Jezebel's Daughter

and ready. 'Nothing like time enough; quite out of the question.'

Madame Fontaine had no choice but to resign herself to circumstances. She had entered the shop with the idea of exhibiting the false necklace on the wedding-day, whilst the genuine pearls were pledged for the money of which she stood in need. With the necklace in pawn, and with no substitute to present in its place, what would Minna say, what would Mr. Keller think? It was useless to pursue those questions—some plausible excuse must be found. No matter what suspicions might be excited, the marriage would still take place. The necklace was no essential part of the ceremony which made Fritz and Minna man and wife—and the money must be had.

'I suppose, sir, you grant loans on valuable security—such as this necklace?' she said.

'Certainly, madam.'

'Provided you have the lady's name and address,' the disagreeable foreman suggested, turning to his master.

The old man cordially agreed. 'Quite true! quite true! And a reference besides—some substantial person, madam, well known in this city. The responsibility is serious with such pearls as these.'

'Is the reference absolutely necessary?' Madame Fontaine asked.

The foreman privately touched his master behind the counter. Understanding the signal, the simple old gentleman closed the jewel-case, and handed it back. 'Absolutely necessary,' he answered.

Madame Fontaine went out again into the street. 'A substantial reference' meant a person of some wealth and position in Frankfort—a person like Mr. Keller, for example. Where was she to find such a reference? Her relatives in the city had deliberately turned their backs on her. Out of Mr. Keller's house, they were literally the only 'substantial' people whom she knew. The one chance left seemed to be to try a pawnbroker.

At this second attempt, she was encountered by a smart young man. The moment he saw the necklace, he uttered a devout ejaculation of surprise and blew a whistle. The pawnbroker himself appeared—looked at the pearls—looked at the veiled lady—and answered as the jeweler had answered, but less civilly. 'I'm not going to get myself into a scrape,' said the pawnbroker; 'I must have a good reference.'

Madame Fontaine was not a woman easily discouraged. She turned her steps towards the noble medieval street called the Judengasse—then thickly inhabited; now a spectacle of decrepit architectural old age, to be soon succeeded by a new street.

By twos and threes at a time, the Jews in this quaint quarter of the town clamorously offered their services to the lady who had come among them. When the individual Israelite to whom she applied saw the pearls, he appeared to take leave of his senses. He screamed; he clapped his hands; he called upon his wife, his children, his sisters, his lodgers, to come and feast their eyes on such a necklace as had never been seen since Solomon received the Queen of Sheba.

The first excitement having worn itself out, a perfect volley of questions followed. What was the lady's name? Where did she live? How had she got the necklace? Had it been given to her? and, if so, who had given it? Where had it been made? Why had she brought it to the Judengasse? Did she want to sell it? or to borrow money on it? Aha! To borrow money on it. Very good, very good indeed; but—and then the detestable invitation to produce the reference made itself heard once more.

Madame Fontaine's answer was well conceived. 'I will pay you good interest, in place of a reference,' she said. Upon this, the Jewish excitability, vibrating between the desire of gain and the terror of consequences, assumed a new form. Some of them groaned; some of them twisted their fingers frantically in their hair; some of them called on the Deity worshipped by their fathers to bear witness how they had suffered, by dispensing with references in other cases of precious deposits; one supremely aged and dirty Jew actually suggested placing an embargo on the lady and her necklace, and sending information to the city authorities at the Town Hall. In the case of a timid woman, this sage's advice might actually have been followed. Madame Fontaine preserved her presence of mind, and left the Judengasse as freely as she had entered it. 'I can borrow the money elsewhere,' she said haughtily at parting. 'Yes,' cried a chorus of voices, answering, 'you can borrow of a receiver of stolen goods.'

It was only too true! The extraordinary value of the pearls demanded, on that account, extraordinary precautions on the part of moneylenders of every degree. Madame Fontaine put back the necklace in the drawer of her toilette-table. The very splendor of Minna's bridal gift made it useless as a means of privately raising money among strangers.

And yet, the money must be found—at any risk, under any circumstances, no matter how degrading or how dangerous they might be.

With that desperate resolution, she went to her bed. Hour after hour she heard the clock strike. The faint cold light of the new day found her still waking and thinking, and still unprepared with a safe plan for meeting the demand on her, when the note became due. As to resources of her own, the value of the few jewels and dresses that she possessed did not represent half the amount of her debt.

It was a busy day at the office. The work went on until far into the evening.

Even when the household assembled at the supper-table, there was an interruption. A messenger called with a pressing letter, which made it immediately necessary to refer to the past correspondence of the firm. Mr. Keller rose from the table. 'The Abstracts will rake up less time to examine,' he said to Mrs. Wagner; 'you have them in your desk, I think?' She at once turned to Jack, and ordered him to produce the key. He took it from his bag, under the watchful eyes of Madame Fontaine, observing him from the opposite side of the table. 'I should have preferred opening the desk myself,' Jack remarked when Mr. Keller had left the room; 'but I suppose I must give way to the master. Besides, he hates me.'

The widow was quite startled by this strong assertion. 'How can you say so?' she exclaimed. 'We all like you, Jack. Come and have a little wine, out of my glass.'

Jack refused this proposal. 'I don't want wine,' he said; 'I am sleepy and cold—I want to go to bed.'

Madame Fontaine was too hospitably inclined to take No for an answer. 'Only a little drop,' she pleaded. 'You look so cold.'

'Surely you forget what I told you?' Mrs. Wagner interposed. 'Wine first excites, and then stupefies him. The last time I tried it, he was as dull and heavy as if I had given him laudanum. I thought I mentioned it to you.' She turned to Jack. 'You look sadly tired, my poor little man. Go to bed at once.'

'Without the key?' cried Jack indignantly. 'I hope I know my duty better than that.'

Mr. Keller returned, perfectly satisfied with the result of his investigation. 'I knew it!' he said. 'The mistake is on