Chapter 34 Donald and Dorothy by Mary Mapes Dodge
MADAME RENÉ TELLS HER STORY
On the following day, when Donald again climbed the many flights of stairs and knocked at her door, he found Madame René alone. The pastry-cook advertisement had succeeded: Marie was gone to exercise her talents in behalf of a little hotel on the Seine, where, as she had assured her new employer, she would soon distinguish herself by her industry and sobriety. The almost empty apartment was perfectly neat. Madame René herself had brushed her threadbare gown with care, and, by the aid of spotless white collar and cuffs, given herself quite a holiday appearance. Very soon she and Donald, seated by the shining little window, were talking together in English and like old friends, as indeed they were. The reader shall hear her story in her own words, though not with all the interruptions of conversation under which it was given.
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"It's no wonder you thought me a Frenchwoman, Mr. Donald. Many have thought the same of me, from the day I grew up. But though I look so like one, and speak the language readily, I was born in England. I studied French at school, and liked it best of all my lessons. In fact, I studied little else, and even spoke it to myself, for there was no one, excepting the French teacher, who could talk it with me. I never liked him. He was always pulling my ears and treating me like a child when I fancied myself almost a woman. Then I took to reading French stories and romances, and they turned my head. My poor home grew stupid to me, and I took it into my heart to run away and see if I could not get to be a great lady. About that time a French family moved into our neighborhood, and I was proud to talk with the children and to be told that I spoke 'like a native' (just as if I did!), and that, with my black hair and gray eyes, I looked like a Normandy girl. This settled it. I knew my parents never would consent to my leaving home, but I resolved to 'play' I was French, and get a situation in some English family as a French nurse—a real Normandy bonne with a high cap. I was seventeen then. The bonne in the latest romance I had read became a governess, and then married a marquis, the eldest son of her employer, and kept her carriage. Why should not some such wonderful thing happen to me? You see what a silly, wicked girl I was.
"Well, I ran away to another town, took the name of Eloise Louvain (my real name was Elizabeth Luff), and for a time I kept up my part and enjoyed it. The parents who engaged me could not speak French, and as for the children—dear, what a shame it was!—they got all they knew of the language from me. Then I went to live with Madame Lefevre, a Parisian. The lady mistrusted my accent when I spoke French to her, and asked me where I was born; but she seemed to like me for all that, and I stayed with her until she was taken ill and was ordered to the baths at Aix-la-Chapelle for cure. She did not get well, poor lady, and before long I was left in the strange city alone. I had the name of being very quiet, but I was not so by nature. You see I forced myself to speak only in French or broken English, and it was not always easy. At last I saw in a newspaper that a lady in Aix wanted a French maid to go with her to America. Here was my chance. Why, Mr. Donald, if you'll believe me, I wasn't sure but that if I went I'd in time be the bride of the President of America himself! You needn't laugh. Many's the silly girl—yes, and boy, too, for that matter—who gets ridiculous notions from reading romantic books. Well, I answered the advertisement, and then, sir, I became your mother's maid. By this time my French was so good that she might not have found me out; but she was so lovely, so sweet, and sharp withal, that I one day told her the whole truth, and it ended in my writing a letter home by her advice, sending my parents fifty francs, asking their forgiveness, begging them to consent to my going to America with my new lady, and telling them that I would send presents home to them as often as I could. When the answer came, with love from my mother, and signed 'your affectionate and forgiving father, John Luff,' I laughed and cried with joy, and forgot that I was a Normandy bonne. And a bonne I was in earnest, for my lady had the prettiest pair of twins any one could imagine, if I do say it to your face, and such lovely embroidered dresses, more than a yard long, the sleeves tied with the sweetest little ribbon bows—"
Here Donald interrupted the narrative: "What color were they, please?" he asked, at the same time taking out his note-book.
"Pink and blue," was the prompt reply. "Always blue on the boy and pink on the girl; my lady's orders were very strict on that point."
"Did—did the other baby—little Delia, you know—wear pink bows?"
"Not she; never anything but white, for her mamma insisted that white was the only thing for a baby."
"What about their hair?" Donald asked, still holding his note-book and looking at this item: "Girl's hair, yellow, soft, and curly. Boy's hair, pale-brown, very scanty."
