diff options
| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 02:16:23 -0700 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 02:16:23 -0700 |
| commit | 216530f582dde3a3d8647454dc87709024b1e282 (patch) | |
| tree | b4e398cc5c6d3552a8bec5ba177d4394d9e001ec /25302-h | |
Diffstat (limited to '25302-h')
| -rw-r--r-- | 25302-h/25302-h.htm | 14995 |
1 files changed, 14995 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/25302-h/25302-h.htm b/25302-h/25302-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9d6b50e --- /dev/null +++ b/25302-h/25302-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,14995 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Jack, by Alphonse Daudet</title> + +<style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold;'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Jack, by Alphonse Daudet</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Jack</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Alphonse Daudet</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Translator: Mary Neal Sherwood</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Release Date: May 2, 2008 [eBook #25302]<br /> +[Most recently updated: March 16, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: David Widger</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JACK ***</div> + +<h1>JACK</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break"> By Alphonse Daudet</h2> + +<h3> Translated by Mary Neal Sherwood </h3> + +<h4> From The Fortieth Thousand, French Edition. </h4> + +<h5> Estes And Lauriat, 1877 </h5> + +<hr /> + +<p> +<big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2HCH0001">CHAPTER I. VAURIGARD.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2HCH0002">CHAPTER II. THE SCHOOL IN THE AVENUE MONTAIGNE.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2HCH0003">CHAPTER III. MÂDOU.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2HCH0004">CHAPTER IV. THE REUNION.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2HCH0005">CHAPTER V. A DINNER WITH IDA.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2HCH0006">CHAPTER VI. AMAURY D’ARGENTON.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2HCH0007">CHAPTER VII. MÂDOU’S FLIGHT.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2HCH0008">CHAPTER VIII. JACK’S DEPARTURE.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2HCH0009">CHAPTER IX. PARVA DOMUS, MAGNA QUIES.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2HCH0010">CHAPTER X. THE FIRST APPEARANCE OF BÉLISAIRE.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2HCH0011">CHAPTER XI. CÉCILE.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2HCH0012">CHAPTER XII. LIFE IS NOT A ROMANCE.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2HCH0013">CHAPTER XIII. INDRET.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2HCH0014">CHAPTER XIV. A MIDNIGHT INTERVIEW.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2HCH0015">CHAPTER XV. CHARLOTTE’S JOURNEY.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2HCH0016">CHAPTER XVI. CLARISSE.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2HCH0017">CHAPTER XVII. IN THE ENGINE-ROOM.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2HCH0018">CHAPTER XVIII. D’ARGENTON’S MAGAZINE.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2HCH0019">CHAPTER XIX. THE CONVALESCENT.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2HCH0020">CHAPTER XX. THE WEDDING-PARTY.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2HCH0021">CHAPTER XXI. EFFECTS OF POETRY.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2HCH0022">CHAPTER XXII. CÉCILE UNHAPPY RESOLVE.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2HCH0023">CHAPTER XXIII. A MELANCHOLY SPECTACLE.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2HCH0024">CHAPTER XXIV. DEATH IN THE HOSPITAL.</a> +</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>JACK</h2> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"></a> +CHAPTER I.<br /> +VAURIGARD.</h2> + +<p> +“With a <i>k</i>, sir; with a <i>k</i>. The name is written and +pronounced as in English. The child’s godfather was English. A +major-general in the Indian army. Lord Pembroke. You know him, perhaps? A man +of distinction and of the highest connections. But—you +understand—M. l’Abbé! How deliciously he danced! He died a +frightful death at Singapore some years since, in a tiger-chase organized in +his honor by a rajah, one of his friends. These rajahs, it seems, are absolute +monarchs in their own country,—and one especially is very celebrated. +What is his name? Wait a moment. Ah! I have it. Rana-Ramah.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon me, madame,” interrupted the abbé, smiling, in spite of +himself, at the rapid flow of words, and at the swift change of ideas. +“After Jack, what name?” +</p> + +<p> +With his elbow on his desk, and his head slightly bent, the priest examined +from out the corners of eyes bright with ecclesiastical shrewdness, the young +woman who sat before him, with her Jack standing at her side. +</p> + +<p> +The lady was faultlessly dressed in the fashion of the day and the hour. It was +December, 1858. The richness of her furs, the lustrous folds of her black +costume, and the discreet originality of her hat, all told the story of a woman +who owns her carriage, and who steps from her carpets to her coupé without the +vulgar contact of the streets. Her head was small, which always lends height to +a woman. Her pretty face had all the bloom of fresh fruit. Smiling and gay, +additional vivacity was imparted by large, clear eyes and brilliant teeth, +which were to be seen even when her face was in repose. The mobility of her +countenance was extraordinary. Either this, or the lips half parted as if about +to speak, or the narrow brow,—something there was, at all events, that +indicated an absence of reflective powers, a lack of culture, and possibly +explained the blanks in the conversation of this pretty woman; blanks that +reminded one of those little Japanese baskets fitting one into another, the +last of which is always empty. +</p> + +<p> +As to the child, picture to yourself an emaciated boy of seven or eight, who +had evidently outgrown his strength. He was dressed as English boys are +dressed, and as befitted his name spelled with a <i>k</i>. His legs were bare, +and he wore a Scotch cap and a plaid. The costume was in accordance with his +years, but not with his long neck and slim figure. +</p> + +<p> +He seemed embarrassed by it himself, for, awkward and timid, he would +occasionally glance at his half-frozen legs with a despairing expression, as if +he cursed within his soul Lord Pembroke and the whole Indian army. +</p> + +<p> +Physically, he resembled his mother, with a look of higher breeding, and with +the transformation of a pretty woman’s face to that of an intelligent +man. There were the same eyes, but deeper in color and in meaning; the same +brow, but wider; the same mouth, but the lips were firmly closed. +</p> + +<p> +Over the woman’s face, ideas and impressions glided without leaving a +furrow or a trace; in fact, so hastily, that her eyes always seemed to retain a +certain astonishment at their flight. With the child, on the contrary, one felt +that impressions remained, and his thoughtful air would have been almost +painful, had it not been combined with a certain caressing indolence of +attitude that indicated a petted child. +</p> + +<p> +Now leaning against his mother, with one hand in her muff, he listened to her +words with adoring attention, and occasionally looked at the priest and at all +the surroundings with timid curiosity. He had promised not to cry, but a +stifled sob shook him at times from head to foot. Then his mother looked at +him, and seemed to say, “You know what you promised.” Then the +child choked back his tears and sobs; but it was easy to see that he was a prey +to that first agony of exile and abandonment which the first boarding-school +inflicts on those children who have lived only in their homes. +</p> + +<p> +This examination of mother and child, made by the priest in two or three +minutes, would have satisfied a superficial observer; but Father +O———, who had been the director for twenty-five years of the +aristocratic institution of the Jesuits at Vaurigard, was a man of the world, +and knew too well the best Parisian society, all its shades of manner and +dialect, not to understand that in the mother of his new pupil he beheld a +representative of an especial class. +</p> + +<p> +The self-possession with which she entered his office,—self-possession +too apparent not to be forced,—her way of seating herself, her uneasy +laugh, and above all, the overwhelming flood of words with which she sought to +conceal a certain embarrassment, all created in the mind of the priest a vague +distrust. Unhappily, in Paris the circles are so mixed, the community of +pleasures and similarity of toilets have so narrowed the line of demarcation +between fashionable women of good and bad society, that the most experienced +may at times be deceived, and this is the reason that the priest regarded this +woman with so much attention. The principal difficulty in arriving at a +decision arose from the unconnected style of her conversation; but the +embarrassed air of the mother when he asked for the other name of the child, +settled the question in his mind. +</p> + +<p> +She colored, hesitated. “True,” she said; “excuse me; I have +not yet presented myself. What could I have been thinking of?” and +drawing a small, highly-perfumed case from her pocket, she took from it a card, +on which, in long letters, was to be read the insignificant name— +</p> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Ida de Barancy</i> +</p> + +<p> +Over the face of the priest flashed a singular smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Is this the child’s name?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +The question was almost an impertinence. The lady understood him, and concealed +her embarrassment under an assumption of great dignity. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, sir, certainly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said the priest, gravely. +</p> + +<p> +It was he now who found it difficult to express what he wished to say. He +rolled the card between his fingers with a little movement of the lips natural +to a man who measures the weight and effect of the words he is about to speak. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly he arose from his chair, and approaching one of the large windows that +looked on a garden planted with fine trees, and reddened by the wintry sun, +tapped lightly on the glass. A black silhouette was drawn on the window, and a +young priest appeared immediately within the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Duffieux,” said the Superior, “take this child out to walk +with you. Show him our church and our hot-houses; he is tired of us, poor +little man!” +</p> + +<p> +Jack supposed that he was sent out to walk so that he might be spared the pain +of saying good-bye to his mother, and his terrified, despairing expression so +touched the kind priest that he hastily added,— +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be frightened, Jack. Your mother is not going away; you will +find her here.” +</p> + +<p> +The child still hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“Go, my dear,” said Madame de Barancy, with a queenly gesture. +</p> + +<p> +Then he went without another word, as if he were already conquered by life, and +prepared for all its evils. +</p> + +<p> +When the door closed behind him, there was a moment of silence. The steps of +the child and his companion were heard on the frozen gravel, and dying away, +left no sound save the crackling of the fire, the chirps of the sparrows on the +eaves, the distant pianos, and an indistinct murmur of voices—the hum of +a great boarding-school. +</p> + +<p> +“This child seems to love you, madame,” said the Superior, touched +by Jack’s submission. +</p> + +<p> +“Why should he not love me?” answered Madame de Barancy, somewhat +melodramatically; “the poor dear has but his mother in the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! you are a widow?” +</p> + +<p> +“Alas! yes, sir. My husband died ten years ago, the very year of our +marriage, and under the most painful circumstances. Ah! Monsieur l’Abbé, +romance-writers, who are at a loss to invent adventures for their heroines, do +not know that many an apparently quiet life contains enough for ten novels. My +own story is the best proof of that. The Comte de Barancy belonged, as his name +will tell you, to one of the oldest families in Touraine.” +</p> + +<p> +She made a fatal mistake here, for Father O——— was born at +Amboise, and knew the nobility of the entire province. So he at once consigned +the Comte de Barancy to the society of Major-General Pembroke and the Rajah of +Singapore. He did not let this appear, however, and contented himself with +replying gently to the <i>soi-disant</i> comtesse,— +</p> + +<p> +“Do you not think with me, madame, that there would be some cruelty in +sending away a child that seems so warmly attached to you? He is still very +young; and do you think his physical health good enough to support the grief of +such a separation?” +</p> + +<p> +“But you are mistaken, sir,” she answered, promptly. “Jack is +a very robust child; he has never been ill. He is a little pale, perhaps, but +that is owing to the air of Paris, to which he has never been +accustomed.” +</p> + +<p> +Annoyed to find that she was not disposed to comprehend him, the priest +continued,— +</p> + +<p> +“Besides, just now our dormitories are full; the scholastic year is very +far advanced; we have even been obliged to decline receiving new pupils until +the next term. You would be compelled to wait until then, madame; and even +then—” +</p> + +<p> +She understood him at last. +</p> + +<p> +“So,” she said, turning pale, “you refuse to receive my son. +Do you refuse also to tell me why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Madame,” answered the priest, “I would have given much if +this explanation could have been avoided. But since you force it upon me, I +must inform you that this institution, whose head I am, exacts from the +families who confide their children to us the most unexceptionable conduct and +the strictest morality. In Paris there are many laical institutions where your +little Jack will receive every care, but with us it would be impossible. I beg +of you,” he added, with a gesture of indignant protestation, “do +not make me explain further. I have no right to question you, no right to +reproach you. I regret the pain I am now giving, and believe me when I say that +my words are as painful to myself as to you.” +</p> + +<p> +While the priest spoke, over the countenance of Madame de Barancy flitted +shadows of anger, grief, and confusion. At first she tried to brave it out, +throwing her head back disdainfully; but the kind words of the priest falling +on her childish soul made her burst suddenly into a passion of sobs and tears. +</p> + +<p> +“She was so unhappy,” she cried, “no one could ever know all +she had done for that child! Yes, the poor little fellow had no name, no +father, but was that any reason why a crime should be made of his misfortune, +and that he should be made responsible for the faults of his parents? Ah! M. +l’Abbé, I beg of you—” +</p> + +<p> +As she spoke she took the priest’s hand. The good father sought to +disengage it with some little embarrassment. +</p> + +<p> +“Be calm, dear madame,” he cried, terrified by these tears and +outcries, for she wept, like the child that she was, with vehement sobs, and +with the abandonment in fact of a somewhat coarse nature. The poor man thought, +“What could I do with her if this lady should be taken ill?” +</p> + +<p> +But the words he used to calm her only excited her more. +</p> + +<p> +She wished to justify herself, to explain things, to narrate the story of her +life, and, willing or not, the Superior found himself compelled to follow her +through an obscure recital, whose connecting thread she broke at every step, +without looking to see how she should ever get back again to the light. +</p> + +<p> +The name of Barancy was not hers, but if she should tell him her name, he would +be astonished. The honor of one of the oldest families in France was concerned, +and she would rather die than speak. +</p> + +<p> +The Superior hastened to assure her that he had no intention of questioning +her, but she would not listen to him. She was started, and a wind-mill under +full sail would have been more easily arrested than her torrent of words, of +which probably not one was true, for she contradicted herself perpetually +throughout her incoherent discourse, yet withal there was something sincere, +something touching even in this love between mother and child. They had always +been together. He had been taught at home by masters, and she wished now to +separate from him only because of his intelligence and his eyes that saw things +that were not intended for his vision. +</p> + +<p> +“The best thing to do, it seems to me,” said the priest, gravely, +“would be to live such a life that you need fear neither the scrutiny of +your child nor of any one else.” +</p> + +<p> +“That was my wish, sir,” she answered. “As Jack grew older, I +wished to make his home all that which it ought to be. Besides, before long, my +position will be assured. For some time I have been thinking of marrying, but +to do this it was necessary to send my boy away for a time that he might obtain +the education worthy of the name he ought to bear. I thought that nowhere could +he do as well as here, but at one blow you repulse him and discourage his +mother’s good resolutions.” +</p> + +<p> +Here the Superior arrested her with an exclamation of astonishment. He +hesitated a moment; then looking her straight in her eyes, said,— +</p> + +<p> +“So be it, madame. I yield to your wishes. Little Jack pleases me very +much; I consent to receive him among our pupils.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear sir!” +</p> + +<p> +“But on two conditions.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am ready to accept all.” +</p> + +<p> +“The first is, that until the day that your position is assured, the +child shall spend his vacations under this roof, and shall not return to +yours.” +</p> + +<p> +“But he will die, my poor Jack, if he does not see his mother!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you can come here whenever you please; only—and this is my +second condition—you will not see him in the parlor, but always here in +my private room, where I shall take care that you are not interfered with and +that no one sees you.” +</p> + +<p> +She rose in indignation. +</p> + +<p> +The idea that she could never enter the parlor, or be present on the +reception-days, when she could astonish the other guests with the beauty of her +child, with the richness of her toilette, that she could never say to her +friends, “I met at the school, yesterday, Madame de +C———, or Madame de V———,” that she +must meet Jack in secret, all this revolted her. +</p> + +<p> +The astute priest had struck well. +</p> + +<p> +“You are cruel with me, sir. You oblige me to refuse the favor for which +I have so earnestly entreated, but I must protect my dignity as woman and +mother. Your conditions are impossible. And what would my child +think—” +</p> + +<p> +She stopped, for outside the glass she saw the fair, curly head of the child, +with eyes brightened by the fresh air and by his anxiety. Upon a sign from his +mother, he entered quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, mamma, how good you are! I was afraid you were gone!” +</p> + +<p> +She took his hand hastily. +</p> + +<p> +“You will go with me,” she answered; “we are not wanted +here.” +</p> + +<p> +And she sailed out erect and haughty, leading the boy, who was stupefied by +this departure which so strongly resembled a flight. She hardly acknowledged +the respectful salute of the good father, who had also risen hastily from his +chair; but quickly as she moved, it was not too quick for Jack to hear a gentle +voice murmur, “Poor child! poor child!” in a tone of compassion +that went to his heart. He was pitied—and why? For a long time he +pondered over this. +</p> + +<p> +The Superior was not mistaken. Madame la Comtesse Ida de Barancy was not a +comtesse at all. Her name was not Barancy, and possibly not even Ida. Whence +came she? Who was she? No one could say. These complicated existences have +fortunes so diverse, a past so long and so varied, that one never knows the +last shape they assume. One might liken them to those revolving lighthouses +that have long intervals of shadow between their gleams of fire. Of one thing +only was there any certainty: she was not a Parisian, but came from some +provincial town whose accent she still retained. It was said that at the +Gymnase, one evening, two Lyons merchants thought they recognized in her a +certain Mélanie Favrot, who formerly kept an establishment of “gloves and +perfumery;” but these merchants were mistaken. +</p> + +<p> +Again, an officer in the Hussars insisted that he had seen her eight years +before at Orleans. He also was mistaken. And we all know that resemblances are +often impertinences. +</p> + +<p> +Madame de Barancy had however travelled much, and made no concealment of the +fact, but an absolute sorcerer would have been needed to evolve any facts from +the contradictory accounts she gave of her origin and her life. One day Ida was +born in the colonies, spoke of her mother, a charming créole, of her plantation +and her negroes. Another time she had passed her childhood in a great chateau +on the Loire. She seemed utterly indifferent as to the manner in which her +hearers would piece together these dislocated bits of her existence. +</p> + +<p> +As may be imagined, in these fantastic recitals, vanity reigned triumphant, the +vanity of a chattering paroquet. Bank and money, titles and riches, were the +texts of her discourse. Rich she certainly was. She had a small hotel on the +Boulevard Haussmann; she had horses and carriages, gorgeous furniture in most +questionable taste, three or four servants, and led a most indolent existence, +trifling away her life among women like herself, less confident in her bearing, +perhaps, than they, from her provincial birth and breeding. This, and a certain +freshness, the result of a childhood passed in the open air, all kept her +somewhat out of the current of Parisian life, where, too, being so newly +arrived, she had not yet found her place. +</p> + +<p> +Once each week, a man of middle age, and of distinguished appearance, came to +see her. In speaking of him, Ida always said “Monsieur” with an air +of such respect that one would have supposed him to be at the court of France +in the days when the brother of the king was so denominated. The child spoke of +him simply as “our friend.” The servants announced him as “M. +le Comte,” but among themselves they called him “the old +gentleman.” +</p> + +<p> +The old gentleman was very rich, for madame spared nothing, and there was an +enormous expenditure going on constantly in the house. This was managed by +Mademoiselle Constant, Ida’s waiting-maid. It was this woman who gave her +mistress the addresses of the tradespeople, who guided her inexperience through +the mazes of life in Paris; for Ida’s pet dream and hope was to be taken +for a woman of irreproachable character, and of the highest fashion. +</p> + +<p> +Thus it will be seen into what state of mind the reception of Father +O——— had thrown her, and in what a rage she left his +presence. An elegant coupé awaited her at the door of the Institution. She +threw herself into it with her child, retaining only sufficient self-command to +say “home,” in so loud a voice that she was heard by a group of +priests who were talking together, and who quickly dispersed before this +whirlwind of furs and curled hair. In fact, as soon as the carriage-door was +closed, the unhappy woman sank into a corner, not in her usual coquettish +position, but overwhelmed and in tears, stifling her sobs in the quilted +cushions. +</p> + +<p> +What a blow! The priest had refused to take her child, and at the first glance +had discovered the humiliating truth that she believed to have thoroughly +disguised under the luxurious surroundings of a woman of the world and of an +irreproachable mother. +</p> + +<p> +Her wounded pride recalled with renewed flushes of shame the keen eyes of the +good father. She recalled all her falsehood, all her folly, and remembered his +incredulous smile at almost her first words. +</p> + +<p> +Silent and motionless in the other corner of the carriage sat Jack, looking +sadly at his mother, unable to comprehend her despair. He vaguely conceived +himself to be in fault, the dear little fellow, and yet was secretly glad that +he had not been left at the school. +</p> + +<p> +For a fortnight he had heard of it night and day; his mother had extorted a +promise from him not to weep; his trunk was packed, and all was ready, and the +child’s heart was full of trouble; and now at the last moment he was +reprieved. +</p> + +<p> +If his mother had not been in so much trouble now, he would have thanked her; +how happy would he have been curled up at her side, under her furs, in the +little coupé in which they had had so many happy hours together—hours +which were now to be repeated. And Jack thought of the afternoons in the Bois, +of the long drives through the gay city of Paris—a city so new to both of +them, and full of excitement and interest. A monument, perhaps, or even a mere +street incident, delighted them. +</p> + +<p> +“Look, Jack—” +</p> + +<p> +“Look, mamma—” +</p> + +<p> +They were two children together, and together they peered from the +window,—the child’s head with its golden curls close to the +mother’s face tightly veiled in black lace. +</p> + +<p> +A despairing cry from Madame de Barancy aroused the boy from all these sweet +recollections. “<i>Mon dieu!</i>” she cried, wringing her hands, +“what have I done to be so wretched?” +</p> + +<p> +This exclamation naturally elicited no response, and little Jack, not knowing +what to say, or how to console her, timidly caressed her hand, even at last +kissing it with the fervor of a lover. +</p> + +<p> +She started and looked wildly at him. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! cruel, cruel child, what harm you have done me in this world!” +</p> + +<p> +Jack turned pale. “I? What have I done?” +</p> + +<p> +He loved but one person on the face of the earth, his mother. He thought her +absolutely perfect; and without knowing it, he had injured her in some +mysterious way. The poor child was now overwhelmed with despair also, but +remained utterly silent, as if the noisy demonstrations of his mother had +shocked him, and made him ashamed of any manifestations on his own part. He was +seized with a sort of nervous spasm. His mother took him in her arms. +“No, no, dear child, I was only in jest; be sensible, dear. What! must I +rock my long-legged boy as if he were a baby? No, little Jack, you never did me +any harm. It is I who did wrong. Come, do not weep any more. See, I am not +crying.” +</p> + +<p> +And the strange creature, forgetful of her recent grief, laughed gayly, that +Jack too might laugh. It was one of the privileges of this inconsequent nature +never to retain impressions for any length of time. Singularly enough, too, the +tears she had just shed only seemed to add new freshness and brilliancy to her +youthful beauty, as a sudden shower upon a dove’s plumage seems to bring +out new lustre without penetrating below the surface. +</p> + +<p> +“Where are we now?” said she, suddenly dropping the window that was +covered with mist. “At the Madeleine. How quickly we have come! We must +stop somewhere; at the pastry-cook’s, I think. Dry your eyes, little one, +we will buy some meringues.” +</p> + +<p> +They alighted at the fashionable confectioner’s, where there was a great +crowd. Rich furs and rustling silks crushed each other; and women’s faces +with veils half lifted were reflected in the surrounding mirrors which were set +in gilt frames and cream-colored panels; glittering glass, and a variety of +cakes and dainties delighted the spectators. Madame de Barancy and her child +were much looked at. This charmed her, and this small success following upon +the mortification of the previous hour, gave her an appetite. She called for a +quantity of meringues and nougat, and finished by a glass of wine. Jack +followed her example, but with more moderation, his great grief having filled +his eyes with unshed tears and his heart with suppressed sighs. +</p> + +<p> +When they left the shop the weather was so fine, although cold, and the +flower-market of the Madeleine so fragrant with the sweet perfume of violets, +that Ida determined to dismiss the carriage and return on foot. Briskly, and +yet with a certain slowness of step, that indicated a woman accustomed to +admiration, she started on her walk, leading Jack by the hand. The fresh air, +the gay streets and attractive shops, quite restored Ida’s good-humor. +Then suddenly, by what connection of ideas I know not, she remembered a masqued +ball to which she was going that night, preceded by a restaurant dinner. +</p> + +<p> +“Mercy! I had forgotten. Hurry! little Jack—quick!” She +wanted flowers, a bouquet, a dozen forgotten trifles: and the child, whose life +had always been made up of just such trifles, and who felt as much as his +mother the subtile charm of these elegances, followed her in high glee, +delighted by the idea of the fête that he was not to see. The toilette of his +mother always interested him, and he fully appreciated the admiration her +beauty excited as they went through the streets and into the various shops. +</p> + +<p> +“Exquisite! exquisite! Yes, you may send it to me—Boulevard +Haussmann.” +</p> + +<p> +Madame de Barancy tossed down her card, and went out, talking gayly to Jack of +the beauty of her purchases. Suddenly she assumed a graver air. +“Remember, Jack, what I say. Do not tell our good friend that I went to +this ball; it is a great secret, It is five o’clock. How Constant will +scold!” +</p> + +<p> +She was not mistaken. +</p> + +<p> +Her maid, a tall, stout person of forty years, ugly and masculine, rushed +toward Ida as she entered the house. +</p> + +<p> +“The costume is here. There is no sense in being so late. Madame will not +be ready in season. No one could make her toilette in such a little +while.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t scold, Constant. If you only knew what had happened. +Look!” and she pointed to Jack. +</p> + +<p> +The factotum seemed utterly out of patience. “What! Master Jack back +again! That is very naughty, sir, after all you promised. The police will have +to come and take you to school; your mother is too good.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, it was not he. The priest would not have him. Do you understand? +They insulted me!” Whereupon she began to cry again, and to ask of heaven +why she was so unhappy. What with the meringues and the nougat, the wine and +the heat of the room, she soon felt very ill. She was carried to her bed; salts +and ether were hastily sought. Mademoiselle Constant acquitted herself with the +propriety of a woman who is no stranger to such scenes, went in and out of the +room, opened and shut wardrobes, with a certain self-possession that seemed to +say, “This will soon pass off.” But she did not perform her duties +in silence. +</p> + +<p> +“What folly it was to take this child to the Fathers! As if it was a +place for him in his position! It would not have been done certainly, had I +been consulted. I would engage to find a place for this boy at very short +notice.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack, terrified at seeing his mother so ill, had seated himself on the edge of +the bed; where, looking at her anxiously, he in silence asked her pardon for +the sorrow he had caused her. +</p> + +<p> +“There! get away, Master Jack. Your mother is all right. I must help her +dress now.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! You do not mean, Constant, that I must go to this ball. I have no +heart to amuse myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pshaw! I know you, madame. You have but five minutes. Just look at this +pretty costume, these rose-colored stockings, and your little cap.” +</p> + +<p> +She shook out the skirts, displayed the trimming, and jingled the little bells +which adorned it, and Ida ceased to resist. +</p> + +<p> +While his mother was dressing, Jack went into the boudoir, and remained alone +in the dark. The little room, perfumed and coquettish, was, it is true, +partially illuminated by the gas lamps on the boulevard. Sadly enough the child +leaned against the windows and thought of the day that was just over. By +degrees, without knowing how, he felt himself to be “the poor +child” of whom the priest had spoken in such compassionate tones. +</p> + +<p> +It is so singular to hear one’s self pitied when one believes one’s +self to be happy. There are sorrows, in fact, so well concealed, that those who +have caused them, and even sometimes their victims, do not divine them. +</p> + +<p> +The door opened—his mother was ready. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in, Master Jack, and see if this is not lovely.” +</p> + +<p> +Ah! what a charming Folly! Silver and pink, lustrous satin and delicate lace. +What a lovely rustling of spangles when she moved! +</p> + +<p> +The child looked on in admiration, while the mother, light and airy, waving her +Momus staff, smiled at Jack, and smiled at herself in the Psyche, without at +that time asking heaven why she was so unhappy. Then Constant threw over her +shoulders a warm cloak, and accompanied her to the carriage, while Jack, +leaning over the railing, watched from stair to stair, moving almost as if she +were dancing the little pink slippers embroidered with silver, that bore his +mother to balls where children could not go. As the last sound of the silver +bells died away, he turned towards the salon, disturbed and anxious for the +first time by the solitude in which he ordinarily passed his evenings. +</p> + +<p> +When Madame de Barancy dined out, Master Jack was confided to the tender +mercies of Constant. “She will dine with you,” said Ida. +</p> + +<p> +Two places were laid in the dining-room that seemed so huge on such days. But +very often Constant, finding her dinner anything but cheerful, took the child +and joined her companions below, where they feasted gayly. The table-cloth was +soiled, and the conversation was not of the purest; and very often the conduct +of the mistress of the house was commented upon, in words to be sure that were +slightly veiled, so as not to frighten the child. This evening there was a +grand discussion as to the refusal of the Fathers to receive the boy. The +coachman declared that it was all for the best,—that the priests would +have made of the child “a hypocrite and a Jesuit.” +</p> + +<p> +Constant protested against these words. She was not a professor of religion, +she said, but she would not hear it spoken ill of. Then the discussion changed +to the great disappointment of Jack, who listened with all his little ears, +hoping to hear why this priest, who appeared so good, was not willing to +receive him. +</p> + +<p> +But for the moment Jack was of little consequence; each was absorbed in +narrating his or her religious convictions. +</p> + +<p> +The coachman, who had been drinking, said that his God was the sun; in fact, +he, like the elephants, adored the sun! Suddenly some one asked how he knew +that elephants adored the sun. +</p> + +<p> +“I saw it once in a photograph,” said he, sternly. Upon which +Mademoiselle Constant vehemently accused him of impiety and atheism; while the +cook, a stout Picardian with true peasant shrewdness, told them to be quiet. +</p> + +<p> +“Hush!” she said; “you should never quarrel over your +religions.” +</p> + +<p> +And Jack—what was he doing all this time? +</p> + +<p> +At the end of the table, stupefied by the heat and the interminable discussions +of these brutes, he slept, with his head on his arms, and his fair curls spread +over his velvet sleeves. In his unrestful slumber he heard the hum of the +servants’ voices, and at last he fancied that they were talking of him; +but the voices seemed to reach from afar off—through a fog, as it were. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is he, then?” asked the cook. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” answered Constant; “but one thing is +certain, he can’t remain here, and she wishes me to find a school for +him.” +</p> + +<p> +Between a yawn and a hiccough, the coachman spoke,— +</p> + +<p> +“I know a capital school, and one that will, just answer your purpose. It +is called the Moronval College—no, not college—but the Moronval +Academy. But what of that? it is a college all the same. I put my child there +once, when I was ordered off with the Egyptian army. The grocer gave me the +prospectus, and I think I have it still.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked in his portfolio, and from among the tumbled and soiled papers he +extracted one, dirtier even than the others. +</p> + +<p> +“Here it is!” he cried, with an air of triumph. +</p> + +<p> +He unfolded the prospectus and began to read, or rather to spell with +difficulty: +</p> + +<p> +“Gymnase Moronval—in the—in the—” +</p> + +<p> +“Give it to me,” said Mademoiselle Constant; and taking it from +him, she read it at one glance. +</p> + +<p> +“Moronval Academy—situated in the finest quarter of Paris—a +family school—large garden—the number of pupils +limited—course of instruction—particular attention paid to the +correction of the accent of foreigners—” +</p> + +<p> +Mademoiselle Constant interrupted herself here to breathe, and to exclaim, +“This seems all right enough!” +</p> + +<p> +“I think so,” said the cook. +</p> + +<p> +The reading of the prospectus was resumed, but Jack was soundly asleep, and +heard no more. +</p> + +<p> +He was dreaming. Yes, while his future was thus under discussion around this +kitchen-table, while his mother was dancing as Folly in her rose-colored skirts +and silver bells, he was dreaming of the kind priest, and of the tender voice +that had murmured—“Poor child!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"></a> +CHAPTER II.<br /> +THE SCHOOL IN THE AVENUE MONTAIGNE.