CHAPTER VI GYPSIES THAT ARE NOT GYPSIES
While Florence was having a close look into the mystery of the crystalball, the little French girl Petite Jeanne was not idle; in truth, Jeannewas seldom idle. She was like the sparrow of our city streets, always onthe move.
Since the artist did not require her services as a model that day, sheconsidered it her duty to search out the haunts of certain gypsy groups,and to discover if possible what had happened to the poor widow's fourhundred dollars.
"Bah! I don't like it!" she exclaimed as she drew on an old gray coat andcrowded a small hat over her gorgeous golden hair. "It is dangerous, thislooking for a thief. But it is exciting too. So there you are! I shallgo." And go she did.
Since Maxwell Street had been mentioned in connection with the theft, itwas to that street she journeyed. It was a bright winter's day. Waresthat had been dragged indoors during severe weather had been hauled outagain. And such wares as they were! Rags and old iron were offered asclothing and tools. There were stalls of vile smelling fish, racks ofcurious spices, crates of weary looking chickens and turkeys, everythingthat one may find in the poor man's market of any great city. Jeanne hadseen it all in Paris, in London, in New York and now in Chicago. Alwaysshe shuddered. Yet always, too, her heart went out to these poor, bravepeople who through sunshine and storm, winter's cold and summer's heatstruggled to sell a little of this, a little of that, and so to keepthemselves alive by their own efforts rather than accept charity.
Out of all this drab scene one figure stood bright and colorful, adark-eyed maiden dressed in all the many-hued garments of a gypsy. Jeannewent straight to her.
"Want a fortune told?" The girl's eyes gleamed. "Step inside. Read yourpalm. Tell your fortune with cards. Perhaps today is not so good." Shelooked at Jeanne's purposely drab costume. "Tomorrow may be better--muchbetter. You shall see. Step right inside."
Jeanne stepped inside. The place she entered was blue with cigaret smoke.Idling about the large room, on couches and rugs were a half dozen girlsdressed, as this other one, in bright costumes. At the back of the roomwas a booth, inside the booth a small table and a chair.
Instantly Jeanne found herself ill at ease in these surroundings. She hadseen much of gypsy life, but this--somehow a guardian gnome seemed towhisper a warning in her ear.
Turning, she said a few words. She spoke in a strange tongue--the lingoof her own gypsy people. The girl she addressed stared at her blankly.Turning about, she repeated the words in a louder tone. Every girl in theroom must have heard. Not one replied.
"You are not gypsies!" Jeanne exclaimed, stamping her foot. "You do notknow the gypsy language."
"Not gypsies! Not gypsies!" The swarm of girls were up and screaming likea flock of angry bluejays. "We _are_ gypsies! We _are_ gypsies!"
"Well," said Jeanne, backing toward the door, "you don't seem much likegypsies. You should be able to speak the language--"
"Paveoe, our mistress, she speaks that silly nonsense!" one of the girlsexclaimed. "Come when she is here and you shall hear it by the hour."
"And does she run this place?" Jeanne asked. She was now at the door andbreathing more easily.
"Y-yes," the girl said slowly, "Paveoe is the woman who runs this place."
"I'll be back." Jeanne opened the door, closed it quietly and was gone.
"I wonder if this Paveoe is the woman I am looking for," she whispered toherself. "Perhaps she has the money. Perhaps that is why she is nothere."
As she crowded through the ragged, jostling and quite merry throng onMaxwell Street, Jeanne found her heart filled with misgivings. A spiritof prophecy belonging to gypsy people alone seemed to tell her that thiswoman, Paveoe, was bad, that they should meet, and then--. At that pointthe spirit of prophecy failed her.
Meanwhile, in Frances Ward's office the mystery girl, June Travis, wassaying:
"No, I do not remember my father--that is, hardly at all. And yet, itseems so strange I recognized him instantly when I saw him in--in thecrystal ball! And the girl who was with him--it was I." June broke off tostare out of the window and down at the slow-moving river.
Florence wanted to say, "Yes, yes, she was in the crystal ball. I sawher. It could have been no other." She opened her mouth to speak; but nosound came out. She had recalled that she was there to listen and not totalk. "But what a story this promises to be!" she thought to herself.Then, with a sudden start she began taking notes.
"June Travis. Plenty of money. Much money when she is sixteen," shewrote. "Money--" her pencil stopped. She had thought of the poor widowwith four hundred dollars and the gypsy fortune tellers. "Wolves," shethought, "human wolves, they are everywhere." Once again her pencilglided across the paper.
"It does seem a little extraordinary." Frances Ward was speaking slowly,thoughtfully. She was facing June Travis, still smiling. "Strange indeedthat you should see yourself as you were more than ten years ago, andthat you should recognize your father."
"It was a beautiful room." A look of rapture stole over the girl's face."A very beautiful room. Books, a fireplace, everything. Just the sort ofplace my father must have had to live in--for he must be rich. If hewasn't, how could he leave me all that money?
"And he was to come back." Her tone became eager. "He _will_ come back.Madame Zaran, that's the crystal-gazer, says she's sure he will comeback. She's told me wonderful things. I am to travel--California, theOrient, Europe, around the world.
"But father--" her voice dropped. "She says she can't get through tofather. That will take money, much money. And very soon I shall have muchmoney. Only--" she shuddered. "Somehow that makes me afraid."
"Yes." Frances Ward nodded her wise old head. "You must not forget to beafraid, and to be very, very careful. I should like to meet thiswonderful Madame Zaran."