"Their hair? Let me see. Why, as I remember, you hadn't any, sir,—at least, none to speak of; neither had the poor little cousin. But my little girl—Miss Dorothy, that is—had the most I ever saw on so young a child; it was golden-yellow, and so curly that it would cling to your fingers when you touched it. I always hated to put a cap on her, but Mrs. Reed had them both in caps from the first. So different from the other lady! She said caps worn all the time were too heating for little heads, and so her baby never had any; but it wore a loose hood when it was taken out in the air. I must hurry on with the story. You know the other baby was never at Aix. We met it and its parents at Havre, when my lady went there to take the steamer to America. You twins were not two months old. And a sad day that was indeed! For the good gentleman, your father—Heaven rest his soul!—died of a fever before you and Miss Dorothy had been in the world a fortnight. Oh, how my lady and the other lady cried about it when they came together! I used to feel so sorry when I saw them grieving, that, to forget it, I'd take you two babies out, one on each arm, and walk the street up and down in front of the hotel. I had become acquainted with a young Frenchman, a travelling photographer; and he, happening to be at Havre, saw me one morning as I was walking with the babies, and he invited me to go to his place, hard by, and have my picture taken, for nothing. It was a wilful thing to do with those two infants, after I had been allowed to walk only a short distance by the hotel; but it was a temptation, and I went. I wouldn't put down the babies though, so he had to take my picture sitting on a rock, with one twin on each arm. If you'll believe it, the babies came out beautifully in the picture, and I was almost as black as a coal. It was like a judgment on me, for I knew my lady would think it shocking in me to carry the two helpless twins to a photographer's."
"But the picture," said Donald, anxiously, "where is it? Have you it yet?"
"I'll tell you about that soon," Madame René answered quickly, as if unwilling to break the thread of her story. "The dear lady was so kind that I often had a mind to own up and show her the picture, but the thought of that ugly black thing sitting up so stiff and holding the little innocents, kept me back. It's well it did, too,—though it's rare any good thing comes out of a wrong,—for if I had, the picture would have gone down with the ship. Well, we sailed a few days after that, and at first the voyage was pleasant enough, though I had to walk the cabin with the babies, while my lady lay ill in her berth. The sea almost always affects the gentry, you know. The other lady was hardier, though sometimes ailing, and she and her husband tended their baby night and day, never letting it out of their arms when it was awake. Poor little thing,—gone these fifteen years!"
"Are you sure the little cousin was lost?" asked Donald, wondering how she knew.
"Why, Mr. Donald, I drew it from your not saying more about the child. Was she ever found? And her mother, the pretty lady, Mrs. Robbins, no, Robertson,—and my lady, your mother? I heard people saying that all were lost, except those of us who were in our boat. And I never knew to the contrary until now. Were they saved, sir?"
Donald shook his head sadly.
"Not one of them saved!" she exclaimed. "Ah me! how terrible! I had a sight of Mr. Robertson, with his baby in his arms—just one glimpse in the dreadful tumult. It all came on so suddenly,—every one screaming at once, and not a minute to spare. I could not find my lady, yet I fancied once I heard her screaming for her children; but I ran with them to the first deck, and tried to tie them to something—to a chair, I think, so they might float—I was frantic; but I had no rope, only my gown."
"Yes, yes," said Donald, longing to produce the pieces of black cloth which he had brought with him, but fearing to interrupt the narrative just then. "Please go on."