</h2> + +<p> +“23 Avenue Montaigne, in the best quarter of Paris,” said the +prospectus. And no one can deny that the Avenue Montaigne is well situated in +the Champs Elysées, but it has an incongruous unfinished aspect, as of a road +merely sketched and not completed. +</p> + +<p> +By the side of the fine hotels with their plate-glass windows hung with silken +draperies, stand the houses of workmen, whence issue the noise of hammers and +grating of saws. One part of the Faubourg seems also to be relinquished to +gardens after the style of Mabille. +</p> + +<p> +At the time of which I speak, and possibly now? from the avenue ran two or +three narrow lanes whose sordid aspect offered a strange contrast to the superb +buildings near them. One of these lanes opened at the number 23, and announced +on a gilded sign swinging in the passage, that the Moronval Academy was there +situated. This sign, however, once passed, it seemed to you that you were taken +back forty years, and to the other end of Paris. The black mud, the stream in +the centre of the lane, the reverberations from the high walls, the +drinking-shops built from old planks, all seemed to belong to the past. From +every nook and cranny, from stairs and balconies, whence fluttered linen hung +to dry, streamed forth a crowd of children escorted by an army of lean and +hungry cats. It was amazing to see that so small a spot could accommodate such +a number of persons. English grooms in shabby liveries, worn-out jockeys, and +dilapidated body-servants, seemed there to congregate. To these must be added +the horde of workpeople who returned at sunset; those who let chairs, or tiny +carriages drawn by goats; dog-fanciers, beggars of all sorts, dwarfs from the +hippodrome and their microscopic ponies. Picture all these to yourself, and you +will have some idea of this singular spot—so near to the Champs Elysées +that the tops of the green trees were to be seen, and the roar of carriages was +but faintly subdued. +</p> + +<p> +It was in this place that the Moronval Academy was situated. Two or three times +during the day a tall, thin mulatto made his appearance in the street. He wore +on his head a broad-brimmed Quaker hat placed so far back that it resembled a +halo; long hair swept over his shoulders, and he crossed the street with a +timid, terrified air, followed by a troop of boys of every shade of complexion +varying from a coffee tint to bright copper, and thence to profound black. +These lads wore the coarse uniform of the school, and had an unfed and +uncared-for aspect. +</p> + +<p> +The principal of the Moronval Academy himself took his pupils—his +children of the sun, as he called them—out for their daily walks; and the +comings and goings of this singular party gave the finishing touch of oddity to +the appearance of the <i>Passage des Douze Maisons</i>. +</p> + +<p> +Most assuredly, had Madame de Barancy herself brought her child to the Academy, +the sight of the place would have terrified her, and she would never have +consented to leave her darling there. But her visit to the Jesuits had been so +unfortunate, her reception so different from that which she had anticipated, +that the poor creature, timid at heart and easily disconcerted, feared some new +humiliation, and delegated to Madame Constant, her maid, the task of placing +Jack at the school chosen for him by her servants. +</p> + +<p> +It was one cold, gray morning that Ida’s carriage drew up in front of the +gilt sign of the Moronval Academy. The lane was deserted, but the walls and the +signs all had a damp and greenish look, as if a recent inundation had there +left its traces. Constant stepped forward bravely, leading the child by one +hand, and carrying an umbrella in the other. At the twelfth house she halted. +It was at the end of the lane just where it closes, save for a narrow passage +into La Rue Marbouf, between two high walls on which grated the dry branches of +old shrubbery and ancient trees. A certain cleanliness indicated the vicinity +of the aristocratic institution; and the oyster-shells, old sardine-boxes, and +empty bottles were carefully swept away from the green door, that was as solid +and distrustful in aspect as if it led to a prison or a convent. +</p> + +<p> +The profound silence that reigned was suddenly broken by a vigorous assault of +the bell by Madame Constant. Jack felt chilled to the heart by the sound of +this bell, and the sparrows on the one tree in the garden fluttered away in +sudden fright. +</p> + +<p> +No one opened the door, but a panel was pushed away, and behind the heavy +grating appeared a black face, with protuberant lips and astonished eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Is this the Moronval Academy?” said Madame de Barancy’s +imposing maid. +</p> + +<p> +The woolly head now gave place to one of a different type,—a Tartar, +possibly,—with eyes like slits, high cheekbones, and narrow, pointed +head. Then a Creole, with a pale yellow skin, was also inspired by curiosity +and peered out. But the door still remained closed, and Madame Constant was +losing her temper, when a sharp voice cried from a distance,— +</p> + +<p> +“Well do you never mean to open that door, idiots?” +</p> + +<p> +Then they all began to whisper; keys were turned, bolts were pushed back, oaths +were muttered, kicks were administered, and after many ineffectual struggles +the door was finally opened; but Jack saw only the retreating forms of the +schoolboys, who ran off in as much fright as did the sparrows just before. +</p> + +<p> +In the doorway stood a tall, colored man, whose large white cravat made his +face look still more black. M. Moronval begged Madame Constant to walk in, +offered her his arm, and conducted her through a garden, large enough, but +dismal with the dried leaves and débris of winter storms. +</p> + +<p> +Several scattered buildings occupied the place of former flower-beds. The +academy, it seemed, consisted of several old buildings altered by Moronval to +suit his own needs. +</p> + +<p> +In one of the alleys they met a small negro with a broom and a pail. He +respectfully stood aside as they passed, and when M. Moronval said, in a low +voice, “A fire in the drawing-room,” the boy looked as much +startled as if he had been told that the drawing-room itself was burning. +</p> + +<p> +The order was by no means an unnecessary one. Nothing could have been colder +than this great room, whose waxed floor looked like a frozen, slippery lake. +The furniture itself had the same polar aspect, enveloped in coverings not made +for it. But Madame Constant cared little for the naked walls and the +discomforts of the apartment; she was occupied with the impression she was +making, and the part she was playing, that of a lady of importance. She was +quite condescending, and felt sure that children must be well off in this +place, the rooms were so spacious,—just as well, in fact, as if in the +country. +</p> + +<p> +“Precisely,” said Moronval, hesitatingly. +</p> + +<p> +The black boy kindled the fire, and M. Moronval looked for a chair for his +distinguished visitor. Then Madame Moronval, who had been summoned, made her +appearance. She was a small woman, very small, with a long, pale face all +forehead and chin. She carried herself with great erectness, as if reluctant to +lose an inch of her height, and perhaps to disguise a trifling deformity of the +shoulders; but she had a kind and womanly expression, and drawing the child +towards her, admired his long curls and his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, his eyes are like his mother’s,” said Moronval, coolly, +examining Madame Constant as he spoke. +</p> + +<p> +She made no attempt to disclaim the honor; but Jack cried out in indignation, +“She is not my mamma! She is my nurse!” +</p> + +<p> +Upon which Madame Moronval repented of her urbanity, and became more reserved. +Fortunately her husband saw matters in a different light, and concluded that a +servant trusted to the extent of placing her master’s children at school, +must be a person of some importance in the house. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Constant soon convinced him of the correctness of this conclusion. She +spoke loudly and decidedly—stated that the choice of a school had been +left entirely to her own discretion, and each time that she pronounced the name +of her mistress, it was with a patronizing air that drove poor Jack to the +verge of despair. +</p> + +<p> +The terms of the school were spoken of: three thousand francs per annum was +named as the amount asked; and then Moronval launched forth on the superior +advantages of his institution; it combined everything needed for the +development of both soul and body. The pupils accompanied their masters to the +theatre and into the world. Instead of making of the boys intrusted to his +charge mere machines of Greek and Latin, he sought to develop in them every +good quality, to prepare them for their duties in every position in life, and +to surround them with those family influences of which they had too many of +them been totally deprived. But their mental instruction was by no means +neglected; quite the contrary. The most eminent men, savans and artists, did +not shrink from the philanthropic duty of instructing the young in this +remarkable institution, and were employed as professors of sciences, history, +music, and literature. The French language was made a matter of especial +importance, and the pronunciation was taught by a new and infallible method of +which Madame Moronval was the author. Besides all this, every week there was a +public lecture, to which friends and relatives of the pupils were invited, and +where they could thoroughly convince themselves of the excellence of the system +pursued at the Moronval Academy. +</p> + +<p> +This long tirade of the principal, who needed, possibly, more than any one else +the advantages of lessons in pronunciation from his wife, was achieved more +quickly for the reason that, in Creole fashion, he swallowed half his words, +and left out many of his consonants. +</p> + +<p> +It mattered not, however, for Madame Constant was positively dazzled. +</p> + +<p> +The question of terms, of course, was nothing to her, she said; but it was +necessary that the child should receive an aristocratic and finished education. +</p> + +<p> +“Unquestionably,” said Madame Moronval, growing still more erect. +</p> + +<p> +Here her husband added that he only received into his establishment strangers +of great distinction, scions of great families, nobles, princes, and the like. +At that very time he had under his roof a child of royal birth,—a son of +the king of Dahomey. At this the enthusiasm of Madame Constant burst all +boundaries. +</p> + +<p> +“A king’s son! You hear, Master Jack—you will be educated +with the son of a king!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” resumed the instructor, gravely; “I have been +intrusted by his Dahomian Majesty with the education of his royal Highness, and +I believe that I shall be able to make of him a most remarkable man.” +</p> + +<p> +What was the matter with the black boy, who was still at work at the fire, that +he shook so convulsively, and made such a hideous noise with the shovel and +tongs? +</p> + +<p> +M. Moronval continued. “I hope, and Madame Moronval hopes, that the young +king, when on the throne of his ancestors, will remember the good advice and +the noble examples afforded him by his teachers in Paris, the happy years spent +with them, their indefatigable cares and assiduous efforts on his +behalf.” +</p> + +<p> +Here Jack was surprised to see the black boy kneeling before the chimney, turn +toward him, and shake his woolly head violently, while his mouth opened wide in +silent but furious denial. +</p> + +<p> +Did he wish to say that his royal Highness would never remember the good +lessons received at the academy, or did he mean that he would never forget +them? But what could this poor black boy know about it? +</p> + +<p> +Madame Constant announced, in pompous terms, that she was willing to pay a +quarter in advance. Moronval waved his hand condescendingly, as if to say, +“There is no need of that.” +</p> + +<p> +But the old house told a far different tale,—the shabby furniture, the +dismantled walls, the worn carpets, as well as the threadbare coat of Moronval +himself, and the shiny scant robe of the little woman with the long chin. +</p> + +<p> +But that which proved the fact more than anything else was the eagerness with +which the pair went to find in another room the superb register in which they +inscribed the ages of the pupils, their names, and the date of their entrance +into the academy. +</p> + +<p> +While these important facts were being written, the black boy remained crouched +in front of the fire, which seemed quite useless while he absorbed all its +heat. The chimney, which at first had refused to consume the least bit of wood, +as stomachs after too long fasting reject food, had now revived, and a +beautiful red flame was to be seen. The negro, with his head on his hands, his +eyes fixed as in a trance, looked like a little black silhouette against a +scarlet background. His mouth opened in intense delight, and his eyes were +perfectly round. He seemed to be drinking in the heat and the light with the +greatest avidity, while outside the snow had begun to fall silently and slowly. +</p> + +<p> +Jack was very sad, for he fancied that Moronval had a wicked look, +notwithstanding his honeyed words. And, then, in this strange house the poor +child felt himself utterly lost and desolate, discarded by his mother, and +rendered still more miserable by the vague idea that these colored pupils, from +every corner of the globe, had brought with them an atmosphere of unhappiness +and of restlessness. He remembered, too, the Jesuits’ college, so fresh +and sweet; the fine trees, the green-houses, the whole appearance of +refinement, and the kind hand of the Superior laid for a moment upon his head. +</p> + +<p> +Ah! why had he not remained there? And as this occurred to him, he said to +himself, that perhaps they would not have him here either. He looked toward the +table. There by the big register the husband and wife were busy whispering with +Madame Constant. They looked at him, and he caught a word now and then. The +little woman sighed, and twice Jack heard her say, as did the +priest,—“Poor child!” +</p> + +<p> +She also pitied him. And why? What was he, then, that they pitied him? Jack +asked himself. +</p> + +<p> +This compassion that others felt for him weighed sorely on his little heart. He +could have wept with shame, for in his childish mind he attributed this +disdainful compassion to some peculiarity of costume, his bare legs, or his +long curls. +</p> + +<p> +But he thought of his mother’s despair. Should he meet with another +refusal? Suddenly he saw Constant draw her purse and hand to the principal some +notes and gold pieces. Yes, they were going to keep him. He was delighted, poor +child, for he little knew that the great misfortune of his life was now +inaugurated there in that room. +</p> + +<p> +At this moment a tremendous bass voice came up from the garden below, singing +the chorus of an old song. The windows of the room had not recovered from the +shock, when a stout, short man, in a velvet coat, close-cut hair, and heavy +beard, burst into the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Hallo!” he cried, in a tone of comic astonishment, “a fire +in the parlor? What a luxury!” and he drew a long breath. In fact, the +new-comer was in the habit of drawing long breaths at the end of each sentence, +a habit he had acquired in singing; and these breaths were almost like the +roaring of a wild beast. Catching sight of the strangers and the pile of money, +he stopped short with the words on his lips. Delight and surprise succeeded +each other on his countenance, whose muscles seemed habituated to all facial +contortions. +</p> + +<p> +Moronval turned gravely toward the waiting woman. “M. Labassandre, of the +Imperial Academy of Music, our Professor of Music.” Labassandre bowed +once, twice, three times, and then, by way of restoring his self-possession, +and putting matters at once on a pleasant footing for all parties, administered +a kick to the black boy, who did not seem at all astonished, but picked himself +up and disappeared from the room. +</p> + +<p> +The door again opened, and two persons entered. One was very ugly—a mean +face without a beard, huge spectacles with convex glasses, and wearing an +overcoat buttoned to the chin, which bore all up and down the front too visible +indications of-the awkwardness of a near-sighted man. This was Dr. Hirsch, +Professor of Mathematics and of Natural Sciences. He exhaled a strong odor of +alkalies, and, thanks to his chemical manipulations, his fingers were every +color of the rainbow. The last comer was very different. Imagine a handsome +man, dressed with the greatest care, scrupulously gloved and shod, his hair +thrown back from a forehead already unnaturally high. He had a haughty, +aggressive air; his heavy blonde moustache, much twisted at the ends, and a +large, pale face, gave him the look of a sick soldier. +</p> + +<p> +Moronval presented him as “our great poet, Amaury d’Argenton, +Professor of Literature.” +</p> + +<p> +He, too, looked as astonished, when he caught sight of the gold pieces, as did +Dr. Hirsch and the singer Labassandre. His cold eyes had a gleam of light, but +it disappeared as he glanced from the child to his nurse. +</p> + +<p> +Then he approached the other professors standing in front of the fire, and, +saluting them, listened in silence. Madame Constant thought this Argenton +looked proud; but upon Jack the man made a very strong impression, and the +child shrank from him with terror and repugnance. +</p> + +<p> +Jack felt that all these men might make him wretched, but this one more than +all others. Instinctively, on seeing him enter, the child felt him to be his +future enemy, and that cold, hard glance meeting his own, froze him to the core +of his heart. How many times, in days to come, was he to encounter those pale, +blue eyes, with half-shut, heavy lids, whose glances were cold as steel! The +eyes have been called the windows of the soul, but D’Argenton’s +eyes were windows so closely barred and locked, that one had no reason to +suppose that there was a soul behind them. +</p> + +<p> +The conversation finished between Moronval and Constant, the principal +approached his new pupil, and giving him a little friendly tap on the cheek, he +said, “Come, come, my young friend, you must look brighter than +this.” +</p> + +<p> +And in fact, Jack, as the moment drew near that he must say farewell to his +mother’s maid, felt his eyes swimming in tears. Not that he had any great +affection for this woman, but she was a part of his home, she saw his mother +daily, and the separation was final when she was gone. +</p> + +<p> +“Constant,” he whispered, catching her dress, “you will tell +mamma to come and see me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly. She will come, of course. But don’t cry.” +</p> + +<p> +The child was sorely tempted to burst into tears; but it seemed to him that all +these strange eyes were fixed upon him, and that the Professor of Literature +examined him with especial severity: and he controlled himself. +</p> + +<p> +The snow fell heavily. Moronval proposed to send for a carriage, but the maid +said that Augustin and the coupé were waiting at the end of the lane. +</p> + +<p> +“A coupé!” said the principal to himself, in astonished admiration. +</p> + +<p> +“Speaking of Augustin,” said she: “he charged me with a +commission. Have you a pupil named Said?” +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure—certainly—a delightful person,” said +Moronval. +</p> + +<p> +“And a superb voice. You must hear him,” interrupted Labassandre, +opening the door and calling Said in a voice of thunder. +</p> + +<p> +A frightful howl was heard in reply, followed by the appearance of the +delightful person. +</p> + +<p> +An awkward schoolboy appeared, whose tunic, like all tunics, and, indeed, like +all the clothing of boys of a certain age, was too short and too tight for him; +drawn in, in the fashion of a caftan, it told the story at once of an Egyptian +in European clothing. His features were regular and delicate enough, but the +yellow skin was stretched so tightly over the bones and muscles that the eyes +seemed to close of themselves whenever the mouth opened, and <i>vice versa</i>. +</p> + +<p> +This miserable young man, whose skin was so scanty, inspired you with a strong +desire to relieve his sufferings by cutting a slit somewhere. He at once +remembered Augustin, who had been his parents’ coachman, and who had +given him all his cigar-stumps. +</p> + +<p> +“What shall I say to him from you?” asked Constant, in her most +amiable tone. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” answered Said, promptly. +</p> + +<p> +“And your parents, how are they? Have you had any news from them +lately?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have they returned to Egypt, as they thought of doing?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t know: they never write.” +</p> + +<p> +It was evident that this pupil of the Moronval Academy had not been educated in +the art of conversation, and Jack listened with many misgivings. +</p> + +<p> +The indifferent fashion with which this youth spoke of his parents, added to +what M. Moronval had previously said of the family influences of which most of +his pupils had been deprived since infancy, impressed him unfavorably. +</p> + +<p> +It seemed to the child that he was to live among orphans or cast-off children, +and would be himself as much cast off as if he had come from Timbuctoo or +Otaheite. +</p> + +<p> +Again he caught the dress of his mother’s servant. “Tell her to +come and see me,” he whispered; “O, tell her to come.” +</p> + +<p> +And when the door closed behind her, he understood that one chapter in his life +was finished; that his existence as a spoiled child, as a petted baby, had +vanished into the past, and those dear and happy days would never again return. +</p> + +<p> +While he stood silently weeping, with his face pressed against a window that +led into the garden, a hand was extended over his shoulder containing something +black. +</p> + +<p> +It was Said, who, as a consolation, offered him the stump of a cigar. +</p> + +<p> +“Take this: I have a trunk full,” said the interesting young man, +shutting his eyes so as to be able to speak. +</p> + +<p> +Jack, smiling through his tears, made a sign that he did not dare to accept +this singular gift; and Said, whose eloquence was very limited, stood silently +planted by his side until M. Moronval returned. +</p> + +<p> +He had escorted Madame Constant to her carriage, and came back inspired with +respectful indulgence for the grief of his new pupil. +</p> + +<p> +The coachman, Augustin, had such fine furs, the coupé was so well appointed, +that the little fellow, Jack, profited by the magnificence of the equipage. +</p> + +<p> +“That is well,” he said, benevolently, to the Egyptian. “Play +together; but go to the other room, where it is warmer than here, I shall +permit the boys to have a holiday in honor of the new pupil.” +</p> + +<p> +Poor little fellow! He was soon surrounded by a noisy crowd, who questioned him +without mercy. With his blonde curls, his plaid suit, and bare legs, he sat +motionless and timid, wondering at the frantic gestipulations of these little +boys of foreign birth, and among them all, looked much like an elegant little +Parisian shut up in the great monkey cage in the Jardin des Plantes. +</p> + +<p> +This was the idea that occurred to Moronval, but he was aroused from his silent +hilarity by the noise of a discussion too animated to be altogether amiable. He +heard the puffs and sighs of Labassandre and the solemn little voice of madame. +Easily divining the bone of contention, he hastened to the assistance of his +wife, whom he found heroically defending the money paid by Madame Constant +against the demands of the professors, whose salaries were greatly in arrear. +</p> + +<p> +Evariste Moronval, lawyer, politician, and littérateur, had been sent from +Pointe-à-Petre in 1848 as secretary to a deputy from Guadaloupe. At that time +he was just twenty-five, energetic and ambitious, with considerable ability and +cultivation. Being poor, however, he accepted a dependent position which +insured his expenses paid to Paris, that marvellous city, the heat of whose +lurid flames extends so far over the world that it attracts even the moths from +the colonies. +</p> + +<p> +On landing, he left his deputy in the lurch, easily made a few acquaintances, +and attempted a political career, in which path he had obtained a certain +success in Guadaloupe; but he had not taken into account his horrible colonial +accent, of which, notwithstanding every effort, he was never able to rid +himself. The first time he spoke in public, the shouts of laughter that greeted +him proved conclusively that he could never make a name, for himself in Paris +as a public speaker. He then resolved to write, but he was clever enough to +understand that it was far easier to win a reputation at Pointe-à-Petre than in +Paris. Haughty and tenacious, and spoiled by small successes, he passed from +journal to journal, without being retained for any length of time on the staff +of any one. Then began those hard experiences of life which either crush a man +to the earth or harden him to iron. He joined the army of the ten thousand men +who live by their wits in Paris, who rise each morning dizzy with hunger and +ambitious dreams, make their breakfast from off a penny-roll, black the seams +of their coats with ink, whiten their shirt-collars with billiard-chalk, and +warm themselves in the churches and libraries. +</p> + +<p> +He became familiar with all these degradations and miseries,—to credit +refused at the low eating-house, to the non-admittance to his garret at eleven +o’clock at night, and to the scanty bit of candle, and to shoes in holes. +</p> + +<p> +He was one of those professors of—it matters not what, who write articles +for the encyclopaedias at a half centime a line, a history of the Middle Ages +in two volumes, at twenty-five francs per volume, compile catalogues, and copy +plays for the theatres. +</p> + +<p> +He was dismissed from one institution, where he taught English, for having +struck one of the pupils in his passionate, Creole fashion. +</p> + +<p> +After three years of this miserable existence, when he had eaten an +incalculable number of raw artichokes and radishes, when he had lost his +illusions and ruined his stomach, chance sent him to give lessons in a young +ladies’ school kept by three sisters. The two eldest were over forty; the +third was thirty,—small, sentimental, and pretentious. She saw little +prospect of marriage, when Moronval offered himself and was accepted. +</p> + +<p> +Once married, they lived some time in the house with the elder sisters; both +made themselves useful in giving lessons. But Moronval had retained many of his +bachelor habits, which were far from agreeable in that peaceful and +well-ordered boarding-school. Besides, the Creole treated his pupils too much +as he might have done his slaves at work on the sugar-cane plantation. +</p> + +<p> +The elder sisters, who adored Madame Moronval, were nevertheless obliged to +separate from her, and paid her as an indemnification a satisfactory sum. What +should be done with this money? Moronval wished to start a journal, or a +review; but to make money was his first wish. Finally, a brilliant idea came to +him one day. +</p> + +<p> +He knew that children were sent from all parts of the world to finish their +education in Paris. They came from Persia, from Japan, Hindostan, and Guinea, +confided to the care of ship-captains, or to merchants. Such people being +generally well provided with money, and having but little experience in getting +rid of it, Moronval decided that there was an easy mine to work. Besides, the +wonderful system of Madame Moronval could be applied in perfection to the +correction of foreign accents, to defective pronunciation. The Professor +immediately caused advertisements to be inserted in the colonial journals, +where were soon to be seen the most amazing advertisements in several +languages. +</p> + +<p> +During the first year, the nephew of the Iman of Zanzibar, and two superb +blacks from the coast of Guinea, appeared upon the scene. It was not until they +arrived that Moronval bestirred himself to find a local habitation and a name. +Finally, in order to combine economy with the exigencies of his new position, +he hired the buildings we have just visited in this hideous <i>Passage des +Douze Maisons</i>, and displayed in the avenue the gorgeous sign we have +mentioned. +</p> + +<p> +The owner of the property induced Moronval to believe that certain improvements +would soon be made, in fact, that an appropriation was ordered for a new +boulevard on one side of the building. This conviction induced Moronval to +forget all the inconveniences, the dampness of the dormitory, the cold of +certain rooms, the heat of others. This was nothing: the appropriation bill was +ready for the signature, and things would be all right soon. +</p> + +<p> +But Moronval was forced to endure that long period of waiting, only too well +known to Parisians in the last twenty years; and this wore heavily upon him, +costing him more thought and more anxiety than did the improvement or welfare +of his pupils. He soon discovered that he had been hugely duped, and this +discovery had the worst effect on the passionate, weak nature of the Creole. +His discouragement degenerated into absolute incapacity and indolence. The +pupils had no supervision whatever. Provided they went to bed early, so that +they used the least possible fire and light, he was satisfied. Their day was +cut up into class hours, to be sure, but these were interfered with by every +caprice of the principal, who sent the pupils hither and thither on his +personal service. +</p> + +<p> +And Moronval called about him all his former acquaintances,—a physician +without a diploma, a poet who never published, an opera singer without an +engagement,—all of whom were in a state of constant indignation against +the world which refused to recognize their rare merits. +</p> + +<p> +Have you noticed how such people by a system of mutual attraction seem to herd +together, supporting each other as it were by their mutual complaints? +Inspired, in fact, by a thorough contempt for each other, they pretend to an +admiring sympathy. +</p> + +<p> +Imagine the lessons given, the instruction imparted by such teachers, the +greater part of whose time was passed in discussions over their pipes, the +smoke from which soon became so thick that they could neither see nor hear. +They talked loudly, contradicted each other with vehemence in a vocabulary of +their own, where art, science, and literature were picked into fragments as +precious stuffs might be under the application of violent acids. +</p> + +<p> +And the “children of the sun,” what became of them amid all this? +Madame Moronval alone, who preserved the good traditions of her former home and +school, made any attempts to perform the duties they had undertaken, but the +kitchen, her needle, and the care of the great establishment absorbed a great +part of her time. +</p> + +<p> +As it was necessary that they should go out, their uniforms were kept in order, +for the pupils were proud of their braided tunics, and of the chevrons reaching +to the elbow. In the Moronval Academy, as in certain armies of South America, +all were sergeants. It was a trifling compensation for the miseries of exile +and for the harsh treatment of surly masters. Moronval was quite pleasant the +first days of each new quarter, when his exchequer was full; he had even then +been known to smile; but the rest of the time he avenged himself on these black +skins for the negro blood in his own veins. +</p> + +<p> +His violence accomplished that which his indolence had begun. Very soon he +began to lose his pupils; of the fifteen that were there at one time there +remained but eight. +</p> + +<p> +“Number of pupils limited,” said the prospectus, and there was a +certain amount of melancholy truth in the announcement. A dismal silence seemed +to settle down on the great establishment, which was even threatened with a +seizure of the furniture, when Jack appeared upon the scene. It of course was +no very great sum, this quarter in advance, but Moronval understood certain +prospective advantages, and even had a very clear perception of Ida’s +true nature, having cross-examined Constant with very good results. This day, +therefore, witnessed a certain armed neutrality between masters and pupils. A +good dinner in honor of the new arrival was served, all the professors were +present, and “the children of the sun” even had a drop of wine, +which startling event had not happened to them for a long time. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"></a> +CHAPTER III.<br /> +MÂDOU.</h2> + +<p> +If the Moronval Academy still exists, I desire to stigmatize it now and forever +as the most unhealthy spot I ever knew. Its dampness makes it most +objectionable for children. +</p> + +<p> +Imagine a long building all <i>rez-de-chaussée</i>, without windows, and +lighted only from above. About the room hung an indescribable odor of collodion +and ether, as if it had once been used by a photographer. The garden was shut +in by high walls covered with ivy which dripped with moisture. The dormitory +stood against a superb hotel; and on one side was a stable, always noisy with +the oaths of grooms, the trampling of horses’ feet, and the rattling of +pumps. From one end of the year to the other the place was always damp, the +only difference being that, according to the different seasons of the year, the +dampness was either very cold or very warm. In summer it was filled with +moisture like a bathroom. In addition, a crowd of winged creatures, who lived +among the old ivy on the walls, attracted by the brightness of the glass in the +low roof, introduced themselves into the dormitory through the smallest +crevice, and struck their wings against the glass, humming loudly, and finally +falling on the beds in clouds. +</p> + +<p> +The winter’s humidity was worse still; the cold crept into the dormitory +through the uneven floors and the thin walls, but after two hours of shivering +the pupils might succeed in getting warm if they drew their knees up to their +chins and kept the bedclothes well over their heads. The paternal eye of +Moronval saw at once the propriety of utilizing this otherwise unemployed +building. +</p> + +<p> +“This shall be the dormitory,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“May it not be somewhat damp?” Madame Moronval ventured to ask. +</p> + +<p> +“What of that?” he answered, sternly. +</p> + +<p> +In reality there was but room for ten beds; but twenty were placed there, with +a lavatory at the end, a wretched bit of carpet near the door, and all was in +readiness. +</p> + +<p> +Why not? After all, a dormitory is only a place to sleep in, and children +should be able to sleep anywhere, in spite of heat or cold, of bad air and of +creeping things, in spite of the noise of pumps and of horses. They catch +rheumatism, ophthalmia, and bronchitis, to be sure, but they sleep all the same +the calm sweet sleep of children worn out by out-door exercise and play, and +undisturbed by anxieties for the morrow. This is the popular belief in regard +to children, but too many of us know that the truth is quite different. For +example, the first night little Jack could not close his eyes. He had never +slept in a strange house, and the change was great from his own little room at +home, dimly lighted by a night-lamp, and littered with his favorite playthings, +to the strange and comfortless place where he now found himself. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as the pupils were in bed, a black servant took away the light, and +Jack remained wide awake. +</p> + +<p> +A pale moon, reflected from the snow that covered a portion of the skylight, +filled the room with a bluish light. He looked at the beds, standing close +together foot to foot the length of the room, most of them unoccupied, their +coverings rolled up in a bundle at one end. Seven or eight were animated by an +occasional snore, by a hollow cough, or a stifled exclamation. +</p> + +<p> +The new-comer had the best place, a little sheltered from the wind of the door. +Nevertheless, he was far from warm, and the cold kept him from sleep as much as +the novelty of his surroundings. He went over and over again in his memory +every trifling detail of the day’s events. He saw Moronval’s bulky +white cravat, the enormous spectacles of Dr. Hirsch—his soiled and +spotted overcoat; but above all he recalled the cold and haughty eyes of +“his enemy,” as he already in his innermost heart called +D’Argenton. +</p> + +<p> +This thought struck such terror to his soul that involuntarily he looked to his +mother for protection and defence. +</p> + +<p> +Where was she at that moment? A dozen different clocks at that instant struck +eleven. She was probably at some ball or theatre. She would soon come in, all +wrapped in furs and laces. When she came, it mattered not how late, she always +opened Jack’s door and bent over his bed to kiss him. Even in his sleep +he was generally conscious of her presence, and smilingly opened his eyes to +admire her toilette. And now he shuddered as he thought of the change; and yet +it was not altogether painful, for the chevrons of his uniform delighted him, +and he was happy in concealing his long legs in the skirt of his tunic. He had +made two or three new acquaintances,—a thing very agreeable to most +children; he had found his fellow-pupils odd enough, but their oddities +interested him. They had snowballed each other in the garden, which, to a child +who had been living in the warm boudoir of a pretty woman, was a very novel +amusement. +</p> + +<p> +One thing puzzled Jack: he had not yet seen his royal Highness. Where was the +little king of Dahomey, of whom M. Moronval had spoken so warmly? Was he in the +Infirmary? Ah! if he could only see him, talk with him, and make him his +friend. He repeated to himself the names of the “eight children of the +sun,” but there was no prince among them. Then he thought he would ask +the boy Said. +</p> + +<p> +“Is not his royal Highness in the school at present?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +The young man looked at him with wide-opened eyes, in astonished silence. +Jack’s question remained unanswered, and the child’s thoughts ran +on as he lay in his bed, listening to occasional gusts of music that rang +through the house from the lungs of Labassandre, and to the perpetual sound of +the pumps in the stable. +</p> + +<p> +Moronval’s guests were gone, with a final bang of the large gate, and all +was silent. Suddenly the dormitory door was thrown open, and the small black +servant entered, with a lantern in his hand. +</p> + +<p> +He shook off the snow that lay thick on his black head, and crept between the +two rows of beds, with his head drawn down between his shoulders, and his teeth +chattering. +</p> + +<p> +Jack looked at the grotesque shadows on the wall, which exaggerated all the +peculiarities of the black boy—the protruding mouth, the enormous ears, +and retreating forehead. +</p> + +<p> +The boy hung his lantern at the end of the dormitory and stood there warming +his hands, which were covered with chilblains. His face, though dirty, was so +honest and kindly, that Jack’s heart warmed toward him. As he stood there +the negro looked out into the garden. “Ah! the snow! the snow!” he +murmured sadly. +</p> + +<p> +His way of speaking, and the sweet voice, touched little Jack, who looked at +the boy with lively pity and curiosity. The negro saw it, and said, half to +himself, “Ah! the new pupil! Why don’t you go to sleep, little +boy?” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot,” said Jack, sighing. +</p> + +<p> +“It is good to sigh if you are sorry,” said the negro, +sententiously. “If the poor world could not sigh, the poor world would +stifle!” +</p> + +<p> +As he spoke, he threw a blanket on the bed next to Jack. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you sleep there?” asked the child, astonished that a servant +should occupy a bed in the dormitory of the pupils. “But there are no +sheets!” +</p> + +<p> +“Sheets are not good for me, my skin is too black.” The negro +laughed gently as he said these words, and prepared to glide into bed, half +clothed as he was, when suddenly he stopped, drew from his breast an ivory +smelling-bottle, and kissed it devoutly. +</p> + +<p> +“What a funny medal!” cried Jack. +</p> + +<p> +“It is not a medal,” answered the negro; “it is my +<i>Gri-qri</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +But Jack had no idea what a Gri-gri was, and the other explained that it was an +amulet—something to bring him good luck. His Aunt Kérika had given it to +him when he left his native land,—the aunt who had brought him up, and to +whom he hoped to return at some future day. +</p> + +<p> +“As I shall to my mamma,” said little Barancy; and both children +were silent, each thinking of the one he loved most on earth. +</p> + +<p> +Jack returned to the charge in a few minutes. “And your country—is +it a pretty place? Is it far off? and what is its name?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dahomey,” answered the negro. +</p> + +<p> +Jack started up in bed. +</p> + +<p> +“What! Do you know him? Did you come to this country with him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, his royal Highness,—you know him,—the little king of +Dahomey.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am he,” said the negro, quietly. +</p> + +<p> +The other looked at him in amazement. A king! this servant, whom he had seen at +work all day making fires, sweeping the corridors, waiting on the table, and +rinsing glasses! +</p> + +<p> +The negro spoke the truth, nevertheless. The expression of his face grew very +sad, and his eyes were fixed as if he were looking into the past, or toward +some dear, lost land. Was it the magical word of king that led Jack to examine +this black boy, seated on the edge of his bed, his white shirt open, while on +his dark breast shone the ivory amulet, with new interest? +</p> + +<p> +“How did all this happen?” asked the child, timidly. +</p> + +<p> +The black boy turned quickly to extinguish the lantern. “M. Moronval not +like it if Mâdou lets it burn.” Then he pulled his couch close to that of +Jack. +</p> + +<p> +“You are not sleepy,” he said; “and I never wish to sleep if +I can talk of Dahomey. Listen!” +</p> + +<p> +And in the darkness, where the whites only of his eyes could be seen, the +little negro began his dismal tale. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +He was called Mâdou,—the name of his father, an illustrious warrior, one +of the most powerful sovereigns in the land of gold and ivory: to whom France, +Holland, and England sent presents and envoys. His father had cannon, and +soldiers, troops of elephants with trappings for war, musicians and priests, +four regiments of Amazons, and two hundred wives. His palace was immense, and +ornamented by spears on which hung human heads after a battle or a sacrifice. +Mâdou was born in this palace. His Aunt Kérika, general-in-chief of the +Amazons, took him with her in all her expeditions. How beautiful she was, this +Kérika! tall and large as a man,—in a blue tunic; her naked arms and legs +loaded with bracelets and anklets; her bow slung over her shoulder, and the +tail of a horse streaming below her waist. Upon her head, in her woolly locks, +she wore two small antelope horns joining in a half-moon; as if these black +warriors had preserved among themselves the tradition of Diana the white +huntress! And what an eye she had, what deftness of hand! Why, she could cut +off the head of an Ashantee at a single blow. But, however terrible Kérika +might have been on the battlefield, to her nephew Mâdou she was always very +gentle, bestowing on him gifts of all kinds: necklaces of coral and of amber, +and all the shells he desired,—shells being the money in that part of the +world. She even gave him a small but gorgeous musket, presented to herself by +the Queen of England, and which Kérika found too light for her own use. Mâdou +always carried it when he went to the forests to hunt with his aunt. +</p> + +<p> +There the trees were so close together, and the foliage so thick, that the sun +never penetrated to these green temples. Then Mâdou described with enthusiasm +the flowers and the fruits, the butterflies, and birds with wonderful plumage, +and Jack listened in delight and astonishment. There were serpents, too, but +they were harmless; and black monkeys leaped from tree to tree; and large +mysterious lakes, that had never reflected the skies in their brown depths, lay +here and there in the forests. +</p> + +<p> +At this, Jack uttered an exclamation, “O, how beautiful it must +be!