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"Have you something to say to us?" asked Jean Thompson, frowning at her law-defying bonnet. "Oui," replied the woman, shrinking to one side, and laying hold of one of the benches, "mo oulé di' tou' ç'ose" I want to tell everything. "Miché Vignevielle la plis bon homme di moune" the best man in the world; "mo pas capabe li fé tracas" I cannot give him trouble.
"Oh, I tek you' word fo' hall dad, Madame Carraze. It mague no differend wad she loog lag; I don' wan' see 'er." Madame Delphine's parting smile she went very shortly was gratitude beyond speech. Monsieur Vignevielle returned to the seat he had left, and resumed a newspaper, the Louisiana Gazette in all probability, which he had laid down upon Madame Delphine's entrance.
She was in the Rue Toulouse, looking from one side to the other for a bank which was not in that street at all, when she noticed a small sign hanging above a door, bearing the name "Vignevielle." She looked in.
He took pains to speak first, saying, in a re-assuring tone, and in the language he had last heard her use: "'Ow I kin serve you, Madame?" "Iv you pliz, to mague dad bill change, Miché." She pulled from her pocket a wad of dark cotton handkerchief, from which she began to untie the imprisoned note. Madame Delphine had an uncommonly sweet voice, and it seemed so to strike Monsieur Vignevielle.
The mother looked up into her face and said: "No, it is nothing, nothing, only that" turning her head from side to side with a slow, emotional emphasis, "Miché Vignevielle is the best best man on the good Lord's earth!" Olive drew a chair close to her mother, sat down and took the little yellow hands into her own white lap, and looked tenderly into her eyes.
"My darling, it is our blessed friend, Miché Vignevielle!" "To see me?" cried the girl. "Yes." "Oh, my mother, what have you done?" "Why, Olive, my child," exclaimed the little mother, bursting into tears, "do you forget it is Miché Vignevielle who has promised to protect you when I die?"
He continued: "Go h-open you' owze; I fin' you' daughteh dad' uzban'." Madame Delphine was a helpless, timid thing; but her eyes showed she was about to resent this offer. Monsieur Vignevielle put forth his hand it touched her shoulder and said, kindly still, and without eagerness. "One w'ite man, Madame; 'tis prattycabble. I know 'tis prattycabble. One w'ite jantleman, Madame. You can truz me.
The girl turned her face to her mother, and smiled, then dropped her glance to the hands in her own lap; which were listlessly handling the end of a ribbon. The mother looked at her with fond solicitude. Her dress was white again; this was but one night since that in which Monsieur Vignevielle had seen her at the bush of night-jasmine.
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."
You could retire, from your business any day inside of six hours without loss to anybody." Monsieur Vignevielle raised his eyes and extended the newspaper to the attorney, who received it and read the paragraph.
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