"I tore long strips from my gown, but I could not do anything with them; there was not time. The men were filling the boats, and I rushed to the side of the sinking vessel. No one could help me. I prayed to Heaven, and, screaming to the men in a boat below to catch them, I threw the babies out over the water. Whether they went into the boat or the water I could not tell; it seemed to me that some one shouted back. The next I knew, I was taken hold of by strong arms and lifted down into one of the boats. My lady was not there, nor the babies, nor any one of our party; all were strangers to me. For days we drifted, meeting no trace of any other boat from the ship, and living as best we could on a few loaves of bread and a jug of water that one of the sailors had managed to lower into our boat. We were picked up after a time and carried to Liverpool. But I was frightened at the thought of what I had done—perhaps the twins would have been saved with me if I had not thrown them down. I was afraid that some of their relatives in America would rise up and accuse me, you see, sir, and put me in disgrace. I had acted for the best, but would any one believe me? So when they asked my name, I gave the first I could think of, and said it was 'Ellen Lee,' and when they wondered at such a strange name for a French girl, as I appeared to be, I told them one of my parents was English, which was true enough. Not having been able to save a bit of my luggage, I was fain to take a little help from the ship's people. As I had been entered on the passenger-list only as Mrs. Wolcott Reed's maid, they were satisfied when I said I was Ellen Lee. After getting safe ashore I kept my own counsel and hid myself. To this day I never have breathed a word about the shipwreck or my throwing out the babies—no, not to a living soul, save yourself, sir. Well, a woman gave me another gown, which was a help, and I soon found a place with a family in the country, fifteen miles from Liverpool, to sew for the family and tend the children. Of course I dropped the name of Ellen Lee the moment I left Liverpool, and I hoped to settle down to a peaceful life and faithful service. But I grew sadder all the time; nothing could cheer me up. Night and day, day and night, I was haunted by the thought of that awful hour."
"Yes, awful indeed," said Donald. "I have often thought of it, and tried to picture the scene. But we will not speak of it now. You must take happiness in knowing that, instead of losing the babies, you saved them. Only don't forget a single thing about the twins and their mother. Tell me all you can remember about them. Haven't you some little thing that belonged to them or to any of the party? A lock of hair or a piece of a dress—anything that was theirs? Oh, I hope you have—it is so very important!"
"Ah, yes, sir! I was just coming to that. There's a few things that belonged to the babies and the poor mother—and to tell you the truth, they've pressed heavy enough on my conscience all these years."
Donald, with difficulty, controlled his impatience to see the articles, but he felt that it would be wisest to let Madame have her way.
"You see how it was: a young man—the same young man who had taken the picture—came to the ship to bid me good-by, and stood talking apart with me a minute, while the ladies were looking into their state-rooms and so on; and somehow he caught hold of my little satchel and was swinging it on his finger when Mrs. Reed sent for me. And before I could get back to him, the ship was ready to start; all who were not passengers were put ashore; somebody shouted an order, and the vessel began to move. When, at last, I saw him, we were some distance from shore; and he was standing on the dock looking after me, with my satchel in his hand! We both had forgotten it—and there was nothing for me to do but to sail on to America without it."
"Were the things in that satchel?" cried Don. "Where is the man? Is he living?"
Her eyes filled with tears. "No, I shall never see him again in this world," she said.
Her grief was so evident that Donald, whose disappointment struggled with his sympathy, felt it would be cruel to press her further. But when she dried her eyes and looked as if she were about to go on with the story, he could not forbear saying, in a tone which was more imploring than he knew: "Can't you tell me what was in that satchel? Try to think."
"Yes, indeed, I can," she said, plaintively; "there was the picture of the babies and me; the baby Dorothy's dress ribbon; my purse and the key—"
"A key!" cried Donald. "What sort of a key?"
"Oh, a little bit of a key, and gloves, and my best pocket-handkerchief, and—most of all, Mrs. Reed's letter—"
"Mrs. Reed's letter!" echoed Don. "Oh, if I only could have had that and the picture! But do go on."
"You make me so nervous, Mr. Donald—indeed you do, begging your pardon—that I hardly know what I'm saying; but I must tell you how each of the things had got into my hands. First, the picture was my own property, and I prized it very much, though I had not the courage to show it to Mrs. Reed; then the pink ribbon was for baby Dorothy. My lady had handed it to me at the hotel when we were dressing the twins; and in the hurry, after cutting off the right lengths to tie up the dear little sleeves, I crammed the rest into my satchel."
"And the key? what about the key?"
"Oh, you see, baby Dorothy had worn a chain from the time she was a week old. It fastened with a key. Mr. Reed himself had put it on her little neck and locked it the very day before he was taken down, and in the hurry of dressing the babies, as I was telling you, Mrs. Reed let fall the speck of a key; it was hung upon a bit of pink ribbon, and I picked it up and clapped it into the satchel, knowing I could give it to her on the vessel. But the letter—ah, that troubles me most of all."
