“Do just what you’ve planned to do, mum. Go right ahead, but be careful and cover up your tracks. Do you understand?”
Madame made no reply to this disinterested piece of advice, but sat silently thinking for some time. At last she said in a persuasive tone, “Didn’t you bring some money from the levee? I’ve had no supper, and I intend to sit up all night with that poor woman. Can’t you go to Joubert’s and get me some bread and cheese?”
“Money, money—look here!” and the young scapegrace pulled out a handful of silver. “That’s what I’ve brought.”
An hour later madame and Raste sat in the little kitchen, chatting over their supper in the most friendly way; while the sick woman and the child still slept profoundly in the small front room.
CHAPTER V
LAST DAYS AT GRETNA
The next morning, Madame Jozain sent Raste across the river for Dr. Debrot, for the sick woman still lay in a heavy stupor, her dull eyes partly closed, her lips parched and dry, and the crimson flush of fever burning on cheek and brow.
Before Raste went, Madame Jozain took the traveling bag into the kitchen, and together they examined its contents. There were the two baggage-checks, the tickets and money, besides the usual articles of clothing, and odds and ends; but there was no letter, nor card, nor name, except the monogram, J. C., on the silver fittings, to assist in establishing the stranger’s identity.
“Hadn’t I better take these,” said Raste, slipping the baggage-checks into his pocket, “and have her baggage sent over? When she comes to, you can tell her that she and the young one needed clothes, and you thought it was best to get them. You can make that all right when she gets well,” and Raste smiled knowingly at madame, whose face wore an expression of grave solicitude as she said:
“Hurry, my son, and bring the doctor back with you. I’m so anxious about the poor thing, and I dread to have the child wake and find her mother no better.”
When Doctor Debrot entered Madame Jozain’s front room, his head was not as clear as it ought to have been, and he did not observe anything peculiar in the situation. He had known madame, more or less, for a number of years, and he might be considered one of the friends who thought well of her. Therefore, he never suspected that the young woman lying there in a stupor was any other than the relative from Texas madame represented her to be. And she was very ill, of that there could be no doubt; so ill as to awaken all the doctor’s long dormant professional ambition. There were new features in the case; the fever was peculiar. It might have been produced by certain conditions and localities. It might be contagious, it might not be, he could not say; but of one thing he was certain, there would be no protracted struggle, the crisis would arrive very soon. She would either be better or beyond help in a few days, and it was more than likely that she would never recover consciousness. He would do all he could to save her, and he knew Madame Jozain was an excellent nurse; she had nursed with him through an epidemic. The invalid could not be in better hands. Then he wrote a prescription, and while he was giving madame some general directions, he patted kindly the golden head of the lovely child, who leaned over the bed with her large, solemn eyes fixed on her mother’s face, while her little hands caressed the tangled hair and burning cheeks.