Rosemary in Search of a Father Part 3

"The young man in Paris you made so many enquiries about at Ritz's? Is he here?"

"He is. I've just had lunch with him. Oh, there are lots of things to tell. He is a good boy."

"How, good? You told him we had had losses?"

"I painted a sad picture. He was most sympathetic."

"To what extent?"

"_Chere maman!_ One would think we were vulgar adventuresses. We are not. He respects me, this dear young man, and it is right that he should. I deserve to be respected. You know the fable about the dog who dropped his meat in the water, trying to snap at its reflection? Well, I don't ask strangers for loans. I make my impression. Monsieur Hugh Egerton is my friend--at present. Later, he will be what I choose. And most certainly I shall choose him for a husband. What luck, meeting him again! It is time I settled down."

"They said at Ritz's that he was one of the young millionaires, well known already in America," the fat woman reflected aloud. "It is a good thing that I have brought you up well, Julie, and that you are pretty."

"Yes, it is a good thing that I am pretty," repeated the girl. "We have had many hopes often before, but this seems to be the most promising. I think it is very promising indeed, and I don't mean to let it slip."

She turned her back to the easy chair, and opened the pink bag. As the woman talked on, she secretly counted out the money. There were more than ten thousand francs in mille notes and others of smaller denominations. Quietly she put them away in the top of a travelling box, which she locked. Then she noticed the letter which the child had given her, still lying on the dressing table, with her gloves.

"Here's something from _la belle Americaine_, upstairs," said she. "_A billet doux_."

"A dun," exclaimed the woman.

"No doubt. It can be nothing else."

"Well, we can't pay."

"No, we can't pay," said the girl, looking at the locked box.

"Let me see, how much was it she lent?"

"Two hundred francs, I think. We told her we'd give it back in a week.

That's nearly a month ago."

"Serve her right for trusting strangers. The saints alone know when she'll see her money again. She shouldn't be so soft hearted. It doesn't pay in these days."

"Neither do we--when we can help it."

They both laughed.

"But when you are Madame--let me see, what was the name of the young monsieur, they told you at the Ritz?"

"Egerton."

"Ah yes. When you are Madame Egerton--"

"Everything will be very different then."

And the girl slipped the key of the box into the little pink bag.

CHAPTER FOUR

DOGS AND FATHERS

After delivering her letter, the child went slowly on downstairs, to the room she had been on the way to visit. It was on the second floor, just under the room of the Comtesse de Lavalette.

"Come in," said a c.o.c.kney voice shrill with youth, in answer to her tap; and the child obeyed.

Though this room was of the same size and shape, it was very different from that of the Comtesse. The plain furniture was stiffly arranged, and there was no litter of clothing or small feminine belongings. By the window, which gave a glimpse of the sea, and of Monaco rock with the old part of the Palace, a plump young girl sat, with a baby a year or two old in her arms, and a nurse's cap on her smooth head.

"You invited me to come down after I'd had my dejeuner, so I came," said the child.

"Right you are, Miss Rosemary," returned the plump girl. "You're such a quaint little body, you're a regular treat. I declare I ain't 'alf sure I wouldn't rather talk to you, than read the Princess Novelettes.

Besides, I do get that tired of 'earin' nothin' but French, I'm most sorry I undertook the job; and the Biby don't pick up English much yet."

"Don't you think he's a bright baby?" asked the child, sitting down on a footstool, which was a favourite seat of hers.

"For a French biby, 'e's as bright as you could expect," replied her hostess, judicially.

"Are they different?"

"Well, they ain't Hinglish."

"_I'm_ half American," said the little girl.

"You don't talk through your nose. Far as I can see, you've got as good a haccent as me."

"I suppose yours _is_ good?" asked Rosemary, as if she longed to have a doubt set forever at rest.

"Rather! Ain't I been brought out from London on purpose so as this biby can learn to speak Hinglish, instead of French? It's pretty near the sime thing as bein' nursery governess. Madame wouldn't trust her own wye of p.r.o.nouncing the languidge. She must 'ave a Hinglish girl."

"And she sent for you on purpose?" the child enquired, with increasing respect.

"Well, I was the only one as would come at the price. 'Tain't big wages; but I'm seein' loife. Lor', I come down here with Madame and Mounseer a fortnight ago, and Monte Carlo ain't got many secrets from me. I _was_ a duffer, though, at first. When I 'eerd all them shots poppin' off every few minutes, up by the Casino, I used to think 'twas the suicides a shooting theirselves all over the place, for before I left 'ome, I 'ad a warnin' from my young man that was the kind of goin's on they 'ad here.

But now I know it's only the pigeon shooters, tryin' for prizes, and I wouldn't eat a pigeon pie in this 'otel, not if 'twas ever so!"

"Do they ever have them?" asked the little girl, awed.

"Not as I knows of, but they may for Christmas. I sye, are you lookin'

forward to your Christmas, kiddy?"

"Angel--that's Mother, I mean--says I'm not going to have much of a Christmas this year. I'm trying not to mind. I suppose it's because Santa Claus can't get to the Riviera, with his sleigh and reindeer. How could he, Miss Jane, when there's no snow, and not even a sc.r.a.p of ice?"

"Pshaw!" said Miss Jane. "It ain't Santa Claus brings you things, snow or no snow. Only babies believe that. You're old enough to know better.

It's your father and mother does it all."

"Are you sure?" asked Rosemary.