The coal-merchant was a man of his word. He was hard and cruel and unkind, but in his own way he was proud of Tilly. Those people whom he was most proud of he liked to train, and he was under the impression that he trained his daughter Matilda very well. When he beat her, which he did constantly; when he scolded her, he quoted to himself the old words, "Spare the rod and spoil the child." He felt he was following in the footsteps of Holy Writ. He thought himself a very blessed man.
Now in addition to all this scolding and beating on the part of the coal-merchant with regard to Matilda Raynes, there was also a strange feeling of absolute indifference towards her stepmother. Her stepmother's name was Harriet; and Joshua Raynes thought very little of Harriet. In consequence he left her alone. She was only useful in the matter of helping him to train Matilda, but he never fussed over his second wife, and, as far as possible, let her go her own way.
Harriet Raynes quickly discovered that nothing excited Joshua Raynes so much as to talk about Tilly, more in especial to talk against Tilly. He used to listen with his staring eyes fixed on his wife's face and say "Good little woman" and then go upstairs and prove things to his own satisfaction and beat Tilly because he loved her enough to consider beating essential.
She would be a very rich woman by-and-bye, for the coal-merchant did a thriving business and all his money he put by for Tilly. That was the one joy of his life. He could hurt her and torture her and yet in his queer, unaccountable way, she was the only creature he loved.
He was quite determined, however, to get to the bottom of the Irish story. If the thing was true, the girl who put on airs and kept a shop should be publicly disgraced and he would do it. He would enjoy doing it very much. He couldn't hurt the little shopkeeper—not physically, at least—but he could make her feel bad, and this he was determined to do. Mr. Desmond should feel bad, too, forsooth! What name did Tilly call him—"The"—if you please! He had never heard of anything so ridiculous in his life. He'd soon knock "The" out of the old curmudgeon.
It was a calm night when Joshua Raynes took the boat from Fishguard to Rosslare. He did not go through the miseries his child had undergone and he steamed away through the calm waters in a boat at least three times the size. He had never been in Ireland in his life before, and when he arrived at Rosslare was much bothered with the tongue employed by the good-natured country folks.
He said, "Eh, eh, what do you want to tell me?" over and over again. He told each individual he met that the said individual was stony deaf, and also dumb. The Irish person, be it man or woman, gossoon or girleen, objected to his manner, refused to be considered deaf and dumb when he could sphake the beautiful tongue—the Irish, bedad—to say nothing of that paltry tongue, the English.
Joshua felt himself getting crosser and crosser each moment. What was he to do? How was he to hold out? How was he to find the man called Desmond who had spoken evil things of his Tilly? He did not in the least admire the beauty of the country. He had no eye for the green of the Emerald Isle nor her lofty mountains, nor her flowing streams and rushing rivers.
He talked so angrily that people left him alone and the train that should have taken him to Mallow went off without him. He might have lingered at Waterford goodness knows how long, waiting for a man of the name of Desmond and trying to talk to stone-deaf and dumb people, who only talked gibberish, when a bright-eyed, sparkling-looking individual came suddenly on the platform, stared at Joshua, said a few words to the people round and presently came up and introduced himself.
"I am told ye are lookin' for The Desmond," he said. "You won't find his high, great mightiness standing in a bit of a shanty like this. I'm Malachi Desmond, son of The Desmond. I've just had a big sale of horses this morning and am going back to Desmondstown in a quarter of an hour. If you want to see The Desmond I've no manner of objection."
"I want to see Mr. Desmond of Desmondstown," said the coal-merchant.
"There isn't such a person. Mr. Desmond! For the Lord's sake, man, ye are mighty ignorant!"
"Am I, sir? Well, I don't want you to tell me what I am, and what I am not."
"Then you listen to me," said Malachi. "The Desmond is next door to a king, and he lives in his kingdom, and I'm his son, Malachi. Be the powers! I wonder if you're the father of that nasty little bit-thing that stuck pins in the saddle of Starlight. I wouldn't be a scrap surprised if you were, nor flustered neither. You've got the same malicious gleam of the eye. We have cats at Desmondstown and I'm one."
"You are a very big cat," said Joshua.
"Well, I'm one when I like. Do ye want to see The Desmond or do ye not?"
"There isn't such a name, it is silly," said the coal-merchant.
"Don't ye talk in that sort of way in old Ireland," said Malachi, "for at a wink from me, the cat, we'll have all the boys out with their shillelaghs. You'd best be careful what you say in our country. The Desmond is The Desmond, and he is royal king of Desmondstown. By the same token, here's our train. Are ye coming along with me or are ye not?"
"I'm coming along," said Joshua. "I'm a man of my word. It's a wild, bad country, but I'm coming along all the same. I want to knock 'The' out of a certain person and I'll do it my own way."
"We'll see about that," said Malachi. "Remember the big cat never sleeps."
"Oh, you are all mad in this dreadful place," said Joshua. "I can't make out what you are driving at, but I'll come with you, for I think I can take down your pride a bit."
"Oh, to be sure, that's a fine thing to do," said Malachi. "Here's an empty, third-class carriage we can have all to ourselves. You might begin pulling out my pride at once. It is stuck very deep, its roots go far and they twist and they turn; and by the powers; they twist and turn again. But if ye give a long pull and a strong pull maybe ye'll have some of them out before I begin to scratch."
The coal-merchant was now quite certain that Malachi was mad, but he kept his object well in view and determined not to show outward fear of him. They started on their journey and before they got to Mallow, Joshua discovered two things about Malachi: first, that he could understand his language; and second, that he was a real clever man, for nothing so thoroughly impressed the coal-merchant with cleverness as the sight of gold and notes.
Malachi pulled out a quantity of money from his pocket; in fact, some hundreds of pounds. This money had been paid partly in notes, and partly in sovereigns and was given for a horse called Nora Crena and another horse called A Bit of Herself and another horse again called Brian the Brave. He had made well on these horses but he was very sorry to part with Brian the Brave.
Joshua sat and looked at the man; he looked also at the gold and began to respect him. At Mallow they changed trains and again were lucky enough to have one to themselves. Then Malachi bent forward and said in a grave and very determined voice,
"Now what may you be wanting to see The Desmond for?"
"He's not The Desmond," said Joshua.
"He is. Let that drop. Anyhow what do you want to see him for?"
"He has turned my child out of his house; he told her to go and she was all but drowned on the deep sea."
"She stuck ten pins into the saddle of Starlight," remarked Malachi. "She did it to injure our pushkeen. It was proved against her and she couldn't deny it. If your name is Raynes, you're a great horseman, I take it."