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, very beautiful,” said the black boy, who undoubtedly +exaggerated a little, and saw his dear native land through the prism of +absence, of childish recollections, and with the enthusiasm of his southern +nature; but encouraged by his comrade’s sympathy, Mâdou continued his +story. +</p> + +<p> +At night the forests were very different; hunting-parties bivouacked in the +jungles, building huge fires to drive away wild beasts, who were heard in the +distance roaring horribly. The birds were aroused; and the bats, silent and +black as shadows, attracted by the fire-light, hovered over and about it until +daybreak, when they assembled on some gigantic tree, motionless, and pressed +against each other, looking like some singular leaves, dry and dead. +</p> + +<p> +In this open-air life the little prince grew strong and manly,—could +wield a sabre and carry a gun at an age when children are usually tied to their +mother’s apron-string. The king was proud of his son, the heir to his +throne. But, alas! it seemed that it was not enough, even for a negro prince, +to know how to shoot an elephant through the eye; he must also learn to read +books and writing, for, said the wise king to his son, “White man always +has paper in his pocket to cheat black man with.” Of course some European +might have been found in Dahomey who could instruct the prince,—for +French and English flags floated over the ships in the harbors. But the king +had himself been sent by his father to a town called Marseilles, very far at +the end of the world; and he wished his son to receive a similar education. +</p> + +<p> +How unhappy the little prince was in leaving Kérika; he looked at his sabre, +hung his gun against the wall, and set sail with M. Bonfils, a clerk in a +mercantile house, who sent him home every year with the gold dust stolen from +the poor negroes. +</p> + +<p> +Mâdou, however, was resigned; he wished to be a great king some day, to command +the troop of Amazons, to be the proprietor of these fields of corn and wheat, +and of the palace filled with jars of palm-oil and with treasures of gold and +ivory. To own these riches he must deserve them, and be capable of defending +them when necessary,—and Mâdou early learned that it is hard to be a +king; for when one has more pleasures than the rest of the world, one has also +greater responsibilities. +</p> + +<p> +His departure was the occasion of great public fetes, of sacrifices to the +fetish and to the divinities of the sea. All the temples were thrown open for +these solemnities, the prayers of the nation were offered there, and at the +last moment, when the ship set sail, fifteen prisoners of war were executed on +the shore, and the executioner threw their heads into a great copper basin. +</p> + +<p> +“Good gracious!” gasped Jack, pulling the bedclothes over his head. +</p> + +<p> +It is certainly not very agreeable to hear such stories told by the actors in +them; and Jack was very glad that he was in the Moronval Academy rather than in +that terrible land of Dahomey. +</p> + +<p> +Mâdou seeing the effect he had produced, dwelt no longer on the ceremonies +preceding his departure, but proceeded to describe his arrival and life at +Marseilles. +</p> + +<p> +He told of the college there, of the high walls and the benches in the +court-yard, where the pupils cut their names; of the solemn professor, who +sternly said, if a whisper was heard, “Not so much noise, if you +please!” The close air of the recitation-rooms, the monotonous scratching +of pens, the lessons repeated over and over again, were all new and very trying +to Mâdou. His one idea was to get into the sun; but the walls were so high, the +court-yard so narrow, that he could never find enough to bask in. Nothing +amused or interested him. He was never allowed to go out as were the other +pupils, and for a very good reason. At first he had induced M. Bonfils to take +him to the wharves, where he often saw merchandise from his own country, and +sometimes went into ecstasies at some well-known mark. +</p> + +<p> +The steamers puffing and blowing, and the great ships setting their sails, all +spoke to him of departure and deliverance. +</p> + +<p> +Mâdou dreamed of these ships all through school-hours,—one had brought +him to that cold gray land, another would take him away. And possessed by this +fixed idea, he paid no attention to his A B C’s, for his eyes saw nothing +save the blue of the sea and the blue of the sky above. The result of this was, +that one fine day he escaped from the college and hid himself on one of the +vessels of M. Bonfils; he was found in time, but escaped again, and the second +time was not discovered until the ship was in the middle of the Gulf of Lyons. +Any other child would have been kept on board; but when Mâdou’s name was +known, the captain took his royal Highness back to Marseilles, relying on a +reward. +</p> + +<p> +After that, the boy became more and more unhappy, for he was kept a very close +prisoner. Notwithstanding all this, he escaped once more; and this time, on +being discovered, made no resistance, but obeyed so gently, and with such a sad +smile, that no one had the heart to punish him. At last the principal of the +institution declined the responsibility of so determined a pupil. Should he +send the little prince back to Dahomey? M. Bonfils dared not permit this, +fearing thereby to lose the good graces of the king. In the midst of these +perplexities Moronvol’s advertisement appeared, and the prince was at +once dispatched to 23 Avenue Montaigne,—“the most beautiful +situation in Paris,”—where he was received, as you may well +believe, with open arms. This heir of a far-off kingdom was a godsend to the +academy. He was constantly on exhibition; M. Moronval showed him at theatres +and concerts, and along the boulevards, reminding one of those perambulating +advertisements that are to be seen in all large cities. +</p> + +<p> +He appeared in society, such society at least as admitted M. Moronval, who +entered a room with all the gravity of Fénélon conducting the Duke of Burgundy. +The two were announced as “His Royal Highness the Prince of Dahomey, and +M. Moronval, his tutor.” +</p> + +<p> +For a month the newspapers were full of anecdotes of Mâdou; an attaché of a +London paper was sent to interview him, and they had a long and serious talk as +to the course the young prince should pursue when called to the throne of his +ancestors. The English journal published an account of the curious dialogue, +and the vague replies certainly left much to be desired. +</p> + +<p> +At first all the expenses of the academy were discharged by this solitary +pupil, Monsieur Bonfils paying the bill that was presented to him without a +word of dispute. Mâdou’s education, however, made but little progress. He +still continued among the A B C’s, and Madame Moronval’s charming +method made no impression upon him. His defective pronunciation was still +retained, and his half-childish way of speaking was not changed. But he was gay +and happy. All the other children were compelled to yield to him a certain +deference. At first this was a difficult matter, as his intense blackness +seemed to indicate to these other children of the sun that he was a slave. +</p> + +<p> +And how amiable the professors were to this bullet-headed boy, who, in spite of +his natural amiability, so sturdily refused to profit by their instructions! +Every one of the teachers had his own private idea of what could be done in the +future under the patronage of this embryo king. It was the refrain of all their +conversations. As soon as Mâdou was crowned, they would all go to Dahomey. +Labassandre intended to develop the musical taste of Dahomey, and saw himself +the director of a conservatory, and at the head of the Royal Chapel. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Moronval meant to apply her method to class upon class of crisp black +heads. But Dr. Hirsch saw innumerable beds in a hospital, upon the inmates of +which he could experiment without fear of any interference from the police. The +first few weeks, therefore, of his sojourn at Paris seemed to Mâdou very sweet. +If only the sun would shine out brightly, if the fine rain would cease to fall, +or the thick fog clear away; if, in short, the boy could once have been +thoroughly warm, he would have been content; and if Kérika, with her gun and +her bow, her arms covered with clanking bracelets, could occasionally have +appeared in the <i>Passage des Douze Maison</i>, he would have been very happy. +</p> + +<p> +But Destiny altered all this. M. Bonfils arrived suddenly one day, bringing +most disastrous news of Dahomey. The king was dethroned, taken prisoner by the +Ashantees, who meant to found a new dynasty. The royal troops and the regiment +of Amazons had all been conquered and dispersed. Kérika alone was saved, and +she dispatched M. Bonfils to Mâdou to tell him to remain in France, and to take +good care of his Gri-gri, for it was written in the great book that if Mâdou +did not lose that amulet, he would come into his kingdom. The poor little king +was in great trouble. Moronval, who placed no faith in the <i>gri-gri</i>, +presented his bill—and such a bill!—to M. Bonfils, who paid it, but +informed the principal that in future, if he consented to keep Mâdou, he must +not rely upon any present compensation, but upon the gratitude of the king as +soon as the fortunes and chances of war should restore him to his throne. Would +the principal oblige M. Bonfils by at once signifying his intentions? Moronval +promptly and nobly said, “I will keep the child.” Observe that it +was no longer “his Royal Highness.” And the boy at once became like +all the other scholars, and was scolded and punished as they were,—more, +in fact, for the professors were out of temper with him, feeling apparently, +that they had been deluded by false pretences. The child could understand +little of this, and tried in vain all the gentle ways that had seemed to win so +much affection before. It was worse still the next quarter, when Moronval, +receiving no money, realized that Mâdou was a burden to him. He dismissed the +servant, and installed Mâdou in his place, not without a scene with the young +prince. The first time a broom was placed in his hands and its use explained to +him, Mâdou obstinately refused. But M. Moronval had an irresistible argument +ready, and after a heavy caning the boy gave up. Besides, he preferred to sweep +rather than to learn to read. The prince, therefore, scrubbed and swept with +singular energy, and the salon of the Moronvals was scrupulously clean; but +Moronval’s heart was not softened. In vain did the little fellow work; in +vain did he seek to obtain a kindly word from his master; in vain did he hover +about him with all the touching humility of a submissive hound: he rarely +obtained any other recompense than a blow. +</p> + +<p> +The boy was in despair. The skies grew grayer and grayer, the rain seemed to +fall more persistently, and the snow was colder than ever. +</p> + +<p> +O Kérika! Aunt Kérika! so haughty and so tender, where are you? Come and see +what they are doing with your little king! How he is treated, how scantily he +is fed, how ragged are his clothes, and how cold he is! He has but one suit +now, and that a livery—a red coat and striped vest! Now, when he goes out +with his master, he does not walk at his side—he follows him. +</p> + +<p> +Mâdou’s honesty and ingenuity had, however, so won the confidence of +Madame Moronval, that she sent him to market. Behold, therefore, this last +descendant of the powerful <i>Tocodonon</i>, the founder of the Dahomian +dynasty, staggering daily from the market under the weight of a huge basket, +half fed and half clothed, cold to the very heart; for nothing warms him now, +neither violent exercise, nor blows, nor the shame of having become a servant; +nor even his hatred of “the father with a stick,” as he called +Moronval. +</p> + +<p> +And yet that hatred was something prodigious; and Mâdou confided to Jack his +projects of vengeance. +</p> + +<p> +“When Mâdou goes home to Dahomey, he will write a little letter to the +father with the stick; he will tell him to come to Dahomey, and he will cut off +his head into the copper basin, and afterwards will cover a big drum with his +skin, and I will then march against the Ashantees,—Boum! boum! +boum!” +</p> + +<p> +Jack could just see in the shadow the gleam of the negro’s white eyes, +and heard the raps upon the footboard of the bed, that imitated the drum, and +was frightened. He fancied that he heard the whizzing of the sabres, and the +heavy thud of the falling heads; he pulled the blanket over his head, and held +his breath. +</p> + +<p> +Mâdou, who was excited by his own story, wished to talk on, but he thought his +solitary auditor asleep. But when Jack drew a long breath, Mâdou said gently, +“Shall we talk some more, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” answered Jack; “only don’t let us say any more +about that drum, nor the copper basin.” The negro laughed silently. +“Very well, sir; Mâdou won’t talk—you must talk now. What is +your name?” +</p> + +<p> +“Jack, with a <i>k</i>. Mamma thinks a great deal about +that—” +</p> + +<p> +“Is your mamma very rich?” +</p> + +<p> +“Rich! I guess she is,” said Jack, by no means unwilling to dazzle +Mâdou in his turn. “We have a carriage, a beautiful house on the +boulevard, horses, servants, and all. And then you will see, when mamma comes +here, how beautiful she is. Everybody in the street turns to look at her, she +has such beautiful dresses and such jewels. We used to live at Tours; it was a +pretty place. We walked in the Rue Royale, where we bought nice cakes, and +where we met plenty of officers in uniform. The gentlemen were all good to me. +I had Papa Leon, and Papa Charles,—not real papas, you know, because my +own father died when I was a little fellow. When we first went to Paris I did +not like it; I missed the trees and the country; but mamma petted me so much, +and was so good to me, that I was soon happy again. I was dressed like the +little English boys, and my hair was curled, and every day we went to the Bois. +At last my mamma’s old friend said that I ought to learn something; so +mamma took me to the Jesuit College—” +</p> + +<p> +Here Jack stopped suddenly. To say that the Fathers would not receive him, +wounded his self-love sorely. Notwithstanding the ignorance and innocence of +his age, he felt that there was something humiliating to his mother in this +avowal, as well as to himself; and then this recital, on which he had so +heedlessly entered, carried him back to the only serious trouble of his life. +Why had they not been willing to receive him? why did his mother weep? and why +did the Superior pity him? +</p> + +<p> +“Say, then, little master,” asked the negro suddenly, “what +is a cocotte?” +</p> + +<p> +“A cocotte?” asked Jack in astonishment. “I don’t know. +Is it a chicken?” +</p> + +<p> +“I heard the father with a stick say to Madame Moronval that your mother +was a cocotte.” +</p> + +<p> +“What an ideal. You misunderstood,” and at the thought of his +mother being a hen, with feathers, wings, and claws, the boy began to laugh; +and Mâdou, without knowing why, followed his example. +</p> + +<p> +This gayety soon obliterated the painful impressions of their previous +conversation, and the two little, lonely fellows, after having confided to each +other all their sorrows, fell asleep with smiles on their lips. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"></a> +CHAPTER IV.<br /> +THE REUNION.</h2> + +<p> +Children are like grown people,—the experiences of others are never of +any use to them. +</p> + +<p> +Jack had been terrified by Mâdou’s story, but he thought of it only as a +frightful tale, or a bloody battle seen at the theatre. The first months were +so happy at the academy, every one was so kind, that he forgot that Mâdou for a +time had been equally happy. +</p> + +<p> +At table he occupied the next seat to Moronval, drank his wine, shared his +dessert; while the other children, as soon as the cakes and fruit appeared, +rose abruptly from the table. Opposite Jack sat Dr. Hirsch, whose finances, to +judge from his appearance, were in a most deplorable condition. He enlivened +the repast by all sorts of scientific jokes, by descriptions of surgical +operations, by accounts of infectious diseases, and, in fact, kept his hearers +<i>au courant</i> with all the ailments of the day; and, if he heard of a case +of leprosy, of elephantiasis, or of the plague, in any quarter of the globe, he +would nod his head with delight, and say, “It will be here before +long—before long!” +</p> + +<p> +As a neighbor at the table he was not altogether satisfactory: first, his +near-sightedness made him very awkward; and, next, he had a way of dropping +into your plate, or glass, a pinch of powder, or a few drops from a vial in his +pocket. The contents of this vial were never the same, for the doctor made new +scientific discoveries each week, but in general bicarbonate, alkalies, and +arsenic (in infinitesimal doses fortunately) made the base of these +medicaments. Jack submitted to these preventives, and did not venture to say +that he thought they tasted very badly. Occasionally the other professors were +invited, and everybody drank the health of the little De Barancy, every one was +enthusiastic over his sweetness and cleverness. The singing teacher, +Labassandre, at the least joke made by the child, threw himself back in his +chair with a loud laugh, pounded the table with his fist, and wiped his eyes +with a corner of his napkin. +</p> + +<p> +Even D’Argenton, the handsome D’Argenton, relaxed, a pale smile +crossed his big moustache, and his cold blue eyes were turned on the child with +haughty approval. Jack was delighted. He did not understand, nor did he wish to +understand, the signs made to him by Mâdou, as he waited upon the table, with a +napkin in one hand and a plate in the other. Mâdou knew better than any one +else the real value of these exaggerated praises and the vanity of human +greatness. +</p> + +<p> +He too had occupied the seat of honor, had drunk of his master’s wine, +flavored by the powder from the doctor’s bottle; and the tunic, with its +silver chevrons, was it not too large for Jack only because it had been made +for Mâdou? The story of the little negro should have been a warning to the +small De Barancy against the sin of pride, for the installation of both boys in +the Moronval Academy had been precisely of the same character. +</p> + +<p> +The holiday instituted in honor of Jack was insensibly prolonged into weeks. +Lessons were few and far between, except from Madame Moronval, who snatched +every opportunity of testing her method. +</p> + +<p> +As to Moronval himself, he professed a great weakness for his new pupil. He had +made inquiries in regard to the little hotel on the Boulevard Hauss-mann, and +had fully acquainted himself with the resources of the lady there. When, +therefore, Madame de Barancy came to see Jack, which was very often, she met +with a warm reception, and had an attentive audience for all the vain and +foolish stories she saw fit to tell. At first Madame Moronval wished to +preserve a certain dignified coolness toward such a person, but her husband +soon changed that idea, and she saw herself obliged to lay aside her womanly +scruples in favor of her interests. +</p> + +<p> +“Jack! Jack! here comes your mother,” some one would cry as the +door opened, and Ida would sail in beautifully dressed, with packages of cakes +and bonbons in her hands and her muff. It was a festival for every one; they +all shared the delicacies, and Madame de Barancy ungloved her hand, the one on +which were the most rings, and condescended to take a portion. The poor +creature was so generous, and money slipped so easily through her fingers, that +she generally brought with her cakes all sorts of presents, playthings, +&c., which she distributed as the fancy struck her. It is easy to imagine +the enthusiastic praises lavished upon this inconsiderate, reckless generosity. +Moronval alone had a smile of pity and of envy at seeing money so wasted, which +should have gone to the assistance of some brave, generous soul like himself, +for example. This was his fixed idea. And as he sat looking at Ida and gnawing +his finger-nails, he had an absent, anxious air like that of a man who comes to +ask a loan, and has his petition on the end of his lips. Moronval’s dream +for some time had been to establish a Review consecrated to colonial interests, +in this way hoping to satisfy his political aspirations by recalling himself +regularly to his compatriots; and, finally, who knows he might be elected +deputy. But, as a commencement, the journal seemed indispensable, and he had a +vague notion that the mother of his new pupil might be induced to defray the +expenses of this Review, but he did not wish to move too rapidly lest he should +frighten the lady away; he intended to prepare the way gently. Unfortunately, +Madame de Barancy, on account of her very fickleness of nature, was difficult +to reach. She would continually change the conversation just at the important +point, because she found it very uninteresting. +</p> + +<p> +“If she could be inspired with an idea of writing!” said Moronval +to himself, and immediately insinuated to her that between Madame de Sévigné +and George Sand there was a vacant niche to fill; but he might as well have +attempted to carry on a conversation with a bird that was fluttering about his +head. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not strong-minded nor literary,” said Ida, with a half yawn, +one day when he had been speaking with feverish impatience for a long time. +</p> + +<p> +Moronval finally concluded that a creature so inconsequent must be dazzled, not +led. +</p> + +<p> +One day, when Ida was holding audience in the parlor, telling wonderful tales +of her various acquaintances to whose often plebeian names she added the +<i>de</i> as she pleased, Madame Moronval said, timidly,— +</p> + +<p> +“M. Moronval would like to ask you something, but he dares not.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, tell me, tell me!” said the silly little woman, with a sincere +wish to oblige. +</p> + +<p> +The principal was sorely tempted to ask her at once for funds for the Review, +but being himself very distrustful, he thought it wiser to act with great +prudence; so he contented himself with asking Madame de Barancy to be present +at one of their literary reunions on the following Saturday. Formerly these +little fêtes took place every week, but since Mâdou’s fall they had been +very infrequent. It was in vain that Moronval had extinguished a candle with +every guest that left, in vain had he dried the tea-leaves from the teapot in +the sun on the window-sill, and served it again the following week, the expense +still was too great. But now he determined to hazard another attempt in that +direction. Madame de Barancy accepted the invitation with eagerness. The idea +of making her appearance in the salon as a married woman of position was very +attractive to her, for it was one round of the ladder conquered, on which she +hoped to ascend from her irregular and unsatisfactory life. +</p> + +<p> +This was a most splendid fête at which she assisted. In the memory of all +beholders no such entertainment had taken place. Two colored lanterns hung on +the acacias at the entrance, the vestibule was lighted, and at least thirty +candles were burning in the salon, the floor of which Mâdou had so waxed and +rubbed for the occasion that it was as brilliant and as dangerous as ice. The +negro boy had surpassed himself; and here let me say that Moronval was in a +great state of perplexity as to the part that the prince should take at the +soirée. +</p> + +<p> +Should he be withdrawn from his domestic duties and restored for one day only +to his title and ancient splendor? This idea was very tempting; but, then, who +would hand the plates and announce the guests? Who could replace him? No one of +the other scholars, for each had some one in Paris who might not be pleased +with this system of education; and finally it was decided that the soirée must +be deprived of the presence and prestige of his royal Highness. At eight +o’clock, “the children of the sun” took their seats on the +benches, and among them the blonde head of little De Barancy glittered like a +star on the dark background. +</p> + +<p> +Moronval had issued numerous invitations among the artistic and literary +world—the one at least which he frequented—and the representatives +of art, literature, and architecture appeared in large delegations. They +arrived in squads, cold and shivering, coming from the depths of +<i>Montparnasse</i> on the tops of omnibuses, ill dressed and poor, unknown, +but full of genius, drawn from their obscurity by the longing to be seen, to +sing or to recite something, to prove to themselves that they were still alive. +Then, after this breath of pure air, this glimpse of the heavens above, +comforted by a semblance of glory and success, they returned to their squalid +apartments, having gained a little strength to vegetate. There were +philosophers wiser than Leibnitz; there were painters longing for fame, but +whose pictures looked as if an earthquake had shaken everything from its +perpendicular; musicians—inventors of new instruments; savans in the +style of Dr. Hirsch, whose brains contained a little of everything, but where +nothing could be found by reason of the disorder and the dust. It was sad to +see them; and if their insatiate pretensions, as obtrusive as their bushy +heads, their offensive pride and pompous manners, had not given one an +inclination to laugh, their half-starved air and the feverish glitter of eyes +that had wept over so many lost illusions and disappointed hopes, would have +awakened profound compassion in the hearts of lookers-on. +</p> + +<p> +Besides these there were others, who, finding art too hard a taskmistress and +too niggardly in her rewards, sought other employment.. For example, a lyric +poet kept an intelligence office, a sculptor was an agent for a wine merchant, +and a violinist was in a gas-office. +</p> + +<p> +Others less worthy allowed themselves to be supported by their wives. These +couples came together, and the poor women bore on their brave, worn faces the +stamp of the penalty they paid for the companionship of men of genius. Proud of +being allowed to accompany their husbands, they smiled upon them with an air of +gratified maternal vanity. Then there were the habitués of the house, the three +professors; Labassandre in gala costume, exercising his lungs at intervals by +tremendous inspirations; and D’Argenton, the handsome D’Argenton, +curled and pomaded, wearing light gloves, and his manners a charming mixture of +authority, geniality, and condescension. +</p> + +<p> +Standing near the door of the salon, Moronval received every one, shaking hands +with all, but growing very anxious as the hour grew later and the countess did +not appear; for Ida de Barancy was called the countess under that roof. Every +one was uncomfortable. Little Madame de Moronval went from group to group, +saying, with an amiable air, “We will wait a few moments, the countess +has not yet arrived!” +</p> + +<p> +The piano was open, the pupils were ranged against the wall; a small green +table, on which stood a glass of <i>eau-sucré</i> and a reading-lamp, was in +readiness. M. Moronval, imposing in his white vest; Madame, red and oppressed +by all the worry of the evening; and Mâdotu, shivering in the wind from the +door,—all are waiting for the countess. Meanwhile, as she came not, +D’Argenton consented to recite a poem that all his assistants knew, for +they had heard it a dozen times before. Standing in front of the chimney, with +his hair thrown back from his wide forehead, the poet declaimed, in a coarse, +vulgar voice, what he called his poem. +</p> + +<p> +His friends were not sparing in their praises. +</p> + +<p> +“Magnificent!” said one. “Sublime!” exclaimed another; +and the most amazing criticism came from yet another,—“Goethe with +a heart?” +</p> + +<p> +Here Ida entered. The poet did not see her, for his eyes were lifted to the +ceiling. But she saw him, poor woman; and from that moment her heart was gone. +She had never seen him, save in the street wearing his hat: now she beheld him +in the mellow light which softened still more his pale face, wearing a +dress-coat and evening gloves, reciting a love poem, and, believing in love as +he did in God, he produced an extraordinary effect upon her. +</p> + +<p> +He was the hero of her dreams, and corresponded with all the foolish +sentimental ideas that lie hidden very often in the hearts of such women. +</p> + +<p> +From that very moment she was his, and he took exclusive possession of her +heart. She paid no attention to her little Jack, who made frantic signs to her +as he threw her kiss after kiss; nor had she eyes for Moronval, who bowed to +the ground; nor for the curious glances that examined her from head to foot, as +she stood before them in her black velvet dress and her little white opera hat, +trimmed with black roses and ornamented with tulle strings which wrapped about +her like a scarf. Years after she recalled the profound impression of that +evening, and saw as in a dream her poet as she saw him first in that salon, +which seemed to her, seen through the vista of years, immense and superb. The +future might heap misery upon her; her past could humiliate and wound her, +crush her life, and something more precious than life itself; but the +recollection of that brief moment of ecstasy could never be effaced. +</p> + +<p> +“You see, madame,” said Moronval, with his most insinuating smile, +“that we made a beginning before your arrival. M. le Vicomte Amaury +d’Argenton was reciting his magnificent poem.” +</p> + +<p> +“Vicomte!” He was noble, then! +</p> + +<p> +She turned toward him, timid and blushing as a young girl. +</p> + +<p> +“Continue, sir, I beg of you,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +But D’Argenton did not care to do so. The arrival of the countess had +injured the effect of his poem—destroyed its point; and such things are +not easily pardoned. He bowed, and answered with cold haughtiness that he had +finished. Then he turned away without troubling himself more about her. The +poor woman felt a strange pang at her heart. She had displeased him, and the +very thought was unendurable. It needed all little Jack’s tender caresses +and outspoken joy—all his delight at the admiration expressed for her, +the attentions of everybody, the idea that she was queen of the fete—to +efface the sorrow she felt, and which she showed by a silence of at least five +minutes, which silence for a nature like hers was something as extraordinary as +restful. The disturbance of her entrance being at last over, every one seated +himself to await the next recitation. +</p> + +<p> +Mademoiselle Constant, who had accompanied her mistress, took her seat +majestically on the front bench next the pupils. Jack swung himself on the arm +of his mother’s chair, between her and M. Moronval, who smoothed the +lad’s hair in the most paternal way. +</p> + +<p> +The assemblage was really quite imposing, and Madame Moronval took dignified +possession of the little table and the shaded lamp, and proceeded to read an +ethnographic composition of her husband’s on the Mongolian races. It was +long and tedious—one of those lucubrations that are delivered before +certain scientific societies, and succeed in lulling the members to sleep. +Madame Moronval took this opportunity of demonstrating the peculiarities of her +method, which had the merit—if merit it were—of holding the +attention as in a vice, and the words and syllables seemed to reverberate +through your own brain. To see Madame Moronval open her mouth to sound her +o’s, to hear the r’s rattle in her throat, was more edifying than +agreeable. The mouths of the eight children opposite mechanically followed each +one of her gestures, producing a most extraordinary effect; one absolutely +fascinating to Mademoiselle Constant. +</p> + +<p> +But the countess saw nothing of all this; she had eyes but for her poet leaning +against the door of the drawing-room, with arms folded and eyes moodily cast +down. In vain did Ida seek to attract his attention; he glanced occasionally +about the salon, but her arm-chair might as well have been vacant; he did not +appear to see her, and the poor woman was rendered so utterly miserable by this +neglect and indifference, that she forgot to congratulate Moronval on the +brilliant success of his essay, which concluded amid great applause and +universal relief. +</p> + +<p> +Then followed another brief poem by Argenton, to which Ida listened +breathlessly. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, how beautiful!” she cried; “how beautiful!” and +she turned to Moronval, who sat with a forced smile on his lips. “Present +me to M. d’Argenton, if you please.” +</p> + +<p> +She spoke to the poet in a low voice and with great courtesy. He, however, +bowed very coldly, apparently careless of her implied admiration. +</p> + +<p> +“How happy you are,” she said, “in the possession of such a +talent!” +</p> + +<p> +Then she asked where she could obtain his poems. +</p> + +<p> +“They are not to be procured, madame,” answered D’Argenton, +gravely. +</p> + +<p> +Without knowing it, she had again wounded his sensitive pride, and he turned +away without vouchsafing another syllable. +</p> + +<p> +But Moronval profited by this opening. “Think of it!” he said; +“think that such verses as those cannot find a publisher! That such +genius as that is buried in obscurity! If we only could publish a +magazine!” +</p> + +<p> +“And why can you not?” asked Ida, quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“Because we have not the funds.” +</p> + +<p> +“But they can easily be procured. Such talent should not be allowed to +languish!” +</p> + +<p> +She spoke with great earnestness; and Moronval saw at once that he had played +his cards well, and proceeded to take advantage of the lady’s weakness by +talking to her of D’Argenton, whom he painted in glowing colors. +</p> + +<p> +He spoke of him as Lara, or Manifred, a proud and independent nature, one which +could not be conquered by the hardships of his lot. +</p> + +<p> +Here Ida interrupted him to ask if the poet was not of noble birth. +</p> + +<p> +“Most assuredly, madame. He is a viscount, and descended from one of the +noblest families in Auvergne. His father was ruined by the dishonesty of an +agent.” +</p> + +<p> +This was his text, which he proceeded to enlarge upon, and illustrate by many +romantic incidents. Ida drank in the whole story; and while these two were +absorbed in earnest conversation, Jack grew jealous, and made various efforts +to attract his mother’s attention. “Jack, do be quiet!” and +“Jack, you are insufferable!” finally sent him off, with tearful +eyes and swollen lips, to sulk in the corner of the salon. Meanwhile the +literary entertainments of the evening went on, and finally Labassandre, after +numerous entreaties, was induced to sing. His voice was so powerful, and so +pervaded the house, that Mâdou, who was in the kitchen preparing tea, replied +by a frightful war-cry. The poor fellow worshipped noise of all kinds and at +all times. +</p> + +<p> +Moronval and the comtesse continued their conversation; and D’Argenton, +who by this time understood that he was the subject, stood in front of them, +apparently absorbed in conversation with one of the professors. He appeared to +be out of temper—and with whom? With the whole world; for he was one of +that very large class who are at war against society, and against the manners +and customs of their day. +</p> + +<p> +At this very moment he was declaiming violently, “You have all the vices +of the last century, and none of its amenities. Honor is a mere name. Love is a +farce. You have accomplished nothing intellectually.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon me, sir,” interrupted his hearer. But the other went on +more vehemently and more aggressively. He wished, he said, that all France +could hear what he thought. The nation was abased, crushed beyond all hope of +recuperation. As for himself, he had determined to emigrate to America. +</p> + +<p> +All this time the poet was vaguely conscious of the admiring gaze that was bent +upon him. He experienced something of the same sensation that one has in the +fields in the early evening, when the moon suddenly rises behind you and +compels you to turn toward its silent presence. The eyes of this woman +magnetized him in the same way. The words she caught in regard to leaving +France struck a chill to her heart. A funereal gloom settled over the room. +Additional dismay overwhelmed her as D’Argenton wound up with a vigorous +tirade against French women,—their lightness and coquetry, the +insincerity of their smiles, and the venality of their love. +</p> + +<p> +The poet no longer conversed; he declaimed, leaning against the chimney, and +careless who heard either his voice or his words. +</p> + +<p> +Poor Ida, intensely absorbed as she was in him, could not realize that he was +indifferent, and fancied that his invectives were addressed to herself. +</p> + +<p> +“He knows who I am,” she said, and bowed her head in shame. +</p> + +<p> +Moronval said aloud, “What a genius!” and in a lower voice to +himself, “What a boaster!” But Ida needed nothing more; her heart +was gone. Had Dr. Hirsch, who was always so interested in pathological +singularities, been then at leisure, he might have made a curious study of this +case of instantaneous combustion. +</p> + +<p> +An hour before, Madame Moronval had dispatched Jack to bed, with two or three +of the younger children; the others were gaping in silent wretchedness, +stupefied by all they saw and heard. The Chinese lanterns swung in the wind +each side of the garden-gate; the lane was unlighted, and not even a policeman +enlivened its muddy sidewalk; but the disputative little group that left the +Moronval Academy cared little for the gloom, the cold, or the dampness. +</p> + +<p> +When they reached the avenue they found that the hour for the omnibus had +passed. They accepted this as they did the other disagreeables of life—in +the same brave spirit. +</p> + +<p> +Art is a great magician. It creates a sunshine from which its devotees, as well +as the poor and the ugly, the sick and the sorry, can each borrow a little, and +with it gain a grace to suffer, and a calm serenity that may well be envied. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"></a> +CHAPTER V.<br /> +A DINNER WITH IDA.</h2> + +<p> +The next day the Moronvals received from Madame de Barancy an invitation for +the following Monday; at the bottom of the note was a postscript, expressing +the pleasure she should have in receiving also M. d’Argenton. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not go,” said the poet, dryly, when Moronval handed him +the coquettish perfumed note. Then the principal grew very angry, as he saw his +plans frustrated. “Why would not D’Argenton accept the +invitation?