III.
At the asylum, little orphans had a roof to shelter them from the storms, a place to lay their tired selves at night, food to eat when they were hungry, clothes to protect them from the cold. But there was no mamma there, no Julien, no oncle le capitaine. The great clean rooms, with their whitewashed walls, were so bare. No pretty mats on the floors, no carved tables, no silken chairs and sofas, no crimson curtains, no beautiful paintings and statuettes, as in that pleasant village home from which Julie and her mother fled when the terrible armies came marching on, with beat of drum and thundering of cannon. It was dreary and lonesome here. Julie could not understand a word that was spoken, neither could any one understand her. So she could not play with the other children, but sat alone by herself watching them all day—watching in a dream, the roar of the briny billows still ringing in her ears. Now and then she cried a little for very homesickness; and always she wondered why she was in this place and why Julien did not come.
One day a lady was shown into the school-room, where the children sang for her. Looking about upon their faces she asked:
“Who is that delicate little creature in the corner, with the dark hair and eyes?”
The matron told the story she had heard from Mrs. Lane. It was, she said, a little orphan girl who had recently come over in an emigrant ship from France. Her father was killed in the battle of Sedan. Did the lady know of any one who would like to adopt the child?
“Why, I’ve a great mind to take her myself. She could play with Charlie and Lizzie, you know,” turning to her companion, “and in that way they could learn to speak French, couldn’t they?”
So, when this person—she was visiting some cousins in town—when she returned home Julie went with her; why, she did not know, but she supposed it must be the way to find her brother. To be sure, madame let her hold Lizzie a good deal, and holding Lizzie made one’s arms ache. What matter? Julien would be there, where they were going!
But when the long journey was ended, and they left the noisy train, and monsieur met them, all smiles at the sight of wife and baby, and they drove through the streets to monsieur’s house, Julien was not there! The child was ready to cry from disappointment. She sat down by the window and watched the passers-by. Perhaps one would be Julien. Now, a little boy of five or six years, after being fondled and caressed by mamma, and having given baby a dutiful but hasty kiss, came and planted himself in front of her. When he had stared at her to his satisfaction, he demanded:
“Who be you?”
Julie could not understand, and so how could she answer?
“Who be you, I say?”
No reply.
“Why don’t you speak, you ninny, you?”
“Bonjour, mon ami,”[2] said Julie, scared at his rough tones.
“Bonny Jew!—what’s the rest of it? Bonny Jew! Bonny Jew! Ha, ha! What a funny name!”
Charley caught up his cap and ran into the street to tell Willie Wade:
“There’s a girl in there. Her name’s Bonny Jew. She’s deef, I guess, fur I couldn’t make ’er hear till I hollered loud enough to take ’er head off.”
At night, madame led Julie down to the kitchen, saying, “Katrine, you may let her sleep with you,” and left her there.
Katrine’s face flushed scarlet, and her mild eyes flashed as they never flashed before. Was not France at that very hour making war upon her countrymen? Were not all French, then, her enemies? She took up the lamp and strode toward her chamber. Julie, afraid to be left in the dark, followed after. The door was locked in her face.
Madame coming into the basement for a glass of water, late in the evening, stumbled over the child lying asleep on the hall floor, just outside of Katrine’s room. She tried the door, and finding it fastened, called through the keyhole: “Katrine! Katrine!”
Katrine either did not hear or pretended not to. She was snoring right loyally between two immense feather beds which had kept her company all the way from Vaterland. The lounge in the back parlor, with some shawls and cushions, would serve for Julie’s couch this time.
“Katrine,” asked madame, “what did you mean by locking Julie out of your room last night?”
“I vill not haf der Franchen mit me in my ped!”
“Why, Katrine, I think you are very unreasonable.”
“I care not vat you tinks! I vill go find me anodder blace!”