"Horseman, not I! I never sat on a horse in my life."
"Dear! To be sure! Your girl rode elegant."
"Did she?" answered Raynes, feeling a little proud in spite of himself.
"She did that, she rode like a sylph. I didn't think at first she had it in her, but she was like a bird on Starlight. You see it was this way. I was having one of my cat's snoozes in Starlight's loose box. Starlight wasn't properly broken in at that time, and I was mighty feared to put any young gurrl on him who didn't understand the nature of the beast."
"You were right there," growled Raynes.
"Well, so I thought I was. And when your bit girleen come and said to me, 'Let me ride Starlight,' I says 'No, I value your precious life too much.'"
"Quite right, too, quite right, too," said Joshua.
"Then you see she was a bit put out, and no wonder with her gift for riding. And she came slipping into the stable and never saw me having my cat's sleep in the loose box, and she fetched down the saddle that had just come from Cork city for our little bit of a pushkeen, and if you'll believe me, she stuck ten pins into it; yes, ten—every one I reckoned. I kept both my eyes wide open and she went away humming to herself and as pleased as Punch. Then I took nine of the pins out, for what was the good of injuring the beautiful creature more than was necessary for my purpose, and I told her she might have a ride on Starlight if pushkeen would lend her her new saddle. You may be quite certain she was not behindhand in that, was pushkeen—she's the best-natured little lambkin that auld Ireland has ever seen. So I mounted Miss Tilly on Starlight and rode Brian the Brave meself, and there was only one pin in the saddle, but I contrived it proper to pierce the hide of the creature. Oh, but she rode like a bird, like a bird, and I was ashamed of meself for misdoubting her. And then we talked of all the famous Rayneses of England, who took every prize worth mentioning in your queer sort of country, and she said she was hurt at me for doubting her, and of course when I knew she was one of those Rayneses I was altogether up a tree; yes, to be sure, that I was. Well, what do ye think? all of a sudden she lets out a screech,—and a motor car, the De'il's own contrivance, comes splashin' and roarin' round the corner, and Starlight stood bolt upright on his hind-legs and I helped missie to a soft fall by the roadside. Then I made her tell The Desmond——"
"Mr. Desmond, if you please," said Raynes.
"I made her tell The Desmond the story, and he said she was to go and go at once, and she did go, and Flannigan, our good Protestant curate, saw her off, and that's all I can tell you about her. She's not altogether a very nice child, even though she is a Raynes of England, but I can't make out for the life of me what you are wantin' at Desmondstown. You may as well tell me, for I may be able to help you."
"I'm most bitter ashamed of Tilly," said Raynes, when the other man had ceased speaking. "She has told a shocking lot of black lies, and her wanting to injure and perhaps kill the little shopkeeper is perhaps the worst of all."
"The little shopkeeper—my word! What next!"
"I'm coming to that in a minute or two," said Raynes. "She was a bad little piece and I've punished her according, and I'll punish her still more for the lies she told about us and horses. Why, man, I'm a coal-merchant, that's what I am. I am making my pile and a goodly one it will be if the Lord spares me. But we don't any of us know any more about horses than you know how to act the cat. We are nothing but coal-merchants, that's what we are."
"Well, there is nothing wrong in that," said Malachi. "It seems a pity she descended to lies. But, now whatever is your business with us, Mr. Raynes?"
"I've come for the express purpose of exposing that young girl you make such a fuss about. She was nothing at all but a little shopkeeper at Arles and you set her up to be a fine lady."
"She wasn't no shopkeeper at Arles," said Malachi. "I don't know what you are talking about."
"Well, but I do, and I've come over all this long way for the express purpose of having it cleared up. I've punished my Tilly and I'll punish her more. There came a time in my life when I thought to make a fine lady of my Matilda and I sent her to Arles to the school of a woman who called herself a princess, but Tilly will never be a lady. She'll keep in her father's station and have to be content. Now, I've listened in patience to your story and I'm very angry indeed with my girl, but there's no doubt whatever that right is right, whether it is on the left side or the right, and that child you think such a power of spends her time at Arles selling hats and dresses. She's the little shopkeeper, that's what she is. She has sold hats and dresses to my girl and that's how my girl knows."
"We're nearly at home by now," said Malachi. "Phinias Maloney will have his bit of a cart waiting for us. I'll look into this matter for ye, Mr.—Mr. Raynes. You keep it dark until I give the word."
"You're certain sure you won't act the cat on me?" said Raynes.
"No, no; I should have to be a very wide-awake cat to act that little game on you. I'm going to ask Phinias Maloney to put you up for the present and I'll be round when the moment comes that you wish to tell my father."
"I don't know that I want to put up for the night at the house of the man you call Phinias Maloney."
"You couldn't do better, his house is clean of the clean, and Annie his wife will give you her bedroom and sleep along of the children, and himself will lay on the settee near the fire. Now then, here we are. I expect ye are a bit hungry. There ain't one in the countryside for frying eggs and bacon to compare with our Annie. Hullo, Phinias, here ye are!"
The funny little springless cart was brought up. Malachi had a short and very earnest conversation with Phinias, who gave one very solemn twitter of his eyelid but made no further comment of any sort whatsoever. Presently the three men got under way and Raynes, who really felt himself very tired, not to say exhausted and ravenously hungry, began to turn his attention with keen desire to Annie's eggs and bacon.
Malachi parted company with Raynes at the broken-down gate of Desmondstown. He assured Raynes that he would have a word with him that evening, and left him in the complete care of Phinias, who talked the entire way to the cottage of the power of the celebrated shillelagh.
"Be all that's howly," he said, "it would smash a man's brains out whilst he was a-thinkin'. Every man in these parts kapes wan; they're better than any guns I've heerd tell on."
Raynes felt decidedly uncomfortable. He ventured to ask what shape a shillelagh was, but Phinias's reply was,
"They're meant for killing, it don't matter the shape! To be sure now, Annie, mavourneen, here's a gent from England, own father to that dear little Miss Tilly. He's mad with the hunger. You get him as many new-laid eggs and rashers of bacon and bread and butter and fresh milk and cream and tea as you think he can swaller. Don't overdo the man, but do him well, for the sake of dear little Miss Tilly."
Annie felt very much inclined to say that she was never dear little Miss Tilly to her, but there was a look in her husband's face which caused her to "kape herself to herself."
Accordingly the childer were swept out of the room. Raynes from England was given the only decent bedroom in the house and presently Annie appeared with a great tray, which contained half a dozen fried eggs, as many rashers of home-cured bacon, bread and butter, and a great jug of milk, besides rich cream and tea.
