Chapter 32 Donald and Dorothy by Mary Mapes Dodge
DONALD MAKES A DISCOVERY
The new French advertisement and a companion to it, printed in German, were duly issued; but, alas! nothing came from them. However, Donald carefully preserved the black pieces he had obtained in Liverpool, trusting that, in some way, they yet might be of service to him. He now visited the shops, examined old hotel registers, and hunted up persons whose address he had obtained from his uncle, or from the owners of the "Cumberland." The few of these that were to be found could, after all, but repeat what they remembered of the account they had given to Mr. Reed and Henry Wakeley many years before.
Don found in an old book of one of the hotels at Aix-la-Chapelle the names of Mr. and Mrs. Wolcott Reed on the list of arrivals,—no mention of a maid or of a child. Then, in the books of another hotel whither they had moved, he found a settlement for board of Wolcott Reed, wife, and maid. At the same hotel a later entry recorded that Mrs. Wolcott Reed (widow), nurse, and two infants had left for France, and letters for her were to be forwarded to Havre. There were several entries concerning settlements for board and other expenses, but these told Donald nothing new. Finally, he resolved to follow as nearly as he could the course his mother was known to have taken from Aix-la-Chapelle to Havre, where she was joined by Mr. and Mrs. Robertson and their baby daughter, a few days before the party set sail from that French port for New York.
Yes, at Havre he would be sure to gain some information. If need be, he could settle there for a while, and patiently follow every possible clew that presented itself. Perhaps the chain had been purchased there. What more likely, he thought, than that, just before sailing, his mother had bought the pretty little trinket as a parting souvenir? The question was, had she got it for her own little twin-daughter, or for Aunt Kate's baby? That point remained to be settled. Taking his usual precaution of leaving behind him an address, to which all coming messages or letters from Mr. Wogg or others could be forwarded, Donald bade farewell to Aix-la-Chapelle, and, disregarding every temptation to stop along the way, hurried on, past famous old cities, that, under other circumstances, would have been of great interest to him.
"We, all three, can come here together, some time, and see the sights," he thought to himself; "now I can attend only to the business that brought me over here."
At Havre he visited the leading shops where jewelry and fancy goods were sold or manufactured. These were not numerous, and some of them had not been in existence fifteen years before, at the time when the sad-hearted widow and her party were there. There was no distinctive maker's mark on the necklace from which Donald had hoped so much, and no one knew anything about it, nor cared to give it any attention, unless the young gentleman wished to sell it. Then they might give a trifle. It was not a very rare antique, they said, valuable from its age; jewelry simply out of date was worth only its weight, and a little chain like this was a mere nothing. As Donald was returning to his hotel, weary and inclined to be dispirited, he roused himself to look for Rue de Corderie, numéro 47, or, as we Americans would say, Number 47 Corderie Street. As this house is famous as the birthplace of Bernardin de St. Pierre, author of "Paul and Virginia," Donald wished to see it for himself, and also to be able to describe it to Dorothy. He did not visit it on that day, however; for on his way thither his attention was arrested by a very small shop which he had not noticed before, and which, in the new-looking city of Havre, appeared to be fully a century old. Entering, he was struck with the oddity of its interior. The place was small, not larger than the smallest room at Lakewood, and though its front window displayed only watches, and a notice in French and English that Monsieur Bajeau repaired jewelry at short notice, it was so crowded with rare furniture and bric-à-brac that Donald, for a moment, thought he had entered the wrong shop. But, no! There hung the watches, in full sight, and a bright-faced old man in a black skull-cap was industriously repairing a bracelet.
"May I see the proprietor of this store, please?" asked Donald, politely.
"Oui, Monsieur," replied the old man, with equal courtesy, rising and stepping forward. "Je suis—I am ze popriétaire, je ne comprend pas. I no speak ze Ingleesh. Parlez-vous Français—eh?"
"Oh, yes," said Donald, too full of his errand to be conscious that he was not speaking French, as he carefully took a little red velvet case from an inside pocket, "I wished to show you this necklace—to ask if you—"
The old man listened with rather an aggrieved air. "Ah! Eh! I sall re-paire it, you say?" then adding wistfully, "You no speak ze French?"
"Oui, oui, Monsieur,—pardonnez," said Donald, thus reminded. From that moment he and the now radiant Monsieur Bajeau got on finely together, for Donald's French was much better than Monsieur's English; and, in truth, the young man was very willing to practise speaking it in the retirement of this quaint little shop. Their conversation shall be translated here, however.
