“Well, we’ll see,” said Tante Modeste, oracularly; “but I’m not satisfied about that monogram. It was J. C, as sure as I live, and not C. J.”
“I’ll tell you what we’ll do, mama,” said Paichoux, after some deliberate thought; he was slow, but he was sure; “we’ll keep a watch on the little one, and if anything happens, I’ll stand by her. You tell sister Madelon to let me know if anything happens, and I’ll see her through all right.”
“Then I believe she’s safe,” said Tante Modeste proudly, “for every one knows that when Paichoux says a thing, he means it.”
If Madam Jozain had only known how unfavorable were the comments of her supposed friends, she would not have felt as comfortable as she did. Although she was riding on the topmost wave of prosperity, as far as her business was concerned, she was not, as I said before, entirely happy unless she had the good opinion of every one, and for some reason, probably the result of a guilty conscience, she fancied that people looked askance at her; for, in spite of her polite advances, she had not succeeded in making friends of her neighbors. They came to her shop to chat and look, and sometimes to buy, and she was as civil to them as it was possible to be. She gave them her most comfortable chairs, and pulled down everything for them to examine, and unfolded, untied, and unpacked, only to have the trouble of putting them all away again. It was true they bought a good deal at times, and she had got rid of many of “those things” in a quiet way, and at fair prices; but still the neighbors kept her at a distance; they were polite enough, but they were not cordial, and it was cordiality, warmth, admiration, flattery, for which she hungered.
It was true she had a great deal to be proud of, for Raste was growing handsomer and more of a gentleman every day. He was the best looking fellow in the quarter, and he dressed so well,—like his father, he was large and showy,—and wore the whitest linen, the gayest neckties, and the finest jewelry, among which was the beautiful watch of the dead woman. This watch he was fond of showing to his friends, and pointing out the monogram, C. J., in diamonds; for, like his mother, he found it easy to transpose the letters to suit himself.
All this went a long way with Raste’s intimates, and made him very popular among a certain class of young men who lived by their wits and yet kept up a show of respectability.
And then, beside her satisfaction in Raste, there was the little Lady Jane, to whom every door in the neighborhood was open. She was the most beautiful and the most stylish child that ever was seen in Good Children Street, and she attracted more attention than all the other people put together. She never went out but what she heard something flattering about the little darling, and she knew that a great many people came to the shop just to get a glimpse of her.
All this satisfied her ambition, but not her vanity. She knew that Lady Jane cared more for Pepsie, Madelon, or even little Gex, than she did for her. The child was always dutiful, but never affectionate. Sometimes a feeling of bitterness would stir within her, and, thinking she had cause to complain, she would accuse the child of ingratitude.
“She is a little ingrate, a little viper, that stings me after I have warmed her. And to think of what I’ve done for her, and the worry and anxiety I’ve suffered! After all, I’m poorly paid, and get but little for all my studying and planning. She’s a little upstart, a little aristocrat, who will trample on me some day. Well, it’s what one gets in this world for doing a good deed. If I’d turned her and her mother out to die in the street, I’d been thought more of than I am now, and perhaps I’d been as well off.”