But madame couldn’t afford to lose Katrine. Katrine was a treasure. Katrine could cook, and wash, and iron, and do all kinds of work to perfection. She was tidy, and she was industrious, and always good-tempered till now. So, instead of her finding “anodder blace,” a bed was made for Julie in the attic—the low, wide, windowless attic, where not a breath of air moved in summer, where the winds whistled and moaned in winter, where the rats and mice held revels all the year round—the great, gloomy attic, with its mysterious chests and closets, where curious shadows dwelt; strewn with mysterious hats, and boots and shoes, that took strange shapes after the sun went down; hung about with mysterious outcasts—old gowns, and crinolines, and coats, that weirdly swayed and swung on boisterous autumn nights; the dreadful attic, where, hour after hour, when she ought to have been enjoying sweet, blessed sleep, little tired Julie lay wide-eyed, staring at—she knew not what, listening to—she knew not what, trembling, shivering, the sweat upon her brow.
“Oh, madame, j’ai peur!”[3] she said once, lingering when bedtime came.
But madame didn’t understand.
The weeks passed by. Julien did not come. Would he ever come? The question was often put to madame. But she didn’t understand. Julie began to grow discouraged. Baby was so heavy! and she was cutting teeth, too, and worried and fretted. Some new plaything must be invented every five minutes to amuse and keep her quiet. She must be sung to, rocked, carried backward and forward, to and fro, drawn in her carriage up and down the sidewalk, wearily, wearily, up and down. As for Charley, he learned to speak less good French of Julie than he hurled bad English at her. During his mother’s visit East, he had improved the chance for making acquaintance with all the boys on the street, and thus had considerably increased the list of words at his command. One day, Lizzie’s dimpled fingers found the ribbon about Julie’s neck. Out in full sight flew the precious cross. Julie hastened to hide it, but a pair of keen eyes had caught the glitter.
“What’s that? What’s that shiny thing you’ve got there, Julie? I want to see it!” cried the tormentor, darting toward her.
She thrust out her hand to keep him off. He flung it aside and clutched at the ribbon.
“Non! non!” she screamed, pushing him away.
At that he became furious, kicking and biting, and pulling her hair. Julie, dropping the baby, shrieked with pain. Baby began to cry lustily. The uproar reached the drawing-room, where there were callers. Madame came rushing in to still the noise. Charley, who had succeeded in tearing it away, now, triumphant, held up the cross.
“See, ma, see! She had it hid in ’er neck! She stole it, you bet!”
“Oh, donnez-la moi! donnez-la moi!”[4] sobbed Julie.
Madame hadn’t time to inquire into the matter. She took the cross away from Charley, though he stoutly resisted, locked it in a drawer of her writing-desk, put the key in her pocket and then went back to her guests.
The young gentleman picked at the lock with his pencil.
“You plagued old thing!” he muttered, shaking his fist and scowling at Julie, “if you hadn’t a’ raised such a rumpus she’d never a’ knowed, and I’d a’ traded it off fur Tommy Tough’s pearl-handled penknife—plague take you!”
After the visitors had gone, Julie, pointing to the writing-desk, entreated:
“Oh, madame, la give, la give! à present, s’il vous please!”
“Yes, yes, yes, by and by.”
But “by and by,” madame had forgotten. She did not remember, indeed, until she opened the drawer to get her portemonnaie before going out shopping.
“Some cheap gew-gaw, possibly,” she thought, taking up the cross. “I don’t know, though! Can this be glass? Wonder how she came by it? Can it possibly be of any value?... I’ve a great mind to take it down to Forsyth’s and see what he says. He’ll know the moment he lays eyes on it.”
Down to Forsyth’s she took it.
“Mr. Forsyth,” she said, handing it across the counter, “here is a little trinket that has accidentally come into my possession lately. I’d like your opinion as to its worth.”
The jeweler’s eyes sparkled like the precious gems, as he held them to the light.
“Why, Mrs. ——, you have here a treasure! Those stones!—genuine article!” and examining more closely: “It’s very old. Just observe the chasing. You know nothing of its history?”
“No. You consider it of value, then?”
