Then she took a box out of her _armoire_, and in it were a number of the most beautiful sets of linen I ever saw, _batiste_ as fine as cobwebs and real lace. ‘They’re just what you need for _mademoiselle_,’ she said in her wheedling tone; ‘since she’s going to marry into such a distinguished family, you’ll want to give her the best.’

“‘They’re too fine for my daughter,’ I answered, as I turned them over and examined them carefully. They were the handsomest things!—and on every piece was a pretty little embroidered monogram, J. C.; mind you, the same as the letters on the child’s clothes. Then I asked her right out, for it’s no use mincing matters with such a woman, where in the world she got such lovely linen.

“‘They belonged to my niece,’ she said, with a hypocritical sigh, ‘and I’d like to sell them; they’re no good to the child; before she’s grown up they’ll be spoiled with damp and mildew; I’d rather have the money to educate her.’

“‘But the monogram; it’s a pity they’re marked J. C.’ I repeated the letters over to see what she would say, and as I live she was ready for me.

“‘No, madame; it’s C. J.—Claire Jozain; her name was Claire, you’re looking at it wrong, and really it don’t matter much how the letters are placed, for they’re always misleading, you never know which comes first; and, dear Madame Paichoux,’—she _deared_ me, and that made me still more suspicious,—‘don’t you see that the C might easily be mistaken for G?—and no one will notice the J, it looks so much like a part of the vine around it. I’ll make them a bargain if you’ll take them.’

“I told her no, that they were too fine for my girl; _par exemple!_ as if I’d let Mariet wear stolen clothes, perhaps.”

“Hush, hush, Modeste!” exclaimed Paichoux; “you might get in the courts for that.”

“Or get her there, which would be more to the purpose. I’d like to know when and where that niece died, and who was with her; besides, the child says such strange things, now and then, they set one to thinking. To-day when I was taking her home, she began to talk about the ranch, and her papa and mama. Sometimes I think they’ve stolen her.”

“Oh, Modeste! The woman isn’t as bad as that; I’ve never heard anything against _her_,” interrupted the peaceable Paichoux, “she’s got a bad son, it’s true. That boy, Raste, is his father over again. Why, I hear he’s already been in the courts; but _she’s_ all right as far as I know.”

“Well, we’ll see,” said Tante Modeste, oracularly; “but I’m not satisfied about that monogram. It was J. C, as sure as I live, and not C. J.”

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do, mama,” said Paichoux, after some deliberate thought; he was slow, but he was sure; “we’ll keep a watch on the little one, and if anything happens, I’ll stand by her. You tell sister Madelon to let me know if anything happens, and I’ll see her through all right.”

“Then I believe she’s safe,” said Tante Modeste proudly, “for every one knows that when Paichoux says a thing, he means it.”

If Madam Jozain had only known how unfavorable were the comments of her supposed friends, she would not have felt as comfortable as she did. Although she was riding on the topmost wave of prosperity, as far as her business was concerned, she was not, as I said before, entirely happy unless she had the good opinion of every one, and for some reason, probably the result of a guilty conscience, she fancied that people looked askance at her; for, in spite of her polite advances, she had not succeeded in making friends of her neighbors. They came to her shop to chat and look, and sometimes to buy, and she was as civil to them as it was possible to be. She gave them her most comfortable chairs, and pulled down everything for them to examine, and unfolded, untied, and unpacked, only to have the trouble of putting them all away again. It was true they bought a good deal at times, and she had got rid of many of “those things” in a quiet way, and at fair prices; but still the neighbors kept her at a distance; they were polite enough, but they were not cordial, and it was cordiality, warmth, admiration, flattery, for which she hungered.

It was true she had a great deal to be proud of, for Raste was growing handsomer and more of a gentleman every day. He was the best looking fellow in the quarter, and he dressed so well,—like his father, he was large and showy,—and wore the whitest linen, the gayest neckties, and the finest jewelry, among which was the beautiful watch of the dead woman. This watch he was fond of showing to his friends, and pointing out the monogram, C. J., in diamonds; for, like his mother, he found it easy to transpose the letters to suit himself.

All this went a long way with Raste’s intimates, and made him very popular among a certain class of young men who lived by their wits and yet kept up a show of respectability.

And then, beside her satisfaction in Raste, there was the little Lady Jane, to whom every door in the neighborhood was open. She was the most beautiful and the most stylish child that ever was seen in Good Children Street, and she attracted more attention than all the other people put together. She never went out but what she heard something flattering about the little darling, and she knew that a great many people came to the shop just to get a glimpse of her.

All this satisfied her ambition, but not her vanity. She knew that Lady Jane cared more for Pepsie, Madelon, or even little Gex, than she did for her. The child was always dutiful, but never affectionate. Sometimes a feeling of bitterness would stir within her, and, thinking she had cause to complain, she would accuse the child of ingratitude.

“She is a little ingrate, a little viper, that stings me after I have warmed her. And to think of what I’ve done for her, and the worry and anxiety I’ve suffered! After all, I’m poorly paid, and get but little for all my studying and planning. She’s a little upstart, a little aristocrat, who will trample on me some day. Well, it’s what one gets in this world for doing a good deed. If I’d turned her and her mother out to die in the street, I’d been thought more of than I am now, and perhaps I’d been as well off.”