CHAPTER XXI
AFTER THE CARNIVAL
It was nearly dark, and the day had been very long to Pepsie, sitting alone at her window, for Madelon must remain all day and until late at night on the Rue Bourbon. A holiday, and especially Mardi-gras, was a day of harvest for her, and she never neglected a chance to reap nickels and dimes; therefore Pepsie began to look anxiously for the return of the merry party in the milk-cart. She knew they were not to remain to see the night procession; at least, that had not been the intention of Tante Modeste when she left, and she could not imagine what had detained them. And Tite Souris,—ungrateful creature! had been told to return as soon as the procession was over, in order to get Pepsie’s dinner. Owing to the excitement of the morning, Pepsie had eaten nothing, and now she was very hungry, as well as lonesome; and even Tony, tired of waiting, was hopping about restlessly, straining at his cord, and pecking the floor viciously.
Madame Jozain had returned some time before, and was even then eating her dinner comfortably, Pepsie had called across to know if she had seen anything of the Paichoux and Lady Jane; but madame had answered stiffly that she had been in her friend’s gallery all the time, which was an intimation that she had been in no position to notice a milk-cart, or its occupants. Then she observed indifferently that Madame Paichoux had probably decided to remain on Canal Street in order to get good positions for the night procession.
Pepsie comforted herself somewhat with this view of the case, and then began to worry about the child’s fast. She was sure Tante Modeste had nothing in the cart for the children to eat, and on Mardi-gras there was such a rush that one could hardly get into a restaurant, and she doubted whether Tante Modeste would try with such a crowd of young ones to feed. At length when she had thought of every possible reason for their remaining so late, and every possible plan by which they could be fed, she began to think of her own hunger, and of Tite Souris’s neglect, and had worked herself up to a very unenviable state of mind, when she saw her ungrateful handmaid plunging across the street, looking like a much-abused scarecrow, the remnants of her tatters flying in the wind, and her long black legs, owing to the unexpected abbreviation of her skirts, longer and thinner than ever, while her comical black face wore an expression impossible to describe.
“Oh, Miss Peps’,” she gasped, bursting into Pepsie’s presence like a whirlwind, “Ma’m Paichoux done sont me on ahead ter tell yer how Miss Lady’s done got lost.”
“Lost, lost?” cried Pepsie, clasping her hands wildly and bursting into tears. “How, where?”
“Up yon’er, on Cunnul Street. We’s can’t find ’er nowhar.”
“Then you must have let go of her,” cried Pepsie, while her eyes flashed fire. “I told you not to let go of her.”
“Oh laws, Miss Peps’, we’s couldn’t holp it in dat dar scrimmage; peoples done bus’ us right apart, an’ Miss Lady’s so littl’ her han’ jes slip outen mine. I’se tried ter hole on, but’t ain’t no use.”
“And where was Tiburce? Did he let go of her too?”