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Monsieur Vignevielle turned to engage in conversation with an employé and a new visitor, and gave no sign of hearing Madame Delphine's voice. She asked a second time, with like result, lingered timidly, and as he turned to give his attention to a third visitor, reiterated: "Miché Vignevielle, I wizh you pliz led "
And they went away, Madame Delphine's spirit grown so exaltedly bold that she said as they went, though a violent blush followed her words: "Miché Vignevielle, I thing Père Jerome mighd be ab'e to tell you someboddie." Madame Delphine found her house neither burned nor rifled. "Ah! ma, piti sans popa! Ah I my little fatherless one!"
"His name?" said the priest. "You wish to know his name?" The speaker's companion looked another way. "His name," said Father Jerome, "some say one name and some another. Some think it was Jean Lafitte, the famous; you have heard of him? And do you go to my church, Madame ?" "No, Miché; not in the past; but from this time, yes.
It isn't fair for you to cry so hard. Miché Vignevielle says you shall have the one you wish, or none at all, Olive, or none at all." "None at all! none at all! None, none, none!" "No, no, Olive," said the mother, "none at all. He brings none with him to-night, and shall bring none with him hereafter."
It would be perfectly simple, as well as interesting, to watch the faces of the students, boys and girls, and when she found a nice girl-face, to speak to it, asking for the address of a respectable hotel. So she walked up the wide, tree-planted street feeling very Parisian indeed, as she called it the "Boule Miche" to herself.
"Ah, Miché," Madame Delphine might have tried a thousand times again without ever succeeding half so well in lifting the curtain upon the whole, sweet, tender, old, old-fashioned truth, "Ah, Miché, she wone tell me!" "Bud, anny'ow, Madame, wad you thing?"
I felt very proud when I had done this and then hurried into my dressing-room where I hastily filled my suit-case with a few warm underclothes, a change of costume, and an extra pair of shoes. I had about finished and was heartily glad that this useless job was over, when on glancing out of the window I caught sight of fuzzy-haired Madame La Miche driving up the avenue in her dog cart.
She spoke the best French at her command, but it was not understood. The apothecary could only shake his head. "La bourse" she repeated, softly smiling, but with a scintillation of the eyes in resentment of his scrutiny. "La bourse" she reiterated. "Purse?" "Oui, Miché." "You are sent for it?" "Oui, Miché."
"Miché, she's a lill' hangel!" exclaimed Madame Delphine, with a look of distress. "Yez; I teg kyah 'v 'er, lag my h-own. I mague you dad promise." "But " There was something still in the way, Madame Delphine seemed to think. The banker waited in silence. "I suppose you will want to see my lill' girl?" He smiled; for she looked at him as if she would implore him to decline.
Raoul began to sing and Clemence instantly to pace and turn, posture, bow, respond to the song, start, swing, straighten, stamp, wheel, lift her hand, stoop, twist, walk, whirl, tiptoe with crossed ankles, smite her palms, march, circle, leap, an endless improvisation of rhythmic motion to this modulated responsive chant: Raoul. "Mo pas l'aimein ça." Clemence. "Miché Igenne, oap! oap! oap!" He.
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