Signing the Contract and What it Cost

“Because, Madame, it is there I must gain the knowledge that is to enable me to earn my bread.”

“A hard thing for a lady to do. Any one can see you are a lady – your speech, your manners, your appearance, all tell it. But, ah well, you have youth, good looks, health! and though I’m rich, I’d be only too glad to exchange with you,” and in her wheezing tones, and with many a pause for breath, the Madame went on to give a long account of her sufferings by day and by night.

Floy listened with a patient attention and sincere sympathy such as the Madame, in her loneliness, was little accustomed to.

“It must be very dreadful to have so many ailments,” she said feelingly. “I don’t know how I could bear your difficulty of breathing even, without any of the others.”

The Madame started, sat upright, and looked earnestly at the girl, while tears gathered in her eyes.

“Your voice is like a half-forgotten strain of music,” she said, sighing; “and your face – ah, it seems as if I must have seen it in the long ago, the happy time when I was young and life full of sunshine and flowers. Alas, child!” she added, sinking back upon her cushions again, “as the years roll on how the sunlight gives place to clouds and darkness, and the flowers fade and die! would that I could be young again!”

“Were you always happy in your youthful days, Madame?”

There were tears in the low, sweet voice that put the question.

“No, no; indeed I believe I sometimes thought myself quite wretched!” exclaimed the Madame; “but I see now what a fool I was.”

“Supper is ready, ladies,” announced Mary, throwing open the door of communication with the dressing-room. “Shall I wheel you in, Madame?”

With a peevish reply in the negative the Madame rose and waddled to the table, preceded by Frisky, for whom a chair had been placed at her right hand.

Floy was invited to the seat opposite her hostess, and, conscious of being a lady, accepted it with no feeling of surprise that it was accorded her. In fact, her thoughts were again far away, and scarcely to be recalled by the tempting nature of the repast or the magnificence of the solid silver and rare old china.

Fortunately she was not called upon to talk or to listen, as Frisky was taking his supper after the same manner in which he had eaten his breakfast, Kathleen attending to him while Mary waited upon the table.

The Madame ate and drank enormously, paying no heed to an occasional reminder from Mary that she would have to suffer for her over-indulgence.

“You are a cruel creature! you would deprive me of the only pleasure left me in life!” she at length exclaimed passionately, as the girl almost absolutely refused to help her for the sixth time to fried oysters.

“Madame,” replied Mary firmly, “you know the doctor has forbidden them altogether, and that an hour or two from now you’ll be abusing me for letting you have any at all.”

At that the Madame rose, angrily pushed back her chair and retired in a pet to her room.

CHAPTER XXII

REMORSE

“Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.”

    Goldsmith.
Madame Le Conte did not appear again that evening.

Floy returned to her work upon the new gown immediately upon leaving the table, and did not lay it aside again until the clock struck ten.

Then Kathleen showed her to an adjoining bedroom, whose appointments seemed to carry her back to the happy days when she was the loved and petted only child of well-to-do parents. Less than a year ago she had seen the last of them, but how far, far away they already seemed!

The young heart was sore with grief and care, and not for itself alone. But the worn-out body must have rest, and all was soon forgotten in sound, refreshing sleep.

She woke in the dull gray light of the winter morning and sprang up instantly, half trembling with affright at thought of the lateness of the hour.

At Mrs. Sharp’s, breakfast was long since over. To-morrow was Christmas, and, though not expecting either to go out or to receive company at home, the Madame must have her new dress to wear on that occasion.

But no one found fault with Floy; the buxom Kathleen had an excellent breakfast ready for her, and greeting her cheerily with “The top o’ the mornin’ to ye, miss,” waited upon her with a smiling face.

She took her meal alone, as on the previous day, and had the cosey work-room to herself for a couple of hours; then the Madame waddled in, wheezing and groaning, dropped into a chair, and told a pitiful tale of her wearisome night and Mary’s crossness, weeping and sighing as she talked.

Floy pitied and tried to console her, but fortunately found it necessary to say but little, as the lady talked on with scarcely a pause except for breath, and presently fell to petting and caressing her lap-dog, then to examining the dress, commenting with much satisfaction upon its beauty and probable becomingness, querying whether it could be finished that day, and consulting Floy about the style of trimming.

Floy advised a deep, heavy silk fringe to match in color, or of a little darker shade.

The Madame caught at the idea, and Mary, coming in at that moment, was sent to order the carriage that she might go at once and select it herself.

Frisky pricked up his ears, gave a short, joyous bark, ran to the window overlooking the side entrance, and jumped upon a chair whence he could see into the street.

“See that, miss?” queried the laughing Kathleen, who was present, engaged in running the sewing-machine as on the day before. “The little baste knows more’n a babby. He always rides with the Madame, an’ whin he hears the carriage ordered he’s ready for a start. He’ll stay there watchin’ now till it comes.”

“Yes,” said the Madame, overhearing the remark, “he’s the most intelligent little creature you ever saw, and the prettiest. I wouldn’t part with him for any money – the darling! Now, Mary,” as her maid re-entered the room, “dress me at once.”

“Certainly, Madame. What will you be pleased to wear?”

“That green silk suit and the green velvet hat,” answered her mistress, waddling into the dressing-room; “gloves to match, and my emerald set, ear-rings, pin, and bracelets, and a point-lace collar and sleeves. Get out one of my worked white skirts too, and a pair of silk stockings and gaiters.”

“It’s very cold, Madame; the wind from the lake cuts like a knife, and you’ll suffer in thin shoes,” Mary objected to the last clause of the order.

“Lamb’s-wool stockings, then, and kid boots.”

Bureau-drawers, wardrobe, and closets were laid under contribution, and the Madame’s toilet began.

It had progressed to the putting on of her hat, when, glancing in the mirror, she suddenly changed her mind.

“Green doesn’t become me to-day,” she said, “why didn’t you tell me? Take it off at once.”

“Tell you? much good that would have done!” grumbled Mary, removing the obnoxious hat; “you wouldn’t have believed me.”

“Get out my black velvet hat and a black silk suit,” said her mistress, ignoring the impertinent rejoinder.

“You’ll not have time for your shopping if you wait to dress again, Madame,” objected the girl; “it is already half-past eleven, and the days are short. Your black velvet cloak and hat will not look amiss with the green dress.”

The Madame yielded to these suggestions all the more readily because at that moment a joyous bark from Frisky announced that the carriage was in waiting.

He sprang from the chair, rushed down to the outside door, and scratched and whined there till Kathleen ran down and opened it for him, when he immediately took possession of one half of the back seat, leaving the other for his mistress, who presently followed, having reached the lower floor, not by the stairs, but by the elevator, carefully lowered by the ever-ready Kathleen.

Mary, without whom the Madame never stirred from the house, took the front seat, a handsome afghan and wolf-skin were tucked carefully about their feet by Rory, and the carriage drove off.

For a short space the Madame puffed and wheezed in silence, then she spoke:

“We’ll get the fringe first, and have it sent up; then the Christmas gifts. Mary, what do you think Miss Kemper would like?”