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because,” was the answer, “I never visit such women.” +</p> + +<p> +“You make a great mistake,” said Moronval; “Madame de Barancy +is not the kind of person you imagine. Besides, to serve a friend, you should +lay aside your scruples. You see that I need the countess, that she is disposed +to look favorably on my Colonial Review, and you should do all that lies in +your power to favor my views. Come, now, think better of it.” +</p> + +<p> +D’Argenton, after being properly entreated, finished by accepting the +invitation. +</p> + +<p> +On the following Monday, therefore, Moronval and his wife left the academy +under the supervision of Dr. Hirsch, and presented themselves in the Boulevard +Haussmann, where the poet was to join them. +</p> + +<p> +Dinner was at seven; D’Argenton did not arrive until half an hour past +the time. Ida was in a state of great anxiety. “Do you think he will +come?” she asked; “perhaps he is ill. He looks very +delicate.” +</p> + +<p> +At last he appeared with the air of a conquering hero, making some indifferent +excuse for his lack of punctuality. His manner, however, was less disdainful +than usual, for the hotel had impressed him. Its luxury, the flowers, and thick +carpets; the little boudoir with its bouquets of white lilacs; the commonplace +salon, like a dentist’s waiting-room, a blue ceiling and gilded +mouldings, the ebony furniture, cushioned with gold color, and the balcony +exposed to the dust of the boulevard,—all charmed the attaché of the +Moronval Academy, and gave him a favorable impression of wealth and high life. +</p> + +<p> +The table equipage, the imposing effect produced by Augustin, in short, all the +luxurious details of the house, appealed to his senses, and D’Argenton, +without flattering the countess as openly as did Moronval; yet succeeded in +doing so in a more subtile manner, by thawing under her influence to a very +marked extent. +</p> + +<p> +He was an interminable talker, and submitted with a very bad grace to any +interruption. He was arbitrary and egotistical, and rang the changes on the +<i>I</i> and the <i>my</i> for a whole evening, without allowing any one else +to speak. +</p> + +<p> +Unhappily, to be a good listener is a quality far above natures like that of +the countess; and the dinner was characterized by some unfortunate incidents. +D’Argenton was particularly fond of repeating the replies he had made to +the various editors and theatrical managers who had declined his articles, and +refused to print his prose or his verse. His mots on these occasions had been +clever and caustic; but with Madame de Barancy he was never able to reach that +point, preceded as it must necessarily be with lengthy explanations. At the +critical moment Ida would invariably interrupt him,—always, to be sure, +with some thought for his comfort. +</p> + +<p> +“A little more of this ice, M. d’Argenton, I beg of you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not any, madame,” the poet would answer with a frown, and +continue, “Then I said to him—” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid you do not like it,” urged the lady. +</p> + +<p> +“It is excellent, madame,—and I said these cruel +words—” +</p> + +<p> +Another interruption from Ida; who, later, when she saw her poet in a fit of +the sulks, wondered what she had done to displease him. Two or three times +during dinner she was quite ready to weep, but did her best to hide her +feelings by urging all the delicacies of her table upon M. and Madame Moronval. +Dinner over, and the guests established in the well warmed and lighted salon, +the principal fancied he saw his way clear, and said suddenly, in a half +indifferent tone, to the countess,— +</p> + +<p> +“I have thought much of our little matter of business. It will cost less +than I fancied.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed!” she answered absently, +</p> + +<p> +“If, madame, you would accord to me a few moments of your +attention—” +</p> + +<p> +But madame was occupied in looking at her poet, who was walking up and down the +salon silent and preoccupied. +</p> + +<p> +“Of what can he be thinking?” she said to herself. +</p> + +<p> +Of his digestion only, dear reader. Suffering somewhat from dyspepsia, and +always anxious in regard to his health, he never failed, on leaving the table, +to walk for half an hour, no matter where he might chance to be. +</p> + +<p> +Ida watched him silently. For the first time in her life she loved, really and +passionately, and felt her heart beat as it had never beat before. Foolish and +ignorant, while at the same time credulous and romantic; very near that fatal +age—thirty years—which is almost certain to create in woman a great +transformation; she now, aided by the memory of every romance she had ever +read, created for herself an ideal who resembled D’Argenton. The +expression of her face so changed in looking at him, her laughing eyes assumed +so tender an expression, that her passion soon ceased to be a mystery to any +one. +</p> + +<p> +Moronval, who looked on, shrugged his shoulders, with a glance at his wife. +“She is simply crazy,” he said to himself. +</p> + +<p> +She certainly was crazed in a degree; and, after dinner, she tormented herself +to find some way of returning to the good graces of D’Argenton, and, as +he approached her in his walk, she said,— +</p> + +<p> +“If M. d’Argenton wished to be very amiable, he would recite to us +that beautiful poem which created such a sensation the other evening. I have +thought of it all the week. There is one verse that haunts me, especially the +final line: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +‘And I believe in love,<br /> +As I believe in a good God above.’” +</p> + +<p> +“As I believe in God above,” said the poet, making as horrible a +grimace as if his finger had been caught in a vice. +</p> + +<p> +The countess, who had but a vague idea of prosody, understood simply that she +had again incurred the displeasure of D’Argenton. The fact is that he had +begun to affect her in a manner quite beyond her own control, and which, in its +unreasoning terror, was somewhat like the timid worship offered by the Japanese +to their hideous idols. +</p> + +<p> +Under the influence of his presence she was more foolish by far than nature had +made her; her piquancy forsook her, and the versatility that rendered her so +charmingly absurd was quite gone. But D’Argenton relented, and suspended +his hygienic exercise for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be most happy to recite anything, madame, at your command; but +what?” +</p> + +<p> +Here Moronval interposed. “Recite the ‘Credo,’ my dear +fellow,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, then; I am satisfied to obey you.” +</p> + +<p> +The poem commenced gently enough with the words,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Madame, your toilette is charming.” +</p> + +<p> +Then irony deepened to bitterness, bitterness to fury, and concluded in these +terrific words: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Good Lord, deliver me from this woman so terrible,<br /> +Who drains from my heart its life-blood.” +</p> + +<p> +As if these extraordinary words had aroused in his memory most painful +recollections, D’Argenton relapsed into silence, and said not another +word the whole evening. Poor Ida was also thoughtful, haunted by vague fears of +the noble ladies who had so warped the gentle spirit of her poet, so drained +his heart that there was not a drop left for her. +</p> + +<p> +“You know, my dear fellow,” said Moronval, as they strolled through +the empty boulevards, arm-in-arm, that night, little Madame Moronval pattering +on in front of them,—“you know if I can succeed in the +establishment of my Review, that I shall make you editor-in-chief!” +</p> + +<p> +Moronval threw the half of his cargo overboard in order to save his ship, for +he saw that unless the poet was enlisted, the countess would take no interest +in the scheme. D’Argenton made no reply, for he was absorbed in thoughts +of Ida. +</p> + +<p> +No man can play the part of a lyric poet, a martyr to love, without being +conscious of, and touched by, that silent adoration which appeals to his +vanity, both as a man of letters and a man of the world. Since he had seen Ida +in her luxurious home, about which there was the same suspicion of vulgarity +that clung about herself, the rigidity of his principles had amazingly +softened. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"></a> +CHAPTER VI.<br /> +AMAURY D’ARGENTON.</h2> + +<p> +Amaury d’Argenton belonged to one of those ancient provincial families +whose castles resembled great farms. Impoverished for the three last +generations, they had finally sold their property, and come to Paris to seek +their fortunes; with little change for the better, however; and for the last +thirty years they had dropped the <i>De</i>, which Amaury ventured to resume on +adopting his literary career. He meant to make it famous, and even was +audacious enough to announce this intention aloud. +</p> + +<p> +The childhood of the poet had been one of gloom and privation; surrounded by +anxieties and by tears, by sordid cares, and that constant lack of money which +imbitters the lives of so many of us, he had never laughed nor played like +other children. A scholarship that was obtained for him enabled him to complete +his studies, and his only recreation was obtained through the kindness of an +aunt who resided in the Marais, and who gave him gloves and other trifles, +which the poet very early in life learned to regard as essentials. +</p> + +<p> +Such a childhood ripens early into bitter maturity. Infinite prosperity is +needed to efface such early impressions, and we often see men who have attained +to high honors, who are rich and powerful, and yet who have never conquered the +timidity born of their early deprivations. D’Argenton’s bitterness +was not without reason: at twenty-five he had succeeded in nothing; he had +published a volume at his own expense, and had lived on bread and water in +consequence for at least six months. He was industrious as well as ambitious; +but something more than these qualities are essential to a poet, whose +imagination and genius must be endowed with wings. These D’Argenton had +not; he felt merely that vague uneasiness which indicates a missing limb, but +that was all, and he lost both time and trouble in ineffectual efforts; his +aunt aided him by a small allowance, but his life bore not the shadow of a +resemblance to the picture drawn by Ida. In fact, D’Argenton had never +been entangled in any serious love affair; his nature was cold and prudent, and +yet he had been beloved by more than one woman. To D’Argenton, however, +their society had always seemed a waste of time. Ida de Barancy was the first +who had made upon him any real impression. Of this fact Ida had no idea, and +whenever she met the poet on her very frequent visits to Jack, it was always +with the same deprecating air and timid voice. The poet, while adopting an air +of utter indifference, cultivated the affection and society of little Jack, +whom he induced to talk freely of his mother. +</p> + +<p> +Jack being extremely flattered, gladly gave every information in his power, and +talked freely of the kind friend who was so good to mamma. The mention of this +person cost the poet a strange pang. “He is so kind,” babbled Jack, +“he comes to see us every day; or, if he does not come, he sends us great +baskets of fruit, and playthings for me.” +</p> + +<p> +“And is your mother very fond of him, too?” continued +D’Argenton, without looking up from his writing. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, indeed, sir,” answered the little fellow, innocently. +</p> + +<p> +But are we quite sure that he spoke so innocently. The minds of children are +not always so transparent as we believe; and it is difficult to say when they +understand matters that go on about them, and when they do not. That mysterious +growth that is constantly going on within them, has unexpected seasons of +bursting into flower, and they suddenly mass together the disconnected +fragments of information they have acquired and intuitively attain the result. +</p> + +<p> +Had Jack, therefore, no perception of the hidden rage that filled the heart of +his professor when he questioned him in regard to their kind friend? Jack did +not like D’Argenton; in addition to his first dislike, he was now +actuated by strong jealousy. His mother was too much occupied by this man. When +he passed the day with her, she in her turn plied him with questions, and asked +if his teacher never spoke to him of her. +</p> + +<p> +“Never,” said Jack, calmly. And yet that very day D’Argenton +had desired him to present his compliments to the countess, with a copy of his +poems; but Jack at first forgot the volume, and finally lost it, as much from +cunning as from heedlessness. +</p> + +<p> +Thus, while these two dissimilar natures were attracted toward each other, the +child stood between them suspicious and defiant, as if he already foresaw what +the future would bring about. +</p> + +<p> +Every two weeks Jack dined with his mother, sometimes alone with her, sometimes +with their friend. They went to the theatre in the evening, or to a concert, +and Jack was sent back to school with his pockets full of dainties, in which +the other children shared. +</p> + +<p> +One evening, as he entered his mother’s house, he saw the dining-table +laid for three, and a gorgeous display of flowers and crystal. His mother met +him, exquisitely dressed, wearing in her hair sprays of white lilacs, like +those that filled the vases. The blazing fire alone lighted the salon, into +which she gayly drew the boy, as she said, “Guess who is here!” +</p> + +<p> +“O, I know very well!” exclaimed Jack in delight; “it is our +good friend.” +</p> + +<p> +But it was D’Argenton, who sat in full evening dress on the sofa, near +the fire. The enemy was in Jack’s own seat, and the child was so +overwhelmed by his disappointment that he with difficulty restrained his tears. +There was a moment of restraint and discomfort felt by all three. Just then the +door was thrown open, and dinner announced by Augustin. The dinner was long and +tedious to little Jack. Have you ever felt so entirely out of place that you +would have gladly disappeared from off the face of the globe, painfully +conscious, withal, that had you so vanished, no one would have missed you? When +Jack spoke, no one listened; his questions were unheard and his wants unheeded. +The conversation between his mother and D’Argenton was incomprehensible +to him, although he saw that his mother blushed more than once, and hastily +raised her glass to her lips as if to conceal her rising color. Where were +those gay little dinners when Jack sat close at his mother’s side and +reigned an absolute king at the table? This recollection came to the +boy’s mind just as Madame de Barancy offered a superb pear to +D’Argenton. +</p> + +<p> +“That came from our friend at Tours,” said Jack, maliciously. +</p> + +<p> +D’Argenton, who was about to peel the fruit, dropped it upon his plate +with a shrug of the shoulders. What an angry glance Ida threw upon her child! +She had never looked at him in that way before. Jack did not venture to speak +again, and the evening to him was but a dreary continuation of the repast. +</p> + +<p> +Ida and the poet talked in low voices, and in that confidential tone that +indicates great intimacy. He told her of his sad childhood and of his early +home. He described the ruined towers and the long corridors where the wind +raged and howled. He then depicted his early struggles in the great city, the +constant obstacles thrown in the way of the development of his genius, of his +jealous rivals and literary enemies, and of the terrible epigrams which he had +hurled upon them. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I uttered these stinging words.” This time she did not +interrupt him, but listened with a smile, and her absorption was so great that +when he ceased speaking she still listened, although nothing was to be heard in +the salon save the ticking of the clock and the rustling of the leaves of the +album that Jack, half asleep, was turning over. Suddenly she rose with a start. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Jack, my love; call Constant to take you back to school. It is +quite time.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, mamma!” said the child, sadly; but he dared not say that he +generally remained much later. He did not wish to be troublesome to his mother, +nor to meet again such an expression in her ordinarily serene and laughing +eyes, as had so startled him at the dinner-table. +</p> + +<p> +She rewarded him for his self-control by a most loving embrace. +</p> + +<p> +“Good night, my child!” said D’Argenton, and he drew the +child toward him as if to embrace him, but suddenly, with a movement of +repulsion, turned aside as he had done at dinner from the fruit. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot! I cannot!” he murmured, throwing himself back in his +arm-chair and passing his handkerchief over his forehead. +</p> + +<p> +Jack turned to his mother in amazement. +</p> + +<p> +“Go, dear Jack. Take him away, Constant.” And while Madame de +Barancy sought to conciliate her poet, the child returned with a heavy heart to +his school; and in the cold dormitory, as he thought of the professor installed +in his mother’s chimney-corner, said to himself, “He is very +comfortable there. I wonder how long he means to stay!” +</p> + +<p> +In D’Argenton’s exclamation and in his repugnance to Jack, there +was certainly some acting, but there was also real feeling. He was very jealous +of the child, who represented to him Ida’s past, not that the poet was +profoundly in love with the countess. He, on the contrary, loved himself in +her, and, Narcissus-like, worshipped his own image which he saw reflected in +her clear eyes. But D’Argenton would have preferred to be the first to +disturb those depths. +</p> + +<p> +But these regrets were useless, though Ida shared them. “Why did I not +know him earlier?” she said to herself over and over again. +</p> + +<p> +“She ought to understand by this time,” said D’Argenton, +sulkily, “that I do not wish to see that boy.” +</p> + +<p> +But even for her poet’s sake Ida could not keep her child away from her +entirely. She did not, however, go so often to the academy, nor summon Jack +from school, as she had done, and this change was by no means the smallest of +the sacrifices she was called upon to make. +</p> + +<p> +As to the hotel she occupied, her carriage, and the luxury in which she lived, +she was ready to abandon them all at a word from D’Argenton. +</p> + +<p> +“You will see,” she said, “how I can aid you. I can work, +and, besides, I shall not be completely penniless.” +</p> + +<p> +But D’Argenton hesitated. He was, notwithstanding his apparent enthusiasm +and recklessness, extremely methodical and clear-headed. +</p> + +<p> +“No, we will wait a while. I shall be rich some day, and +then—” +</p> + +<p> +He alluded to his old aunt, who now made him an allowance and whose heir he +would unquestionably be. “The good old lady was very old,” he +added. And the two, Ida and D’Argenton, made a great many plans for the +days that were to come. They would live in the country, but not so far away +from Paris that they would be deprived of its advantages. They would have a +little cottage, over the door of which should be inscribed this legend: +<i>Parva domus, magna quies</i>. There he could work, write a book—a +novel, and later, a volume of poems. The titles of both were in readiness, but +that was all. +</p> + +<p> +Then the publishers would make him offers; he would be famous, perhaps a member +of the Academy—though, to be sure, that institution was mildewed, +moth-eaten, and ready to fall. +</p> + +<p> +“That is nothing!” said Ida; “you must be a member!” +and she saw herself already in a corner on a reception-day, modestly and +quietly dressed, as befitted the wife of a man of letters. While they waited, +however, they regaled themselves on the pears sent by “the kind friend, +who was certainly the best and least suspicious of men.” +</p> + +<p> +D’Argenton found these pears, with their satiny skins, very delicious; +but he ate them with so many expressions of discontent, and with so many little +cutting remarks to Ida, that she spent much of her time in tears. +</p> + +<p> +Weeks and months passed on in this way without any other change in their lives +than that which naturally grew out of an increasing estrangement between +Moronval and his professor of literature. The principal, daily expecting a +decision from Ida on the subject of the Review, suspected D’Argenton of +influencing her against the project, and this belief he ended by expressing to +the poet. +</p> + +<p> +One morning, Jack, who now went out but rarely, looked out of the windows with +longing eyes. The spring sunshine was so bright, the sky so blue, that he +longed for liberty and out-door life. +</p> + +<p> +The leaf-buds of the lilacs were swelling, and the flower-beds in the garden +were gently upheaved, as if with the movements of invisible life. +</p> + +<p> +From the lane without came the sounds of children at play, and of +singing-birds, all revelling in the sunshine. It was one of those days when +every window is thrown open to let in the light and air, and to drive away all +wintry shadows, all that blackness imparted by the length of the nights and the +smoke of the fires. +</p> + +<p> +While Jack was longing for wings, the door-bell rang, and his mother entered in +great haste and much agitated, although dressed with great care. She came for +him to breakfast with her in the Bois, and would not bring him back until +night. He must ask Moronval’s permission first; but as Ida brought the +quarterly payment, you may imagine that permission was easily granted. +</p> + +<p> +“How jolly!” cried Jack; “how jolly!” and while his +mother casually informed Moronval that M. d’Argenton had told her the +evening previous that he was summoned to Auvergne, to his aunt who was dying, +the boy ran to change his dress. On his way he met Mâdou, who, sad and lonely, +was busy with his pails and brooms, and had not had time to find out that the +air was soft and the sunshine warm. On seeing him, Jack had a bright idea. +</p> + +<p> +“O, mamma, if we could take Mâdou!” +</p> + +<p> +This permission was a little difficult to procure, so multifarious were the +duties of the prince; but Jack was so persistent that kind Madame Moronval +agreed for that day to assume the black boy’s place. +</p> + +<p> +“Mâdou! Mâdou!” cried the child, rushing toward him. “Quick, +dress yourself and come out in the carriage with us; we are going to breakfast +in the Bois!” +</p> + +<p> +There was a moment of confusion. Mâdou stood still in amazement, while Madame +Moronval borrowed a tunic that would be suitable for him in this emergency. +Little Jack danced with joy, while Madame de Barancy, excited like a canary by +the noise, chattered on to Moronval, giving him details in regard to the +illness of D’Argenton’s aunt. +</p> + +<p> +At last they started, Jack and his mother seated side by side in the victoria, +and Mâdou on the box with Augustin. The progress would hardly be regarded as a +royal one, but Mâdou was satisfied. The drive itself was charming, the Avenue +de l’Imperatrice was filled with people driving, riding, and walking. +Children of all ages enlivened the scene. Babies, in their long white skirts, +gazing about with the sweet solemnity of infancy, and older children fancifully +dressed, with their tutors or nurses, crowded the pavements. Jack, in an +ecstasy of delight, kissed his mother, and pulled Mâdou by the sleeve. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you happy, Mâdou?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, very happy,” was the answer. They reached the Bois, in +places quite green and fresh already. There were some spots where the tops of +the trees were in leaf, but the foliage was so minute that it looked like +smoke. The holly, whose crisp, stiff leaves had been covered with snow half the +winter, jostled the timid and distrustful lilacs whose leaf-buds were only +beginning to swell. The carriage drew up at the restaurant, and while the +breakfast ordered by Madame de Barancy was in course of preparation, she and +the children took a walk to the lake. At this early hour there were few of +those superb equipages to be seen that appeared later in the day. The lake was +lovely, with white swans dotting it here and there, and now and then a gentle +ripple shook its surface, and miniature waves dashed against the fringe of old +willows on one side. +</p> + +<p> +What a walk! And what a breakfast served at the open windows! The children +attacked it with the vigor of schoolboys. They laughed incessantly from the +beginning to the end of the repast. +</p> + +<p> +When breakfast was over, Ida proposed that they should visit the <i>Jardin +d’Acclimation</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“That is a splendid idea,” said Jack, “for Mâdou has never +been there, and won’t he be amused!” +</p> + +<p> +They drove through <i>La Grande Allée</i> in the almost deserted garden, which +to the children was full of interest. They were fascinated by the animals, who, +as they passed, looked at them with sleepy or inquisitive eyes, or smelled with +pink nostrils at the fresh bread they had brought from the restaurant. +</p> + +<p> +Mâdou, who at first had made a pretence of interest only to gratify Jack, now +became absorbed in what he saw. He did not need to examine the blue ticket over +the little inclosures to recognize certain animals from his own land. With +mingled pain and pleasure he looked at the kangaroos, and seemed to suffer in +seeing them in the limited space which they covered in three leaps. +</p> + +<p> +He stood in silence before the light grating where the antelopes were inclosed. +The birds, too, awakened his compassion. The ostriches and cassowaries looked +mournful enough in the shade of their solitary exotic; but the parrots and +smaller birds in a long cage, without even a green leaf or twig, were +absolutely pitiful, and Mâdou thought of the Academy Moronval and of himself. +The plumage of the birds was dull and torn; they told a tale of past battles, +of dismal flutterings against the bars of their prison-house. Even the +rose-colored flamingoes and the long-billed ibex, who seem associated with the +Nile and the desert and the immovable sphinx, all assumed a thoroughly +commonplace aspect among the white peacocks and the little Chinese ducks that +paddled at ease in their miniature pond. +</p> + +<p> +By degrees the garden filled up with people, and there suddenly appeared at the +end of the avenue so strange and fantastic a spectacle that Mâdou stood still +in silent ecstasy. He saw the heads of two elephants, who were slowly +approaching, waving their trunks slowly, and bearing on their broad backs a +crowd of women with light umbrellas, of children with straw hats and colored +ribbons. Following the elephant came a giraffe carrying his small and haughty +head very high. This singular caravan wound through the circuitous road, with +many nervous laughs and terrified cries. +</p> + +<p> +Under the glowing sunlight every tint of color was thrown out in relief upon +the thick and rugged skin of the elephants, who extended their trunks either +toward the tops of the trees or to the pockets of the spectators, shaking their +long ears when gently touched by some child, or by the umbrella of some +laughing girl on their backs. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter, Mâdou; you tremble. Are you ill?” asked Jack. +Mâdou was absolutely faint with emotion, but when he learned that he too could +mount the clumsy animals, his grave face became almost tragic in expression. +Jack refused to accompany him, and remained with his mother, whom he considered +too grave for this fête-day. He liked to walk close at her side, or linger +behind her in the dust of her long silken skirts, which she disdained to lift. +They seated themselves, and watched the little black boy climb on the back of +the elephant. Once there, the child seemed in his native place. He was no +longer an exile, nor the awkward schoolboy, nor the little servant, humiliated +by his menial duties and by his master’s tyranny. He seemed imbued with +new life, and his eyes sparkled with energy and determination. Happy little +king! Two or three times he went around the garden. “Again! again!” +he cried, and over the little bridge, between the inclosures of the kangaroos +and other animals, he went to and fro, excited almost to madness by the heavy +long strides of the elephant. Kérika, Dahomey, war-like scenes, and the hunt, +all returned to his memory. He spoke to the elephant in his native tongue, and +as he heard the sweet African voice, the huge creature shut his eyes with +delight and trumpeted his pleasure. The zebras neighed, and the antelopes +started in terror, while from the great cage of tropical birds, where the sun +shone most fully, came warblings and flutterings of wings, discordant screams, +and an enraged chatter, all the tumult, in short, on a small scale, of a +primeval forest in the tropics. +</p> + +<p> +But it was growing late. Mâdou must awaken from this beautiful dream. Besides, +as soon as the sun dropped behind the horizon, the wind rose keen and cold, as +so often happens in the early spring. This wintry chill affected the spirits of +the children, and they grew strangely quiet and sad. Madame de Barancy for a +wonder was also very silent. She had something she wished to say, and she +probably found some difficulty in selecting her words, for she left them unsaid +until the last moment. Then she took Jack’s hand in hers. “Listen, +child, I have some bad news to tell you!” +</p> + +<p> +He understood at once that some great misfortune was impending, and he turned +his supplicating eyes toward his mother. She continued in a low, quick +voice,— +</p> + +<p> +“I am going away, my son, on a long journey; I am obliged to leave you +behind, but I will write to you. Do not cry, dear, for it hurts me; I shall not +be gone long, and we shall soon see each other again. Yes, very soon, I promise +you.” And she threw out mysterious hints of a fortune to come, and money +affairs, and other things that were not at all interesting to the child, who in +reality paid little attention to her words, for he was weeping silently but +chokingly. The gay streets seemed no longer the Paris of the morning, the +sunshine was gone, the flowers on the corner-stands were faded, and all was +very dreary, for he saw through eyes dim with tears, and the child was about to +lose his mother. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"></a> +CHAPTER VII.<br /> +MÂDOU’S FLIGHT.</h2> + +<p> +Some time after this a letter arrived at the academy from D’Argenton. +</p> + +<p> +The poet wrote to announce that the death of a relative had so changed the +position of his private affairs that he must offer his resignation as Professor +of Literature. In a somewhat abrupt postscript he added that Madame de Barancy +was obliged to leave Paris for an indefinite time, and that she confided her +little Jack to M. Moronval’s paternal care. In case of illness or +accident to the child, a letter could be forwarded to the mother under cover to +D’Argenton. +</p> + +<p> +“The paternal care of Moronval!” Had the poet laughed aloud as he +penned these words? Did he not know perfectly well the child’s fate at +the academy as soon as it was understood that his mother had left Paris, and +that nothing more was to be expected from her? +</p> + +<p> +The arrival of this letter threw Moronval into a terrible fit of rage, which +rage shook the equilibrium of the academy as a violent tornado might have done +in the tropics. +</p> + +<p> +The countess gone! and gone too, apparently, with that brainless fellow, who +had neither wit nor imagination. Was it not shameful that a woman of her +years—for she was by no means in her earliest youth—should be so +heartless as to leave her child alone in Paris, among strangers. +</p> + +<p> +But even while he pitied Jack, Moronval said to himself, “Wait a while, +young man, and I will show you how paternally I shall manage you.” +</p> + +<p> +But if he was enraged when he thought of the Review, his cherished project, he +was more indignant that D’Argenton and Ida should have made use of him +and his house to advance their own plans. He hurried off to the Boulevard +Haussmann to learn all he could; but the mystery was no nearer elucidation. +</p> + +<p> +Constant was expecting a letter from her mistress, and knew only that she had +broken entirely with all past relations; that the house was to be given up, and +the furniture sold. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! sir,” said Constant, mournfully, “it was an unfortunate +day for us when we set foot in your old barracks!” +</p> + +<p> +The preceptor returned home convinced that at the termination of the next +quarter Jack would be withdrawn from the school. Deciding, therefore, that the +child was no longer a mine of wealth, he determined to put an end to all the +indulgences with which he had been treated. Poor Jack after this day sat at the +table no longer as an equal, but as the butt for all the teachers. No more +dainties, no more wine for him. There were constant allusions made to +D’Argenton: he was selfish and vain, a man totally without genius; as to +his noble birth, it was more than doubtful; the château in the mountains, of +which he discoursed so fluently, existed only in his imagination. These fierce +attacks on the man whom he detested, amused the child; but something prevented +him from joining in the servile applause of the other children, who eagerly +laughed at each one of Moronval’s witticisms. The fact was, that Jack +dreaded the veiled allusions to his mother with which these remarks invariably +terminated. He, to be sure, rarely caught their full meaning, but he saw by the +contemptuous laughter that they were far from kindly. Madame Moronval would +sometimes interrupt the conversation by a friendly word to Jack, or by sending +him on some trifling errand. During his absence, she administered a reproof to +her husband and his friends. +</p> + +<p> +“Pshaw!” said Labassandre, “he does not understand.” +Perhaps he did not fully, but he comprehended enough to make his heart very +sore. +</p> + +<p> +He had known for a long time that he had a father whose name was not the same +as his own, that his mother had no husband; and, one day, when one of the +schoolboys made some taunting allusion, he flew at him in a rage. The boy was +nearly choked; his cries summoned Moronval to the scene, and Jack for the first +time was severely flogged. +</p> + +<p> +From that day the charm was broken, and Jack’s daily life did not greatly +differ from that of Mâdou, who was at this time very unhappy. The pleasant +weather, and the day at the <i>Jardin d’Aclimation</i>, had given him a +terrible fit of homesickness. His melancholy at first took the form of a sullen +revolt against his exacting masters. Suddenly all this was changed, the +boy’s eyes grew bright, and he seemed to go about the house and the +garden as if in a dream. +</p> + +<p> +One night the black boy was undressing, and Jack heard him singing to himself +in a language that was strange. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you singing, Mâdou?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not singing, sir; I’m talking negro talk!” and Mâdou +confided to his friend his intention of running away from school. He had +thought of it for some time, and was only waiting for pleasant weather; and now +he meant to go to Dahomey, and find Kérika. If Jack would go with him, they +would go to Marseilles on foot, and then go on board some vessel. Nothing could +happen to them, for he had his amulet all safe. Jack made many objections. +Dahomey had no charms for him. He thought of the copper basin, and the terrible +heads, with an emotion of sick horror; and, besides, how could he go so far +from his mother? +</p> + +<p> +“Good,” said Mâdou; “you can remain here, and I will go +alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“And when?” +</p> + +<p> +“To-morrow,” answered the negro, resolutely closing his eyes as if +he knew that he would need all the strength that sleep could give him. +</p> + +<p> +The next morning, when Jack passed through the large recitation-room, he saw +Mâdou busily scrubbing the floor, and concluded that he had relinquished his +project. +</p> + +<p> +The classes were busy for an hour or two, when Moronval appeared. “Where +is Mâdou?” he asked abruptly. “He has gone to market,” +answered madame. Jack, however, said to himself that Mâdou would not return. +</p> + +<p> +In a little while Moronval came back and asked the same question. His wife +answered, uneasily, that she could not understand the boy’s prolonged +absence. +</p> + +<p> +Dinner-time came, but no Mâdou, no vegetables, and no meat. +</p> + +<p> +“Something must have happened,” said Madame Moronval, more +indulgent than her impatient husband, who paced up and down the corridor with +his rod in his hand, while the hungry schoolboys were quite ready to devour +each other. Finally, Madame Moronval sallied forth herself to buy some +provisions; and on her return, burdened with packages, she was greeted by an +enthusiastic shout from the children, who, when the fierceness of their hunger +abated, ventured on surmises as to Mâdou’s whereabouts. Moronval shrewdly +suspected the truth. “How much money did he have?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Fifteen francs,” was his wife’s timid answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Fifteen francs! Then it is certain he has run away!” +</p> + +<p> +“But where has he gone?” asked the doctor; “he could hardly +reach Dahomey with that amount.” +</p> + +<p> +Moronval scowled fiercely, and went to report to the police, for it was very +essential to him that the child should be found, or, at all events, prevented +from reaching Marseilles. Moronval was in wholesome fear of Monsieur Bonfils. +“The world is so wicked, you know,” he said to his wife; “the +boy might make some complaints which would injure the school.” +Consequently, in making his report at the police office, he stated that Mâdou +had carried away a large sum. “But,” he added, assuming an air of +indifference, “the money part of the matter is of very little importance, +compared to the dangers that the poor child runs—this dethroned king +without country or people;” and Moronval dashed away a tear. +</p> + +<p> +“We will find him, my good sir,” said the official; “have no +anxiety.” +</p> + +<p> +But Moronval was anxious, nevertheless, and so agitated, that, instead of +awaiting quietly at home the result of the investigations, as he had been +advised to do, he started out himself, with all the children to join in the +search. +</p> + +<p> +They went to each one of the gates, interrogated the custom-house officers, and +gave them a description of Mâdou. Then the party repaired to the police court, +for Moronval had the singular idea that in this way his pupils might learn +something of Parisian life. The children, fortunately, were too young to +understand all they saw, but they carried away with them a most sinister +impression. Jack especially, who was the most intelligent of the boys, returned +to the academy with a heavy heart, shocked at the glimpse he had caught of this +under-current of life. Over and over again he said to himself, “Where can +Mâdou be?” +</p> + +<p> +Then the child consoled himself with the thought that the negro was far on the +road to Marseilles; which road little Jack pictured to himself as running +straight as an arrow, with the sea at its termination, and the vessel lying +ready to sail. Only one thing disturbed him in regard to Mâdou’s journey: +the weather, that had been so fine the day of his departure, had suddenly +changed; and now the rain fell in torrents,—hail too, and even snow; and +the wind blew around their frail dwelling, causing the poor little children of +the sun to shiver in their sleep, and dream of a rocking ship and a heavy sea. +Curled up under his blankets one night, listening to the howling of the fierce +wind, Jack thought of his friend, imagined him half frozen lying under a tree, +his thin clothing thoroughly wet. But the reality was worse than this. +</p> + +<p> +“He is found!” cried Moronval, rushing into the dining-room, one +morning. “He is found; I have just been notified by the police. Give me +my hat and my cane!” +</p> + +<p> +He was in a state of great excitement. As much from the desire to flatter the +master, as from the love of noise that characterizes boys, the children hailed +this news with a wild hurrah. Jack did not speak, but sighed as he said to +himself, “Poor Mâdou!” +</p> + +<p> +Mâdou had been, in fact, at the station-house since the evening before. It was +there, amid criminals of all grades, that the presumptive heir of the kingdom +of Dahomey was found by his excellent tutor. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, my unfortunate child! have I found you at last?” +</p> + +<p> +The worthy Moronval could say no more; and, on seeing him throw his long arms +eagerly about the neck of the little black boy, the inspector of police could +not help thinking: “At last I have seen one teacher who loves his +pupils!” Mâdou, however, displayed the utmost indifference. His face was +positively without expression; not a ray of shame or of apprehension was +visible. His eyes were wide open, but he seemed to see nothing; his face was +pale—and the pallor of a negro is something appalling. He was covered +with mud from head to foot, and looked like some amphibious animal who, after +swimming in the water, had rolled in the mud on the shore. No hat, and no +shoes. What had happened to him? He alone could have told you, and he would not +speak. The policeman said, that, making his rounds the evening before, he had +found the boy hidden in a lime-kiln, that he was half-starved, and stupefied by +the excessive heat. Why had he lingered in Paris? +</p> + +<p> +This question Moronval did not ask; nor, indeed, did he speak one word to Mâdou +during their long drive to the academy. The boy was so worn out and crushed +that he sank into a corner, while Moronval glanced at him occasionally with an +expression of rage that at any other time would have terrified him. +</p> + +<p> +Moronval’s glance was like a keen rapier, with a flash like lightning, +crossing a poor little broken blade, shivered and rusty. +</p> + +<p> +When Jack saw the pitiful black face, the rags and the dirt, he could hardly +recognize the little king. Mâdou, as he passed, said good morning in so +mournful a tone that Jack’s eyes filled with tears. The children saw +nothing more of the black boy that day. Recitations went on in their usual +routine, and at intervals the sound of a lash was heard, and heavy groans from +Moronval’s private study. Madame Moronval turned pale, and the book she +held trembled. Even when all was again silent, Jack fancied that he still heard +the groans. +</p> + +<p> +At dinner the principal was radiant, though seemingly exhausted by fatigue. +“The little wretch!” he said to Dr. Hirsch and his wife. “The +little wretch! Just, see the state he has put me into!” +</p> + +<p> +That night Jack found the bed next to his occupied. Poor Mâdou had put his +master into such a state that he himself had not been able to go to bed without +assistance. Madame Moronval and Dr. Hirsch were there watching the lad, whose +sleep was broken by those heavy sighs and sobs common to children after a day +of painful excitement. +</p> + +<p> +“Then, Dr. Hirsch, you don’t think him ill?” asked Madame +Moronval, anxiously. +</p> + +<p> +“Not in the least, madame; that race has a covering like a +monitor!” +</p> + +<p> +When they were alone, Jack took Mâdou’s hand and found it as burning hot +as a brick from the furnace. “Dear Mâdou,” he whispered. Mâdou half +opened his eyes and looked at his friend with an expression of utter +discouragement. