The maid's eyes sparkle. Fortune's wheel turns. "And I shall be—" she pauses.
"You may be suspected to be the mother. No one can learn anything from the child. I wish her to be raised in ignorance."
Madame de Santos is a genius in a quiet way. It is true, the prattling heiress, on the threshold of a new life, speaks only Spanish and a little English. She has forgotten her father. Even now her mother fades from her mind. A few passing months will sweep away all memories of Lagunitas. The children are nearly the same age, and not dissimilar.
"And the Judge?" murmurs the servant.
"I will take care of that," sharply says Hortense.
"Madame, it is a very great responsibility," begins the sly maid, now confidante. There is a strong sharp accent on the "very."
"I will pay you as you never dreamed of being paid." Madame Natalie is cool and quiet. Gold, blessed gold!
"It is well. I am yours for life," says Marie Berard. The two women's eyes meet. They understand one another. Feline, prehensile nerves.
Then, action at once. Hortense hands the woman a package of bank-notes. "Leave here as if for a walk. Take a 'fiacre' on the street, and go to your friends. You tell me you have some discreet ones. Tell them you have a child to take care of. Say no more. They will guess the rest. I want the child to be left to-morrow morning. After your return we can arrange her present needs. The rest you can provide through your friends. I want you to see the child once a week, not oftener. Go."
In ten minutes Marie Berard is rolling away to her advisers. Her letter has already announced her arrival. She knows her Paris. If a French maid has a heart history, hers is a succession of former Parisian scenes.