"That'll do," said Raynes, who felt almost sinking from sheer exhaustion.
Annie went away and communed with her husband. Raynes ate until he could eat no more, and then thought he couldn't do better than explore the premises a little. But he was met at the doorway by no less a person than Phinias himself. Phinias was twiddling his shillelagh in the air, and it certainly looked a weapon that could not be trifled with; that is, if it was turned against you.
"I'd like to try it," said Raynes, somewhat timidly.
"You try it—you! You don't know the swing of the thing; you 'as to be out in the air in the first place, and the next you 'as to swing it through the air with a sort of a swish, and then down it comes—crack!"
"Oh, well, I don't mind about it," said Raynes. "I'm a harmless man, I don't want to hurt anybody. I'm just going out for a bit of a stroll."
"Ho, you ain't," said Phinias. "You'll stay just where you are until you have spoken your mane and dirty words agin our little Miss Pushkeen. The jintlemens will come to see you all in good time, and as soon as ever they have gone, I'll have the greatest pleasure in life in driving ye back to the railway station where ye can take ship for England, and you and your low-down girl Tilly can meet again."
"I tell you, I tell you—" said Raynes, almost stupid with rage, "that the little miss you make such a fuss about is only——"
"Come out into the yard and tell me about her there," said Phinias.
"No, I won't, not while you hold that thing in your hand."
"I'm not going out without it, so don't you think it. And I'm standing just here to pervent ye takin' a flyin' lep unbeknownst. Oh, be the powers! We are all right now, I'm thinkin'. Here's master Malachi and 'himself' coming across the fields. They'll be here in no time."
"Is he the one they call by the ridiculous name of 'The'?" asked Raynes.
"'Tain't ridiculous. Whist, now, hide yer ignorance if ye can. They have shillelaghs as well as we. You sphake up to him."
"I'm not afraid," said Joshua.
"To be sure you aren't. How could the father of Tilly mavourneen be afraid?"
"That's what I'm thinkin'," said Raynes.
"Ah, thin, jintlemen, here ye be. Welcome to my hovel, The Desmond, asthore. Welcome, Master Malachi. The gent is gettin' a bit restive. He's anxious to see ye, to relieve a burden on his mind."
"I am, and I don't like those sticks you hold," said Raynes.
The man, who for the time being had adopted the name of The Desmond, was in reality Fergus, the heir to that ancient title. He immediately laid his stick on the table. Phinias went out into the yard whistling. Malachi shook hands with Raynes, as though he was his oldest and dearest friend, whom he had not met for at least twenty years.
"I hope ye are feelin' comfortable, sir," he said.
"Very much so," replied Raynes, "if I might get a breath of the air and not be frightened to death by that queer man. I want to walk over to Desmondstown to see Mr. Desmond."
"I brought him to you," said Malachi. "Here's The Desmond. Be careful you don't anger him, or he may raise the stick."
Certainly Raynes never felt in a poorer case. Fergus, who already was well acquainted with the story of his beloved little Margot, allowed Raynes to relieve his feelings, looking at him with his steady dark eyes and his calm, unemotional face. Malachi was as usual all twinkles and smiles.
Raynes told his story very badly and, when he came to an end, Fergus rose to his feet, and said in his refined, gentlemanly voice,
"Well, now, this is no news to me. It is the French stepgrandmother's doing and must be put a stop to. I'll see that it is put a stop to and I'm greatly obliged to you for tellin' me the whole story from first to last, so graphically as you have done, Mr.—Mr. Raynes."
"I'm obliged to you, Mr. Desmond," said Raynes.
"That's right, call me anything you like. I'm not particular."
"The car is at the door. We had best be starting, if ye want to catch yez train," said Phinias.
"Oh, yes, yes," cried the coal-merchant, who was only too terribly anxious to get out of the land of the shillelagh.
Phinias and he were soon driving rapidly in the uncomfortable cart to the railway station. He never felt so pleased in his life as when he got into the train. He was heard to remark to one or two farmers on his return journey that "The Desmond, ridiculous name, looked a very young man." The farmers stared but made no comment.
Thus did Malachi and Fergus save their father from a shock, which would have undoubtedly half killed him, for the Irish pride is like no other pride. It sinks into the heart, it eats the very vitals and has been known many and many a time to destroy life.
When one is young and when one is happy time goes fast; nay, more, time goes like lightning. There is the beautiful joy of existence, there is the exquisite feeling of love. There is the happiness in which each hour is occupied, fully, entirely, completely, for the use of others. Such was the case with little Margot St. Juste. She played with the sunshiny passing hours, she sat on The Desmond's knee and brought back such superb and astounding accounts of her rides on Starlight that something stirred in the old man's breast and he felt that he himself must, forsooth, go a-riding with this fascinating little colleen.
Accordingly the King of the Desmonds was brought out and Malachi rode at one side of little Margot and The Desmond himself at the other. The old horse knew quite well who was on his back and in some remarkable measure got back some of his lost youth, and noble were the exercises which the three riders took over hills and dales, across country, over different stiles and various impediments, and each day The Desmond felt younger and laughed and talked more cheerily.
The pushkeen had not only brought him back joy, but she had brought him back his lost youth. Ah, but those were happy days and neither child nor old man thought of the inevitable return to Arles which was coming nearer, like a black cloud, day by day.
When Raynes returned to his large and vulgar house on Clapham Common, he spoke to his daughter in a way which she was never likely to forget. He was, in short, furiously angry. He told her she was a bad, bad girl and that the High School at Clapham was far too good for her. Tilly had always known that the said High School was good, in fact, a great deal too good, but she wanted, if possible, to punish Margot. Although it was now finally settled that she was not to return to the school of la Princesse de Fleury, she could, nevertheless, work mischief, as far as Margot was concerned. She knew the exact date on which the little shopkeeper would return to Arles, when she would be petted by her doting and ignorant grandfather and when morning after morning she would enter the great établissement and sell chapeaux and robes innumerable to the élite of Arles, the élite of England, the élite of America. Oh, yes, she had a friend who would help her. She would write to this friend. The friend's name was Louise Grognan.
