That day the Bergeron tomb in the old St. Louis cemetery was opened for the first time since Madame Jozain’s father was placed there, and the lovely young widow was laid amongst those who were neither kith nor kin.
When Raste returned from the funeral, he found his mother sitting beside the child, who lay in the same heavy stupor that marked the first days of the mother’s illness. The pretty golden hair was spread over the pillow; under the dark lashes were deep violet shadows, and the little cheeks glowed with the crimson hue of fever.
Madame was dressed in her best black gown, and she had been weeping freely. At the sight of Raste in the door, she started up and burst into heart-breaking sobs.
“Oh, mon cher, oh, mon ami, we are doomed. Was ever any one so unfortunate? Was ever any one so punished for a good deed? I’ve taken a sick stranger into my house, and nursed her as if she were my own, and buried her in my family tomb, and now the child’s taken down, and Doctor Debrot says it is a contagious fever, and we may both take it and die. That’s what one gets in this world for trying to do good!”
“Nonsense, mum, don’t look on the dark side; old Debrot don’t know. I’m the one that gave it out that the fever was catching. I didn’t want to have people prying about here, finding out everything. The child’ll be better or worse in a few days, and then we’ll clear out from this place, raise some money on the things, and start fresh somewhere else.”
“Well,” said madame, wiping away her tears, much comforted by Raste’s cheerful view of the situation, “no one can say that I haven’t done my duty to the poor thing, and I mean to be kind to the child, and nurse her through the fever whether it’s catching or not. It’s hard to be tied to a sick bed this hot weather; but I’m almost thankful the little thing’s taken down, and isn’t conscious, for it was dreadful to see the way she mourned for her mother. Poor woman, she was so young and pretty, and had such gentle ways. I wish I knew who she was, especially now I’ve put her in the Bergeron tomb.”
CHAPTER VI
PEPSIE
Every one about that part of Good Children Street knew Pepsie. She had been a cripple from infancy, and her mother, Madelon, or “Bonnie Praline,” as she was called, was also quite a noted figure in the neighborhood. They lived in a tiny, single cottage, wedged in between the pharmacist, on the corner, and M. Fernandez, the tobacconist, on the other side. There was a narrow green door, and one long window, with an ornamental iron railing across it, through which the interior of the little room was visible from the outside. It was a very neat little place, and less ugly than one would expect it to be. A huge four-post bed, with red tester and lace-covered pillows, almost filled one side of the room; opposite the bed a small fireplace was hung with pink paper, and the mantel over it was decorated with a clock, two vases of bright paper flowers, a blue bottle, and a green plaster parrot; a small armoire, a table above which hung a crucifix and a highly colored lithograph of the Bleeding Heart, and a few chairs completed the furniture of the quaint little interior; while the floor, the doorsteps, and even the sidewalk were painted red with powdered brick-dust, which harmonized very well with the faded yellow stucco of the walls and the dingy green of the door and batten shutter.
Behind this one little front room was a tiny kitchen and yard, where Madelon made her pralines and cakes, and where Tite Souris, a half-grown darky, instead of a “little mouse,” washed, cooked, and scrubbed, and “waited on Miss Peps” during Madelon’s absence; for Madelon was a merchant. She had a stand for cakes and pralines upon Bourbon Street, near the French Opera House, and thither she went every morning, with her basket and pans of fresh pralines, sugared pecans, and calas tout chaud, a very tempting array of dainties, which she was sure to dispose of before she returned at night; while Pepsie, her only child, and the treasure of her life, remained at home, sitting in her high chair by the window, behind the iron railing.
And Pepsie sitting at her window was as much a part of the street as were the queer little houses, the tiny shops, the old vegetable woman, the cobbler on the banquette, the wine merchant, or the grocer. Every one knew her: her long, sallow face with flashing dark eyes, wide mouth with large white teeth, which were always visible in a broad smile, and the shock of heavy black hair twisted into a quaint knot on top of her head, which was abnormally large, and set close to the narrow, distorted shoulders, were always visible, “from early morn till dewy eve,” at the window; while her body below the shoulders was quite hidden by a high table drawn forward over her lap. On this table Pepsie shelled the pecans, placing them in three separate piles, the perfect halves in one pile, those broken by accident in another, and those slightly shriveled, and a little rancid, in still another. The first were used to make the sugared pecans for which Madelon was justly famous; the second to manufacture into pralines, so good that they had given her the sobriquet of “Bonne Praline”; and the third pile, which she disdained to use in her business, nothing imperfect ever entering into her concoctions, were swept into a box, and disposed of to merchants who had less principle and less patronage.