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s all over with Mâdou,” he murmured; “Mâdou has +lost his Gri-gri, and will never see Dahomey again.” +</p> + +<p> +This was the reason, then, that he had not left Paris. Two hours after he had +run away from the academy, the fifteen francs of market-money and his medal had +been stolen from him. Then, relinquishing all idea of Marseilles, of the ship +and of the sea, knowing that without his Gri-gri Dahomey was unattainable, +Mâdou had spent eight days and nights in the lowest depths of Paris, looking +for his amulet. Fearing that Moronval would discover his whereabouts, he hid +during the day and ventured into the streets only after nightfall. He slept by +the side of piles of bricks and mortar, which partly protected him from the +wind; or crawled into an open doorway, or under the arches of a bridge. +</p> + +<p> +Favored by his size and by his color, Mâdou glided about almost unseen; he had +associated with criminals of all classes, and had escaped without +contamination, for he thought only of finding his amulet. He had shared a crust +of bread with assassins, and drank with robbers; but the little king escaped +from these dangers as he had from others in Dahomey, where, when hunting with +Kérika, he had been awakened by the trumpeting of elephants and the roaring of +wild beasts, and saw, under some gigantic tree, the dim shadow of some strange +animal passing between himself and the bivouac fires; or caught a glimpse of +some great snake slowly winding through the underbrush. But the monsters to be +found in Paris are more terrible even than those in the African forests; or +they would have been, had he understood the dangers he incurred. But he could +not find his Gri-gri. Mâdou could not talk much, his exhaustion was so great; +and Jack fell asleep with his curiosity but partially satisfied. +</p> + +<p> +In the middle of the night he was awakened suddenly by a shout from Mâdou, who +was singing and talking in his own language with frightful volubility. Delirium +had begun. +</p> + +<p> +In the morning, Dr. Hirsch announced that Mâdou was very ill. “A +brain-fever!” he said, rubbing his hands in glee. +</p> + +<p> +This Dr. Hirsch was a terrible man. His head was stuffed full of all sorts of +Utopian ideas, of impracticable theories, and notions absolutely without +method. His studies had been too desultory to amount to anything. He had +mastered a few Latin phrases, and covered his real ignorance by a smattering of +the science of medicine as practised among the Indians and the Chinese. He even +had a strong leaning toward the magic arts, and when a human life was intrusted +to his care he took that opportunity to try some experiments. Madame Moronval +was inclined to call in another physician, but the principal, less +compassionate, and unwilling to incur the additional expense, determined to +leave the case solely in the hands of Dr. Hirsch. Wishing to have no +interference, this singular physician pretended that the disease was +contagious, and ordered Mâdou’s bed to be placed at the end of the garden +in an old hot-house. For a week he tried on his little victim every drug he had +ever heard of, the child making no more resistance than a sick dog would have +done. When the doctor, armed with his bottles and his powders, entered the +hot-house, the “children of the sun,” to whose minds a physician +was always more or less of a magician, gathered about the door and listened, +saying to each other in awed tones, “What is he going to do now to +Mâdou?” But the doctor locked the door, and peremptorily ordered the +children from its vicinity, telling them that they would be ill too, that +Mâdou’s illness was contagious; and this last idea added additional +mystery to that corner of the garden. +</p> + +<p> +Jack, nevertheless, desired to see his friend so much that he alone of all the +boys would have gladly passed the threshold, had it not been too closely +guarded. One day, however, he seized an occasion when the doctor had gone in +search of some forgotten drug, and crept softly into the improvised infirmary. +</p> + +<p> +It was one of those half rustic buildings which are used as a shelter for rakes +and hoes, or even to house some tender plants. Close by the side of +Mâdou’s iron bed, in the corner, was a pile of earthen flowerpots; a +broken trellis, some panes of glass, and a bundle of dried roots, completed the +dismal picture; and in the chimney, as if for the protection of some fragile +tropical plant, flickered a tiny fire. +</p> + +<p> +Mâdou was not asleep. His poor little thin face had still the same expression +of absolute indifference. His black hands, tightly clenched, lay on the outside +of the bedclothes. There was a look of a sick animal in his whole attitude, and +in the manner in which he turned his face toward the wall, as if an invisible +road was open to his eyes through the white stones, and every chink in the wall +had become a brilliant outlook toward a country known to him alone. +</p> + +<p> +Jack whispered, “It is I, Mâdou,—little Jack.” +</p> + +<p> +The child looked at him vacantly; he no longer understood the French language. +In his fever, all recollection of it had vanished. Instinct had effaced all +that art had inculcated, and Mâdou understood and spoke nothing save his savage +dialect. At this moment, another of “the children of the sun,” +Said, encouraged by Jack’s example, followed him into the sick-room, but, +startled and disturbed by the strange scene, retreated to the doorway, and +stood with affrighted eyes. +</p> + +<p> +Mâdou drew one long, shivering sigh. +</p> + +<p> +“He is going to sleep, I think,” whispered Said, shivering with +terror; for, older than Jack, he intuitively felt the cold blast from the wings +of Death, which already fanned the brow of the sick boy. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us go,” said Jack, pale and troubled; and they hastily ran +down the garden-walk, leaving their comrade alone in the twilight. Night came +on. In that silent room, which the children had left, the fire crackled +cheerfully, burning brightly, and illuminating every corner as if in search of +something that was hidden. The light flickered on the ceiling and was reflected +on every small window-pane, glanced over the little bed, and brought out the +color of Mâdou’s red sleeve, until tired apparently of its fruitless +search, discouraged and exhausted, and convinced that its heat was useless, for +no one was there to warm. The fire gave one last expiring flicker, and then, +like the poor little half-frozen king, who had so loved it, sank into eternal +rest. +</p> + +<p> +Poor Mâdou! The irony of destiny pursued him even after death, for Moronval +hesitated whether the interment should be that of a royal prince or of a +servant. On one side there were reasons of economy; on the other, vanity and +policy had a word to say. After much indecision, Moronval decided to strike a +great blow, thinking that, perhaps, as he had not profited much by the prince +living, he might gain something from him dead. So a pompous funeral was +arranged. All the daily papers published a biography of the little king of +Dahomey. It was a short one, to be sure, but lengthened by a panegyric of the +Moronval Institute, and of its principal. The discipline of the establishment +was commended; its hygienic regulations, the peculiar skill of its medical +adviser,—nothing had been forgotten, and the unanimity of the eulogiums +was something quite touching. +</p> + +<p> +One day in May, therefore, Paris, which, notwithstanding its innumerable +occupations and its feverish excitements, has always one eye open to all that +goes on,—Paris saw on its principal boulevards a singular procession. +Four black boys walked by the side of a bier. Behind, a taller lad, a tone +lighter in complexion, wearing a fez,—our friend Said,—carried on a +velvet cushion an order or two, some royal insignia fantastic in character. +Then came Moronval, with Jack and the other schoolboys. The professors followed +with the habitués of the house, the literary men whom we met at the soiree. How +shabby were these last! How many worn-out coats and worn-out hearts were there! +How many disappointed hopes and unattainable ambitions! All these slowly +marched on, embarrassed by the full light of day to which they were +unaccustomed; and this melancholy escort precisely suited the little deposed +king. Were not all of these persons pretendents, too, to some imaginary kingdom +to which they would never succeed? Where but in Paris could such a funeral be +seen? A king of Dahomey escorted to the grave by a procession of Bohemians! +</p> + +<p> +To increase the dreariness of the scene, a fine cold rain began to fall, as if +fate pursued the little prince, who so hated cold weather, even to the very +grave. Yes, to the grave; for when the coffin had been lowered, Moronval +pronounced a discourse so insincere and hard that it would not have warmed you, +my poor Mâdou! Moronval spoke of the virtues and estimable qualities of the +defunct, of the model sovereign he would one day have made had he lived. To +those who had been familiar with that pitiful little face, who had seen the +child abased by servitude, Moronval’s discourse was at once +heart-breaking and absurd. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"></a> +CHAPTER VIII.<br /> +JACK’S DEPARTURE.</h2> + +<p> +The only sincere grief for the negro boy was felt by little Jack. The death of +his comrade had impressed him to an extraordinary degree, and the lonely +deathbed he had witnessed haunted him for days. Jack knew too that now he must +bear alone all Moronval’s whims and caprices, for the other pupils all +had some one who came occasionally to see them, and who would report any +brutalities of which they were the victims. Jack’s mother never wrote to +him nowadays, and no one at the Institute knew even where she was. Ah! had he +but been able to ascertain, how quickly would the child have gone to her, and +told her all his sorrows. Jack thought of all this as they returned from the +cemetery. Labassandre and Dr. Hirsch were in front of him, talking to each +other. +</p> + +<p> +“She is in Paris,” said Labassandre, “for I saw her +yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack listened eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +“And was he with her?” +</p> + +<p> +She—he. These designations were certainly somewhat vague, and yet Jack +knew of whom they were speaking. Could his mother be in Paris and yet not have +hastened to him? All the way back to the Institute he was meditating his +escape. +</p> + +<p> +Moronval, surrounded by his professors and friends, walked at the head of the +procession, and turned occasionally to look back upon them with a rallying +gesture. This gesture was repeated by Said to the little boys, whose legs were +very weary with the distance they had walked. They would increase their speed +for a few rods, and then gradually drop off again. Jack contrived to linger +more and more among the last. +</p> + +<p> +“Come!” cried Moronval. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come!” repeated Said. +</p> + +<p> +At the entrance of the Champs Elysées Saïd turned for the last time, +gesticulating violently to hasten the little group. Suddenly the +Egyptian’s arms fell at his side in amazement, for Jack was missing! +</p> + +<p> +At first the child did not run, he was sagacious enough to avoid any look of +haste. He affected, on the contrary, a lounging air. But as he drew nearer the +Boulevard Haussmann, a mad desire to run took possession of him, and his little +feet, in spite of himself, went faster and faster. Would the house be closed? +And if Labassandre were mistaken, and his mother not in Paris, what would +become of him? The alternative of a return to the academy never occurred to +him. Indeed, if he had thought of it, the remembrance of the heavy blows and +heartfelt sobs that he had heard all one afternoon would have filled him with +terror. +</p> + +<p> +“She is there,” cried the child, in a transport of joy, as he saw +all the windows of the house open, and the door also as it was always when his +mother was about going out. He hastened on, lest the carriage should take her +away before he could arrive. But as he entered the vestibule, he was struck by +something extraordinary in its appearance. It was full of people all busily +talking. Furniture was being carried away: sofas and chairs, covered for a +boudoir in such faint and delicate hues that in the broad light of day they +looked faded. A mirror, framed in silver, and ornamented with cupids, was +leaning against one of the stone pillars; a jardinière without flowers, and +curtains that had been taken down and thrown over a chair, were near by. +Several women richly dressed were talking together of the merits of a crystal +chandelier. +</p> + +<p> +Jack, in great astonishment, made his way through the crowd, and could hardly +recognize the well-known rooms, such was their disorder. The visitors opened +the drawers wide, tapped on the wood of the sideboard, felt of the curtains, +and sometimes, as she passed the piano, a lady, without stopping or removing +her gloves, would lightly strike a chord or two. The child thought himself +dreaming. And his mother, where was she? He went toward her room, but the crowd +surged at that moment in the same direction. The child was too little to see +what attracted them, but he heard the hammer of the auctioneer, and a voice +that said,— +</p> + +<p> +“A child’s bed, carved and gilded, with curtains!” +</p> + +<p> +And Jack saw his own bed, where he had slept so long, handled by rough men. He +wished to exclaim, +</p> + +<p> +“The bed is mine—my very own—I will not have it +touched;” but a certain feeling of shame withheld him, and he went from +room to room looking for his mother, when suddenly his arm was seized. +</p> + +<p> +“What! Master Jack, are you no longer at the school?” +</p> + +<p> +It was Constant, his mother’s maid—Constant, in her Sunday dress, +wearing pink ribbons, and with an air of great importance. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is mamma?” asked the child, in a low voice, a voice that was +so pitiful and troubled that the woman’s heart was touched. +</p> + +<p> +“Your mother is not here, my poor child,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“But where is she? And what are all these people doing?” +</p> + +<p> +“They have come for the auction. But come with me to the kitchen, Master +Jack, we can talk better there.” +</p> + +<p> +There was quite a party in the kitchen,—the old cook, Augustin, and +several servants in the neighborhood. They were drinking champagne around the +same table where Jack’s future had been one evening decided. The +child’s arrival made quite a sensation. He was caressed by them all, for +the servants were really attached to his kind-hearted mother. As he was afraid +that they would take him back to the Institute, Jack took good care not to say +that he had run away, and merely spoke of an imaginary permission he had +received to enable him to visit his mother. +</p> + +<p> +“She is not here, Master Jack,” said Constant, “and I really +do not know whether I ought—” Then, interrupting herself, Constant +exclaimed, “O! it is too bad. I cannot keep this child from his +mother!” +</p> + +<p> +Then she informed little Jack that madame was at Etiolles. +</p> + +<p> +The child repeated the name over and over again to himself. “Is it far +from here?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Eight good leagues,” answered Augustin. +</p> + +<p> +But the cook disputed this point; and then followed an animated discussion as +to the route to be taken to reach <i>Etiolles</i>. Jack listened eagerly, for +he had already decided to attempt the journey alone and on foot. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame lives in a pretty little cottage just at the edge of a +wood,” said Constant. +</p> + +<p> +Jack understood by this time which side of Paris he should go out. This and the +name of the village were the two distinct ideas he had. The distance did not +frighten him. “I can walk all night,” he said to himself, +“even if my legs are little.” Then he spoke aloud. “I must go +now,” he said, “I must go back to school.” One question, +however, burned on his lips. Was Argenton at Etiolles? Should he find this +powerful barrier between his mother and himself? He dared not ask Constant, +however. Without understanding the truth precisely, he yet felt very keenly +that this was not the best side of his mother’s life, and he avoided all +mention of it. +</p> + +<p> +The servants said “good-bye,” the coachman shook hands with him, +and then the boy found himself in the vestibule among a bustling crowd. He did +not linger in this chaos, for the house had no longer any interest for him, but +hurried into the street, eager to start on the journey that would end by +placing him with his mother. +</p> + +<p> +Bercy! Yes, Bercy was the name of the village the cook had mentioned as the +first after leaving Paris. The way was not difficult to find, although it was a +good distance off, but the fear of being caught by Moronval spurred him on. An +inquisitive look from a policeman startled him, a shadow on the wall, or a +hurried step behind, made his heart beat, and over and above the noise and +confusion of the streets he seemed to hear the cry of “Stop him! Stop +him!” At last he climbed over the bank and began to run on the narrow +path by the water’s edge. The day was coming to an end. The river was +very high and yellow from recent rains, the water rolled heavily against the +arches of the bridge, and the wind curled it in little waves, the tops of which +were just touched by the level rays of the setting sun. Women passed him +bearing baskets of wet linen, fishermen drew in their lines, and a whole +river-side population, sailors and bargemen, with their rounded shoulders and +woollen hoods, hurried past him. With these there was still another class, +rough and ferocious of aspect, who were quite capable of pulling you out of the +Seine for fifteen francs, and of throwing you in again for a hundred sous. +Occasionally one of these men would turn to look at this slender schoolboy who +seemed in such a hurry. +</p> + +<p> +The appearance of the shore was continually changing. In one place it was +black, and long planks were laid to boats laden with charcoal. Farther on, +similar boats were crowded with fruit, and a delicious odor of fresh orchards +was wafted on the air. Suddenly there was a look of a great harbor; steamboats +were loading at the wharves; a few rods more, and a group of old trees bathed +their distorted roots in a limpid stream, and one could easily fancy +one’s self twenty leagues from Paris, and in an earlier century. +</p> + +<p> +But night was close at hand. +</p> + +<p> +The arches of the bridges vanished in darkness; the bank was deserted, and +illuminated only by that vague light which comes from even the very darkest +body of water. +</p> + +<p> +But still the child toiled on, and at last found himself on a long wharf, +covered with warehouses and piled with merchandise. He had reached Bercy, but +it was night, and he was filled with terror lest he should be stopped at the +gate; but the little fugitive was hardly noticed. He passed the barrier without +hindrance, and soon found himself in a long, narrow street, solitary and dimly +lighted. While the child was in the life and motion of the city, he was +terrified only by one thought, and that was that Moronval would find him. Now +he was still afraid, but his fear was of another character—born of +silence and solitude. +</p> + +<p> +Yet the place where he now found himself was not the country. The street was +bordered with houses on both sides, but as the child slowly toiled on, these +buildings became farther and farther apart, and considerably lower in height. +Although barely eight o’clock, this road was almost deserted. Occasional +pedestrians walked noiselessly over the damp ground, while the dismal howling +of a dog added to the cheerlessness of the scene. Jack was troubled. Each step +that he took led him further from Paris, its light and its noise. He reached +the last wineshop. A broad circle of light barred the road, and seemed to the +child the limits of the inhabited world. +</p> + +<p> +After he had passed that shop, he must go on in the dark. Should he go into the +shop and ask his way? He looked in. The proprietor was seated at his desk; +around a small table sat two men and a woman, drinking and talking. When Jack +lifted the latch, they looked up; the three had hideous faces—such faces +as he had seen at the police stations the day they were looking for Mâdou. The +woman, above all, was frightful. +</p> + +<p> +“What does he want?” said one of the men. +</p> + +<p> +The other rose; but little Jack with one bound leaped the stream of light from +the open door, hearing behind him a volley of abuse. The darkness now seemed to +the child a refuge, and he ran on quickly until he found himself in the open +country. Before him stretched field after field; a few small, scattered houses, +white cubes, alone varied the monotony of the scene. Below was Paris, known by +its long line of reddish vapor, like the reflection of a blacksmith’s +forge. The child stood still. It was the first time that he had ever been alone +out of doors at night. He had neither eaten nor drank all day, and was now +suffering from intense thirst. He was also beginning to understand what he had +undertaken. +</p> + +<p> +Had he strength enough to reach his mother? +</p> + +<p> +He finally decided to lie down in a furrow in the bank on the side of the road, +and sleep there until daybreak. But as he went toward the spot he had selected, +he heard heavy breathing, and saw that a man was stretched out there, his rags +making a confused mass of dark shadow against the white stones. +</p> + +<p> +Jack stood petrified, his heart in his mouth, unable to take a step forward or +back. At this instant the sleeping figure began to move, and to talk, still +without waking. The child thought of the woman in the wine-shop, and feared +that this creature was she, or some other equally repulsive. +</p> + +<p> +The shadows all about were now to his fancy peopled with these frightful +beings. They climbed over the bank, they barred his further progress. If he +extended his hand to the right or the left, he felt certain that he should +touch them. A light and a voice aroused the child from this stupor. An officer, +accompanied by his orderly, bearing a lantern, suddenly appeared. +</p> + +<p> +“Good evening, gentlemen,” said the child, gently, breathless with +emotion. +</p> + +<p> +The soldier who carried the lantern raised it in the direction of the voice. +</p> + +<p> +“This is a bad hour to travel, my boy,” remarked the officer; +“are you going far?” +</p> + +<p> +“O, no, sir; not very far,” answered Jack, who did not care to tell +the truth. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well! we can go on together as far as Charenton.” +</p> + +<p> +What a delight it was to the child to walk for an hour at the side of these two +honest soldiers, to regulate his steps by theirs, and to see the cheerful light +from the lantern! From the soldier, too, he casually learned that he was on the +right road. +</p> + +<p> +“Now we are at home,” said the officer, halting suddenly. +“Good night. And take my advice, my lad, and don’t travel alone +again at night—it is not safe.” And with these parting words, the +men turned up a narrow lane, swinging the lantern, leaving Jack alone at the +entrance of the principal street in Charenton. The child wandered on until he +found himself on the quay; he crossed a bridge which seemed to him to be thrown +over an abyss, so profound were the depths below. He lingered for a moment, but +rough voices singing and laughing so startled him that he took to his heels and +ran until he was out of breath, and was again in the open fields. He turned and +looked back; the red light of the great city was still reflected on the +horizon. Afar off he heard the grinding of wheels. “Good!” said the +child; “something is coming.” But nothing appeared. And the +invisible wagon, whose wheels moved apparently with difficulty, turned down +some unseen lane. +</p> + +<p> +Jack toiled on slowly. Who was that man that stood waiting for him at the +turning of the road? One man! Nay, there were two or three. But they were +trees,—tall, slender poplars,—or a clump of elms—those lovely +old elms which grow to such majestic beauty in France; and Jack was environed +by the mysteries of nature,—nature in the springtime of the year, when +one can almost hear the grass grow, the buds expand, and the earth crackle as +the tender herbage shoots forth. All these faint, vague noises bewildered +little Jack, who began to sing a nursery rhyme with which his mother formerly +rocked him to sleep. +</p> + +<p> +It was pitiful to hear the child, alone in the darkness, encouraging himself by +these reminiscences of his happy, petted infancy. Suddenly the little trembling +voice stopped. +</p> + +<p> +Something was coming—something blacker than the darkness itself, sweeping +down on the child as if to swallow him up. Cries were heard; human voices, and +heavy blows. Then came a drove of enormous cattle, which pressed against little +Jack on all sides; he feels the damp breath from their nostrils; their tails +switch violently, and the heat of their bodies, and the odor of the stable, is +almost stifling. Two boys and two dogs are in charge of these animals; the dogs +bark, and the uncouth peasants yell, until the noise is appalling. +</p> + +<p> +As they pass on, the child is absolutely stupefied by terror. These animals +have gone, but will there not be others? It begins to rain, and Jack, in +despair, fails on his knees, and wishes to die. The sound of a carriage, and +the sight of two lamps like friendly eyes coming quickly toward him, revives +him suddenly. He calls aloud. +</p> + +<p> +The carriage stops. A head, with a travelling cap drawn closely down over the +ears, bends forward to ascertain the whereabouts of the shrill cry. +</p> + +<p> +“I am very tired,” pleaded Jack; “would you be so kind as to +let me come into your carriage?” +</p> + +<p> +The man hesitated, but a woman’s voice came to the child’s +assistance. “Ah, what a little fellow! Let him come in here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where are you going?” asked the traveller. +</p> + +<p> +The child hesitated. Like all fugitives, he wished to hide his destination. +“To Villeneuve St George,” he answered, nervously. +</p> + +<p> +“Come on, then,” said the man, with gruff kindness. +</p> + +<p> +The child was soon curled up under a comfortable travelling rug, between a +stout lady and gentleman, who both examined him curiously by the light of the +little lamp. +</p> + +<p> +Where was he going so late, and all alone, too? Jack would have liked to tell +the truth, but he was in too great fear of being carried back to the Institute. +Then he invented a story to suit the occasion. His mother was very ill in the +country, where she was visiting. He had been told of this the night before, and +he had at once started off on foot, because he had not patience to wait for the +next day’s train. +</p> + +<p> +“I understand,” said the lady. And the gentleman looked as if he +understood also, but made many wise observations as to the imprudence of +running about the country alone, there were so many dangers. Then he was asked +in what house in Villeneuve his mother’s friends resided. +</p> + +<p> +“At the end of the town,” answered Jack, promptly,—“the +last house on the right.” +</p> + +<p> +It was lucky that his rising color was hidden by the darkness. His +cross-examination, however, was by no means over. The husband and wife were +great talkers, and, like all great talkers, extremely curious, and could not be +content until they had learned the private affairs of all those persons with +whom they came in contact. They kept a little store, and each Saturday went +into the country to get rid of the dust of the week; but they were making +money, and some day would live altogether at Soisy-sous-Etiolles. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that place far from Etiolles?” asked Jack, with a start. +</p> + +<p> +“O, no, close by,” answered the gentleman, giving a friendly cut +with his whip to his beast. +</p> + +<p> +What a fatality for Jack! Had he not told the falsehood, he could have gone on +in this comfortable carriage, have rested his poor little weary legs, and had a +comfortable sleep, wrapped in the good woman’s shawl, who asked him, +every little while, if he was warm enough. +</p> + +<p> +If he could but summon courage enough to say, “I have told you a +falsehood; I am going to the same place that you are;” but he was +unwilling to incur the contempt and distrust of these good people; yet, when +they told him that they had reached Villeneuve, the child could not restrain a +sob. +</p> + +<p> +“Do not cry, my little friend,” said the kind woman; “your +mother, perhaps, is not so ill as you think, and the sight of you will make her +well.” +</p> + +<p> +At the last house the carriage stopped. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, this is it,” said Jack, sadly. The good people said a kind +good-bye. “How lucky you are to have finished your journey,” said +the woman; “we have four good leagues before us.” +</p> + +<p> +Little Jack had the same, but durst not say so. He went toward the garden-gate. +“Good night,” said his new friends, “good night.” +</p> + +<p> +He answered in a voice choked by tears, and the carriage turned toward the +right. Then the child, overwhelmed with vain regrets, ran after it with all his +speed; but his limbs, weakened instead of strengthened by inadequate repose, +refused all service. At the end of a few rods he could go no further, but sank +on the roadside with a burst of passionate tears, while the hospitable +proprietors of the carriage rolled comfortably on, without an idea of the +despair they had left behind them. +</p> + +<p> +He was cold, the earth was wet. No matter for that; he was too weary to think +or to feel. The wind blows violently, and soon the poor little boy sleeps +quietly. A frightful noise awakens him. Jack starts up and sees something +monstrous—a howling, snorting beast, with two fiery eyes that send forth +a shower of sparks. The creature dashed past, leaving behind him a train like a +comet’s tail. A grove of trees, quite unsuspected by Jack, suddenly +flashed out clearly; each leaf could have been counted. Not until this +apparition was far away, and nothing of it was visible save a small green +light, did Jack know that it was the express train. +</p> + +<p> +What time was it? How long had he slept? He knew not, but he felt ill and stiff +in every limb. He had dreamed of Mâdou,—dreamed that they lay side by +side in the cemetery; he saw Mâdou’s face, and shivered at the thought of +the little icy fingers touching his own. To get away from this idea Jack +resumed his weary journey. The damp earth had stiffened in the cold night wind, +and his own footfall sounded in his ears so unnaturally heavy, that he fancied +Mâdou was at his side or behind him. +</p> + +<p> +The child passes through a slumbering village; a clock strikes two. Another +village, another clock, and three was sounded. Still the boy plods on, with +swimming head and burning feet. He dares not stop. Occasionally he meets a huge +covered wagon, driver and horses sound asleep. He asks, in a timid, tired +voice, “Is it far now to Etiolles?” No answer comes save a loud +snore. +</p> + +<p> +Soon, however, another traveller joins the child—a traveller whose +praises are sung by the cheery crowing of the cocks, and the gurgles of the +frogs in the pond. It is the dawn. And the child shares the anxiety of +expectant nature, and breathlessly awaits the coming of the new-born day. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly, directly in front of him, in the direction in which lay the town +where his mother was, the clouds divide—are torn apart suddenly, as it +were; a pale line of light is first seen; this line gradually broadens, with a +waving light like flames. Jack walks toward this light with a strength imparted +by incipient delirium. +</p> + +<p> +Something tells him that his mother is waiting there for him, waiting to +welcome him after this horrible night. The sky was now clear, and looked like a +large blue eye, dewy with tears and full of sweetness. The road no longer +dismayed the child. Besides, it was a smooth highway, without ditch or +pavement, intended, it seemed, for the carriages of the wealthy. Superb +residences, with grounds carefully kept, were on both sides of this road. +Between the white houses and the vineyards were green lawns that led down to +the river, whose surface reflected the tender blue and rosy tints of the sky +above. O sun, hasten thy coming; warm and comfort the little child, who is so +weary and so sad! +</p> + +<p> +“Am I far from Etiolles?” asked Jack of some laborers who were +going to their work. +</p> + +<p> +“No, he was not far from Etiolles; he had but to follow the road straight +on through the wood.” +</p> + +<p> +The wood was all astir now, resounding with the chirping of birds and the +rustling of squirrels. The refrain of the birds in the hedge of wild roses was +repeated from the topmost branches of the century-old oak-trees; the branches +shook and bent under the sudden rush of winged creatures; and while the last of +the shadows faded away, and the night-birds with silent, heavy flight hurried +to their mysterious shelters, a lark suddenly rises from the field with its +wings wide-spread, and flies higher and higher until it is lost in the sky +above. The child no longer walks, he crawls; an old woman meets him, leading a +goat; mechanically he asks if it is far to Etiolles. +</p> + +<p> +The ragged creature looks at him ferociously, and then points out a little +stony path. The sunshine warms the little fellow, who stumbles over the +pebbles, for he has no strength to lift his feet. At last he sees a steeple and +a cluster of houses; one more effort, and he will reach them. But he is dizzy +and falls; through his half-shut eyes he sees close at hand a little house +covered with vines and roses. Over the door, between the wavering shadows of a +lilac-tree already in flower, he saw an inscription in gold letters:— +</p> + +<p class="center"> +PARVA DOMUS, MAGNA QUIES. +</p> + +<p> +How pretty the house was, bathed in the fresh morning light! All the blinds are +still closed, although the dwellers in the cottages are awake, for he hears a +woman’s voice singing,—singing, too, his own cradle-song, in a +fresh, gay voice. Was he dreaming? The blinds were thrown open, and a woman +appeared in a white négligée, with her hair lightly twisted in a simple knot. +</p> + +<p> +“Mamma, mamma!” cried Jack, in a weak voice. +</p> + +<p> +The lady turned quickly, shaded her eyes from the sun, and saw the poor little +worn and travel-stained lad. +</p> + +<p> +She screamed “Jack!” and in a moment more was beside him, warming +him in her arms, caressing and soothing the little fellow, who sobbed out the +anguish of that terrible night on her shoulder. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"></a> +CHAPTER IX.<br /> +PARVA DOMUS, MAGNA QUIES.</h2> + +<p> +“No, no, Jack; no, dear child; do not be alarmed, you shall never go back +to that school. Did they dare to strike you? Cheer up, dear. I tell you that +you shall never go there again, but shall always be with me. I will arrange a +little room for you to-day, and you will see how nice it is to be in the +country. We have cows and chickens, and that reminds me the poultry has not yet +been fed. Lie down, dear, and rest a while. I will wake you at dinner-time, but +first drink this soup. It is good, is it not? And to think that while I was +calmly sleeping, you were alone in the cold and dark night. I must go. My +chickens are calling me;” and with a loving kiss Ida went off on tiptoe, +happy and bright, browned somewhat by the sun, and dressed with rather a +theatrical idea of the proprieties. Her country costume had a great deal of +black velvet about it, and she wore a wide-brimmed Leghorn hat, trimmed with +poppies and wheat. +</p> + +<p> +Jack could not sleep, but his bath and the soup prepared by Mère Archambauld, +his mother’s cook, had restored his strength to a very great degree, and +he lay on the couch, looking about him with calm, satisfied eyes. +</p> + +<p> +There was but little of the old luxury. The room he was in was large, furnished +in the style of Louis XVI., all gray and white, without the least gilding. +Outside, the rustling of the leaves, the cooing of the pigeons on the roof, and +his mother’s voice talking to her chickens, lulled him to repose. +</p> + +<p> +One thing troubled him: D’Argenton’s portrait hung at the foot of +the bed, in a pretentious attitude, his hand on an open book. +</p> + +<p> +The child said to himself, “Where is he? Why have I not seen him?” +Finally, annoyed by the eyes of the picture, which seemed to pursue him either +with a question or a reproach, he rose and went down to his mother. +</p> + +<p> +She was busy in the farm-yard; her gloves reached above her elbows, and her +dress, looped on one side, showed her wide striped skirt and high heels. +</p> + +<p> +Mère Archambauld laughed at her awkwardness. This woman was the wife of an +employé in the government forests, who attended to the culinary department at +Aulnettes, as the house was called where Jack’s mother lived. +</p> + +<p> +“Heavens! how pretty your boy is!” said the old woman, delighted by +Jack’s appearance. +</p> + +<p> +“Is he not, Mère Archambauld? What did I tell you?” +</p> + +<p> +“But he looks a good deal more like you, madame, than like his papa. Good +day, my dear! May I give you a kiss?” +</p> + +<p> +At the word papa, Jack looked up quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well! if you can’t sleep, let us go and look at the +house,” said his mother, who quickly wearied of every occupation. She +shook down her skirts, and took the child over this most original house, which +was situated a stone’s throw from the village, and realized better than +most poets’ dreams those of D’Argenton. The house had been +originally a shooting-box belonging to a distant château. A new tower had been +added, and a weathercock, which last gave an aspect of intense respectability +to the place. They visited the stable and the orchard, and finished their +examination by a visit to the tower. +</p> + +<p> +A winding staircase, lighted by a skylight of colored glass, led to a large, +round room containing four windows, and furnished by a circular divan covered +with some brilliant Eastern stuff. A couple of curious old oaken chests, a +Venetian mirror, some antique hangings, and a high carved chair of the time of +Henri II., drawn up in front of an enormous table covered with papers, composed +the furniture of the apartment. A charming landscape was visible from the +windows, a valley and a river, a fresh green wood, and some fair meadow-land. +</p> + +<p> +“It is here that HE works,” said his mother, in an awed tone. +</p> + +<p> +Jack had no need to ask who this HE might be. +</p> + +<p> +In a low voice, as if in a sanctuary, she continued, without looking at her +son,— +</p> + +<p> +“At present he is travelling. He will return in a few days, however. I +shall write to him that you are here; he will be very glad, for he is very fond +of you, and is the best of men, even if he does look a little severe sometimes. +You must learn to love him, little Jack, or I shall be very unhappy.” +</p> + +<p> +As she spoke she looked at D’Argenton’s picture hung at the end of +this room, a picture of which the one in her room was a copy; in fact, a +portrait of the poet was in every room, and a bronze bust in the entrance-hall, +and it was a most significant fact that there was no other portrait than his in +the whole house. “You promise me, Jack, that you will love him?” +</p> + +<p> +Jack answered with much effort, “I promise, dear mamma.” +</p> + +<p> +This was the only cloud on that memorable day. The two were so happy in that +quaint old drawing-room. They heard Mère Archambauld rattling her dishes in the +kitchen. Outside of the house there was not a sound. Jack sat and admired his +mother. She thought him much grown and very large for his age, and they laughed +and kissed each other every few minutes. In the evening they had some visitors. +Père Archambauld came for his wife, as he always did, for they lived in the +depths of the forest. He took a seat in the dining-room. +</p> + +<p> +“You will drink a glass of wine, Father Archambauld. Drink to the health +of my little boy. Is he not nice? Will you take him with you sometimes into the +forest?” +</p> + +<p> +And as he drank his wine, this tawny giant, who was the terror of the poachers +throughout the country, looked about the room with that restless glance +acquired in his nightly watchings in the forest, and answered timidly,— +</p> + +<p> +“That I will, Madame d’Argenton.” +</p> + +<p> +This name of D’Argenton, thus given to his mother, mystified our little +friend. But as he had no very accurate idea of either the duties or dignities +of life, he soon ceased to take any notice of his mother’s new title, and +became absorbed in a rough game of play with the two dogs under the table. The +old couple had just gone, when a carriage was heard at the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it you, doctor?” cried Ida from within, in joyous greeting, +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, madame; I come to learn something about your sick son, of whose +arrival I have heard.