Louise Grognan was a considerable character on her own account, was liked at the school of la Princesse, and was always very friendly with Tilly. Tilly wrote to her now as follows:
"Oh, Louise," she began, "I am not coming back any more to your beautiful school. I regret this for many reasons, but my French by the ignorant people here is considered perfect and I am in consequence to be taught the tongue of England in all its branches. Think not that I will forget you, Louise, and sometime, perhaps, your good père will allow you to come to visit me in my father's grand house. It is rich and very grand and nobly furnished. Your père Grognan can make the filet de sole, the sauce Hollandaise, the entrée bouche à la reine, but my father—ah, wait until you behold him, sweet Louise! Now then, to business. You know that little Comtesse who sells chapeaux of all sorts and descriptions and robes of all sorts and makes, at the établissement of Madame Marcelle. We call her here the little shopkeeper and she likes it not. I went to stay with her at Desmondstown, a ramshackle old place, where they played a very cruel trick on me, and when I told them that la petite Comtesse was only a little shopkeeper, they would not believe me. Now, I want you to help me, and if you do, and do the thing well, I will invite you to my gorgeous home in Angleterre next summer or perhaps even at Easter. We live close to the greatest city in the world, Londres, so big, so mighty, so powerful. It is not as graceful as Paris, but it will ravish your eyes and I will take you there day by day and you will have a glorious time. But what I want you to do now is this. The grandpère of the little Comtesse, M. le Comte St. Juste, does not know at all that his granddaughter helps at a shop. He is a very old and feeble man and he ought to be enlightened. Now, I put this into your hands, my best beloved Louise, to tell him the truth. You must call at the Château St. Juste and ask to see him. Go, I beseech of you, when the weather is cold and the bees do not hum so much and do not trouble themselves to sting. If you convey the news, thoroughly and perfectly, to the ears of the old, old man, I have in my possession forty francs, no less, which I will send you, and afterwards you shall come to see me for long weeks at Clapham Common, which is thought the most aristocratic part of all London. Now listen to me, Louise, and as you listen, Louise Grognan, obey! I will promise to you a glorious time and although the food is English, not French, it is of the best and the daintiest."
This letter was addressed to Mlle. Louise Grognan at her father's large restaurant and Tilda received an answer in due course. Louise could be sure of nothing, but she would do her best. As it happened, she owed forty francs to Madame Marcelle and she knew that her father, whose restaurant was so famous, would be furious if he knew that she had gone into debt. She did not really care for Matilda Raynes, nor was she very keen to go to Clapham Common, nor to see the cold wonders of London. She preferred la belle France—with its lovely Arles and its gay Paris. She did not care for pictures nor monuments nor ancient cathedrals. She liked dress better than anything else in the world. If she paid off her forty francs she might run up a further little bill at the établissement of Madame Marcelle.
Then it occurred to her as she replied to her friend, or rather her so-called friend, that she might raise the price for this rather nasty little job. Accordingly, she said that she would do what Matilda Raynes desired for sixty francs but not a penny under. Tilly, wild with delight, felt certain that she could secure this really small sum of money, and while Margot rode with all the happiness of her joyous little heart on Starlight and The Desmond rode by her side on the King of the Desmonds and Malachi rode a horse which he called The Pet Lamb on the other side, these miserable things were being arranged for the future unhappiness of the little Comtesse.
The day and the hour arrived. There came an afternoon when, true to his word, Uncle Jacko, beloved Uncle Jacko, appeared on the scene. Margot clasped her arms round his neck, kissed him several times and said, "Has it indeed come?"
Uncle Jacko replied with that saint-like look on his beautiful face, "It is the will of the Almighty."
Fergus suddenly appeared and said to Margot, "Keep silence for a time, my child; go and nestle into the arms of your grandfather."
Little Margot went very softly and sadly away. Uncle Jacko and Uncle Fergus went out into the yard. They found a lonely spot and began to talk very earnestly together.
"Yes, I've known all about it from the first," said Fergus Desmond. "It was not our pushkeen's fault. The Comte St. Juste married beneath him and behold the result, but it must come to an end. When you start to-morrow morning for Arles with little Margot, I will go with you, Jack Mansfield, for I have a word to say to Madame la Comtesse. It is she who is doing the mischief. She is using our little one, our dear little one, for her own worldly purposes."
"I have known it also all along," said Uncle Jacko, "but if we can keep the fact from the two old grandfathers, surely no harm can be done."
"I don't wish it," said Fergus. "I, too, have my pride. Some day, I hope a far distant day, she will be the niece of The Desmond. Understand, I choose not to have a shopkeeper as a niece."
"Ah, but that matters so very, very little," said Uncle Jacko.
Fergus gave him a queer smile of non-comprehension.
"I have made up my mind and I go with you," he said after a long pause, and thus it was arranged.
Early the next morning the pushkeen appeared in her grandfather's room, where he was seated in his high grandfather's chair by a huge fire of turf.
"See, see, grand-dad!" said Margot. "See, behold, listen!" She looked wildly excited and wildly pleased. She was keeping back the sorrow that was breaking her very heart.
"See, my own, own, own grandfather," she said, seizing his fingers. "First, finger one; next, finger two; third, finger three—I go away for three of these fingers. I come back at the end of that time to my own darlingest grand-dad. I go at once, at once! Oh, grand-dad, kiss me, love me, love me! Oh, grand-dad, I love you too much to cry. Kiss me, my best of all grand-dads, kiss me at once."
The poor astonished Desmond took the child of his heart into his strong arms. He pressed her close to his heart, he solemnly counted out the months.
"You will come back," he said.
"I will come back, my own, own grand-dad."
"Three months," he said. "You came to me on the 6th of September, you will return on the 6th of March. Ah, but surely it is less than nothing. I do not grieve, The Desmond never grieves. It would be contrary to his high dignity."
Then he kissed Margot, although his lips trembled and she ran out into the great hall, so bare, so empty, so desolate, where all the family, including Malachi and Madam, were assembled.
"Don't make a fuss," said the pushkeen. "If you do, perhaps a tear might force itself out and I'm like The Desmond, I don't cry. Now then, Malachi, go straight in and talk to grand-dad. Make him laugh about the horses and keep Starlight quite safe for me and—and darling grandmother, Madam, do your lovely crochet in the corner where you always sit and talk about pushkeen and say that I'm so happy and say that I'm coming back again in a twink. Now don't kiss me and sob over me, anyone, for I belong to The Desmond and he never cries."
All the party assembled in the hall were a little astonished at the pushkeen's manner, but they let her go without a word, and Malachi went into the special room provided for The Desmond.
The old man was cowering over the great turf fire and shivering not a little. His face was very white. He seemed to show his years. Madam did not dare to speak to him, but crept to her accustomed corner. Malachi came close and spoke in a determined voice.
"Sir, I've been thinking it out."
"I'm in no mood for your thinking," said The Desmond.
"But, listen, father, it is very important," said Malachi. "It's about her little self, the pushkeen that's gone."
"Don't talk of her or I'll let out on ye," said The Desmond. "I keep my shillelagh within reach. I'm old, but I can let the shillelagh fly."