She paused a moment and looked at Donald, before beginning again, as if fearing that he would be angry. But he sat watching her, with breathless interest.
"It was a letter to a Mr. George Reed, somewhere in America—your uncle, was it, sir?—and your mother had handed it to me a whole week before to put in the post. It would then have gone across in the steamer before ours, but—ah, how can I tell you? I had dropped it into my little satchel (it was one that I often carried with me), and forgotten all about it. And, indeed, I never thought of it again till we had been two days out, and then I remembered it was in the satchel. I don't wonder you feel badly, sir, indeed I don't; for it should have gone to America, as she intended,—the poor, dear lady!"
"Heaven only knows what trouble it might have spared my uncle; and now he can never know," said Donald, in a broken voice.
"Never know? please don't say that, Master Donald, for you'll be going back alive and well, and giving the letter to him with your own hands, Heaven willing."
Donald could only gasp out, "With my own hands? What! How?"
"Because it's in the satchel to this day. Many a time, after I was safe on shore again, I thought to post it, but I was foolish and cowardly, and feared it might get me into trouble in some way, I didn't know how, but I never had the courage to open it when the poor lady who wrote it was dead and gone. May be you'll think best to open it yourself now, sir."
So saying, Madame René stepped across the room, kneeled by an old trunk, and opening it she soon drew forth a small leather hand-bag.
Handing it to the electrified Donald, she gave a long sigh of relief.
"There it is, sir, and it's a blessed day that sees it safe in your own hands!"
Yes, there they were,—the ribbon, the picture, the tiny golden key, and the letter. Donald, looking a little wild (as Madame René thought), examined them, one after the other and all together, with varying expressions of emotion and delight. He was bewildered as to what to do first; whether to take out the necklace, that he now always carried about with him, and fit the key to its very small lock; or to compare the group with the babies' photographs which his uncle had intrusted to him, and which he had intended to show to Madame René during the present interview; or to open and read his mother's letter, which the nature of his errand to Europe gave him an undoubted right to do.
The necklace was soon in the hands of Madame René, who regarded it with deep interest, and begged him to try the key which, she insisted, would open it at once. Donald, eager to comply, made ready to push aside the top of the clasp, and then he resolved to do no such thing. Uncle George or Dorry should be the first to put the key into that long-silent lock.
Next came the pictures. Don looked at the four little faces in a startled way, for the resemblance of the babies in the group to those in the two photographs was evident. The group, which was an ambrotype picture of Ellen Lee and the twins, was somewhat faded, and it had been taken at least three weeks before the New York photographs were. But, even allowing for the fact that three weeks make considerable change in very young infants, there were unmistakable points of similarity. In the first place, though all the four heads were in baby caps, two chubby little faces displayed delicate light locks straying over the forehead from under the caps, while, on the other hand, two longish little faces rose baldly to the very edge of the cap-border. Another point which Ellen Lee discovered was that the bald baby in each picture wore a sacque with the fronts rounded at the corners, and the "curly baby," as Donald called her, displayed in both instances a sacque with square fronts. Donald, on consulting his uncle's notes, found a mention of this difference in the sacques; and when Madame René, without seeing the notes, told him that both were made of flannel, and that the boy's must have been blue and the girl's pink,—which points Mr. Reed also had set down,—Don felt quite sure that the shape of the actual sacques would prove on examination to agree with their respective pictures. Up to that moment our investigator had, in common with most observers of the masculine gender, held the easy opinion that "all babies look alike;" but circumstances now made him a connoisseur. He even fancied he could see a boyish look in both likenesses of his baby-self; but Madame René unconsciously subdued his rising pride by remarking innocently that the boy had rather a cross look in the two pictures, but that was "owing to his being the weakest of the twins at the outset."
Then came the pink ribbon—and here Donald was helpless. But Madame René came to the rescue by explaining that if any ribbons were found upon baby Dorothy they must match these, for their dear mother had bought new pink ribbon on purpose for her little girl to wear on shipboard, and this was all they had with them, excepting that which was cut off to tie up the sleeves, when the baby was dressed to be carried on board the ship. And now Madame recalled the fact that after the first day the twins wore only their pretty little white night-gowns, and that, when it was too warm for their sacques, she used to tie up baby Dorothy's sleeves loosely with the bits of pink ribbon, to show the pretty baby arm.
