“She was to have her will executed the next day,” Zaidee continued, “but she grew worse that night, and raved about monsieur, and breaking the bank, which she meant to do the next day, but just before morning she died. The bank had broken her. I did not think it worth while for monsieur to come all that distance for her, and I took her home alone. I sewed my money into my petticoat, for fear of losing it. They put madame in a lead coffin, and we started. I had always gone second-class in the train as her maid, but, with a thousand rubles in my skirt, I could afford something better. I came first-class, and she as baggage—and liked it!
“They gave her a big funeral, with piles of flowers, and nobody cried but Chance, who was shut up in his kennel, to keep him out of the way. They gave the money to monsieur, and I handed him the will, which she had given me to keep till it was signed and witnessed.
“I saw him read it, with a queer look on his face, and then he threw it into the fire, and watched it burn to ashes. It was no good, of course, anyway, and the money was his. I am quite sure he has given every ruble of it in charity, and he seems like a different man. Everything is different, house and all.”
“Who keeps it?” I asked.
“We all keep it,” said Zaidee; “but I do the most of the ordering. He wished me to wear black, because his mother liked me so much, and he gave me my clothes, and we get on fine, with no dread of anybody. I told him about the money madame gave me, and he takes care of it, and sees to the interest. I feel quite rich!”
“Do you ever hear from Carl?” I asked.
I saw a flush on her face, as she answered: “He wrote to me once. He is on a farm, and doing well, and is respected, he says. He wants me to write to him. Do you think it would do?”
I knew what she meant, and, contrasting the tall, well-dressed, well-mannered girl with the young man whom I only remembered as trying to snatch my bag from me, I didn’t know whether it would “do” or not.
“Do you care for him?” I asked; and she replied: “Not much. I used to like him when I was a little girl, and he was always kind—ready to divide his last crust. Many a time I have warned him when the police were coming, and once I hid him from them, and lied. How I did lie for him! We were both brought up in dirty mud puddles. Mine were dirtier than his, but I think some of the mud has been rubbed off me; don’t you?”
“Yes, a great deal,” I answered, thinking of the tangle-haired girl I had first seen on the Nevsky, barefooted, and bare-legged. “You are greatly improved,” I said; “and possibly Carl is the same. Write for him to come to St. Petersburg. You can soon tell if it will ‘do.’”