“Stop! Dass all foolishness! You want her? You kin have her!”
“Ah, papa! you dawn’t awnstand! What I am?”
“Ah, bah! What anybody is? What she is? She invanted bigger mash-in dan you? a mo’ better corn-stubbl’ destroyer and plant-corner?” He meant corn-planter. “She invant a more handier doubl’-action pea-vine rake? What she done mak’ her so gran’? Naw, sir! She look fine in de face, yass; and dass all you know. Well, dass all right; dass de ’Cajun way—pick ’em out by face. You begin ’Cajun way, for why you dawn’t finish ’Cajun way? All you got do, you git good saddle-hoss and ride. Bom-bye you see her, you ride behind her till you find where her daddy livin’ at. Den you ride pas’ yondah every day till fo’, five days, and den you see de ole man come scrape friend wid you. Den he hass you drop round, and fus’ t’ing you know—adjieu la calége!”
Claude did not dispute the point, though he hardly thought this case could be worked that way. He returned in silent thought to the question, how to find Madame Beausoleil. He tried the mail; no response. He thought of advertising; but that would never do. Imagine, “If Madame Beausoleil, late of Vermilionville, will leave her address at this office, she will hear of something not in the least to her advantage.” He couldn’t advertise.
It was midday following the eve of his confession to his father. For the last eleven or twelve days, ever since he had seen that blessed apparition turn with the two young friends into Canal Street out of Bourbon—he had been venturing daily, for luncheon, just down into Bourbon Street, to the Christian Women’s Exchange. Now, by all the laws of fortune he should in that time have seen in there at least once or twice a day already, the face he was ever looking for. But he had not; nor did he to-day. He only saw, or thought he saw, the cashier—I should say the cashieress—glance crosswise at him with eyes that seemed to him to say:
“Fool; sneak; whelp; ’Cajun; our private detectives are watching you.”
Both rooms and the veranda were full of ladies and gentlemen whose faces he dared not lift his eyes to look into. And yet even in that frame there suddenly came to him one of those happy thoughts that are supposed to be the inspirations of inventive genius. A pleasant little female voice near him said:
“And apartments up-stairs that they rent to ladies only!” And instantly the thought came that Marguerite and her mother might be living there. One more lump of bread, a final gulp of coffee, a short search for the waiter’s check, and he stands at the cashieress’s desk. She makes change without looking at him or ceasing to tell a small hunchbacked spinster standing by about somebody’s wedding. But suddenly she starts.
“Oh! wasn’t that right? You gave me four bits, didn’t you? And I gave you back two bits and a picayune, and—sir? Does Madame who? Oh! yes. I didn’t understand you; I’m a little deaf on this side; scarlet fever when I was a little girl. I’m not the regular cashier, she’s gone to attend the wedding of a lady friend. Just wait a moment, please, while I make change for these ladies. Oh, dear! ma’am, is that the smallest you’ve got? I don’t believe I can change that, ma’am. Yes—no—stop! yes, I can! no, I can’t! let’s see! yes, yes, yes, I can; I’ve got it; yes, there! I didn’t think I had it.” She turned again to Claude with sisterly confidence. “Excuse me for keeping you waiting; haven’t I met you at the Y. M. C. A. sociable? Well, you must excuse me, but I was sure I had. Of course I didn’t if you was never there; but you know in a big city like this you’re always meeting somebody that’s ne-e-early somebody else that you know—oh! didn’t you ask me—oh, yes! Madame Beausoleil! Yes, she lives here, she and her daughter. But she’s not in. Oh! I’m sorry. Neither of them is here. She’s not in the city; hasn’t been for two weeks. They’re coming back; we’re expecting them every day. She heard of the death of a relative down in Terrebonne somewhere. I wish they would come back; we miss them here; I judge they’re relatives of yours, if I don’t mistake the resemblance; you seem to take after the daughter; wait a minute.”
Some one coming up to pay looked at Claude to see what the daughter was like, and the young man slipped away, outblushing the night sky when the marshes are afire.