"Ye wouldn't let it fly on your son," replied the young man. "I'm thinking that you and me will be very busy the next three months getting ready for her little self."
"Getting ready, how and what do ye mean?"
"I thought we might begin to rear a stud of horses for her and sell 'em and put away the money so as to have a bit of a pile ready for her worthy of her name, and of your name, and when the pile is big enough, she can take your name Desmond, not the whole of it of course because that goes to Fergus, but she can be the little pushkeen Desmond. Only we must set to work at once, you and me, father, a secret all to ourselves."
The old man raised his very bright blue eyes.
"Malachi," he said. "I never heard ye speak a word of sense before, but there's sense in what ye are talking about now. We must prepare for the little one's future, and ye are wonderful with the young beasts, Malachi. We'll go out to the stables at once and talk it over."
"Yes, father, to be sure," said Malachi.
Meanwhile the other old grandfather, mon grandpère, was waiting in raptures for the return of la petite Comtesse. He spoke about her every moment to la Comtesse, la belle grand'mère. He was feeling very feeble and weak but the thought of his Henri's child returning to him brought him peace and strength. Meanwhile, during the journey, Fergus acquainted Uncle Jacko with what he meant to do. The shop must be put a stop to. They could provide for the little one themselves. She must not earn money in the shop. Little Margot pretended not to listen, but in reality she listened very hard.
As they approached the town of Arles, they found that they were in an empty compartment. All the other passengers had got out at different stations. Then little Margot turned and spoke. She went straight up to Uncle Fergus and put her hand on his knee.
"That time when you thought I was asleep, I was not asleep. I had my eyes shut, but my ears were open and I heard."
"Well, what did you hear, pushkeen?" said Fergus, speaking as calmly as he could.
"I heard you say to Uncle Jacko that I was not to help ma belle grand'mère any more in the établissement. But how do you think she will get on without me? Has she not to take care of mon bon grandpère and is she not providing a dot for me? And mon grandpère does not know anything, and he will not know. Listen! I mean to help ma belle grand'mère. She shall not work for nothing at all—no, she shall not. Uncle Fergus, The Desmond must never, never know and mon bon grandpère of Arles must never know. But why should I not help a little?"
"You are a foolish colleen," replied Fergus, patting the little hand which rested on his knee.
That was all Margot could get him to say and she went back to her seat at the other side of the carriage feeling terribly disconsolate. Why should she not help people? She liked helping people. It was wrong to oppose her when she was doing right. She felt certain, sure, that it was wrong. Then she gave a quick side glance at Fergus's face and noticed the expression on it—the determination, the quiet resolution to have his own way in spite of la petite Comtesse, or the little pushkeen as she was called in Ireland.
At last they arrived. The motor-car met them. They drove to the Château St. Juste. Ah, but was not M. le Comte glad to see his little Margot! His black eyes shone, his cheeks grew pink with emotion. Time seemed not to have stirred since he saw her last. He was lying in his beautiful cool salon with his pillows of down and his thick soft, crimson rug of plush.
The good clergyman sat down and began to talk to him. He took Margot on his knee and pressed her close to him. During these precious few minutes he felt that he could indulge in the love and the joy of his heart. But Fergus was determined to have his way.
Fergus asked Madame to walk with him in the garden, which was sunny and bright, but which only held some apples, some pears, and such like fruits on the old trees. The peaches had vanished, the bees had gone into their winter quarters. It was never cold at Arles, but the people there thought it cold. Anyhow the bees felt that they might rest from their labours.
Madame la Comtesse thought Fergus Desmond very handsome. She adored mon Alphonse, but she enjoyed talking to any handsome man.
"Thou hast brought la petite back with you, Monsieur," she said.
"I have," he replied. "It is her French grandfather's turn to have her for three months. These partings are sore blows. Madame, I would speak with you."
"Ah, but I did think so," replied Madame. "Is not life assuredly of the most miserable unless we speak out our innermost thoughts? Thou hast a weight on thy mind, Monsieur le Desmond."
"I have; it is a bad subject, it must be got through. I have learnt from the lips of John Mansfield, Madame, and also from the lips of a very nasty girl who goes to the school of a certain princess, that our little Margot assists you in a shop. It is kept by a certain Madame Marcelle. But it is in reality your shop. Her grandfather does not know, neither her French grandfather nor her Irish grandfather. Such news would kill either of them. Madame, it must cease. The child goes to her grandfather, she does not go to you. You must assure me now and here on your word as an honourable woman that you will never allow the little Margot to enter the shop of Madame Marcelle, which is in reality your shop, any more."
"But listen! Understand, monsieur. May not la petite enter the apartment where the chapeaux are sold, may not la pauvre chérie buy a chapeau for herself? Ah, but non, non, you can not say against it, monsieur. La chère petite must be dressed according to the wishes of her grandfather and me, and, behold! I am making her dot and it will be solid—oh a pile, a pile; francs by the thousand, by the tens of thousands, by the hundreds of thousands! Your little niece will be très riche, monsieur, but she must be dressed, ah, oui, in the proper way, monsieur. She wears not now the correct garments for la petite Comtesse St. Juste, but I was ready for that, and I have a fresh set of little garments all waiting for her in her chambre de nuit. You will agree with me, monsieur, n'est-ce pas?"
"I do not mind what clothes you buy for the child," said Fergus, "if you promise that she does not sell things herself in the shop."
"Ah, but you are cruel, and she likes it. One little hour per day, monsieur. She has the manners, ah, of the grande noblesse, and behold, the people flock to her and she is making her own little dot, by her own clever speeches, and her own wonderful taste. Permit it, monsieur, I entreat!"
"I refuse to permit it," said Fergus. "It must not be. I would rather she had no dot and was a lady."
Tears filled the eyes of little Madame.
"Ah, but indeed, she is a lady the most perfect," was her remark. "Think, monsieur, consider what I have suffered. I married mon Alphonse because of the love, oh, so mighty, and because I did so pity him. He was so beautiful, so desolate, so poor. He was nearly on the brink of starving, monsieur. Then I come along and I make the wicked lie. He thinks that I have given up the établissement, I make out to him that it is so, but I could not give it up, monsieur, and give him the comforts that he needs, the frail, frail old man. Then there came as a ray of sunshine to his heart la petite Comtesse, the only child of his only son, and behold he revived! And I took la petite Comtesse into my établissement and behold! She had the taste superb. The chapeaux they went like the wind, the fans like the whirlwinds, the robes they vanished as you looked, and all because of la petite Margot and her immaculate taste. She is well taught, monsieur, also. She has masters for French and dancing and the piano and singing. Only a little of the singing, she is too young at present. She spends but two hours a day in the établissement, and behold it flourishes as it never did before, and neither of the grandpères know. Where is the harm, Monsieur Desmond? Why conceal a talent so great? Madame Marcelle cannot attempt to dispose of my goods as la petite Comtesse does. You see the thing is honourable, n'est-ce pas, Monsieur Desmond?"