Next came the letter. Donald's first impulse was to take it to Uncle George without breaking the seal; but, on second thoughts, it was probable that for some yet unknown reason he ought to know the contents while he was still in Europe. It might enable him to follow some important clew, and his uncle might regret that he had let the opportunity escape him. But—to open a sealed letter addressed to another!
Yes, all things considered, he would do so in this instance. His uncle had given him permission to do whatever, in his own judgment, was necessary to be done; therefore, despite his just scruples, he decided that this was a necessary act.
Madame René anxiously watched his face as he read.
"Oh, if you only had posted this, even at any time during the past ten years!" he exclaimed, when half through the letter. Then, softening, as he saw her frightened countenance, he added; "But it is all right now, and God bless you! It is a wonderful letter," said Donald, in a tone of deep feeling, as he reached the last line, "and one that Dorothy and I will treasure all our lives. Almost every word tends to confirm Dorry's identity, and it would complete the evidence if any more were needed. How thankful Uncle George will be when he sees it! But how did you ever get all these treasures again, Ellen Lee?"
Madame René started slightly at hearing her old name from Donald's lips, but replied promptly:
"It was by neither more nor less than a miracle. The satchel was given back to me not very long after I found myself in Europe again."
"Not by that same young man!" exclaimed Donald, remembering Madame René's tears.
"Yes, Mr. Donald, by that same young man who took it on the vessel—the photographer."
"Oh!" said Donald.
"I may as well tell you," said Madame René, flushing, and yet looking ready to cry again, "that I had his address, and some months after the shipwreck I sent him a line, so that he might find me if he happened to pass my way. Well, you may believe I was glad to get the purse and some of the other things, Mr. Donald, but the picture and the key were a worriment to me. The picture did not seem to belong to me any longer. Sometimes I thought I would try to send them to the ship's company, to be forwarded to the right persons, and so rid my mind of them; but I had that foolish, wicked fear that I'd be traced out and punished. Why should I, their bonne, be saved and they lost? some might say. Often I was tempted to destroy these things out of my sight; but each time something whispered to me to wait, for some day one who had a right to claim them would be helped to find me. I little thought that one of the very babies I threw down over the waves would be that person—"
"That's so," said Donald, cheerily.
Hearing a doleful sound from the alley far below them, he opened the window and leaned out. A beggar in rags stood there, singing his sad story in rhyme.
Verse after verse came out in mournful measure, but changed to a livelier strain when Don threw down a piece of money, which hit the ragged shoulder.
"Well," said Donald, by way of relief, and again turning to Madame René, "that's a sorry-looking chap. You have all kinds of people here in Paris.—But, by the way, you spoke of tearing strips from your gown on the night of the shipwreck. Do you happen to have that same gown still?"
"No, Master Donald—not the gown. I made it into a skirt and wore it, year after year, for I was obliged to be very saving; and then it went for linings and what not. Yonder cape there on the chair is faced with it, and that's ready to be thrown to the beggars."
"Let this beggar see it, please," said Donald, blithely; and in a moment he was by the window comparing his samples with the cape-lining as knowingly as a dry-goods buyer.
"Exactly alike!" he exclaimed. Then with an invisible little shudder, he added: "Hold! let's try the flavor."
This test was unsatisfactory. But, after explanations, the fact remained, to the satisfaction of both, that the "goods" were exactly the same, but that Madame René's cape-lining having often been washed was quite divested of its salt.
Here was another discovery. Donald began to feel himself a rival of the great Wogg himself. Strange to say, in further corroboration of the story of the buxom matron at Liverpool, Madame René actually gave Donald a fragment of the gown that had been given to her so long ago; and it was identical, in color and pattern, with the piece Mr. Wogg had lately sent him.
"How in the world did you ever get these pieces, Master Donald?" asked Madame René.
Whereupon Donald told her all about his Liverpool friend and her rag-bag—much to Madame's delight, for she was thankful to know that the good woman who had helped her long ago was still alive and happy.
"And now," said Donald, pleasantly, "let me hear more of your own history, for it interests me greatly. Where have you lived all these years?"