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack looked inquisitively at the large, kindly face crowned by snowy locks. The +doctor wore a coat down to his heels, and had a rolling walk, the result of +twenty years of sea-life as a surgeon. +</p> + +<p> +“Your boy is all right, madame. I was afraid, from what I heard through +my servant, that he and you might require my services.” +</p> + +<p> +What good people these all were, and how thankful little Jack felt that he had +forever left that detestable school! +</p> + +<p> +When the doctor left, the house was bolted and barred, and the mother and child +went tranquilly to their bedroom. +</p> + +<p> +There, while Jack slept, Ida wrote to D’Argenton a long letter, telling +him of her son’s arrival, and seeking to arouse his sympathy for the +little lonely fellow, whose gentle, regular breathing she heard at her side. +She was more at her ease when two days later came a reply from her poet. +</p> + +<p> +Although full of reproaches and of allusions to her maternal weakness, and to +the undisciplined nature of her child, the letter was less terrible than she +had anticipated. In fact, D’Argenton concluded that it was well to be +relieved of the enormous expenses at the academy, and while disapproving of the +escapade, he thought it no great misfortune, as the Institution was rapidly +running down. “Had he not left it?” As to the child’s +fixture, it should be his care, and when he returned a week later, they would +consult together as to what plan to adopt. +</p> + +<p> +Never did Jack, in his whole life, as child or man, pass such a week of utter +happiness. His mother belonged to him alone. He had the dogs and the goat, the +forest and the rabbits, and yet he did not leave his mother for many minutes at +a time. He followed her wherever she went, laughed when she laughed without +asking why, and was altogether content. +</p> + +<p> +Another letter. “He will come to-morrow!” +</p> + +<p> +Although D’Argenton had written kindly, Ida was still nervous, and wished +to arrange the meeting in her own way. Consequently she refused to permit him +to go with her to the station in the little carriage. She gave him several +injunctions, painful to them both, as if they had each been guilty of some +great fault, and to the boy inexpressibly mortifying. +</p> + +<p> +“You will remain at the end of the garden,” she said, “and do +not come until I call you.” +</p> + +<p> +The child lingered an hour in expectation, and when he heard the grinding of +the wheels, ran down the garden walk, and concealed himself behind the +gooseberry bushes. He heard D’Argenton speak. His tone was harder, +sterner than ever. He heard his mother’s sweet voice answer gently, +“Yes, my dear—no, my dear.” Then a window in the tower +opened. “Come, Jack, I want you, my child!” +</p> + +<p> +The boy’s heart beat quickly as he mounted the stairs. D’Argenton +was leaning back in the tall armchair, his light hair gleaming against the dark +wood. Ida stood by his side, and did not even hold out her hand to the little +fellow. The lecture he received was short and affectionate to a certain extent. +“Jack,” he said, in conclusion, “life is not a romance; you +must work in earnest. I am willing to believe in your penitence; and if you +behave well, I will certainly love you, and we three may live together happily. +Now listen to what I propose. I am a very busy man.—I am, nevertheless, +willing to devote two hours every day to your education. If you will study +faithfully, I can make of you, frivolous as you are by nature, a man like +myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“You hear, Jack,” said his mother, alarmed at his silence, +“and you understand the sacrifice that your friend is ready to make for +you—” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, mamma,” stammered Jack. +</p> + +<p> +“Wait, Charlotte,” interrupted D’Argenton; “he must +decide for himself: I wish to force no one.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack, petrified at hearing his mother called Charlotte, and unable to find +words to express his sense of such generosity, ended by saying nothing. Seeing +the child’s embarrassment, his mother gently pushed him into the +poet’s arms, who pressed a theatrical kiss on his brow. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, dear, how good you are!” murmured the poor woman, while the +child, dismissed by an imperative gesture, hastily ran down the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +In reality Jack’s installation in the house was a relief to the poet. He +loved Ida, whom he called Charlotte in memory of Goethe, and also because he +wished to obliterate all her past, and to wipe out even the name of Ida de +Barancy. He loved her in his own fashion, and made of her a complete slave. She +had no will, no opinion of her own, and D’Argenton had grown tired of +being perpetually agreed with. Now, at least, he would have some one to +contradict, to argue with, to tutor, and to bully; and it was in this spirit +that he undertook Jack’s education, for which he made all arrangements +with that methodical solemnity characteristic of the man’s smallest +actions. +</p> + +<p> +The next morning, Jack saw, when he awoke, a large card fastened to the wall, +and on it, inscribed in the beautiful writing of the poet, a carefully prepared +arrangement for the routine of the day. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Rise at six</i>. From six to seven, breakfast; from seven to eight, +recitation; from eight to nine,” and so on. +</p> + +<p> +Days ordered in this systematic manner resemble those windows whose shutters +hardly permit the entrance of air enough to breathe, or light to see with. +Generally these rules are made only to be broken, but D’Argenton allowed +no such laxity. +</p> + +<p> +D’Argenton’s method of education was too severe for Jack, who was, +however, by no means wanting in intelligence, and was well advanced in his +studies. He was disturbed, too, by the personality of the poet, to whom he had +a very strong aversion, and above all he was overwhelmed by the new life he was +leading. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly transported from the mouldy lane, and from the academy, to the +country, to the woods and the fields, he was at once excited and charmed by +Nature. The truest way would have been to have laid aside all books until the +child himself demanded them. Often of a sunny day, when he sat in the tower +opposite his teacher, he was seized with a strong desire to leap out of the +window, and rush into the fresh woods after the birds that had just flown away, +or in search of the squirrel of which he had caught a glimpse. What a penance +it was to write his copy, while the wild roses beckoned him to come and pluck +them! +</p> + +<p> +“This child is an idiot,” cried D’Argenton, when to all his +questions Jack stammered some answer as far from what he should have said as if +he had that moment fallen from the light cloud he had been steadily watching. +At the end of a month the poet announced that he relinquished the task, that it +was a mere loss of precious time to himself, and of no use to the boy, who +neither could nor would learn anything. In reality, he was by no means +unwilling to abandon the iron rules he had established, and which pressed with +severity on himself as well as on the child. Ida, or rather Charlotte, made no +remonstrance. She preferred to think her boy incapable of study rather than +endure the daily scenes, and the incessant lectures and tears of this +educational experiment. +</p> + +<p> +Above everything she longed for peace. Her aims were as restricted as her +intellect, and she lived solely in the present, and any future, however +brilliant, seemed to her too dearly purchased at the price of present +tranquillity. +</p> + +<p> +Jack was very happy when he no longer saw under his eyes that placard: +“Rise at six. From six to seven, breakfast; from seven to weight,” +&c. The days seemed to him longer and brighter. As if he understood that +his presence in the house was often an annoyance, he absented himself for the +whole day with that absolute disregard of time natural to children and +loungers. +</p> + +<p> +He had a great friend in the forester. As soon as he was dressed in the morning +he started for Father Archambauld’s, just as the old man’s wife, +before going to her Parisians, as she called her employers, served her +husband’s breakfast in a fresh, clean room hung with a light green paper +that represented the same hunting-scene over and over again. +</p> + +<p> +When the forester had finished his meal, he and little Jack started out on a +long tramp. Father Archambauld showed the child the pheasants’ nests, +with their eggs like large pearls, built in the roots of the trees; the haunts +of the partridges, the frightened hares, and the young kids. The +hawthorn’s white blossoms perfumed the air, and a variety of wild flowers +enamelled the turf. The forester’s duty was to protect the birds and +their young broods from all injury, and to destroy the moles and snakes. He +received a certain sum for the heads or tails of these vermin, and every six +months carried to Corbiel a bag of dry and dusty relics. He would have been +better pleased could he have taken also the heads of the poachers, with whom he +was in constant conflict. He had also a great deal of trouble with the peasants +who injured his trees. +</p> + +<p> +A doe could be replaced, a dead pheasant was no great matter; but a tree, the +growth of years, was a vastly different affair. He watched them so carefully +that he knew all their maladies. One species of fir was attacked by tiny worms, +which come in some mysterious way by thousands. They select the strongest and +handsomest specimens, and take possession of them. The trees have only their +resinous sap as a weapon of defence. This sap they pour over their enemies, and +over their eggs deposited in the crevices of the bark. Jack watched this +unequal contest with the greatest interest, and saw the slow dropping of these +odorous tears. Sometimes the fir-tree won the victory, but too often it +perished and withered slowly, until at last the giant of the forest; whose +lofty top had been the haunt of singing-birds, where bees had made their home, +and which had sheltered a thousand different lives, stood white and ghastly as +if struck by lightning. +</p> + +<p> +During these walks through the woods, the forester and his companion talked +very little. They listened rather to the sweet and innumerable sounds about +them. The sound of the wind varied with every tree that it touched. Among the +pines it moaned and sighed like the sea. Among the birches and aspens, it +rattled the leaves like castanets; while from the borders of the ponds, which +were numerous in this part of the forest, came gentle rustlings from the long, +slender, silken-coated reeds. Jack learned to distinguish all these sounds and +to love them. +</p> + +<p> +The little boy, however, had incurred the enmity of many of the peasants, who +saw him constantly with the forester, to whom they had sworn eternal hatred. +Cowardly and sulky, they touched their hats respectfully enough to Jack when +they met him with Father Archambauld, but when he was alone, they shook their +fists at him with horrible oaths. +</p> + +<p> +There was one old woman, brown as an Indian squaw, who haunted the very dreams +of the child. On his way home at sunset, he always met her with her fagots on +her back. She stood in the path and assailed him with her tongue; and +sometimes, merely to frighten him, ran after him for a few steps. Poor little +Jack often reached his mother’s side breathless and terrified, but, after +all, this only added another interest to his life. Sometimes Jack found his +mother in the kitchen talking in a low voice; no sound was to be heard in the +house save the ticking of the great clock in the dining-room. “Hush, my +dear,” said his mother; “He is up-stairs. He is at work!” +</p> + +<p> +Jack sat down in a corner and watched the cat lying in the sun. With the +awkwardness of a child who makes a noise merely because he knows he ought not +to do so, he knocked over something, or moved the table. +</p> + +<p> +“Hush, dear,” exclaimed Charlotte, in distress, while Mother +Archambauld, laying the table, moved on the points of her big feet—moved +as lightly as possible, so as not to disturb “her master who was at +work.” +</p> + +<p> +He was heard up-stairs—pushing back his chair, or moving his table. He +had laid a sheet of paper before him; on this paper was written the title of +his book, but not another word. And yet he now had all that formerly he had +said would enable him to make a reputation,—leisure, sufficient means, +freedom from interruption, a pleasant study, and country air. When he had had +enough of the forest, he had but to turn his chair, and from another window he +obtained an admirable view of sky and water. All the aroma of the woods, all +the freshness of the river, came directly to him. Nothing could disturb him, +unless it might be the cooing and fluttering of the pigeons on the roof above. +</p> + +<p> +“Now to work!” cried the poet. He opened his portfolio, and seized +his pen, but not one line could he write. Think of it! To live in a pavilion of +the time of Louis XV., on the edge of a forest in that beautiful country about +Etiolles, to which the memory of the Pompadour is attached by knots of +rose-colored ribbons and diamond buckles. To have around him every essential +for poetry,—a charming woman named in memory of Goethe’s heroine, a +Henri II. chair in which to write, a small white goat to follow him from place +to place, and an antique clock to mark the hours and to connect the prosaic +Present with the romance of the Past! All these were very imposing, but the +brain was as sterile as when D’Argenton had given lessons all day and +retired to his garret at night, worn out in body and mind. +</p> + +<p> +When Charlotte’s step was heard on the stairs, he assumed an expression +of profound absorption. “Come in,” he said, in reply to her knock, +timidly repeated. She entered fresh and gay, her beautiful arms bared to the +elbows, and with so rustic an air that the rice-powder on her face seemed to be +the flour from some theatrical mill in an opéra bouffe. +</p> + +<p> +“I have come to see my poet,” she said, as she came in. She had a +way of drawling out the word poet that exasperated him. “How are you +getting on?” she continued. “Are you pleased?” +</p> + +<p> +“Pleased? Can one ever be pleased or satisfied in this terrible +profession, which is a perpetual strain on every nerve!” +</p> + +<p> +“That is true enough, my friend; and yet I would like to +know—” +</p> + +<p> +“To know what? Have you any idea how long it took Goethe to write his +<i>Faust?</i> And yet he lived in a thoroughly artistic atmosphere. He was not +condemned, as I am, to absolute solitude—mental solitude, I mean.” +</p> + +<p> +The poor woman listened in silence. From having so often listened to similar +complaints from D’Argenton, she had at last learned to understand the +reproaches conveyed in his words. +</p> + +<p> +The poet’s tone signified, “It is not you who can fill the blank +around me.” In fact, he found her stupid, and was bored to death when +alone with her. +</p> + +<p> +Without really being conscious of it, the thing that had fascinated him in this +woman was the frame in which she was set. He adored the luxury by which she was +surrounded. Now that he had her all to himself—transformed and +rechristened her, she had lost half her charm in his eyes, and yet she was more +lovely than ever. It was amusing to witness the air of business with which he +opened each morning the three or four journals to which he subscribed. He broke +the seals as if he expected to find in their columns something of absorbing +personal interest; as, for example, a critique of his unwritten poem, or a +resume of the book that he meant some day to write. He read these journals +without missing one word, and always found something to arouse his contempt or +anger. Other people were so fortunate: their pieces were played; and what +pieces they were! Their books were printed; and such books! As for himself, his +ideas were stolen before he could write them down. +</p> + +<p> +“You know, Charlotte, yesterday a new play by Emile Angier was produced; +it was simply my <i>Pommes D’Atlante</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“But that is outrageous! I will write myself to this Monsieur +Angier,” said poor Lottie, in a great state of indignation. +</p> + +<p> +During these remarks, Jack said not one word; but as D’Argenton lashed +himself into frenzy, his old antipathy to the child revived, and the heavy +frowns with which he glanced toward the little fellow showed him very clearly +that his hatred was only smothered, and would burst forth on the smallest +provocation. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"></a> +CHAPTER X.<br /> +THE FIRST APPEARANCE OF BÉLISAIRE.</h2> + +<p> +One afternoon, when D’Argenton and Charlotte had gone to drive, Jack, who +was alone with Mother Archambauld, saw that he must relinquish his usual +excursion to the forest on account of a storm that was coming up. +</p> + +<p> +The July sky was heavy with black clouds, copper-colored on the edges; distant +rumblings of thunder were heard, and the valley had that air of expectation +which often precedes a storm. +</p> + +<p> +Fatigued by the child’s restlessness, the forester’s wife looked +out at the weather, and said to Jack,— +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Master Jack, it does not rain; and it would be very kind of you to +go and get me a little grass for my rabbits.” +</p> + +<p> +The child, enchanted at being of use, took a basket and went gayly off to +search in a ditch for the food the rabbits liked. +</p> + +<p> +The white road stretched before him, the rising wind blew the dust in clouds, +when suddenly Jack heard a voice crying, “Hats! Hats to sell! Nice +Panamas!” +</p> + +<p> +Jack looked over the edge of the ditch, and saw a pedler carrying on his +shoulders an enormous basket piled with straw hats. He walked as if he were +footsore and weary. +</p> + +<p> +Have you ever thought how dismal the life of an itinerant salesman must be? He +knows not where he will sleep at night, or even that he can obtain the shelter +of a barn; for the average peasant always regards a pedler, or any stranger, +indeed, as an adventurer, and watches him with distrustful eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Hats! Hats to sell!” For whose ears did he intend this repetition +of his monotonous cry? There was not a person in sight, nor a house. Was it for +the benefit of the birds, who, feeling the coming of the storm, had taken +shelter in the trees? The man took a seat on a pile of stones, while Jack, on +the other side of the road, examined him with much curiosity. His face was +forbidding to a certain extent, but expressed so much suffering in the heavy +features, that Jack’s kind heart was filled with pity. At that moment a +thunder-clap was heard; the man looked up at the skies anxiously, and then +called to Jack to ask how far off the village was. +</p> + +<p> +“Half a mile exactly,” answered the child. +</p> + +<p> +“And the shower will be here in a few moments,” said the pedler, +despairingly. “All my hats will be wet, and I shall be ruined.” +</p> + +<p> +The child thought of his own memorable journey, and he wished to do a kind act. +</p> + +<p> +“You can come to our house,” he said, “and then your hats +will not be injured.” The pedler grasped eagerly at this permission, for +his merchandise was so delicate. The two hurried on as fast as possible; the +man walking, however, as if he were treading on hot iron. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you in pain?” asked the child. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, indeed, I am; my shoes are too small for me; you see my feet are so +big that I can never find anything large enough for them. O, if I should ever +be rich, I would have a pair of shoes made to measure!” +</p> + +<p> +They reached Aulnettes. The pedler deposited in the hall his scaffold of hats, +and stood there humbly enough. But Jack led him into the dining-room, saying, +“You must have a glass of wine and a bit of bread.” +</p> + +<p> +Mother Archambauld frowned, but nevertheless put on the table a big loaf and a +pot of wine. +</p> + +<p> +“Now a slice of ham,” said Jack, in a tone of command. +</p> + +<p> +“But the master does not wish any one to touch the ham,” said the +old woman, grumbling. In fact, D’Argenton was something of a glutton, and +there were always some dainties in the pantry preserved for his especial +enjoyment. +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind! bring it out!” said the child, delighted at playing +the part of host. +</p> + +<p> +The good woman obeyed reluctantly. The pedler’s appetite was of the most +formidable description, and while he supped he told his simple story. His name +was Bélisaire, and he was the eldest of a large family, and spent the summer +wandering from town to town.—A violent thunder-clap shook the house, the +rain fell in torrents, and the noise was terrific. At that moment some one +knocked. Jack turned pale. “They have come!” he said with a gasp. +</p> + +<p> +It was D’Argenton who entered, accompanied by Charlotte. They were not to +have returned until late, but seeing the approach of the storm, they had given +up their plan. They were, however, wet to the skin, and the poet was in a +fearful rage with himself and every one else. “A fire in the +parlor,” he said, in a tone of command. +</p> + +<p> +But while they were taking off their wraps in the hall; D’Argenton +perceived the formidable pile of hats. +</p> + +<p> +“What is that?” he asked. Ah! if Jack could but have sunk a hundred +feet under ground with his stranger guest and the littered table! The poet +entered the room, looked about, and understood everything. The child stammered +a word or two of apology, but the other did not listen. +</p> + +<p> +“Come here, Charlotte. Master Jack receives his friends to-day, it +seems.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, Jack! Jack!” cried the mother in a horrified tone of reproach. +</p> + +<p> +“Do not scold him, madame,” stammered Bélisaire. “I only am +in fault!” +</p> + +<p> +Here D’Argenton, out of all patience, threw open the door with a most +imposing gesture. “Go at once,” he said, violently; “how dare +you come into this house?” +</p> + +<p> +Bélisaire, to whom no manner of humiliation was new, offered no word of +remonstrance, but snatched up his basket, cast one look of distress at the +tempest out-of-doors, and another of gratitude toward little Jack—who +sighed as he heard the rain falling like hail on the Panamas,—and hurried +down the garden walk. No sooner had the man reached the highway, than his +melancholy voice resumed the cry, “Hats! Hats to sell!” +</p> + +<p> +In the dining-room profound silence reigned; the servant was kindling a fire, +and Charlotte was shaking the poet’s coat, while he sulkily strode up and +down the room. +</p> + +<p> +As he passed the table he caught sight of the ham on which the pedler’s +knife had made sad havoc. D’Argenton turned pale. Remember that the ham +was sacred, like his wine, his mustard, and mineral water. “What! the +ham, too!” he exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +Charlotte, utterly stupefied by such audacity, could only mechanically repeat +his words. +</p> + +<p> +“I said, madame, that they ought not to cut the ham, that such pork was +too good for such a vagabond. But the little fellow does not know much yet, he +is so young.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack by this time was quite alarmed at what he had done, and could only beg +pardon in a troubled tone. +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon, indeed!” cried the poet, giving way, as it must be +admitted he rarely did, to his temper, and shaking the boy violently, +exclaimed, “What right had you to touch that ham? You knew it was not +yours. You know that nothing here is yours; for the bed you sleep on, for the +food you eat, you are indebted to my bounty. And why should I care for you? I +know not even your name!” Here an imploring gesture from Charlotte +stopped the torrent of words. Mother Archambauld was still in the room, and +listening with eagerness. The poet turned away suddenly, and rushed up stairs, +banging the door after him. +</p> + +<p> +Jack remained, looking at his mother in consternation. She wrung her pretty +hands, and again implored heaven to tell her what she had done to merit such a +hard fate. +</p> + +<p> +This was her only resource in the serious perplexities of life; and, naturally, +her question remained unanswered. +</p> + +<p> +To add the finishing touch to the discomfort of the house, D’Argenton was +now taken with one of “his attacks,” a form of bilious fever. +</p> + +<p> +Charlotte petted and soothed him, and waited upon him by inches. The +sister-of-charity spirit, that lies in the depths of every womanly nature, made +her love her poet the more because he was suffering. How tenderly she protected +his nerves! She laid a woollen cloth on the table under the white one to soften +the noise of the plates and the silver. She piled the Henry II. chair with +cushions, and had her rolls of hot flannels and her tisanes in readiness at all +hours of the day and night. +</p> + +<p> +Sometimes the poor little woman was fearfully rebuffed and mortified by a +fretful exclamation from the poet. “Do be quiet, Charlotte; you talk too +much!” +</p> + +<p> +This illness brought the good-natured doctor to the house once more. Charlotte +met him in the hall. “Come quick, doctor, our dear poet is +suffering,” she said, anxiously. +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense, my dear; he only wants a little amusement.” +</p> + +<p> +In fact, D’Argenton, who greeted the physician in the most languid tones, +soon forgot to keep up the farce in the pleasure of seeing a new face, which +made a pleasant break in his monotonous life, and a few moments later beheld +him launched on some dazzling episode of his Parisian life. The doctor saw no +reason to doubt the truth of these narrations told in such measured and careful +phrases, and was always pleased with the appearance of the family,—the +intellectual husband, the pretty gay wife, and the amusing child; and no +intuition gave him a hint, as might have been the case with a more delicate +organization, of the peculiarity and bitterness of the ties which bound the +household together. +</p> + +<p> +Often, therefore, on these bright midsummer days, the doctor’s horse was +fastened to the palisades, while the old man drank the cool glass carefully +mixed for him by Charlotte herself, and as he drank, he told of his wonderful +adventures in India. Jack listened with eyes and ears wide open. +</p> + +<p> +“Jack!” said D’Argenton, peremptorily, and pointed to the +door. +</p> + +<p> +“Let him stay, I beg of you; I like to have children around me. I am +quite sure that your boy has discovered that I have a grandchild;” and +the old man talked of his little Cécile, who was two years younger than Jack. +</p> + +<p> +“Bring her to see us, doctor,” said Charlotte; “the two +children would be so happy together.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, dear madame; but her grandmother would never consent. She +never trusts the child to any one; and she herself never goes anywhere since +our great sorrow.” +</p> + +<p> +This sorrow, of which the old doctor often spoke, was the loss of his daughter +and his son-in-law within a year after their marriage. Some mystery surrounded +this double catastrophe. Even Mother Archambauld, who knew everything, +contented herself with saying, “Yes, poor things! they have had a great +deal of trouble.” +</p> + +<p> +The only prescription given by the doctor was a verbal one, “Keep him +amused, madame; keep him amused!” +</p> + +<p> +How could poor Charlotte do this? They went off together in a little carriage; +breakfast, books, and a butterfly-net accompanied them to the forest; but he +was bored to death. They bought a boat, but a tête-à-tête in the middle of the +Seine was worse than one on shore; and the little boat soon lay moored at the +landing, half full of water and dead leaves. +</p> + +<p> +Then the poet took to building; he planned a new staircase and an Italian +terrace: but even this did not amuse him. +</p> + +<p> +One day a man, who came to tune the pianoforte, extolled the merits of an +AEolian harp. D’Argenton immediately ordered one made on a gigantic +scale, and placed it on his roof. From that moment poor little Jack’s +life was a burden to him. The melancholy wail of the instrument, like a soul in +purgatory, pursued him in his dreams. To the child’s great relief, the +poet was equally disturbed, and the harp was ordered to the end of the garden; +but its shrieks and moans were still heard. D’Argenton fiercely commanded +that the instrument should be buried, which was done, and the earth heaped upon +it as over some mad animal. All these various occupations failing to amuse her +poet, Charlotte reluctantly decided to invite some of his old friends, but was +repaid for her sacrifice by witnessing D’Argenton’s joy on being +told that Dr. Hirsch and Labassandre were soon to visit them. +</p> + +<p> +When Jack entered the house, a few days later, he heard the voices of his old +professors. The child felt an emotion of sick terror, for the sounds recalled +the memory of so many wretched hours. He slipped quietly into the garden, there +to await the dinner-bell. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, gentlemen,” said Charlotte, smilingly, as she appeared on +the terrace,—her large white apron indicating that as a good housekeeper +she by no means disdained on occasion to lay aside her lace ruffles and take an +active part. +</p> + +<p> +The professors promptly obeyed this summons to dinner, and greeted Jack as he +took his seat with every appearance of cordiality. Two large doors opened on +the lawn, beyond which lay the forest. +</p> + +<p> +“You are a lucky fellow,” said Labassandre. “Tomorrow I shall +be in that hot, dusty town, eating a miserable dinner.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a good thing to be certain of having even a miserable +dinner,” grumbled Dr. Hirsch. +</p> + +<p> +“Why not remain here for a time?” said D’Argenton, +cordially. “There is a room for each of you; the cellar has some good +wine in it—” +</p> + +<p> +“And we can make excursions,” interrupted Charlotte, gayly. +</p> + +<p> +“But what would become of my rehearsals?” said Labassandre. +</p> + +<p> +“But you, Dr. Hirsch,” continued Charlotte, “you are tied +down to the opera-house!” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not; and my patients are nearly all in the country at this +season.” +</p> + +<p> +The idea of Dr. Hirsch having any patients was very funny, and yet no one +laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, decide!” cried the poet, “In the first place, you +would be doing me a favor, and could prescribe for me.” +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure. The physician here knows nothing of your constitution, while +I can soon set you on your feet again. I am sick of the Institute and of +Moronval, and never wish to see either more.” Thereupon the doctor +launched forth in a philippic against the school which supported him. Moronval +was a thorough humbug, he never paid anybody, and every one was giving him up; +the affair of Mâdou had done him great injury; and finally Dr. Hirsch went so +far as to compliment Jack on his energetic departure. +</p> + +<p> +At this moment Dr. Rivals was shown into the dining-room; he was overjoyed at +finding so gay and talkative a circle. “You see, madame, I was right: our +invalid only needed a little excitement.” +</p> + +<p> +“There I differ from you!” cried Dr. Hirsch, fiercely, snuffing the +battle from afar. +</p> + +<p> +Old Rivals examined this singular person with some distrust. “Dr. +Hirsch,” said D’Argenton, “allow me to present you to Dr. +Rivals.” They bowed like two duellists on the field who salute each other +before crossing their swords. The country physician concluded his new +acquaintance to be some famous Parisian practitioner, full of eccentricities +and hobbies. D’Argenton’s illness was the occasion of a long +discussion between the physicians. +</p> + +<p> +It was droll to see the poet’s expression. He was inclined to take +offence that Dr. Rivals should consider him a mere hypochondriac, and again to +be equally annoyed when Dr. Hirsch insisted upon his having a hundred diseases, +each one with a worse name than the others. +</p> + +<p> +Charlotte listened with tears in her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“But this is utter nonsense,” cried Rivals, who had listened +impatiently; “there are no such diseases, in the first place, and if +there were, our friend has no such symptoms.” +</p> + +<p> +This was too much for Dr. Hirsch, and the battle began in earnest. They hurled +at each other titles of books in every language, names of every drug known and +unknown to the faculty. The scene was more laughable than terrific, and was +very much like one from “Molière.” Jack and his mother escaped to +the piazza, Where Labassandre was already trying his voice. The winged +inhabitants of the forest twittered in terror; the peacocks in the neighboring +château answered by those alarmed cries with which they greet the approach of a +thunder-shower; the neighboring peasants started from their sleep, and old +Mother Archambauld wondered what was going on in the little house, where the +moon shone so whitely on the legend in gold characters over the door: +</p> + +<p class="center"> +PARVA DOMUS, MAGNA QUIES. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"></a> +CHAPTER XI.<br /> +CÉCILE.</h2> + +<p> +“Where are you going so early?” asked Dr. Hirsch, indolently, as he +saw Charlotte, gayly dressed, prayer-book in hand, come slowly down the stairs, +followed by Jack, who was once more clad in the pet costume of Lord Pembroke. +</p> + +<p> +“To church, my dear sir. Has not D’Argenton told you that I have an +especial duty to perform there this morning? Come with us, will you not?” +</p> + +<p> +It was Assumption Day, and Charlotte had been much flattered by being asked to +distribute the bread. She, with her child, took the seats reserved for them on +a bench close to the choir. The church was adorned with flowers. The choir-boys +were in surplices freshly ironed, and on a rustic table the loaves of bread +were piled high. To complete the picture, all the foresters, in their green +costumes, with their knives in their belts and their carbines in their hands, +had come to join in the Te Deum of this official fête. +</p> + +<p> +Ida de Barancy would have been certainly much astonished had some one told her +a year before, that she would one day assist at a religious festival in a +village church, under the name of the Vicomtesse D’Argenton, and that she +would have all the consideration and prestige of a married woman. This new rôle +amused and interested her. She corrected Jack, turned the pages of her +prayer-book, and shook out her rustling silk skirts in the most edifying +fashion. +</p> + +<p> +When it was time for the offertory, the tall Swiss, armed with a halberd, came +for Jack, and bending low whispered in his mother’s ear a question as to +what little girl should be chosen to assist him; Charlotte hesitated, for +“she knew so few persons in the church. Then the Swiss suggested Dr. +Rivals’ grandchild—a little girl on the opposite side sitting next +an old lady in black. The two children walked slowly behind the majestic +official, Cécile carrying a velvet bag much too large for her little fingers, +and Jack bearing an enormous wax candle ornamented with floating ribbons and +artificial flowers. They were both charming: he in his Scotch costume, and she +simply dressed, with waves of soft brown hair parted on her childish brow, and +her face illuminated by large gray eyes. The breath of fresh flowers mingled +with the fumes of incense that hung in clouds throughout the church. Cécile +presented her bag with a gentle, imploring smile. Jack was very grave. The +little fluttering hand in its thread glove, which he held in his own, reminded +him of a bird that he had once taken from its nest in the forest. Did he dream +that the little girl would be his best friend, and that, later, all that was +most precious in life for him would come from her? +</p> + +<p> +“They would make a pretty pair,” said an old woman, as the children +passed her, and in a lower voice added, “Poor little soul, I hope she +will be more fortunate than her mother!” +</p> + +<p> +Their duties over, Jack returned to his place, still under the influence of the +hand he had so lightly held. But additional pleasure was in store for him. As +they left the church, Madame Rivals approached Madame D’Argenton and +asked permission to take Jack home with her to breakfast. Charlotte colored +high with gratification, straightened the boy’s necktie, and, kissing +him, whispered, “Be a good child!” +</p> + +<p> +From this day forth, when Jack was not at home he was at the old +doctor’s, who lived in a house in no degree better than that of his +neighbors, and only distinguished from them by the words Night-Bell on a brass +plate above a small button at the side of the door. The walls were black with +age. Here and there, however, an observant eye could see that some attempts had +been made to rejuvenate the mansion; but everything of that nature had been +interrupted on the day of their great sorrow, and the old people had never had +the heart to go on with their improvements since; an unfinished summer-house +seemed to say, with a discouraged air, “What is the use?” The +garden was in a complete state of neglect. Grass grew over the walks, and weeds +choked the fountain. The human beings in the house had much the same air. From +Madame Rivals, who, eight years after her daughter’s death, still wore +the deepest of black, down to little Cécile, whose childish face had a +precocious expression of sorrow, and the old servant who for a quarter of a +century had shared the griefs and sorrows of the family,—all seemed to +live in an atmosphere of eternal regret. The doctor, who kept up a certain +intercourse with the outer world, was the only one who was ever cheerful. +</p> + +<p> +To Madame Rivals, Cécile was at once a blessing and a sorrow, for the child was +a perpetual reminder of the daughter she had lost. To the doctor, on the +contrary, it seemed that the little girl had taken her mother’s place, +and sometimes, when he was with her alone, he would give way to a loud and +merry laugh, which would be quickly silenced on meeting his wife’s sad +eyes, full of astonished reproach. +</p> + +<p> +Little Cécile’s life was by no means a gay one. She lived in the garden, +or in a large room where a door, that was always closed, led to the apartment +that had once been her mother’s, and which was full of the souvenirs of +that short life. Madame Rivals alone ever entered this room, but little Cécile +often stood on the threshold, awed and silent. The child had never been sent to +school, and this isolation was very bad for her; she needed the association of +other children. “Let us ask little D’Argenton here,” said her +grandfather: “the boy is charming!