"Have you ever seen this before, sir?" asked Donald, taking the precious necklace from the box and handing it to him over the little counter.
"No," answered the shop-keeper, shaking his head as he took the trinket. "Ah! that is very pretty. No, not a very old chain. It is modern, but very odd—very fine—unique, we say. Here are letters," as he turned the clasp and examined its under side. "What are they? They are so small. Your young eyes are sharp. Eh?" Here Monsieur bent his head and looked inquiringly at Donald from over his spectacles.
"D. R.," said Don.
"Ah, yes! D. R.; now I see," as he turned them to the light. "D. R.,—that is strange! Now, I think I have seen those same engraved letters before. Why, my young friend, as I look at this little chain, something carries the years away and I am a younger man. It brings very much to mind—Hold!—No, it is all gone now. I must have made a mistake."
Donald's heart beat faster.
"Did you make the chain?" he asked.
"No, no, never. I never made a chain like it—but I have seen that chain before. The clasp is very—very—You know how it opens?"
"It is rusty inside," explained Donald, leaning forward anxiously, lest it should be injured. "We need not open it." Then controlling his excitement, he asked as calmly as he could:
"You have seen it before, Monsieur?"
"I have seen it. Where is the key?"
"The key, Monsieur? What do you mean?"
"The key that opens the clasp," returned the Frenchman, with sudden impatience. This American boy began to appear rather stupid in Monsieur's eyes. Donald looked at him in amazement.
"Does it lock?"
"Does it lock?" echoed Monsieur. "Why, see here;" and with these words he tried to press the upper part of the clasp aside. It stuck at first, but finally yielded, sliding around from the main part on an invisible little pivot, and disclosing a very small key-hole.
Donald stared at it in hopeful bewilderment. Evidently his uncle had failed to find this key-hole, so deftly concealed!
The old man eyed his visitor shrewdly. Having been for some time a dealer in rare bric-à-brac, he prided himself on being up to the tricks of persons who had second-hand treasures to sell.
"Is this chain yours?" he asked, coldly. "Do you bring it to sell to me? All this is very strange. I wish I could remember—"
"Oh, no, indeed. Not to sell. Yes, the chain is mine, my sister's—my uncle's, I mean—in America."
Monsieur drew back with added distrust, but he was reassured by Donald's earnest tone. "Oh, Monsieur, pray recall all you can about this matter. I cannot tell you how important it is to me—how anxious I am to hear!"
"Young man, your face is pale; you are in trouble. Come in and sit down," leading the way into a small room behind the shop. "As for this necklace, there is something—but I cannot think; it is something in the past years that will not come back—Ah! I hear a customer; I must go. Pardon me, I will return presently."
So saying, Monsieur left him. Bending slightly and taking short, quick steps, he hurried into the shop. Donald thought the old man was gone for an hour, though it really was only five minutes. But it had given him an opportunity to collect his thoughts, and when Monsieur returned, Donald was ready with a question:
"Perhaps a lady—a widow—brought the chain to you long ago, sir?"
"A widow!" exclaimed Monsieur, brightening, "a widow dressed in black—yes, it comes back to me—a day, ten, twenty years ago—I see it all! A lady—two ladies—no, one was a servant, a genteel nurse; both wore black, and there was a little baby—two little babies—very little; I see them now."
"Two!" exclaimed Donald, half wild with eagerness.
"Yes, two pink little fellows."
"Pink!" In a flash, Donald remembered the tiny pink sacque, now in his valise at the hotel.
"Yes, pink little faces, with lace all around—very droll—the littlest babies I ever saw taken into the street. Well, the pretty lady in black carried one, and the nurse—she was a tall woman—carried the other."
"Yes, yes, please," urged Donald. He longed to help Monsieur on with the account, but it would be better, he knew, to let him take his own way.
It all came out in time, little by little, but complete, at last. The widow lady had gone to the old man's shop, with two infants and a tall nurse. Taking from her purse a tiny gold key, she had unlocked a necklace from one of the babies' necks, and requested Monsieur Bajeau to engrave a name on the under side of its small square clasp.
"A name?" asked Donald, thinking of the two initials.
