"I will take care of that," sharply says Hortense.
"Madame, it is a very great responsibility," begins the sly maid,
now confidante. There is a strong sharp accent on the "very."
"I will pay you as you never dreamed of being paid." Madame Natalie
is cool and quiet. Gold, blessed gold!
"It is well. I am yours for life," says Marie Berard. The two women's
eyes meet. They understand one another. Feline, prehensile nerves.
Then, action at once. Hortense hands the woman a package of
bank-notes. "Leave here as if for a walk. Take a 'fiacre' on the
street, and go to your friends. You tell me you have some discreet
ones. Tell them you have a child to take care of. Say no more.
They will guess the rest. I want the child to be left to-morrow
morning. After your return we can arrange her present needs. The
rest you can provide through your friends. I want you to see the
child once a week, not oftener. Go."
In ten minutes Marie Berard is rolling away to her advisers. Her
letter has already announced her arrival. She knows her Paris. If
a French maid has a heart history, hers is a succession of former
Parisian scenes.
Madame Natalie de Santos closes the doors. While her emissary is
gone she examines the child thoroughly.
Pages:
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373