My Little Lady Part 29

She seized both his hands as she spoke, and pulled him through the crowd into the adjoining reading-room. It was all lighted up, the table strewn with books and papers; but no one was there. Madelon was in a state of wild excitement and triumph.

"Look here," she cried; "I promised to make your fortune, did I not, Monsieur Horace?--and I have done it! Ah! you will be rich now--see here!" she poured the contents of her bag on the table before him. "Are you glad?" she said.

"Glad!--what on earth are you talking about? Where did you get this money, Madelon?"

"Where?--why, there, at the tables, to be sure--where else?" she answered, getting frightened at his manner.

"But--gracious powers! are you out of your senses, child?"

cried Graham. "Whatever possessed you to come here? What business have you in a place like this? Are you alone?"

"Yes, I am alone. I came to make your fortune," answered Madelon, dismayed.

"My fortune!" he repeated. "What can have put such a notion into your head? As for that money, the sooner you get rid of it the better. What the devil--good heavens! a baby like you!-- here, give it to me!"

"What are you going to do?" cried Madelon, struck with sudden fear, as he swept it up in his hand.

"Take it back, of course," he answered, striding into the next room.

"Ah! you shall not!" she cried pa.s.sionately, running after him, and seizing his hand; "it is mine, it is mine, you shall not have it!"

"Hush, Madelon," he said, turning round sharply, "don't make a disturbance here."

She made no answer, but clung with her whole weight to his arm as he approached the table. She dragged his hand back, she held it tight between hers; her face was quite pale, her teeth set in her childish pa.s.sion.

"Madelon, let go!" said Graham; "do you hear what I say? Let go!"

"Give me my money back!" she cried, in a pa.s.sionate whisper; "you have no right to take it; it is my own."

"Let go," he repeated, freeing his hand as he spoke. She seized it again, but it was too late; he had placed the money on the table, and with the other hand pushed it into the middle. A horrible pause, while Madelon clung tighter and tighter, watching breathlessly till she saw the croupier rake in the whole. All was lost, then; she flung Horace's hand away, and rushed out of the room. "Madelon!" he cried, and followed her. Down the lighted staircase, out into the lighted street, he could see the swift little figure darting along the Place Royale, where he had been walking not half an hour ago, all quiet and dark now; the music gone, the people dispersed, the rain falling heavily. Still she ran on, into the avenue of the Promenade a Sept Heures. It was darker still there, only a rare lamp slanting here and there a long gleam of light across the wet path. Horace began to be afraid that he should lose her altogether, but she suddenly stumbled and fell, and when he came up to her, she was sitting all in a heap on the ground at the foot of a tree, her face buried in her hands, her frame shaking with sobs.

"Madelon," said Horace, stooping down, and trying to take her hands; "my little Madelon, my poor little child!"

She jumped up when she heard his voice, and started away from him.

"_Ne me touchez pas, je vous le defends_," she cried, "_ne me touchez pas, je vous deteste--vous etes un cruel--un perfide!_"

She began to sob again, and dropped down once more upon the ground, crouched upon the damp earth, strewn with dead fallen leaves. Her hat had fallen off, and the rain came down upon her uncovered head, wetting the short hair as it was blown about by the wind, drenching her thin little cloak and old black silk frock. A very pitiful sight as she sat there, a desolate, homeless child, on this dark, wet autumn night, deaf in her excess of childish rage to Horace's words, shaking him off with wilful, pa.s.sionate gestures whenever he touched her--a very perplexing sight to the young man, who stood and watched her, uncertain what to say or do next.

At last she grew a little quieter, and then he spoke to her in a tone of authority:--

"You must get up, Madelon; you will get quite wet if you stay here."

He took hold of her hand, and held it firmly when she tried to loosen it, and at last she got up slowly. As she rose, she became conscious of the wet and cold, and was completely sobered as she stood s.h.i.+vering at Horace's side.

"My poor little Madelon!" he said, in the kind voice she remembered from old times. "You are quite wet and so cold, we must not stay here; tell me where you are going?"

"I don't know," said Madelon, beginning to cry again. Only an hour ago she had been so full of joy and hope, with such a bright future before her; and now the rain and wind were beating in her face, above her the black sky, darkness all around; where indeed was she going?