"Yes, a name—a girl's name," continued the old man, rubbing his chin and speaking slowly, as if trying to recollect. "Well, no matter. Intending to engrave the name later in the afternoon, I wrote it down in my order-book, and asked the lady for her address, so that I might send the chain to her the next day. But, no; she would not leave it. She must have the name engraved at once, right away, and must put the necklace herself on her little daughter. She would wait. Ah, how it all comes back to me! Well, I wished to obey the lady, and so set to work. But I saw immediately there was not space enough for the whole name. She was very sorry, poor lady, and then she said I should put on the two letters D. R. There they are, you see, my own work—you see that? And she paid me, and locked the chain on the baby's neck again—ah me! it is so strange!—and she went away. That is all I know."
He had spoken the last few sentences rapidly, after Donald had asked, with eagerness, "What name, Monsieur? What was the name, please, the name that the lady wished you to engrave?"
Now the old man, hardly pausing, deliberately went back to Don's question.
"The name? the name?—I cannot quite say."
"Was it—Delia?" suggested Donald, faintly.
"Yes, Delia. That was the name."
If Donald had been struck, he scarcely could have been more stunned.
"Wait!" exclaimed Monsieur. "We shall see. I will search the old books. Do you know the year? 1850?—60? what?"
"1859, November," said Donald, wearily, his joy all turned to misgiving.
"Ha! Now we can be sure! Come into the shop. Your young legs can mount these steps. If you please, hand down the book for 1859; you see it on the back. Ah, how dusty! I have kept them so long. Now"—taking the volume from Donald's trembling hands—"we shall see."
Don leaned over him, as the old man, mumbling softly to himself, examined page after page.
"July, August, September—ah, I was a very busy man in those days—plenty to do with my hands, but not making money as I have been since—different line of business for the most part—October—November—here it is."
Donald leaned closer. He gave a sudden cry. Yes, there it was—a hasty memorandum; part of the writing was unintelligible to him, but the main word stood clear and distinct.
It was DOROTHY.
"Ah! Dorothy," echoed the other. "Yes, that was it. I told you so."
"You said Delia," suggested Don.
The old man gave a satisfied nod. "Yes, Delia."
"But it's Dorothy," insisted Donald firmly, and with gladness in his tone that made the old man smile in sympathy. "Dorothy, as plain as day."
To Monsieur Bajeau the precise name was of little consequence, but he adjusted his glasses and looked at the book again.
"Yes—Dorothy. So it is. A pretty name. I am glad, my friend, if you are pleased." Here Monsieur shook Donald's hand warmly. "The name in my book is certainly correct. I would be sure to write just what the lady told me." An antique clock behind them struck "two." "Ah, it is time for me to eat something. Will you stay and take coffee with me, my friend? We are not strangers now."
Strangers indeed! Donald fairly loved the man. He did not accept the invitation, but thanking him again and again, agreed to return in the evening; for Monsieur Bajeau wished to know more of the strange story.
Donald walked back to the hotel lightly as though treading the air. Everything looked bright to him. Havre, he perceived, was one of the most delightful cities in the world. He felt like sending a cable message home about the chain, but on second thought resolved to be cautious. It would not do to raise hopes that might yet be disappointed. It was just possible that after that visit to Monsieur Bajeau, his mother, for some reason, had transferred the necklace to baby Delia's neck. He would wait. His work was not yet finished; but he had made a splendid beginning.
More than one tourist hurrying through Havre that day, bound for the steamer, or for that pride of the city, the hill of Ingouville, to enjoy the superb view, noticed the young lad's joyous face and buoyant step as he passed by.
Donald walked briskly into the hotel, intent upon writing a cheery letter home; but, from habit, he stopped at the desk to ask if there was anything for him.
"Mr. D. Reed?" asked the hotel clerk, pointing to a bulky envelope half covered with postage stamps.
"That's my name," returned the happy boy, as he hurriedly tore open one end of the envelope. "Whew! Six!"
There were indeed six letters; and all had been forwarded from Aix-la-Chapelle.
One was from Mr. Wogg, enclosing a bit of printed calico and a soiled memorandum, stating that he sent herewith a piece like the gown which the party in Liverpool had given to the young Frenchwoman fifteen years before. He had obtained it, Mr. Wogg said, "from an old patch-work quilt in the possession of the party, and had paid said party one crown for the same." Two letters were from Mr. Reed and Dorothy, and the rest, three in number—addressed to D. R., in care of Dubigk's Hotel, Aix-la-Chapelle—were from three persons with very different handwritings, but each was signed "Ellen Lee."