"You shall meet her!" the girl exclaimed. "But, Mrs. Ward, you are sokind! You have helped so many. Can't you help me find my father?" Hervoice rose on a high note of appeal.
"Yes." Frances Ward spoke with all the gentleness of a mother. "Yes, Ithink perhaps I can. But first you must do everything possible foryourself. Where is your money kept?"
"In a great bank."
"Good!" Frances Ward's face lighted. "What do they tell you of yourfather?"
"Nothing." The girl's face fell. "The man my father left the money withat the bank is dead. The others know that the money is for me and how itis to be given out."
"And you live--"
"At a very fine home for girls, only a few girls, twelve girls, all verynice."
"And what does the person in charge tell you of your father?"
"Nothing--nothing at all. I was brought there by a woman who was not mymother, a little old gray-haired woman who said I was to be kept there.She gave them some money. She told them where the other money was. Thenshe went away."
"Strange," Frances Ward murmured softly, "very, very strange. But, mychild!" Her tone changed. "You may be able to be your own best helper.You were not a baby when your father left you. Under favorable conditionsyou might be able to think back, back, back to those days, to recallperhaps rooms, houses, faces. You might describe them so accurately thatthey could be found. And, finding them, we might come upon someone whoknew your father and who knows where he has gone."
"Oh, if only I could!" The girl clasped and unclasped her hands. "If onlyI could!"
"That," said Mrs. Ward, "may take considerable time, but I feel that itis a surer and--" she hesitated, "perhaps a safer way than some othersmight be.
"My dear," she laid a hand gently on June's arm, "you will not go to thatplace at night?"
"Oh, no!" June's eyes opened wide. "We are never allowed to go anywhereafter dark unless Mrs. Maver, our matron, is with us."
"That's good." The frown on the aged woman's face was replaced by asmile.
"Florence!" She turned half about in her chair. "You should know JuneTravis. I feel sure you might aid her. Perhaps you'd like to
take her outfor a cup of something hot. What do young ladies drink? Nothing strong, Ihope." She laughed.
"Not I!" Florence replied, "I'm always in training."
"Which every girl should be," Frances Ward replied promptly.
"My dear," she put out a hand to June, "I have a 'dead-line' to make. Youwouldn't know about that, but it's just a column that must be in thepaper a half hour from now. You will come back, won't you?"
"Yes, I will," said June. "Thank you. I feel so much better a--abouteverything now."
"That," said Florence as the two girls walked down the corridor, "is'Everybody's Grandmother.' She's truly wonderful. She knows so much abouteverything."
"And," she added aside to herself, "she knows just how much to say. Ifshe had told this girl I was engaged in the business of hunting fortunetellers, that would have spoiled everything. But she didn't. She didn't."
"Have you visited fortune telling studios before?" she asked thebright-eyed June as they sipped a hot cup of some strange bitter drinkFlorence found in a narrow little hole-in-the-wall place.
"Oh, yes, often!" The girl's eyes shone. "I'm afraid I've become quite afan. And they do tell you such strange things. Honestly," her voicedropped, "Madame Zaran told me things that happened weeks ago and thatonly I knew about--or at least only one or two other girls.
"But this--" her voice and her face sobered. "This is different. This iswhat Polly, one of our girls, would call 'very tremendous.' Think ofseeing yourself and your own father just as you were years and yearsago!"
"Yes," Florence agreed without hypocrisy, "it _is_ tremendous."
"But it costs so much!" June sighed. "Don't you tell a soul--" her voicedropped to a whisper, "I saved and saved from my allowance until I had itall--two hundred dollars!"
"Two hundred dollars! Did they charge you that for gazing into thecrystal? Why, they--"
Florence did not finish. She was trying to think how much those peoplewould charge for their next revelation when, perhaps, this girl had comeinto possession of much money.
As she looked at the young and slender girl before her, a big-sisterfeeling came sweeping over her. "We--" she placed her large, strong handover June's slender one, "we're going to stick together, aren't we?"
"If--if you wish it," the other girl replied hesitatingly.
"And now--" she rose from her chair. "I must go. There's a wonderfulwoman on the south side. Everyone says she's marvelous. She's a fortuneteller too, a voodoo priestess, black, you know."
"From Africa?"
"No. Haiti. She tells such marvelous fortunes. Her name is MariannaChristophe. She's a descendant of a black emperor. And she has a blackgoat with golden horns."
"Perhaps," Florence laughed, "she borrowed the goat from the gypsy girlin a book I once read. What's the address? I must have her tell myfortune."
"It's 3528 Duncan Street. I wish--" the girl hesitated. "I wish you weregoing now." She shuddered a little. "She's black, a voodoo priestess. Shehas a black goat with golden horns. I'm always a little scared of blackthings."
"Say!" Florence exclaimed, seized by a sudden inspiration, "why don't youwait until tomorrow, then I can go with you to see this voodoopriestess?"
"I--I'd love it." The girl's face brightened.
"She's beautiful, this June Travis," Florence told herself, "beautiful ina peculiar way, fluffy hair that is not quite red, a round face anddeeply dimpled cheeks. Who could fail to love her and want to protecther?"
"Let me see," she said, speaking half to the girl, half to herself, "No,I can't go tomorrow. How will the day after do?"
"That will be fine."
"You'll meet me here at this same hour?"
"Yes."
"Fine. Then I'll be going." Florence held out a hand. "Goodbye and goodluck. I have a feeling," she added as a sort of afterthought, "that weare going to do a lot of exploring together, you and I."
As she hurried toward Sandy's glass box Florence repeated, "An awfullot." At that, she had not the faintest notion what a truly awful lotthat would be.