"Well, Master Donald, I went on keeping my own counsel, as I told you, and never saying a word about the wreck or the two dear babies, and living with Mr. Percival's family as seamstress and nursery governess, under my old French name of Eloise Louvain. I was there till, one day, we said we'd just get married and seek our fortunes together."
"We!" repeated Donald, astonished and rather shocked; "not you and Mr. Percival?"
"Oh, no, indeed!—I and Edouard René," she said, in a tone that gave Don to understand that Edouard René was the only man that any girl in her senses ever could have chosen for a husband.
"What! The photographer?"
"Yes, Mr. Donald, the photographer. Well, we married, and how many nice things they gave me—and they were not rich folk, either!"
"They? Who, Madame René?"
"Why, Mrs. Percival and the children—gowns and aprons and pretty things that any young wife might be proud to have. She had married a fine gentleman, but she had been a poor girl. Her little boy was named after his grandfather, and it made such a funny mixture,—James Wogg Percival; but we always called him Jamie."
"Wogg!" exclaimed Don. "I know a James Wogg—a London detective—"
"Oh, that's the son, sir, Mrs. Percival's brother; he's a detective, and a pretty sharp one, but not sharp enough for me."
She said this with such a confident little toss of her head that Don, much interested, asked what she meant.
"Why, you see, Mr. Wogg often came to see his sister, Mrs. Percival, as I think, to borrow money of her; and he was always telling of the wonderful things he did, and how nothing could escape him, and how stupidly other detectives did their work. And one day, when I was in the room, he actually told how some people were looking for one Ellen Lee, a nursemaid who had been saved from shipwreck, and how one of the survivors was moving heaven and earth to find her, but hadn't succeeded; and how, if the case had been given to him, he would have done thus and so—for she never could have escaped him. And there I was almost under his very nose!—yes, then and many a time after!"
"It's the funniest thing I ever heard!" cried Donald, enjoying the joke immensely, and convulsed to think of Mr. Wogg's disgust when he should learn these simple facts.
"Poor old Wogg!" he said. "It will almost kill him."
"I tell you, Mr. Donald," continued Madame René, earnestly, though she had laughed with him, "I listened then for every word that man might say. I longed to ask questions, but I did not dare. I heard enough, though, to know they were looking for me, and it frightened me dreadfully.
"Well, as soon as we were married—Edouard and I—we went to my old home, and I made my peace with my poor old parents—Heaven be praised!—and comforted their last days. Then we went about through French, Swiss, and German towns, taking pictures. I helped Edouard with the work, and my English and French served us in many ways. But we found it hard getting a living, and at last my poor man sickened. I felt that nothing would help him but the baths at Aix-la-Chapelle; and so did he. We managed to work our way there, and once safe at Aix, I found employment as a doucheuse in the baths."
"What is that, please?" asked Don.
"The doucheuse is the bath-woman who attends specially to ladies. My earnings enabled my poor husband to stay and take the waters; and when he grow better, as he did, he got a situation with a photographer in the town. But it was only for a while. He sickened again—Heaven rest and bless his precious soul!—and soon passed away like a little child. I couldn't bear Aix then, and so I went with a family to Paris, and finally became a visiting dressmaker. My poor husband always called me Elise; and so Madame Elise René could go where she pleased without any fear of the detectives finding her. At last, only the other day, I picked up a French newspaper, and there I chanced to see your notice about Ellen Lee, and I answered it."
"Bless you for that!" said Donald, heartily. "But had you never seen any other? We advertised often for Ellen Lee in the London and Liverpool papers."
"No, I never saw one, sir; and, to tell the truth, I hated to remember that I had ever been called Ellen Lee, for it brought back the thought of that awful night—and the poor little babes that I thought I had killed. If the notice in the paper had not said that I saved their lives, you never would have heard from me, Mr. Donald. That made me happier than I ever had been in all my life—mostly for the babies' sake, though it seemed to lift a load of trouble off my mind."
Several times during the long interview with Elise René, Donald found himself wondering how he could manage, without hurting her pride, to give her the money which she evidently needed. For she was no pauper, and her bright, dark eyes showed that time and trouble had not by any means quenched her spirit. The idea of receiving charity would shock her, he knew; but an inspiration came to him. He would not reward her himself, but he would act for Dorothy.