"But you have some friends here?" said Horace--"you are not staying here all alone?"

"Yes, I am all alone," said Madelon, sobbing. "Oh! what shall I do?--what shall I do?"

"Don't cry so, Madelon," said Graham, "my poor child, don't be frightened. I will take care of you, but I want you to tell me all about this. Do you mean you are all alone in Spa?"

"Yes, I am all alone; I came here three days ago. I had been ill at Le Trooz, and a woman there--Jeanne-Marie--took care of me; but as soon as I was well and had money enough, I came to Spa, and went to the Hotel de Madrid. Papa and I used to go there, and I knew Madame Bertrand who keeps it."

"So you slept there last night," said Horace, not a little mystified at the story, but trying to elucidate some fact sufficiently plain to act upon.

"Yes, last light, and before. I left my things there, and meant to have gone back to-night, but I have no money now.

What is to be done?" That grand question of money, so incomprehensible to children to whom all things seem to come by nature, had long ago been faced by Madelon, but had never before, perhaps, presented itself as a problem so incapable of solution--as a question to be asked of such a very dreary, black, voiceless world, from which no answer could reasonably be expected. But, in truth, the answer was not far off.

"I will take care of all that," said Horace; "so now, come with me. Stay, here is your hat; we must not go without that."

He arranged her disordered hair and crushed hat, and then, taking her hand, led her back towards the town, Madelon very subdued, and miserable, and cold, Horace greatly perplexed as to the meaning of it all, but quite resolved not to lose sight of his charge any more.

Arrived at the Hotel de Madrid, he left Madelon for a moment in the shabby little coffee-room, while he asked to speak to Madame Bertrand. Madame Bertrand, as we know, was ill and in bed, but the maid brought down Madelon's bundle of things.

Graham asked her a few questions, but the girl evidently knew nothing about the child. "Madame knew--she had dined in Madame's private room the last two days," but she could not tell anything more about her, and did not even know her name.

When Graham came back to the room, he found Madelon standing listlessly as he had left her; she had not moved. "Well," he said cheerily, "that is settled; now you are my property for the present; you shall sleep at my hotel to-night."

"At your hotel?" she said, looking up at him.

"Yes, where I am staying. Your friend here is not well. I think I shall look after you better. You do not mind coming with me?"

"No, no!" she cried, beginning to cling to him in her old way-- "I will go anywhere with you. Indeed I did not mean what I said, but I am very unhappy."

"You are tired and wet," answered Graham, "but we will soon set that to rights; you will see to-morrow, you will not be unhappy at all. Old friends like you and me, Madelon, should not cry at seeing each other again; should they?"

Talking to her in his kind, cheerful way, they walked briskly along till they arrived at the hotel. Madelon was tired out, and he at once ordered a room, fire, and supper for her, and handed her over to the care of a good-natured chambermaid.

"Good night, Madelon. I will come and see after you to-morrow morning," he said smiling, as he left her.

She looked up at him for a moment with a most pitiful, eager longing in her eyes; then suddenly seizing his hands in her wild excited way--"Oh, Monsieur Horace, Monsieur Horace, if I could only tell you!" she cried; and then, as he left the room, and closed the door, she flung herself upon the floor in quite another pa.s.sion of tears than that she had given way to in the Promenade a Sept Heures.

CHAPTER XVII.

The old Letter.

When Horace went to see after Madelon the next morning, he found her already up and dressed. She opened her bedroom door in answer to his knock, and stood before him, her eyes cast down, her wavy hair all smooth and s.h.i.+ning, even the old black silk frock arranged and neat--a very different little Madelon from the pa.s.sionate, despairing, weeping child of the evening before.

"Good morning, Madelon," said Graham, taking her hand and looking at her with a smile and a gleam in his kind eyes; "how are you to-day? Did you sleep well?"

"I am very well, Monsieur," says Madelon, with her downcast eyes. "I have been up a long time. I have been thinking of what I shall do; I do not know, will you help me?"

"We will talk of that presently," said Graham, "but first we must have some breakfast; come downstairs with me now."

"Monsieur Horace," said Madelon, drawing back, "please I wanted to tell you, I know I was very naughty last night, and I am very sorry;" and she looked up with her eyes full of tears.