“Of value? I would give five hundred dollars any day, Mrs. ——, to become possessor of that cross.” He added eagerly, “Could you not be induced to part with it?”
Five hundred dollars! Madame’s glance fell upon a silver tea-service which she had long coveted.
“Possibly. I’ll think about it,” she said, and went her way.
Such a lovely blue moire in one of the shop windows—five dollars a yard. It made one’s mouth water to look at it. Such a lovely Brussels in another!—the parlors needed carpeting anew. Such lovely, lovely things in all the windows! that one really ought to have. As for the child, of what earthly use could that costly trinket ever be to her? Like as not she stole it, as Charley said.
When madame reached home her purse was even better filled than when she started out, and the silver tea-set would be sent up from Forsyth’s to-morrow. Meantime a curious piece of workmanship in the jeweler’s show-case was attracting much attention.
What a queer way to find the brother is this—tending Lizzie and being knocked about by Charley, and robbed of mamma’s last gift! Julie fears she will never get it, for when she asked madame for it again, madame blushed and did not reply. What strange people these Americans are! They make little children take care of little children! And she is afraid of Charley. She trembles now to think of him. And who is that creature peering out of the closet over there?
It is like the woman who let the room where mamma was taken sick.
Why, this is that room! and here is the mother beside her.
Julie leans over and asks:
“Why dost thou not waken, my mother? Behold, the sun is high. Why dost thou sleep so long? Why art thou so cold and pale? Mamma! Mamma!”
The silken lashes are not lifted from the marble cheek; the white lips make no answer.
“She is so weary, I will not disturb her. I will watch until she wakens.”
The morning creeps away, the noon, and the afternoon, and now the evening comes.
“Mamma! my dear mamma!”
Still the eyelids are not lifted, and the white lips are dumb.
The night goes by, and a day, and another night, and the morning dawns once more. And again the woman comes peering through the door.
“She is dead,” Julie hears her say.
Men enter and carry the mother away.
“Where are you going with my poor mamma?”
“We are going to bury her.”
“You shall not bury her! You shall not take her away,” cries Julie.
They thrust her back with rough hands. They will not let her follow. The woman locks her in. She is left alone, alone.
The day goes by, the noon, and the afternoon. The shadows reach out after her like claws. She crouches in the chimney-corner, staring at them through the long, dark hours.
At midnight the woman glides stealthily in, glides stealthily about, peering, peering with wicked eyes. She fumbles among the bedding, opens the trunk, takes out its contents carefully.
“Nothing, nothing!” she hisses between clenched teeth.
She glides stealthily towards the child. Julie holds the cross in her hand.
“What have you there, little wretch?” demands the woman, trying to wrest it from her.
Julie will not give it up. With a sudden bound she escapes, runs out of the room, out of the house, down the path, away, away, through the fields. On, and on, she hurries, not daring to look back. Daylight comes, and still she walks on. After awhile she grows faint. She sits down by the roadside to rest. A peasant girl passes by with a basket on her arm.
“Does this road go to the place where one finds the ships?” asked Julie.
“Oui, mademoiselle.”
When Julie is rested, she rises and walks on. Still on and on. The way is long. At last the houses are thick together. Beyond is the blue sea. There are the ships, many, with white sails.
“Which one goes to America?” asks Julie of a man lounging about the wharf.
He points to one from which floats a beautiful flag.
While she looks, the great flag comes fluttering, fluttering down—fluttering, floating before her, floating about her, wrapping her in its folds; then back it flies, whizzing through the air, up, up, up, among the tall masts, so high above the water! Julie is dizzy, and tries to catch at the ropes. Lo! her hands are pinioned. She cannot move them. A huge serpent is coiled about her—a huge serpent striped its whole length with red and white. The coils are tightening, tightening. She cannot breathe. She struggles to be free. A flaming head swoops suddenly down. Two terrible eyes glare at her—two eyes—two glittering stars.
[2] Good-morning (or good-day), my friend.
[3] I am afraid.
[4] Oh, give it to me! give it to me.