"I do not. I forbid it," said Fergus. "We care not for fine clothes in Ireland and a little money goes a long way. What we want is to keep up our great, great nobility. You understand, Madame, have I your word that it shall cease?"
"Ah, oui, oui, if it must be, it must," said Madame. She spoke in a gay, light sort of voice and picked a luscious pear, which she presented to Monsieur Desmond as a token of her unfailing esteem.
There was a strange sort of feeling in the breast of little Margot as she bade Uncle Fergus good-bye. When he took her in his arms he said,
"It's all settled, pushkeen, and you are to do as I wish."
Then Uncle Jacko, with his gentle, angel sort of face, kissed the child very tenderly and said,
"You'll do your duty at any cost, my little colleen."
After that the two men went away and Margot was left with grandpère and la belle grand'mère. She felt a little bewildered. She could not help repeating over and over to herself, "I am sorry to come back. I would rather be with The Desmond than anyone else in the wide, wide world," but she was learning self-control and was growing a tiny bit older than her years. She had, however, in her grave, steadfast sort of fashion quite made up her mind.
Grandpère should know nothing about la belle grand'mère being helped. She, Margot, would help her. She kept these thoughts, however, quite to herself and la belle grand'mère talked rapidly of the handsome appearance of the Irish Desmond and how most truly he fascinated the heart.
Little Margot took no notice of this. She was absorbed in comforting grandpère. He certainly looked very old indeed in comparison with The Desmond. His black eyes had sunk further into his head, but he was rejoiced beyond words to have the child of his only son with him, and he kept patting her hand and saying,
"Très bien, la petite, thou blessed one, thou angel, thou little cabbage."
Margot did not feel in the least like an angel, but nevertheless she was determined to do her very utmost for grandpère and on his account for la belle grand'mère.
Madame la Comtesse, true to her word, had provided the most ravishing little costumes for la petite to wear, and la petite felt that the time had come when she might without any difficulty put on the pretty garments, which would be disliked and disapproved of at dear old Desmondstown. Her soft black hair, rippling, curling, flowing, fell far below her waist. Her small feet were encased in shoes of the most perfect and softest kid. This kid was of a delicate shade of blue. Her open-work stockings were to match her shoes. Then there was a little pale blue embroidered short frock, very simple, but oh, according to Madame and grandpère, superb.
As a matter of fact, la belle grand'mère had not trusted Madame Marcelle, but had sent to Paris for the little costume. The child danced about the room in delight, the old man's eyes glistened, Madame felt tears somewhere near her own eyes, but Margot of the Desmonds did not attempt to cry. It was not according to her ideas, comme il faut—oh, by no means at all, comme il faut.
At last grandpère got tired and went to bed, then Margot went up to la belle grand'mère,
"I'm going to do it," she said. "I'm going to help you."
"Thou blessed enfant!" exclaimed Madame. "Ah, mon Dieu, but thou art of the very best; distinguished is no word. Repose thyself, mon enfant. Thy dainty room is ready for thee, petite. To-morrow we will talk."
"No," said Margot, "we will talk to-night. Now, this instant! We will settle, we will arrange, we will not put off. For me, I am under no promise. Thou dost want me in the établissement, I will go there for two hours each day. Thou and I between us will look after the old, very old grandpère. Thou art trop fatiguée to do it all by thyself."
"Ah, but thou art a true poem, a romance!" exclaimed the delighted Madame. "And wilt thou really serve in the établissement, petite?"
"I will on one condition," replied Margot. "Neither of my grandfathers must ever know. I told Uncle Fergus what I thought right and fair. He did not agree and I am sorry, for I love him. But now for three months I will help thee, ma belle grand'mère."
"Ah, but thou art of the blessed," said the Comtesse. "Do not the angels sing of thee? Have they not this very night sung a new song to their harps on account of thee, ma petite?"
"I care not in the least what the angels do," said Margot, "but I want to help thee and grandpère. I will do it, too. To-morrow I will begin. Two hours daily, except Sunday, when I kneel in my room and pray to the good God; the rest of the time I learn of the French—yes—of the music—yes—of the dancing—yes! Now I will repose as thou dost suggest, ma belle grand'mère, for I am weary, not having slept, I may say, anything at all last night."
"Ah, thou blessed one, I will take thee to thy room," said Madame.
Margot undressed quickly and got into bed, a smile on her face. She had a strange feeling that she was doing right, that this was an occasion when it was her bounden duty to resist dear Uncle Fergus and help la Comtesse. She little guessed, however, that there was a certain girl, well known in the school of la Princesse de Fleury, namely, Louise Grognan, the daughter of Grognan the owner of the big restaurant in the Boulevard des Italiens—she little knew that this young person was watching her and intended for her own purposes to spoil what she called the fun of the little shopkeeper.
Accordingly the next day, when Margot was busy over her duties as saleswoman, Louise Grognan entered the shop. She came straight up to Margot and asked her in a harsh, unpleasant sort of voice for a chapeau, and she was to be vite.
Margot smiled in her gentle, pleasant way, said she was busy for the time being, but if Mademoiselle Grognan would wait for a few minutes she would take her to the apartement where the chapeaux were sold.
Louise frowned a little, felt decidedly cross, but after a time decided to wait. She was catching the little shopkeeper in the act. Nothing could be more agreeable.
Perhaps never before had little Margot St. Juste looked more beautiful than she did on this occasion. There was the spirit of self-denial in her charming little face. She was doing what she was doing for others and not for herself. Her appearance, too, was remarkably striking. Madame had dressed the little girl on this occasion in a soft crimson robe, much embroidered, with stockings and dainty shoes to match.
The beautiful child attracted the attention of everyone.
"Behold la Comtesse! Behold la Comtesse!" echoed from end to end of the great établissement.
"Now, thou, chérie, shalt be dressed according to thy needs," said a happy mother to a blushing daughter.
"And thou, Carlice, shalt wear what suits thee at long last," said an ungainly aunt to an equally ungainly niece. "Ah, but she has the taste, the little Comtesse!"
On all sides there were sounds of rejoicing and pleasure at seeing the pretty child back again. Margot heard the words, but she had all the dignity of her race. She told Madame Coquenne and Madame Lise that she would be with them soon, as soon as possible, and then she went off to attend to Louise Grognan.