"Madame René," he said, with some hesitation, "if my sister had known I was coming here to talk face to face with the friend who had saved her life, I know what she would have done: she would have sent you her grateful love and—and something to remember her by; something as she would say, 'perfectly lovely.' I know she would."
Madame had already begun to frown, on principle, but the thought of Dorry softened her, as Donald went on: "I know she would, but I don't know what to do about it. I'd buy exactly the wrong article, if I were trying to select. The fact is, you'll have to buy it yourself."
With these words, Donald handed Elise René a roll of bank-notes.
"Oh, Mr. Donald!" she exclaimed, with much emotion, "I can't take this—indeed I cannot!"
"Oh, Madame René, but indeed you can," he retorted, laughing. "And now," he added hastily (to prevent her from protesting any longer), "I am not going to inflict myself upon you for the entire day. You must be very tired; and, besides, after you are rested, we must decide upon the next thing to be done. I have cabled to my uncle, and there is no doubt that he will send word for you to come with me at once to America. Now, surely, you'll go? Please say that you will. I'll wait a week or two, for you."
Elise hesitated.
"It would be a great joy," she said, "to go to America and to see little Dorothy. She is a great deal more to me—and so are you, Mr. Donald—than one would think; for, though you were both too young to be very interesting when I was your bonne, I have thought and dreamed so often of you in all these long years, and of what you both might have lived to be if I had not thrown you away from me that night, that I—" her eyes filled with tears.
"Yes, indeed; I know you take an interest in us both," was his cordial reply. "And it makes me wish that you were safe with us in America, where you would never see trouble nor suffer hardship any more. Say you will go."
"Could I work?" she said eagerly. "Could I sew, make dresses, do anything to be useful to Miss Dorothy? My ambition of late has been to go back to England and set up for a dressmaker, and some day have a large place, with girls to help me; but that would be impossible—life is so hard for poor folk here in Europe. I feel as if I would do anything to see Miss Dorothy."
"But you can have America, and Miss Dorothy, and the dressmaking establishment, or whatever you please," Don pursued with enthusiasm; "only be ready to sail by an early steamer. And since you go for our sakes, and to satisfy my uncle, you must let us pay all the cost and ever so much more. Think what joy you give us all in proving, without a doubt, that Dorothy is—Dorothy."
"I will go," she said.
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That same day Donald again flew up the long flight of stairs in the Rue Soudière. He had, meantime, secured a room in some hotel recommended to him by M. Bajeau, and already had received a letter there that had filled him with pleasant expectation. It was this letter that now sent him back to ask Madame René if he might call that evening and bring a friend.
"A friend?" Madame René looked troubled. Donald, to her, was her own boy almost; but a stranger!—that would be quite different. She glanced anxiously around, first at the shabby apartment, and then at her own well-worn gown—but Mr. Donald, she thought, would know what was best to do. So, with a little Frenchy shrug of her shoulders, and a gesture of resignation, she said, "Oh, certainly"—and that she would be much pleased.
The evening visit was a success in every way, excepting one. The bonne of former days did not at first recognize the "friend," M. Bajeau, though at the first sight he was certain that this tall, comely woman was the veritable person who had come with Mrs. Reed and the pink-faced twins into his little shop. But she remembered the visit perfectly, and nearly all that happened on that day. She recalled, too, that Mrs. Reed had intended to have the baby's full name, Dorothy, engraved upon the clasp, and that on account of the smallness of the space the initials, D. R., were decided upon. Still it was annoying to M. Bajeau, and consequently rather embarrassing to Donald, that the woman did not promptly recognize him as the same jeweller.
The simple-hearted and somewhat vain old gentleman, who felt that this would be a very important link in the chain of evidence, had recognized Madame René; and why could she not return the compliment?
Donald, by way of relieving the awkwardness, remarked during a rather stiff moment that it was unusually warm, and begged leave to open the door. At this, Monsieur, hinting delicately that a draught would in time kill an angel, produced a skull-cap, which he deftly placed upon his head; and no sooner was this change effected than Madame René grew radiant, clasped her hands in honest rapture, and declared that she would now recognize M. Bajeau among a million as the very gentleman who engraved that blessed baby's dear little initials upon the clasp!