"I want a chapeau," said Louise. "You put on wonderful airs, Margot, seeing you are only a shopkeeper."
Margot looked at Louise out of her beautiful, deep, loving eyes.
"Do you want to say unkind things to me, Louise?" she remarked. "Ma belle grand'mère wishes me to help her a little and I am willing to do it, for she is overworked, but mon bon grandpère he knows nothing, he thinks me a fine lady, la Comtesse St. Juste. I consider that a fine lady is the one who does best her duty."
"Are you coming back to our school?" interrupted Louise.
"No, I'm too busy for the school."
"Ah, I thought as much. Besides, we do not take shopkeepers at our school."
"But thy bon père is a restaurant keeper. I see not the difference."
Louise gave an angry clench of her little fists.
"Dost thou not know, petite fille, that I myself keep no restaurant personally? Mon père, he works for me; the difference is wide, immense."
"Mon père est mort," answered Margot in a sad voice. "Thou didst ask for a chapeau. Wilt thou select?"
Louise chose a very tall, beehive-shaped head-dress of vivid green, trimmed with quantities of grass of the same shade.
"It will not suit thee, Louise," said Margot, in her gentle, fascinating voice.
"Well, what wouldst thou suggest?" asked Louise, who was too well aware of the excellence of Margot's taste to dare to despise it.
"I would dress thee so," said Margot, and she produced a soft, black hat, very soft, very light, which could be turned up at the side and into which Margot arranged a little piece of ribbon, bright, soft, crimson, which made an arresting note in the blackness of the hat.
"Behold, here is thy chapeau!" said Margot.
Louise pouted a little, looked longingly at the grass-green hat, but finally succumbed to the black hat with the crimson ribbon.
Margot brought her before a large mirror and made her see herself in both hats.
"Ah, bah, thou must not be seen in that!" she said, flinging the grass-green chapeau aside. "Now behold the other hat! The complexion it softens, the eyes they glow, the crimson note of colour softens the colour in thy lips and cheeks. It is très beau that chapeau; it suits thee, Louise. It is my wish that thou shouldst wear it."
"Ah, c'est bien," exclaimed Louise. "But the price, the price must be low."
"One hundred and fifty francs," said Margot, in a calm, steady voice, "not a penny less, not a penny more. Behold the quality of the black, look for thyself at the shape, see how the ribbon entwines itself, just enough and no more, as I have placed it. One hundred and fifty francs—I have spoken."
"I cannot pay you now," said Louise. "You will let it lie against my little account."
"Non, non, that I never do," said Margot. "Those who buy from la petite Comtesse pay as they buy. Thou mayst, if thou dost please, Louise, buy a chapeau of Madame Marcelle; but for me, I take my black hat to another customer. She is looking at it with eyes that devour."
Certainly Louise Grognan felt inclined to stamp her feet, to rage, to utter a wicked little swear; but Margot did not take the least notice. She sold the beautiful black hat to a striking-looking American girl, and the grass-green hat was purchased by Louise and put down to the account of the said young lady by Madame Marcelle.
Now, indeed, her anger was at its height. She hated little Margot because she could not in the least compete with her. The grave dignity of the child was beyond her power to emulate. She of the people could not imitate that other one of the aristocrats. She might call her the little shopkeeper as much as she liked, but she really was la petite Comtesse and not only the assistants in the établissement adored her, but all the customers insisted on having la petite Comtesse to serve them.
Louise was now ripe for revenge. She hated the handsome child, who was so grave, so firm and dignified and full of that resolve which can only be called by its true name, the tone of the aristocrats.
Well, well, at least Louise should have her revenge. She wrote a long letter to Tilly Raynes, telling her that she had caught Marguerite in the act, and she was only waiting for her opportunity to communicate with M. le Comte St. Juste. She thought also that it might help her a little if Tilly would give her the address of the Irish grandpère, who was also so eaten up with pride.
Tilly wrote immediately, giving the full address of The Desmond of Desmondstown.
"I know no such name as The," thought Louise. "I will call him Monsieur Desmond. He shall get the letter as soon as possible. I will write the letter to-day; the day after to-morrow I will visit le Comte."
Accordingly she wrote in her broken English to Monsieur Desmond at Desmondstown in the County of Kerry, Ireland, but the letter fell into the hands of Fergus. He read it as best he could, smiled a little at the invincible spirit of the pushkeen and then tore the letter into little fragments.
Meanwhile Louise took the opportunity to ask la Princesse de Fleury to allow her to go to see her father at the Boulevard des Italiens. La Princesse was always ready to oblige. She said the girl might have a half-holiday, but must be back by six o'clock.
Louise put on her hideous grass-green hat and set out in high spirits. The walk from the town of Arles to the Château St. Juste was a good mile in length. Louise said to herself how thoroughly she would enjoy bowing that pride of the dreadful old man to the dust. Even in the beautiful town of Arles it was not very warm now. Winter was setting in with rigor, so the people of the south of France thought, although the hedges were covered with roses and climbing geraniums, and everywhere the air was perfect with the delicious smell of violets.
Louise had made careful enquiries and knew that she would arrive at the château when Margot and la belle grand'mère were out. She was not accustomed to much walking, however, and her steps went slowly. What was to become of the little shopkeeper when she had fully explained her story? She thought that at the very least la petite Comtesse would be dismissed, disgraced, sent back to those Irish people, who were so wild and ugly and indifferent and even they would not receive her, for she had been told that their pride was of the greatest, and Monsieur Desmond must have got her letter or certainly would get it before Margot arrived.
Ah, well, truly had she earned her sixty francs and the grass-green hat was very pretty according to her own ideas. She arrived at the gates of the old château. They were opened to her by a tiny Frenchwoman, whom Madame la Comtesse had placed at the lodge.
She walked up the perfectly kept avenue and smelt more strongly than ever the perfume of the violets, the scent of the roses, and the scent also of the sweet pink geraniums which fell in clusters round the trees, helping to adorn the few that were leafless, but most of the trees were olives and they were now in their bloom. Certainly the home of Monsieur le Comte was very perfect.
She reached the front door and pressed the electric bell. A man in the livery of the St. Justes replied at once to her summons.
Louise made her request.
"Ah, non, non, ce n'est pas possible. Madame she is out and la petite Comtesse is also out," replied the footman.
"I want to see Monsieur le Comte," said Louise. "I have a message to give him of great importance with regard to his granddaughter."
The man looked hard, very hard indeed at Louise. He longed to ask, "Is it a message of the serious?" but he restrained himself.
"I will enquire," he said. "Restez tranquille, Mademoiselle, I have before now eaten of your father's sweetmeats the most superb! Ah, but they melt in the mouth! Behold, a chair, Mademoiselle! I will take your message to the Comte, if it is really not one to do him any injury."
"No, no, he ought to know," said Louise. "It will save him trouble in the future. Go and, behold, if you succeed I will get my father to send you a box of his best chocolates!"
The man gazed again at the queer-looking girl and finally retired into the salon where M. le Comte was calmly resting.
M. le Comte was very happy—his beloved Madame was nearly always by his side, and now he had almost three months of la petite before him. The adored la petite! Could any aged man be happier than he? He did not mind his feeling of weakness, the rapid approach of extreme old age did not trouble him. He was happy in the gentle, soothing present. What else mattered, what else could matter?
He was interrupted when Gustave came in with his message.
"I want you not, go!" he said. "See you not that I arrange myself for repose? Go, and leave me in peace! I see no one when my wife and granddaughter are away."
"Yes, but you will see me," said Louise, suddenly bursting into the room, her grass-green hat all awry, her features flushed, her small eyes full of a delighted vengeance.
"I have come about your petite Comtesse," said Louise. "See, behold, you will listen!"
"Leave us, Gustave," said le Comte, and Gustave closed the door and applied his ear with great skill to the key-hole.
"What have you come about?" said the Comte in a voice of high displeasure. "This is my hour for repose. I see no strangers, more particularly those like yourself."
The eyes of Louise flashed with anger.
"If I suit not your taste, old man," she said, "you have but your granddaughter to blame. She sold me my chapeau in the établissement of your good wife. She goes there each day. Ask her, she cannot deny!"
The Comte felt very queer and sick, a kind of giddiness came over him, that terrible faintness from which at times he suffered was approaching, the world looked very dark.
Suddenly he pulled himself together. He found his eyes fixed on the hideous grass-green hat, never surely could his little Margot sell anything so frightful to so low-down a customer.
"Leave me, I feel faint," he said. "Send to me my man Gustave, and go! I command you to go at once!"
Louise looked wildly round her, but the grass-green hat kept on doing its work, it was quite impossible for M. le Comte to believe her story; it was out of his power even for an instant to suppose that the little hands he loved could have touched anything so impossible.
"You tell lies, my good girl," he said. "It may be possible that you will drop down dead like Sapphira, who followed the example of Ananias, her husband. Go quickly, before my anger begins to boil. Hasten before I attack you with a pistol! There are times when I lose self-control, and that chapeau—mon Dieu! That chapeau! Go at once, I beseech of you, before I do an injury, which may mean la mort!"
Louise was by now thoroughly frightened. The grand, disdainful manner of la petite Comtesse was nothing to the terrifying manner of le Comte himself.
She did not even wait to speak to Gustave; a shower began to fall from the heavens, and her grass-green hat marked her face with grass-green tints the reverse of becoming as she hurried down the avenue. The woman at the lodge laughed as she saw her, but she was good-natured and did not want to see anyone in trouble.
"Madame la Comtesse and la petite Comtesse Margot are out," she said. "I knew well you would have your walk for nothing; but behold! you shall enter my humble dwelling. Le chapeau, why it is a figure of fun. Where did you buy it, Mam'selle?"
Louise was too cross to reply, but she was not too cross to accept the shelter of the little lodge which was offered to her. She was not there two or three minutes before who should walk in but Madame.
Madame la Comtesse looked very charming. She stared fixedly at Louise and Louise sprang to her feet.
"I must speak to you," she said. "I must talk words all alone."
"I mind not," said la Comtesse. "You will leave us, Susette!"
"Then listen—you are a lying woman," said Louise, "and your granddaughter, she serves in the établissement of Madame Marcelle. Behold for yourself, she sold me this chapeau!"
"Never, never!" cried Madame. "But we will prove it. Come with me now in my motor-car to the établissement of Madame Marcelle. She tells the truth in very deed."
Louise did not seem to mind, a pleased smile wreathed her face.
"You are the daughter of Grognan, the restaurant-keeper," remarked Madame.
"I am, I make no bones about it. I am proud of it, and of mon père."
"In that you are right," exclaimed Madame. "Ah, how quickly we move, and the rain falls in torrents. Ma petite Comtesse, ma chère petite Comtesse is now enjoying her lessons of the French. I do not recognize that chapeau as one belonging to the établissement of Madame Marcelle."
"It was your granddaughter sold it to me," said Louise.
"That is impossible," said Madame, calmly, "but we will soon find out. What were you doing in the lodge belonging to the château?"
"The woman gave me shelter," said Louise. "I had gone to acquaint M. le Comte with the fact that you kept a shop and la petite Comtesse was the little shopkeeper."
"And you saw mon Alphonse?"
"Ah, oui, oui," cried Louise, beginning to enjoy herself.
Madame pulled the check-string and desired the chauffeur to fly—to put on all the speed possible. Soon they reached the établissement.
"Who sold this chapeau to Mademoiselle Grognan?" enquired la Comtesse.
"I did," said Madame Marcelle. "She has not paid for it yet."
"I admit no debts in the établissement," exclaimed Madame la Comtesse. "Madame Marcelle, why did you allow such an ugly thing into le magasin?"
"It came by mistake," replied the poor, confused Madame. "The mademoiselle liked it and I sold it to her. I only charged her forty francs, for I thought it so ugly."
"It is a screaming farce," said Madame la Comtesse. "Go back, Mademoiselle. I will write this evening to votre père, the restaurant-keeper, for the money."
"Oh, but it pours, it drenches," cried Louise.
"I care not, nay more, I am glad," said Madame.
"You went with intention to act cruelly to me and mine. Madame Marcelle, come back with me at once to the château—at once, at once! Let the assistants serve here for the rest of the day."
Thus and in this fashion was Mademoiselle served for her evil conduct. Thus was she severely reprimanded by Grognan the restaurant-keeper, and thus did Madame Marcelle explain to the much troubled Comte who had really sold the chapeau to Mam'selle.
"It was the chapeau that saved me," said the old Comte. "I was sinking into one of my worst faints, which are to the life of the aged so dangerous, when I looked at the chapeau and knew it could not be. Ma petite chérie could not act as that wicked daughter of the people would try to make me believe."
"Ah, non, M. le Comte," exclaimed Madame Marcelle, "the dignity of la petite is of the marvellous. When she enters my établissement, simply to buy, thou dost understand, every one turns to look at the beautiful enfant. She chooses for herself and her taste is superb."
"Then that girl told a cruel lie," said the Comte.
"Ah, certainement, monsieur."