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but who knows anything about these people? Whence do they +come?” answered his wife. “Who knows them?” +</p> + +<p> +“Everybody, my dear. The husband is very eccentric, certainly, but he is +an artist, or a journalist rather, and they are privileged. The woman is not +quite a lady, I admit, but she is well enough. I will answer for their +respectability.” +</p> + +<p> +Madame Rivals shook her head. She had but slight confidence in her +husband’s insight into character, and sighed in an ostentatious way. +</p> + +<p> +Old Rivals colored guiltily, but returned in a moment to his original idea. +</p> + +<p> +“The child will be ill if she has not some change. Besides, what harm +could possibly happen?” +</p> + +<p> +The grandmother then consented, and Jack and Cécile became close companions. +The old lady grew very fond of the little fellow. She saw that he was neglected +at home, that the buttons were off his coat, and that he had no lesson-hours. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you not go to school, my dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, madame,” was the answer; and then quickly added,—for a +child’s instinct is very delicate,—“Mamma teaches me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot understand,” said Madame Rivals to her husband, +“how they can let this child grow up in this way, idling his time from +morning till night.” +</p> + +<p> +“The child is not very clever,” answered the doctor, anxious to +excuse his friends. +</p> + +<p> +“No, it is not that; it is that his stepfather does not like him.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack’s best friends were in the doctor’s house. Cécile adored him. +They played together in the garden if the weather was fair, in the pharmacy if +it was stormy. Madame Rivals was always there, and as there was no +apothecary’s store in Etiolles, put up simple prescriptions herself. She +had done this for so many years, that she had attained considerable experience, +and was often consulted in her husband’s absence. The children found vast +amusement in deciphering the labels on the bottles, and pasting on new ones. +Jack did this with all a boy’s awkwardness, while little Cécile used her +hands as gravely and deftly as a woman grown. +</p> + +<p> +The old physician delighted in taking the children with him when he went about +the country to visit his patients. The carriage was large, the children small, +so that the three were stowed in very comfortably, and merrily jogged over the +rough roads. Wherever they went they were warmly welcomed, and while the doctor +climbed the narrow stairs, the children roamed at will through the farm-yard +and fields. +</p> + +<p> +Illness among these peasant homes assumes a very singular aspect. It is never +allowed to interfere with the routine and labors of daily life. The animals +must be fed and housed for the night, and driven out to pasture in the morning, +whether the farmer be well or ill. If ill, the wife has no time to nurse him, +or even to be anxious. After a hard day’s toil she throws herself on her +pallet and sleeps soundly until dawn, while her good man tosses feverishly at +her side, longing for morning. Every one worshipped the doctor, who they +affirmed would have been very rich, had he not been so generous. +</p> + +<p> +His professional visits over, the old man and the children started for home. +The Seine, misty and dark with the approach of evening, had yet occasional bars +of golden light crossing its surface. Slender trees, with their foliage heavily +massed at the top, like palms, and the low white houses along the brink, gave a +vague suggestion of an Eastern scene. “It is like Nazareth,” said +little Cécile; and the two children told each other stories while the carriage +rolled slowly homeward. +</p> + +<p> +Doctor Rivals soon discovered that Jack was by no means wanting in +intelligence, and determined, with his natural kindness of heart, to himself +supply the great deficiencies in education by giving him an hour’s +instruction daily. Those of my readers who are in the habit of enjoying a +siesta after dinner, will appreciate the sacrifice made by the old man, when I +add that it was this precise time that he now freely gave to the little boy, +who, in his turn, gratefully applied himself with his whole heart to his +lessons. Cécile was almost always present, and was as pleased as Jack himself +when her grandfather, examining the copy-book, said, “Well done!” +To his mother, Jack said nothing of his labors; he determined to prove to her +at some future day that the diagnosis of the poet had been incorrect. This +concealment was rendered very easy, as the mother grew hourly more and more +indifferent to her child, and more completely absorbed in D’Argenton. The +boy’s comings and goings were almost unnoticed. His seat at the table was +often vacant, but no one asked where he had been. New guests filled the board, +for D’Argenton kept open house; yet the poet was by no means generous in +his hospitality, and when Charlotte would say to him, timidly, “I am out +of money, my friend,” he would reply by a wry face and the word, +“Already?” But vanity was stronger than avarice, and the pleasure +of patronizing his old friends, the Bohemians, with whom he had formerly lived, +carried the day. They all knew that he had a pleasant home, that the air was +good and the table better; consequently, one would say to another, “Who +wants to go to Etiolles to-night?” They came in droves. +</p> + +<p> +Poor Charlotte was in despair. “Madame Archambauld, are there +eggs?—is there any game? Company has come, and what shall we give +them?” +</p> + +<p> +“Anything will suit, madame, I fancy, for they look half starved,” +said the old woman, astonished at the unkempt, unshorn, and hungry aspect of +her master’s friends. +</p> + +<p> +D’Argenton delighted in showing them over the house; and then they +dispersed to the fields, to the river-side, and into the forest, as happy and +frolicsome as old horses turned out to grass. In the fresh country, in the full +sunlight, those rusty coats and worn faces seemed more rusty and more worn than +when seen in Paris; but they were happy, and D’Argenton radiant. No one +ventured to dispute his eternal “I think,” and “I +know.” Was he not the master of the house, and had he not the key of the +wine cellar? +</p> + +<p> +Charlotte, too, was well pleased. It was to her inconsequent nature and +Bohemian instincts a renewal of the excitement of her old life. She was +flattered and admired, and, while remaining true to her poet, was pleased to +show him that she had not lost her power of charming. +</p> + +<p> +Months passed on. The little house was enveloped in the melancholy mists of +autumn; then winter snows whitened the roof, followed by the fierce winds of +March; and finally a new spring, with its lilacs and violets, gladdened the +hearts of the inmates of the cottage. Nothing was changed there. +D’Argenton, perhaps, had two or three new symptoms, dignified by Doctor +Hirsch with singular names. Charlotte was as totally without salient +characteristics, as pretty and sentimental, as she had always been. Jack had +grown and developed amazingly, and having studied industriously, knew quite as +much as other boys of his age. +</p> + +<p> +“Send him to school now,” said Doctor Rivals to his mother, +“and I answer for his making a figure.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, doctor, how good you are!” cried Charlotte, a little ashamed, +and feeling the indirect reproach conveyed in the interest expressed by a +stranger, as contrasted with her own indifference. +</p> + +<p> +D’Argenton answered coldly that he would reflect upon the matter, that he +had grave objections to a school, &c., and when alone with Charlotte, +expressed his indignation at the doctor’s interference, but from that +time took more interest in the movements of the boy. +</p> + +<p> +“Come here, sir,” said Labassandre, one day, to Jack. The child +obeyed somewhat anxiously. “Who made that net in the chestnut-tree at the +foot of the garden?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was I, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +Cécile had expressed a wish for a living squirrel, and Jack had manufactured a +most ingenious snare of steel wire. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you make it yourself, without any aid?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir,” answered the child. +</p> + +<p> +“It is wonderful, very wonderful,” continued the singer, turning to +the others. “The child has a positive genius for mechanics.” +</p> + +<p> +In the evening there was a grand discussion. “Yes, madame/,” said +Labassandre, addressing Charlotte; “the man of the future, the coming +man, is the mechanic. Rank has had its day, the middle classes theirs, and now +it is the workman’s turn. You may to-day despise his horny hands, in +twenty years he will lead the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is right,” interrupted D’Argenton, and Doctor Hirsch +nodded approvingly. Singularly enough, Jack, who generally heard the +conversation going on about him without heeding it, on this occasion felt a +keen interest, as if he had a presentiment of the future. +</p> + +<p> +Labassandre described his former life as a blacksmith at the village forge. +“You know, my friends,” he said, “whether I have been +successful. You know that I have had plenty of applause, and of medals. You may +believe me or not, as you please, but I assure you I would part with all sooner +than with this;” and the man rolled up his shirt-sleeve and displayed an +enormous arm tattooed in red and blue. Two blacksmith’s hammers were +crossed within a circle of oak-leaves; an inscription was above these emblems +in small letters: <i>Work and Liberty</i>. Labassandre proceeded to deplore the +unhappy hour when the manager of the opera at Nantes had heard him sing. Had he +been let alone, he would by this time have been the proprietor of a large +machine shop, with a provision laid up for his old age. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Charlotte, “but you were very strong, and I have +heard you say that the life was a hard one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Precisely; but I am inclined to believe that the individual in question +is sufficiently robust.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will answer for that,” said Dr. Hirsch. +</p> + +<p> +Charlotte made other objections. She hinted that some natures were more refined +than others—“that certain aristocratic instincts—” +</p> + +<p> +Here D’Argenton interrupted her in a rage. “What nonsense! My +friends occupy themselves in your behalf, and then you find fault, and utter +absurdities.” +</p> + +<p> +Charlotte burst into tears. Jack ran away, for he felt a strong desire to fly +at the throat of the tyrant who had spoken so roughly to his pretty mother. +</p> + +<p> +Nothing more was said for some days; but the child noticed a change in his +mother’s manner toward him: she kissed him often, and kissed him with +that lingering tenderness we show to those we love and from whom we are about +to part. Jack was the more troubled as he heard D’Argenton say to Dr. +Rivals, with a satirical smile, “We are all busy, sir, in your +pupil’s interest. You will hear some news in a few days that will +astonish you.” +</p> + +<p> +The old man was delighted, and said to his wife, “You see, my dear, that +I did well to make them open their eyes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who knows? I distrust that man, and do not believe he intends any good +to the child. It is better sometimes that your enemy should sit with folded +arms than trouble himself about you.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"></a> +CHAPTER XII.<br /> +LIFE IS NOT A ROMANCE.</h2> + +<p> +One Sunday morning, just after the arrival of the train that had brought +Labassandre and a noisy band of friends, Jack, who was in the garden busy with +his squirrel-net, heard his mother call him. Her voice came from the window of +the poet’s room. Something in its tone, or a certain instinct so marked +in some persons, told the child that the crisis had come, and he tremblingly +ascended the stairs. On the Henri Deux chair D’Argenton sat, throned as +it were, while Labassandre and Dr. Hirsch stood on either side. Jack saw at +once that there were the tribunal, the judge, and the witnesses, while his +mother sat a little apart at an open window. +</p> + +<p> +“Come here!” said the poet, sternly, and with such an assumption of +dignity that one was tempted to believe that the Henry Deux chair itself had +spoken. “I have often told you that life is not a romance; you have seen +me crushed, worn and weary with my literary labors; your turn has now come to +enter the arena. You are a man,”—the child was but +twelve,—“you are a man now, and must prove yourself to be one. For +a year,—the year that I have been supposed to neglect you,—I have +permitted you to run free, and, thanks to my peculiar talents of observation, I +have been able to decide on your path in life. I have watched the development +of your instincts, tastes, and habits, and, with your mother’s consent, +have taken a step of importance.” Jack was frightened, and turned to his +mother for sympathy. Charlotte still sat gazing from the window, shading her +eyes from the sun. D’Argenton called on Labassandre to produce the letter +he had received. The singer pulled out a large, ill-folded peasant’s +letter, and read it aloud:— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“FOUNDRY D’INDRET.<br /> + “My Dear Brother: I have spoken to the master in regard to the young +man, your friend’s son, and he is willing, in spite of his youth, to +accept him as an apprentice. He may live under our roof, and in four years I +promise you that he shall know his trade. Everybody is well here. My wife and +Zénaïde send messages. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“Rondic.” +</p> + +<p> +“You hear, Jack,” interrupted D’Argenton; “in four +years you will hold a position second to none in the world,—you will be a +good workman.” +</p> + +<p> +The child had seen the working classes in Paris; above all, he had seen a noisy +crowd of men in dirty blouses leaving a shop at six o’clock in the +<i>Passage des Douze Maisons</i>. The idea of wearing a blouse was the first +that struck him. He remembered his mother’s tone of +contempt,—“Those are workmen, those men in blouses!”—he +remembered the care with which she avoided touching them in the street as she +passed. But he was more moved at the thought of leaving the beautiful forest, +the summits of whose waving trees he even now caught a glimpse of from the +window, the Rivals, and above all his mother, whom he loved so much and had +found again after so much difficulty. +</p> + +<p> +Charlotte, at the open window, shivered from head to foot, and her hand dashed +away a tear. Was she watching in that western sky the fading away of all her +dreams, her illusions, and her hopes? +</p> + +<p> +“Then must I go away?” asked the child, faintly. +</p> + +<p> +The men smiled pityingly, and from the window came a great sob. +</p> + +<p> +“In a week we will go, my boy,” said Labassandre, cheeringly. But +D’Argenton, with a frown directed to the window, said, “You can +leave the room now, and be ready for your journey in a week.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack ran down the stairs, and out into the village street, and did not stop to +take breath until he reached the house of Dr. Rivals, who listened to his story +with indignation. +</p> + +<p> +“It is preposterous!” he cried. “The very idea of making a +mechanic of you is absurd. I will see your father at once.” +</p> + +<p> +The persons who saw the two pass through the street—the doctor +gesticulating, and little Jack without a hat—concluded that some one must +be ill at Aulnettes. This was not the case, however; for Dr. Rivals heard loud +talking and laughing as he entered the house, and Charlotte, as she descended +the stairs, was singing a bar from the last opera. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish to say a few words in private to you, sir,” said Mr. +Rivals. +</p> + +<p> +“We are among friends,” answered D’Argenton, “and have +no secrets. You have something to say, I suppose, in regard to Jack. These +gentlemen know all that I have done for him, my motives, and the peculiar +circumstances of the case.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, my friend “—Charlotte said, timidly, fearing the +explanation that was forthcoming. +</p> + +<p> +“Go on, doctor,” interrupted the poet, sternly. +</p> + +<p> +“Jack has just told me that you have apprenticed him to the Forge at +Indret. This, of course, is a mistake on his part.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not in the least, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you can have no conception of the child’s nature, nor of his +constitution. It is his health, his very existence, with which you are +trifling. I assure you, madame,” he continued, turning toward Charlotte, +“that your child could not endure such a life. I am speaking now simply +of his physique. Mentally and spiritually, he is equally unfitted for +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are mistaken, doctor,” interrupted D’Argenton; “I +know the boy better than you possibly can. He is only fit for manual labor, and +now that I offer him the opportunity of earning his daily bread in this way, of +exercising the one talent he may have, he goes to you and makes complaints of +me.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack tried to excuse himself. His friend bade him be silent, and +continued,— +</p> + +<p> +“He did not complain to me. He simply informed me of your decision. I +told him to come at once to his mother, and to you, and entreat you to +reconsider your determination, and not degrade him in this way.” +</p> + +<p> +“I deny the degradation,” shouted Labassandre. “Manual labor +does not degrade a man. The Saviour of the world was a carpenter.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is true,” murmured Charlotte, before whose eyes at once +floated a vision of her boy as the infant Jesus in a procession on some +feast-day. +</p> + +<p> +“Do not listen to such utter nonsense, dear madame,” cried the +doctor, exasperated out of all patience. “To make your boy a mechanic is +to separate from him forever. You might send him to the other end of the world, +and yet he would not be so far from you. You will see when it is too late; the +day will come that you will blush for him, when he will appear before you, not +as the loving, tender son, but humble and servile, as holding a social position +far inferior to your own.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack, who had not yet said a word, dismayed at this vivid picture of the +future, started up from his seat in the corner. +</p> + +<p> +“I will not be a mechanic!” he said, in a firm voice. +</p> + +<p> +“O, Jack!” cried his mother, in consternation. +</p> + +<p> +But D’Argenton thundered out, “You will not be a mechanic, you say? +But you will eat, and sleep, and be clothed at my expense! No, sir; I have had +enough of you, and I never cared much for parasites.” Then, suddenly +cooling down, he concluded in a lower tone by a command to the boy to retire to +his bedroom. There the child heard a loud and angry discussion going on below, +but the words were not to be understood. Suddenly the hall-door opened, and Mr. +Rivals was heard to say,— +</p> + +<p> +“May I be hanged if I ever cross this threshold again!” +</p> + +<p> +At this moment Charlotte came in, her eyes red with weeping. For the first time +she seemed to have lost all consciousness of self, and had laid aside her rôle +of the coquettish, pretty woman. The tears she had shed had been those that age +a mother’s face, and leave ineffaceable marks upon it. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen to me, Jack,” she said, tenderly. “You have made me +very unhappy. You have been impertinent and ungrateful to your best friends. I +know, my child, that you will be happy in your new life. I acknowledge that at +first I was troubled at the idea; but you heard what they said, did you not? A +mechanic is very different nowadays from what it was once. And, besides, at +your age you should rely on the judgment of those older than yourself, who have +only your interests at heart.” +</p> + +<p> +A sob from the child interrupted her. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you, too, send me away!” +</p> + +<p> +The mother snatched him to her heart, and kissed him passionately. “I +send you away, my darling! You know that if the matter rested with me, you +should never leave me; but, my child, we must both of us be reasonable, and +think a little of the future, which is dreary enough for us.” And then +Charlotte hesitatingly continued, “You know, dear, you are very young, +and there are many things you cannot understand. Some day, when you are older, +I will tell you the secret of your birth. It is an absolute romance: some day +you shall learn your father’s name. But now all that is necessary for you +to understand is, that we have not a penny in the world, and are absolutely +dependent on—D’Argenton.” This name the poor woman uttered +with shame and hesitation, accompanied, at the same time, with a touching look +of appeal to her son. “I cannot,” she continued, “ask him to +do anything more for us; he has already done so much. Besides, he is not rich. +What am I to do between you both? Ah, if I could only go in your place to +Indret and earn my bread! And yet you would refuse an opening that gives you a +certainty of earning your livelihood, and of becoming your own master.” +</p> + +<p> +By the sparkle in her boy’s eyes the mother saw that these words had +struck home, and in a caressing tone she continued, “Do this for me, +Jack; do this for your mother. The time may come when I shall have to look to +you as my sole support.” Did she really believe her own words? Was it a +presentiment, one of those momentary flashes of light that illuminate the +future’s dark horizon? or had she simply talked for effect? +</p> + +<p> +At all events, she could have found no better way to conquer this generous +nature. The effect was instantaneous. The idea that his mother some day would +lean on him suddenly decided him to yield at once. He looked her straight in +the eyes. “Promise me that you will never be ashamed of me when my hands +are black, and that you will always love me.” +</p> + +<p> +She covered her boy with kisses, concealing in this way her trouble and +remorse, for from this time henceforward the unhappy woman was a prey to +remorse, and never thought of her child without an agonized contraction of the +heart. +</p> + +<p> +But he, supposing that her embarrassment came from anxiety, and possibly from +shame, tore himself away, and ran toward the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, mama, I will tell him that I accept.” +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the little fellow to +D’Argenton, as he opened the door; “I was very wrong in refusing +your kindness. I accept it with thanks.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am happy to find that reflection has taught you wisdom. But now +express your gratitude to M. Labassandre: it is he to whom you are +indebted.” +</p> + +<p> +The child extended his hand, which was quickly ingulfed in the enormous paw of +the artist. +</p> + +<p> +This last week Jack spent in his former haunts he was more anxious than sad, +and the responsibility he felt made itself seen in two little wrinkles on his +childish brow. He was determined not to go away without seeing Cécile. +</p> + +<p> +“But, my dear, after the scene here the other day, it would not be +suitable,” remonstrated his mother. But the night before Jack’s +departure, D’Argenton, full of triumph at the success of his plans, +consented that the boy should take leave of his friends. He went there in the +evening. The house was dark, save a streak of light coming from the +library—if library it could be called—a mere closet, crammed with +books. The doctor was there, and exclaimed, as the door opened, “I was +afraid they would not let you come to say good-bye, my boy! It was partially my +fault. I was too quick-tempered by far. My wife scolded me well. She has gone +away, you know, with Cécile, to pass a month in the Pyrenees with my sister. +The child was not well; I think I told her of your impending departure too +abruptly. Ah, these children! we think they do not feel, but we are mistaken, +and they feel quite as deeply as we ourselves.” He spoke to Jack as one +man to another. In fact, every one treated him in the same way at present. And +yet the little fellow now burst into a violent passion of tears at the thought +of his little friend having gone away without his seeing her. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know what I am doing now, my lad?” asked the old man. +“Well, I am selecting some books that you must read carefully. Employ in +this way every leisure moment. Remember that books are our best friends. I do +not think you will understand this just yet, but one day you will do so, I am +sure. In the mean time, promise me to read them,”—the old man +kissed the boy twice,—“for Cécile and myself,” he said, +kindly; and, as the door closed, the child heard him say, “Poor child, +poor child!” +</p> + +<p> +The words were the same as at the Jesuits’ College; but by this time Jack +had learned why they pitied him. The next morning they started, Labassandre in +a most extraordinary costume, dressed, in fact, for an expedition across the +Pampas,—high gaiters, a green velvet vest, a knapsack, and a knife in his +girdle. The poet was at once solemn and happy: solemn, because he felt that he +had accomplished a great duty; happy, because this departure filled him with +joy. +</p> + +<p> +Charlotte embraced Jack tenderly and with tears. “You will take good care +of him, M. Labassandre?” +</p> + +<p> +“As of my best note, madame.” +</p> + +<p> +Charlotte sobbed. The boy sought to hide his emotion, for the thought of +working for his mother had given him courage and strength. At the end of the +garden path he turned once more, that he might carry away in his memory a last +picture of the house, and the face of the woman who smiled through her tears. +</p> + +<p> +“Write often!” cried the mother. +</p> + +<p> +And the poet shouted, in stentorian tones, “Remember, Jack, life is not a +romance!” +</p> + +<p> +Life is not a romance; but was it not one for him? The selfish egotist! He +stood on the threshold of his little home, with one hand on Charlotte’s +shoulder, the roses in bloom all about him, and he himself in a pose +pretentious enough for a photograph, and so radiant at having won the day, that +he forgot his hatred, and waved a paternal adieu to the child he had driven +from the shelter of his roof. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"></a> +CHAPTER XIII.<br /> +INDRET.</h2> + +<p> +The opera-singer stood upright in the boat and cried, “Is not the scene +beautiful, Jack?” +</p> + +<p> +It was about four o’clock—a July evening; the waves glittered in +the sunlight, and the air palpitated with heat. Large sails, that in the golden +atmosphere looked snowy white, passed by from time to time; they were boats +from Noirmoutiers, loaded to the brim with sparkling white salt. Peasants in +their picturesque costumes were crowded in, and the caps of the women were as +white as the salt Other boats were laden with grain. Occasionally a +three-masted vessel came slowly up the stream, arriving, perhaps, from the end +of the world after a two years’ voyage, and bearing with it something of +the poetry and mystery of other lands. A fresh breeze came from the sea, and +made one long for the deep blue of the ocean. +</p> + +<p> +“And Indret—where is it?” asked Jack. +</p> + +<p> +“There, that island opposite.” +</p> + +<p> +Through the silvery mists that enveloped the island, Jack saw dimly a row of +poplar-trees, and some high chimneys from which poured out a thick black smoke; +at the same time he heard loud blows of hammers on iron, and a continual +whistling and puffing, as if the island itself had been an enormous steamer. As +the boat slowly made her way to the wharf, the child saw long, low buildings on +every side, and close at the river-side a row of enormous furnaces, which were +filled from the water by coal barges. +</p> + +<p> +“There is Rondic!” cried the opera-singer, and from his stupendous +chest sent forth a hurrah so formidable that it was heard above all the clatter +of machinery. +</p> + +<p> +The boat stopped, and the brothers met with effusion. The two resembled each +other very much, though Rondic was older and not so stout. His face was closely +shaven, and he wore a sailor’s hat that shaded a true Breton peasant face +tanned by the sea, and a pair of eyes as keen as steel. +</p> + +<p> +“And how are you all?” asked Labassandre. +</p> + +<p> +“Well enough, well enough, thank Heaven! And this is our new +apprentice?—he looks very small and not over-strong.” +</p> + +<p> +“Strong as an ox, my dear; and warranted by all the physicians in +Paris!” +</p> + +<p> +“So much the better, for it is a hard life here. But now hasten, for we +must present ourselves to the Director at once.” +</p> + +<p> +They turned into a long avenue lined by fine trees. The avenue terminated in a +village street, with white houses on both sides, inhabited by the master and +head-workmen. At this hour all was silent; life and movement were concentrated +at the factory; and, but for the linen drying in the yards, an occasional cry +of an infant, and a pot of flowers at the window, one would have supposed the +place uninhabited. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, the flag is lowered!” said the singer, as they reached the +door. “Once that terrified me!” and he explained to Jack that when +the flag was dropped from the top of the staff, it meant that the doors of the +factory were closed. So much the worse for late comers; they were marked as +absent, and at the third offence dismissed. They were now admitted by the +porter. There was a frightful tumult pervading the large halls which were +crossed by tramways. Iron bars and rolls of copper were piled between old +cannons brought there to be recast. Rondic pointed out all the different +branches of the establishment; he could not make himself understood save by +gestures, for the noise was deafening. +</p> + +<p> +Jack was able to see the interiors of the various workshops, the doors being +set widely open on account of the heat; he saw rapid movements of arms and +blackened faces; he saw machines in motion, first in shadow, and then with a +red light playing over their polished surface. +</p> + +<p> +Puffs of hot air, a smell of oil and of iron, accompanied by an impalpable +black dust, a dust that was as sharp as needles and sparkled like +diamonds,—all this Jack felt; but the peculiar characteristic of the +place was a certain jarring, something like the effort of an enormous beast to +shake off the chains that bound him in some subterranean dungeon. +</p> + +<p> +They had now reached an old château of the time of the League. +</p> + +<p> +“Here we are,” said Rondic; and addressing his brother, “Will +you go up with us?” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed I will; I am, besides, by no means unwilling to see ‘the +monkey’ once more, and to show him that I have become somebody and +something.” +</p> + +<p> +He pulled down his velvet vest, and glanced at his yellow boots and knapsack. +Rondic made no remark, but seemed somewhat annoyed. +</p> + +<p> +They passed through the low postern; on either side of the hall were small and +badly lighted rooms, where clerks were very busy writing. In the inner room, a +man with a stern and haughty face sat writing under a high window. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, it is you, Père Rondic!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir; I come to present the new apprentice, and to thank you +for—” +</p> + +<p> +“This is the prodigy, then, is it? It seems, young man, that you have an +absolute talent for mechanics. But, Rondic, he does not look very strong. Is he +delicate?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir; on the contrary, I have been assured that he is remarkably +robust.” +</p> + +<p> +“Remarkably,” repeated Labassandre, coming forward, and, in reply +to the astonished glance of the Director, proceeded to say that he left the +manufactory six years before to join the opera in Paris. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, yes, I remember,” answered the Director, coldly enough, rising +at the same time as if to indicate that the conversation was at an end. +“Take away your apprentice, Rondic, and try and make a good workman of +him. Under you he must turn out well.” +</p> + +<p> +The opera-singer, vexed at having produced no effect, went away somewhat +crestfallen. Rondic lingered and said a few words to his master, and then the +two men and the child descended the stairs together, each with a different +impression. Jack thought of the words “he does not look very +strong,” while Labassandre digested his own mortification as he best +might. “Has anything gone wrong?” he suddenly asked his +brother,—“the Director seems even more surly now than in my +day.” +</p> + +<p> +“No; he spoke to me of Chariot, our poor sister’s son, who is +giving us a great deal of trouble.” +</p> + +<p> +“In what way?” asked the artist. +</p> + +<p> +“Since his mother’s death he drinks and gambles, and has contracted +debts. He is a wonderful draughtsman, and has high wages, but spends them +before he has them. He has promised us all to reform, but he breaks his +promises as fast as he makes them. I have paid his debts for him several times, +but I can never do it again. I have my own family, you see, and Zénaïde is +growing up, and she must be established. Poor girl! Women have more sense than +we. I wanted her to marry her cousin, but she would not consent. Now we are +trying to separate him from his bad acquaintances here, and the Director has +found a situation at Nantes; but I dare say the obstinate fellow will object. +You will reason with him to-night, can’t you? He will, perhaps, listen to +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will see what I can do,” answered Labassandre, pompously. +</p> + +<p> +As they talked they reached the main street, crowded at this hour with all +classes of people, some in mechanics’ blouses, others wearing coats. Jack +was struck with the contrast presented by a crowd like this to one in Paris, +composed of similar classes. +</p> + +<p> +Labassandre was greeted with enthusiasm. The whisper went about that he +received a hundred thousand francs per year for merely singing. His theatrical +costume won universal admiration, and his bland smile shone first on one side +and then on the other, as he nodded patronizingly to first one and then another +of his old friends. +</p> + +<p> +At the door of Rondic’s house stood a young woman talking to a youth two +or three steps below. Jack thought she must be the old man’s daughter, +and then remembered that he had married a second time. She was tall and +slender, young and pretty, with a gentle face, white throat, and a graceful +head which bent slightly forward as if bowed by its rich weight of hair. Unlike +the Breton peasants, she wore no cap; her light dress and black apron were +totally unlike the costume of a working woman. +</p> + +<p> +“Is she not pretty?” asked Rondic of his brother. “She has +been giving a lecture to her nephew.” +</p> + +<p> +Madame Rondic turned at that moment, and greeted them warmly. “I +hope,” she said to the child, “that you will be happy with +us.” +</p> + +<p> +They entered the house, and as they took their seats at the table, Labassandre +said with a theatrical start, “And where is Zénaïde?” +</p> + +<p> +“We will not wait for her,” answered Rondic; “she will be +here presently. She is at work now at the château, for she has become a famous +seamstress.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed! Then she must have learned also to keep her temper well under +control, if she can work at the Director’s,” said Labassandre, +“for he is such an arrogant, haughty person—” +</p> + +<p> +“You are very much mistaken,” interrupted Rondic; “he is, on +the contrary, a most excellent man; strict, perhaps, but when a master has to +manage two thousand operatives, he must be somewhat of a disciplinarian. Is not +that so, Clarisse?” and the old man turned to his wife, who, seemingly +occupied with her dinner, paid no attention to him. A certain preoccupation was +very evident. +</p> + +<p> +At this moment the youth, with whom Madame Rondic had been talking at the door, +came in and shook hands with his uncle Labassandre, who replied coldly to his +greeting; thinking, possibly, of the remonstrances he had promised to lavish +upon him. Zénaïde quickly followed: a plump little girl, red and out of breath; +not pretty, and square in face and figure, she looked like her father. She wore +a white cap, and her short skirts, and small shawl pinned over her shoulders, +increased her general clumsiness. But her heavy eyebrows and square chin +indicated an unusual amount of firmness and decision, offering the strongest +possible contrast to the gentle, irresolute expression of her +stepmother’s sweet face. Without a moment’s delay, not waiting to +detach the enormous shears that hung at her side, or to disembarrass herself of +the needles and pins which glittered on her breast like a cuirass, the girl +slipped into a seat next to Jack. The presence of the strangers did not abash +her in the least. Whatever she had to say she said, simply and decidedly; but +when she spoke to her cousin Chariot, it was in a vexed tone. +</p> + +<p> +He did not appear to notice this, but replied with jests which left more than +one scar. +</p> + +<p> +“And I wished them to marry each other,” said Father Rondic, in a +despairing, complaining tone, as he heard them dispute. +</p> + +<p> +“And I made no objection,” said the young man with a laugh, as he +looked at his cousin. +</p> + +<p> +“But I did, then,” answered the girl abruptly, frowning and +unabashed. “And I am glad of it. Had I married you, my handsome cousin, I +should have drowned myself by this time!” +</p> + +<p> +These words were said with so much unction that for a few moments the handsome +cousin was silent and discomfited. +</p> + +<p> +Clarisse was startled, and turned to her daughter-in-law with a timid look of +appeal. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen, Chariot,” said Rondic, anxious to change the conversation: +“to prove to you that the Director is a good man. He has found a splendid +place at Guérigny for you. You will have a better salary there than here, and +“—here Rondic hesitated, glanced at the irresponsive face of the +youth, then at his daughter and at his wife, as if at a loss to finish his +phrase. +</p> + +<p> +“And, it is better to go away, uncle, than to be dismissed!” +answered Chariot, roughly. “But I do not agree with you. If the Director +does not want me, let him say so,—and I will then look out for +myself!” +</p> + +<p> +“He is right!” cried Labassandre, thumping loud applause on the +table. A hot discussion now arose; but Chariot was firm in his refusal. +</p> + +<p> +Zénaïde did not open her lips, but she never took her eyes from her stepmother, +who was busy about the table. +</p> + +<p> +“And you, mamma,” said she at last, “is it not your opinion +that Chariot should go to Guérigny?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, certainly,” answered Madame Rondic, quickly, “I +think he ought to accept the offer.” +</p> + +<p> +Chariot rose quickly from his chair. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” he said, moodily, “since every one wishes to get +rid of me here, it is easy for me to decide. I shall leave in a week; in the +meantime I do not wish to hear any more about it.” +</p> + +<p> +The men now adjourned to a table in the garden, neighbors came in, and to each +as he entered Rondic offered a measure of wine; they smoked their pipes, and +talked and laughed loudly and roughly. +</p> + +<p> +Jack listened to them sadly. “Must I become like these?” he said to +himself, with a thrill of horror. +</p> + +<p> +During the evening Rondic presented the lad to the foreman of the workshops. +Labescam, a heavy Cyclops, opened his eyes wide when he saw his future +apprentice, dressed like a gentleman, with such dainty white hands. Jack was +very delicate and girlish in his appearance. His curls were cut, to be sure, +but the short hair was in crisp waves, and the air of distinction +characteristic of the boy, and which so irritated D’Argenton, was more +apparent in his present surroundings than in his former home. Labescam muttered +that he looked like a sick chicken. +</p> + +<p> +“O,” said Rondic, “it is only the fatigue of his journey and +these clothes that give him that look;” and then turning to his wife, the +good man said, +</p> + +<p> +“You must find a blouse for the apprentice; and now send him to bed, he +is half asleep, and to-morrow the poor lad must be up at five +o’clock!” +</p> + +<p> +The two women took Jack into the house: it was small and of two stories, the +first floor divided into two rooms—one called the parlor, which had a +sofa, armchairs, and some large shells on the chimney-piece. +</p> + +<p> +One of the rooms above was nearly filled by a very large bed hung with damask +curtains trimmed with heavy ball fringe. In Zénaïde’s room the bed was in +the wall, in the old Breton style. A wardrobe of carved oak filled one side of +the room; a crucifix and holy images, hung over by rosaries of all kinds, made +of ivory, shells, and American corn, completed the simple arrangements. In a +corner, however, stood a screen which concealed the ladder that led to the loft +where the apprentice was to sleep. +</p> + +<p> +“This is my room,” said Zénaïde, “and you, my boy, will be up +there just over my head. But never mind that; you may dance as much as you +please, I sleep too soundly to be disturbed.” +</p> + +<p> +A lantern was given to him. He said good-night, and climbed to his loft, which +even at that hour of the night was stifling. A narrow window in the roof was +all there was. The dormitory at Moronval had prepared Jack for strange +sleeping-places; but there he had companionship in his miseries: here he had no +Mâdou, here he had nobody. The child looked about him. On the bed lay his +costume for the next day; the large pantaloons of blue cloth and the blouse +looked as if some person had thrown himself down exhausted with fatigue. +</p> + +<p> +Jack said half aloud, “It is I lying there!” and while he stood, +sadly enough, he heard the confused noise of the men in the garden, and at the +same time an earnest discussion in the room below between Zénaïde and her +stepmother. +</p> + +<p> +The young girl’s voice was easily distinguished, heavy like a +man’s; Madame Rondic’s tones, on the contrary, were thin and +flute-like, and seemed at times choked by tears. +</p> + +<p> +“And he is going!” she cried, with more passion than her ordinary +appearance would have led one to suppose her capable of. +</p> + +<p> +Then Zénaïde spoke—remonstrating, reasoning. +</p> + +<p> +Jack felt himself in a new world; he was half afraid of all these people, but +the memory of his mother sustained him. He thought of her as he looked at the +sky set thick with stars. Suddenly he heard a long, shivering sigh and a sob, +and found that Madame Rondic was looking out into the night, and weeping like +himself, at a window below. +</p> + +<p> +In the morning, Father Rondic called him; he swallowed a tumbler of wine and +ate a crust of bread, and hurried to the machine-shop. And there, could his +foolish mother have seen him, how quickly would she have taken her child from +his laborious task, for which he was so totally unfitted by nature and +education. The regulations for lack of punctuality were very strict. The first +offence was a fine, and the third absolute dismissal. Jack was generally at the +door before the first sound of the bell; but one day, two or three months after +his arrival on the island, he was delayed by the ill-nature of others. His hat +had been blown away by a sudden gust of wind just as he reached the forge. +“Stop it!” cried the child, running after it. Just as he reached +it, an apprentice coming up the street gave the hat a kick and sent it on; +another did the same, and then another. This was very amusing to all save Jack, +who, out of breath and angry, felt a strong desire to weep, for he knew that a +positive hatred toward him was hidden under all this apparent jesting. In the +meantime the bell was sounding its last strokes, and the child was compelled to +relinquish the useless pursuit. He was utterly wretched, for it was no small +expense to buy a new cap; he must write to his mother for money, and +D’Argenton would read the letter. This was bad enough; but the +consciousness that he was disliked among his fellow-workmen troubled him still +more. +</p> + +<p> +Some persons need tenderness as plants need heat to sustain life. Jack was one +of these, and he asked himself sadly why no one loved him in his new +abiding-place. Just as he arrived at the open door, he heard quick breathing +behind him, a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, and turning, he saw a +smiling, hideous face, while a rough hand extended the missing cap. +</p> + +<p> +Where had he seen that face? “I have it!” he cried at last; but at +that moment there was no time to renew his acquaintance with the pedler, to +whom, and to whose fragile stock of goods, he had given such timely shelter on +that showery summer’s day. +</p> + +<p> +The child’s spirits rose, he was less sad, less lonely. While his hands +were busy with his monotonous toil, his mind was occupied with thoughts of the +past: he saw again the lovely country road near his mother’s house; he +heard the low rumbling of the doctor’s gig, and felt the fresh breeze +from the river, even there in the stifling atmosphere of the machine-shop. +</p> + +<p> +That evening he searched for Bélisaire, but in vain; again the next day, but +could learn nothing of him; and by degrees the uncouth face that had revived so +many beautiful memories, in the child’s sick heart faded and died away, +and he was again left alone. +</p> + +<p> +The boy was far from a favorite among the men; they teased, and played +practical jokes upon him. Sunday was his only day of rest and relaxation. Then, +with one of Dr. Rivals’ books, Jack sought a quiet nook on the bank of +the river. He had found a deep fissure in the rocks, where he sat quite +concealed from view, his book open on his knee, the rush, the magic, and the +extent of the water before him. The distant church-bells rang out praises to +the Lord, and all was rest and peace. Occasionally a vessel drifted past, and +from afar came the laughter of children at play. +</p> + +<p> +He read, but his studies were often too deep for him, and he would lift his +eyes from the pages, and listen dreamily to the soft lapping of the water on +the pebbles of the shore, while his thoughts wandered to his mother and his +little friend. +</p> + +<p> +At last autumnal rains came, and then the child passed his Sundays at the +Rondics, who were all very kind to him, Zénaïde in particular. The old man felt +a certain contempt for Jack’s physical delicacy, and said the boy stunted +his growth by his devotion to books, but “he was a good little fellow all +the same!” In reality, old Rondic felt a great respect for Jack’s +attainments, his own being of the most superficial description. He could read +and write, to be sure, but that was all; and since he had married the second +Madame Rondic, he had become painfully conscious of his deficiencies. His wife +was the daughter of a subordinate artillery officer, the belle and beauty of a +small town. She was well brought up,—one of a numerous family, where each +took her share of toil and economy. She accepted Rondic, notwithstanding the +disparity of years and his lack of education, and entertained for her husband +the greatest possible affection. He adored his wife, and would make any +sacrifice for her happiness or her gratification. He thought her prettier than +any of the wives of his friends,—who were all, in fact, stout Breton +peasants, more occupied with their household cares than with anything else. +Clarisse had a certain air about her, and dressed and arranged her hair in a +way that offered the greatest contrast to the monastic aspect of the women of +the country, who covered their hair with thick folds of linen, and concealed +their figures with the clumsy fullness of their skirts. +</p> + +<p> +His house, too, was different from those about him. Behind the full white +curtains stood a pot of flowers, sweet basil or gillyflowers, and the furniture +was carefully waxed and polished; and Rondic was delighted, when he returned +home at night, to find so carefully arranged a home, and a wife as neatly +dressed as if it were Sunday. He never asked himself why Clarisse, after the +house was in order for the day, took her seat at the window with folded hands, +instead of occupying herself with needlework, like other women whose days were +far too short for all their duties. +</p> + +<p> +He supposed, innocently enough, that his wife thought only of him while +adorning herself; but the whole village of Indret could have told him that +another occupied all her thoughts, and in this gossip the names of Madame +Rondic and Chariot were never separated. They said that the two had known each +other before Madame Rondic’s marriage, and that if the nephew had wished +he could have married the lady, instead of his uncle. +</p> + +<p> +But the young fellow had no such desire. He merely thought that Clarisse was +charmingly pretty, and that it would be very nice to have her for his aunt. But +later, when they were thrown so much together, while Father Rondic slept in the +arm-chair and Zénaïde sewed at the château, these two natures were irresistibly +attracted toward each other. But no one had a right to make any invidious +remark; they had, besides, always watching over them a pair of frightfully +suspicious eyes, those of Zénaïde. She had a way of interrupting their +interviews, of appearing suddenly, when least expected; and, however fatigued +she might be by her day’s work, she took her seat in the chimney-corner +with her knitting. Zénaïde, in fact, played the part of the jealous and +suspicious husband. Picture to yourself, if you please, a husband with all the +instincts and clearsightedness of a woman! +</p> + +<p> +The warfare between herself and Chariot was incessant, and the little outbursts +served to conceal the real antipathy; but while Father Rondic smiled +contentedly, Clarisse turned pale as if at distant thunder. +</p> + +<p> +Zénaïde had triumphed: she had so managed at the château that the Director had +decided to send Chariot to Guérigny, to study a new model of a machine there. +Months would be necessary for him to perfect his work. Clarisse understood very +well that Zénaïde was at the bottom of this movement, but she was not +altogether displeased at Chariot’s departure; she flung herself on +Zénaïde’s stronger nature, and entreated her protection. +</p> + +<p> +Jack had understood for some time that between these two women there was a +secret. He loved them both: Zénaïde won his respect and his admiration, while +Madame Rondic, more elegant and more carefully dressed, seemed to be a remnant +of the refinements of his former life. He fancied that she was like his mother; +and yet Ida was lively, gay, and talkative, while Madame Rondic was always +languid and silent. They had not a feature alike, nor was there any similarity +in the color of their hair. Nevertheless, they did resemble each other, but it +was a resemblance as vague and indefinite as would result from the same perfume +among the clothing, or of something more subtile still, which only a skilful +chemist of the human soul could have analyzed. +</p> + +<p> +Sometimes on Sunday, Jack read aloud to the two women and to Rondic. The parlor +was the room in which they assembled on these occasions. The apartment was +decorated with a highly colored view of Naples, some enormous shells, vitrified +sponges, and all those foreign curiosities which their vicinity to the sea +seemed naturally to bring to them. Handmade lace trimmed the curtains, and a +sofa and an arm-chair of plush made up the furniture of the apartment. In the +arm-chair Father Rondic took his seat to listen to the reading, while Clarisse +sat in her usual place at the window, idly looking out. Zénaïde profited by her +one day at home to mend the house-hold linen, disregarding the fact of the day +being Sunday. Among the books given to Jack by Dr. Rivals was Dante’s +<i>Inferno</i>. The book fascinated the child, for it described a spectacle +that he had constantly before his eyes. Those half naked human forms, those +flames, those deep ditches of molten metal, all seemed to him one of the +circles of which the poet wrote. +</p> + +<p> +One Sunday he was reading to his usual audience from his favorite book; Father +Rondic was asleep, according to his ordinary custom, but the two women listened +with fixed attention. It was the episode of Francesca da Rimini. Clarisse bowed +her head and shuddered. Zénaïde frowned until her heavy eyebrows met, and drove +her needle through her work with mad zeal. +</p> + +<p> +Those grand sonorous lines filled the humble roof with music. Tears stood in +the eyes of Clarisse as she listened. Without noticing them, Zenaïde spoke +abruptly as the voice of the reader ceased. +</p> + +<p> +“What a wicked, impudent woman,” she cried, “not only to +relate her crime, but to boast of it!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is true that she was guilty,” said Clarisse, “but she was +also very unhappy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Unhappy! Don’t say that, mamma; one would think that you pitied +this Francesca.” +</p> + +<p> +“And why should I not, my child? She loved him before her marriage, and +she was driven to espouse a man whom she did not love.” +</p> + +<p> +“Love him or not makes but little difference. From the moment she married +him she was bound to be faithful. The story says that he was old, and that +seems to me an additional reason for respecting him more, and for preventing +other people from laughing at him. The old man did right to kill them,—it +was only what they deserved!” +</p> + +<p> +She spoke with great violence. Her affection as a daughter, her honor as a +woman, influenced her words, and she judged and spoke with that cruel candor +that belongs to youth, and which judges life from the ideal it has itself +created, without comprehending in the least any of the terrible exigencies +which may arise. +</p> + +<p> +Clarisse did not answer. She turned her face away, and was looking out of the +window. Jack, with his eyes on his book, thought of what he had been reading. +Here, amid these humble surroundings, this immortal legend of guilty love had +echoed “through the corridors of time,” and after four hundred +years had awakened a response. Suddenly through the open casement came a cry, +“Hats! hats to sell!” Jack started to his feet and ran into the +street; but quick as he was, Clarisse had preceded him, and as he went out, she +came in, crushing a letter into her pocket. +</p> + +<p> +The pedler was far down the street. +</p> + +<p> +“Bélisaire!” shouted Jack. +</p> + +<p> +The man turned. “I was sure it was you,” continued Jack, +breathlessly. “Do you come here often?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, very often;” and then Bélisaire added, after a moment, +“How happens it, Master Jack, that you are here, and have left that +pretty house?” +</p> + +<p> +The boy hesitated, and the pedler seeing this, continued,— +</p> + +<p> +“That was a famous ham, was it not? And that lovely lady, who had such a +gentle face, she was your mother, was she not?” +</p> + +<p> +Jack was so happy at hearing her name mentioned that he would have lingered +there at the corner of the street for an hour, but Bélisaire said he was in +haste, that he had a letter to deliver, and must go. +</p> + +<p> +When Jack entered the house, Madame Rondic met him at the door. She was very +pale, and said, in a low voice, with trembling lips,— +</p> + +<p> +“What did you want of that man?” +</p> + +<p> +The child answered that he had known him at Etiolles, and that they had been +talking of his parents. +</p> + +<p> +She uttered a sigh of relief. But that whole evening she was even quieter than +usual, and her head seemed bowed by more than the weight of her blonde braids. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"></a> +CHAPTER XIV.<br /> +A MIDNIGHT INTERVIEW.</h2> + +<p class="right"> +“Chateau des Aulnettes. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not pleased with you, my child. M. Rondic has written to his +brother a long letter, in which he says, that in the year that you have been at +Indret you have made no progress. He speaks kindly of you, nevertheless, but +does not seem to think you adapted for your present life. We are all grieved to +hear this, and feel that you are not doing all that you might do. M. Rondic +also says that the air of the workshops is not good for you, that you are pale +and thin, and that at the least exertion the perspiration rolls down your face. +I cannot understand this, and fear that you are imprudent, that you go out in +the evening uncovered, that you sleep with your windows open, and that you +forget to tie your scarf around your throat. This must not be; your health is +of the first importance. +</p> + +<p> +“I admit that your present occupation is not as pleasant as running wild +in the forest would be, but remember what M. D’Argenton told you, that +‘life is not a romance.’ He knows this very well, poor +man!—better, too, to-day, than ever before. You have no conception of the +annoyances to which this great poet is exposed. The low conspiracies that have +been formed against him are almost incredible. They are about to bring out a +play at the Théâtre Français called ‘<i>La Fille de Faust</i>’ It +is not D’Argenton’s play, because his is not written, but it is his +idea, and his title! We do not know whom to suspect, for he is surrounded with +faithful friends. Whoever the guilty party may be, our friend has been most +painfully affected, and has been seriously ill. Dr. Hirsch fortunately was +here, for Dr. Rivals still continues to sulk. That reminds me to tell you that +we hear that you keep up your correspondence with the doctor, of which M. +d’Argenton entirely disapproves. It is not wise, my child, to keep up any +association with people above your station; it only leads to all sorts of +chimerical aspirations. Your friendship for little Cécile M. d’Argenton +regards also as a waste of time. You must, therefore, relinquish it, as we +think that you would then enter with more interest into your present life. You +will understand, my child, that I am now speaking entirely in your interest. +You are now fifteen. You are safely launched in an enviable career. A future +opens before you, and you can make of yourself just what you please. +</p> + +<p> +“Your loving mother, +</p> + +<p> +“Charlotte.” +</p> + +<p> +“P. S. Ten o’clock at night. +</p> + +<p> +“Dearest,—I am alone, and hasten to add a good night to my letter, +to say on paper what I would say to you were you here with me now. Do not be +discouraged. You know just what he is. <i>He</i> is very determined, and has +resolved that you shall be a machinist, and you must be. Is he right? I cannot +say. I beg of you to be careful of your health; it must be damp where you are; +and if you need anything, write to me under cover to the Archambaulds. Have you +any more chocolate? For this, and for any other little things you want, I lay +aside from my personal expenses a little money every month. So you see that you +are teaching me economy. Remember that some day I may have only you to rely +upon. +</p> + +<p> +“If you knew how sad I am sometimes in thinking of the future! Life is +not very gay here, and I am not always happy. But then, as you know, my sad +moments do not last long. I laugh and cry at the same time without knowing why. +I have no reason to complain, either. He is nervous like all artists, but I +comprehend the real generosity and nobility of his nature. Farewell! I finish +my letter for Mère Archambauld to mail as she goes home. We shall not keep the +good woman long. M. d’Argenton distrusts her. He thinks she is paid by +his enemies to steal his ideas and titles for books and plays! Good night, my +dearest.” +</p> + +<p> +Between the lines of this lengthy letter Jack saw two faces,—that of +D’Argenton, dictatorial and stern,—and his mother’s, gentle +and tender. How under subjection she was! How crushed was her expansive nature! +A child’s imagination supplies his thoughts with illustrations. It seemed +to Jack, as he read, that his Ida—she was always Ida to her boy—was +shut up in a tower, making signals of distress to him. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, he would work hard, he would make money, and take his mother away from +such tyranny; and as a first step he put away all his books. +</p> + +<p> +“You are right,” said old Rondic; “your books distract your +attention.” +</p> + +<p> +In the workshop Jack heard constant allusions made to the Rondic household, and +particularly to the relations existing between Clarisse and Chariot. +</p> + +<p> +Every one knew that the two met continually at a town half-way between Saint +Nazarre and Indret. Here Clarisse went under pretence of purchasing provisions +that could not be procured on the island. In the contemptuous glances of the +men who met her, in their familiar nods, she read that her secret was known, +and yet with blushes of shame dyeing the cheeks that all the fresh breezes from +the Loire had no power to cool, she went on. Jack knew all this. No delicacy +was observed in the discussion of such subjects before the child. Things were +called by their right names, and they laughed as they talked. Jack did not +laugh, however. He pitied the husband so deluded and deceived. He pitied also +the woman whose weakness was shown in her very way of knotting her hair, in the +way she sat, and whose pleading eyes always seemed to be asking pardon for some +fault committed. He wanted to whisper to her, “Take care—you are +watched.” But to Chariot he would have liked to say, “Go away, and +let this woman alone!” +</p> + +<p> +He was also indignant in seeing his friend Bélisaire playing such a part in +this mournful drama. The pedler carried all the letters that passed between the +lovers. Many a time Jack had seen him drop one into Madame Rondic’s apron +while she changed some money, and, disgusted with his old ally, the child no +longer lingered to speak when they met in the street. +</p> + +<p> +Bélisaire had no idea of the reason of this coolness. He suspected it so +little, that one day, when he could not find Clarisse, he went to the +machine-shop, and with an air of great mystery gave the letter to the +apprentice. “It is for madame; give it to her secretly!” +</p> + +<p> +Jack recognized the writing of Chariot. “No,” he said at once; +“I will not touch this letter, and I think you would do better to sell +your hats than to meddle with such matters.” +</p> + +<p> +Bélisaire looked at him with amazement. +</p> + +<p> +“You know very well,” said the boy, “what these letters are; +and do you think that you are doing right to aid in deceiving that old +man?” +</p> + +<p> +The pedler’s face turned scarlet. +</p> + +<p> +“I never deceived any one; if papers are given to me to carry, I carry +them, that is all. Be sure of one thing, and that is, if I were the sort of +person you call me, I should be much better off than I am today!” +</p> + +<p> +Jack tried to make him see the thing as he saw it, but evidently the man, +however honest, was without any delicacy of perception. “And I, +too,” thought Jack, suddenly, “am of the people now. What right +have I to any such refinements?” +</p> + +<p> +That Father Rondic knew nothing of all that was going on, was not astonishing. +But Zênaïde, where was she? Of what was she thinking? +</p> + +<p> +Zénaïde was on the spot,—more than usual, too, for she had not been at +the château for a month. Her eyes were also widely open, and were more keen and +vivacious than ever, for Zénaïde was about to be married to a handsome young +soldier attached to the customhouse at Nantes, and the girl’s dowry was +seven thousand francs. Père Rondic thought this too much, but the soldier was +firm. The old man had made no provision for Clarisse. If he should die, what +would become of her? +</p> + +<p> +But his wife said, “You are yet young—we will be economical. Let +the soldier have Zénaïde and the seven thousand francs, for the girl loves +him!” +</p> + +<p> +Zénaïde spent a great deal of time before her mirror. She did not deceive +herself. “I am ugly, and M. Maugin will not marry me for my beauty, but +let him marry me, and he shall love me later.” +</p> + +<p> +And the girl gave a little nod, for she knew the unselfish devotion of which +she was capable, the tenderness and patience with which she would watch over +her husband. But all these new interests had so absorbed her that Zénaïde had +partially forgotten her suspicions; they returned to her at intervals, while +she was sewing on her wedding-dress, but she did not notice her mother’s +pallor nor uneasiness, nor did she feel the burning heat of those slender +hands. She did not notice her long and frequent disappearances, and she heard +nothing of what was rumored in the town. She saw and heard nothing but her own +radiant happiness. The banns were published, the marriage-day fixed, and the +little house was full of the joyous excitement that precedes a wedding. Zénaïde +ran up and down stairs twenty times each day with the movements of a young +hippopotamus. Her friends came and went, little gifts were pouring in, for the +girl was a great favorite in spite of her occasional abruptness. Jack wished to +make her a present; his mother had sent him a hundred francs. +</p> + +<p> +“This money is your own, my Jack,” Charlotte wrote. “Buy with +it a gift for M’lle Rondic, and some clothes for yourself. I wish you to +make a good appearance at the wedding, and I am afraid that your wardrobe is in +a pitiable condition. Say nothing about it in your letters, nor of me to the +Rondics. They would thank me, which would be an annoyance, and bring me a +reproof besides.” +</p> + +<p> +For two days Jack carried this money with pride in his pocket. He would go to +Nantes and buy a new suit. What a delight it would be! and how kind his mother +was! One thing troubled him: What could he purchase for Zénaïde; he must first +see what she had. +</p> + +<p> +So thinking one dark night, as he entered the house, he ran against some one +who was coming down the steps. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that you, Bélisaire?” +</p> + +<p> +There was no reply, but as Jack pushed open the door, he saw that he was not +mistaken, that Bélisaire had been there. +</p> + +<p> +Clarisse was in the corridor, shivering with the cold, and so absorbed by the +letter she was reading in the gleam of light from the half open door of the +parlor, that she did not even look up as Jack went in. The letter evidently +contained some startling intelligence, and the boy suddenly remembered having +that day heard that Chariot had lost a large sum of money in gambling with the +crew of an English ship that had just arrived at Nantes from Calcutta. +</p> + +<p> +In the parlor Zénaïde and Maugin were alone. +</p> + +<p> +Père Rondic had gone to Chateaubriand and would not return until the next day, +which did not prevent her future husband from dining with them. He sat in the +large arm-chair, his feet comfortably extended. While Zénaïde, carefully +dressed, and her hair arranged by her stepmother, laid the table, this calm and +reasonable lover entertained her by an estimate of the prices of the various +grains, indigos, and oils that entered the port of Nantes. And such a wonderful +prestidigitateur is love that Zénaïde was moved to the depths of her soul by +these details, and listened to them as to music. +</p> + +<p> +Jack’s entrance disturbed the lovers. “Ah, here is Jack! I had no +idea it was so late!” cried the girl. “And mamma, where is +she?” +</p> + +<p> +Clarisse came in, pale but calm. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor woman!” thought Jack, as he watched her trying to smile, to +talk, and to eat, swallowing at intervals great draughts of water, as if to +choke down some terrible emotion. Zénaïde was blind to all this. She had lost +her own appetite, and watched her soldier’s plate, seeming delighted at +the rapidity with which the delicate morsels disappeared. +</p> + +<p> +Maugin talked well, and ate and drank with marvellous appetite; he weighed his +words as carefully as he did the square bits into which he cut his bread; he +held his wine-glass to the light, testing and scrutinizing it each time he +drank. A dinner, with him, was evidently a matter of importance as well as of +time. This evening it seemed as if Clarisse could not endure it; she rose from +the table, went to the window, listened to the rattling of the hail on the +glass, and then turning round, said,— +</p> + +<p> +“What a night it is, M. Maugin! I wish you were safely at home.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t, then!” cried Zénaïde, so earnestly that they all +laughed. But the remark made by Clarisse bore its fruit, and the soldier rose +to go. But it took him some time to get off. There was his lantern to light, +his gloves to button; and the girl took all these duties on herself. At last +the soldier was in readiness; his hood was pulled over his eyes, a scarf wound +about his throat, then Zénaïde said good night, and watched her +Esquimau-looking lover somewhat anxiously down the street. What perils might he +not have to run in that thick darkness! +</p> + +<p> +Her stepmother called her impatiently. The nervous excitement of Clarisse had +momentarily increased. Jack had noticed this, and also that she looked +constantly at the clock. +</p> + +<p> +“How cold it must be to-night on the Loire,” said Zénaïde. +</p> + +<p> +“Cold, indeed!” answered Clarisse, with a shiver. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” she said, as the clock struck ten, “let us go to +bed.” +</p> + +<p> +Then seeing that Jack was about to lock the outer door as usual, she stopped +him, saying,— +</p> + +<p> +“I have done it myself. Let us go up stairs.” +</p> + +<p> +But Zénaïde had not finished talking of M. Maugin. “Do you like his +moustache, Jack?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you go to bed?” asked Madame Rondic, pretending to laugh, but +trembling nervously. +</p> + +<p> +At last the three are on the narrow staircase. +</p> + +<p> +“Good night,” said Clarisse; “I am dying with sleep.” +</p> + +<p> +But her eyes were very bright. Jack put his foot on his ladder, but +Zénaïde’s room was so crowded with her gifts and purchases, that it +seemed to him a most auspicious occasion to pass them in review. Friends had +had them under examination, and they were still displayed on the commode: some +silver spoons, a prayer-book, gloves, and all about tumbled bits of paper and +the colored ribbon that had fastened these gifts from the château; then came +the more humble presents from the wives of the employés. Zénaïde showed them +all with pride. The boy uttered exclamations of wonder. “But what shall I +give her?” he said to himself over and over again. +</p> + +<p> +“And my trousseau, Jack, you have not seen it! Wait, and I will show it +to you.” +</p> + +<p> +With a quaint old key she opened the carved wardrobe that had been in the +family for a hundred years; the two doors swung open, a delicious violet +perfume filled the room, and Jack could see and admire the piles of sheets spun +by the first Madame Rondic, and the ruffled and fluted linen piled in snowy +masses. +</p> + +<p> +In fact, Jack had never seen such a display. His mother’s wardrobe held +laces and fine embroideries, not household articles. Then, lifting a heavy +pile, she showed Jack a casket. “Guess what is in this,” Zénaïde +said, with a laugh; “it contains my dowry, my dear little dowry, that in +a fortnight will belong to M. Maugin. Ah, when I think of it, I could sing and +dance with joy!” +</p> + +<p> +And the girl held out her skirts with each hand, and executed an elephantine +gambol, shaking the casket she still held in her hand. Suddenly she stopped; +some one had rapped on the wall. +</p> + +<p> +“Let the boy go to bed,” said her stepmother in an irritated tone; +“you know he must be up early.” +</p> + +<p> +A little ashamed, the future Madame Maugin shut her wardrobe, and said good +night to Jack, who ascended his ladder; and five minutes later the little +house, wrapped in snow and rocked by the wind, slept like its neighbors in the +silence of the night. +</p> + +<p> +There is no light in the parlor of the Rondic mansion save that which comes +from the fitful gleam of the dying fire in the chimney. A woman sat there, and +at her feet knelt a man in vehement supplication. +</p> + +<p> +“I entreat you,” he whispered, “if you love me—” +</p> + +<p> +If she loved him! Had she not at his command left the door open that he might +enter? Had she not adorned herself in the dress and ornaments that he liked, to +make herself beautiful in his eyes? What could it be that he was asking her now +to grant to him? How was it that she, usually so weak, was now so strong in her +denials? Let us listen for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” she answered, indignantly, “it is +impossible.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I only ask it for two days, Clarisse. With these six thousand francs +I will pay the five thousand I have lost, and with the other thousand I will +conquer fortune.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him with an expression of absolute terror. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” she repeated, “it cannot be. You must find some +other way.” +</p> + +<p> +“But there is none.” +</p> + +<p> +“Listen. I have a rich friend; I will write to her and ask her to lend me +the money.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I must have it to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, find the Director; tell him the truth.” +</p> + +<p> +“And he will dismiss me instantly. No; my plan is much the best. In two +days I will restore the money.” +</p> + +<p> +“You only say that.” +</p> + +<p> +“I swear it.” And, seeing that his words did not convince her, he +added, “I had better have said nothing to you, but have gone at once to +the wardrobe and taken what I needed.” +</p> + +<p> +But she answered, trembling, for she feared that he would yet do this, +“Do you not know that Zénaïde counts her money every day? This very night +she showed the casket to the apprentice.” +</p> + +<p> +Chariot started. “Is that so?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; the poor girl is very happy. It would kill her to lose it. Besides, +the key is not in the wardrobe.” +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly perceiving that she was weakening her own position, she was silent. +The young man was no longer the supplicating lover, he was the spoiled child of +the house, imploring his aunt to save him from dishonor. +</p> + +<p> +Through her tears she mechanically repeated the words, “It is +impossible.” +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly he rose to his feet. +</p> + +<p> +“You will not? Very good. Only one thing remains then. Farewell! I will +not survive disgrace.” +</p> + +<p> +He expected a cry. No; she came toward him. +</p> + +<p> +“You wish to die! Ah, well, so do I! I have had enough of life, of shame, +of falsehood, and of love—love that must be concealed with such care that +I am never sure of finding it. I am ready.” +</p> + +<p> +He drew back. “What folly!” he said, sullenly. “This is too +much,” he added, vehemently, after a moment’s silence, and hurried +to the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +She followed him. “Where are you going?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Leave me!” he said, roughly. She snatched his arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Take care!” she whispered with quivering lips. “If you take +one more step in that direction, I will call for assistance!” +</p> + +<p> +“Call, then! Let the world know that your nephew is your lover, and your +lover a thief.” +</p> + +<p> +He hissed these words, in her ear, for they both spoke very low, impressed, in +spite of themselves, by the silence and repose of the house. By the red light +of the dying fire he appeared to her suddenly in his true colors, just what he +really was, unmasked by one of those violent emotions which show the inner +workings of the soul. +</p> + +<p> +She saw him with his keen eyes reddened by constant examination of the cards; +she thought of all she had sacrificed for this man; she remembered the care +with which she had adorned herself for this interview. Suddenly she was +overwhelmed by profound disgust for herself and for him, and sank, +half-fainting, on the couch; and while the thief crept up the familiar +staircase, she buried her face in the pillows to stifle her cries and sobs, and +to prevent herself from seeing and hearing anything. +</p> + +<p> +The streets of Indret were as dark as at midnight, for it was not yet six +o’clock. Here and there a light from a baker’s window or a +wine-shop shone dimly through the thick fog. In one of these wineshops sat +Chariot and Jack. +</p> + +<p> +“Another glass, my boy!” +</p> + +<p> +“No more, thank you. I fear it would make me very ill.” +</p> + +<p> +Chariot laughed. “And you a Parisian! Waiter, bring more wine!” +</p> + +<p> +The boy dared make no farther objection. The attentions of which he was the +object flattered him immensely. That this man, who for eighteen months had +never vouchsafed him any notice, should, meeting him by chance that morning in +the streets, have invited him to the cabaret and treated him, was a matter of +surprise and congratulation to himself. At first Jack was somewhat distrustful +of such courtesy, for the other had such a singular way of repeating his +question, “Is there nothing new at the Rondics? Really, nothing +new?” +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder,” thought the apprentice, “if he wishes me to carry +his letters, instead of Bélisaire!” +</p> + +<p> +But after a little while the boy became more at ease. Perhaps Chariot, he +thought, may not be such a bad fellow. A good friend might induce him to +relinquish play, and make him a better man. +</p> + +<p> +After Jack had taken his third glass of wine, he became very cordial, and +offered to become this good friend. Chariot accepting the offer with +enthusiasm, the boy thought himself justified in at once offering his advice. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, M. Chariot, listen to me, and don’t play any +more.” +</p> + +<p> +The blow struck home, for the young man’s lips trembled nervously, and he +swallowed a glass of brandy at one gulp. +</p> + +<p> +At that moment the factory-bell sounded. +</p> + +<p> +“I must go,” cried Jack, starting to his feet. And, as his friend +had paid for the first and second wine they had drank, he considered it +essential that he should now pay in his turn; so he drew a louis from his +pocket, and tossed it on the table. +</p> + +<p> +“Hallo! a yellow boy!” said the barkeeper, unaccustomed to seeing +such in the possession of apprentices. Chariot started, but made no remark. +</p> + +<p> +“Had Jack been to the wardrobe also?” he said to himself. The boy +was delighted at the sensation he had created. “And I have more of the +same kind,” he added, tapping his pocket. And then he whispered in his +companion’s ear, “It is for a present that I mean to buy +Zénaïde.” +</p> + +<p> +Chariot said, mechanically, “Is it?” and turned away with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +The innkeeper fingered the gold piece with some uneasiness. +</p> + +<p> +“Hurry,” said Jack, “or I shall be late.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish, my boy,” said Chariot, “that you could have remained +with me until my boat left, which will not be for an hour.” +</p> + +<p> +And he gently drew the lad toward the Loire. It was easily done, for, coming +out from the cabaret into the cold air, the wine the child had drank made him +giddy. It seemed to him that his head weighed a thousand pounds. This did not +last long, however. “Hark!” he said; “the bell has stopped, I +think.” They turned back. Jack was terrified, for it was the first time +that he had ever been late at the Works. But Chariot was in despair. “It +is my fault,” he reiterated. He declared that he would see the Director +and explain matters, and was altogether so utterly miserable, that Jack was +obliged to console him by saying that it was of no great consequence, after +all; that he could afford to be marked ‘absent’ for once. “I +will go with you to the boat.” +</p> + +<p> +The boy was so gratified by what he believed to be the good effect of his words +on Chariot, that he enlarged on the noble nature of Père Rondic and of +Clarisse. +</p> + +<p> +“O, had you seen her this morning, you would have pitied her. She was so +pale that she looked as if she were dead.” +</p> + +<p> +Chariot started. +</p> + +<p> +“And she ate nothing. I am afraid she will be ill. And she never +spoke.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor woman!” said Chariot, with a sigh of relief which Jack took +for one of sorrow. +</p> + +<p> +They reached the wharf. The boat was not there. A thick fog covered the river +from one shore to the other. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us go in here,” said Chariot It was a little wooden shed, +intended as a shelter for workmen while waiting in bad weather. Clarisse knew +this shed very well, and the old woman who sold brandy and coffee in the corner +had seen Madame Rondic many a time when she crossed the Loire. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us take a drop of brandy to keep out the cold,” said Chariot. +At that moment a shrill whistle was heard; it was the boat for Saint Nazarre. +“Good-bye, Jack, and a thousand thanks for your good advice!” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t mention it,” said the lad, heartily; “but pray +give up gambling.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course I will,” answered the other, hurrying on board to hide +his amusement. When Jack was again alone he felt no desire to return to the +Works; he was in a state of unusual excitement. Even the heavy fog hanging over +the Loire interested him. Suddenly he said to himself, “Why do I not go +to Nantes and buy Zénaïde’s gift to-day?” A few moments saw him on +the way; but as there was no train until noon, he must wait for some time, and +was compelled to pass that time in a room where there were several of the old +employés of the Works, who had been discharged for various misdemeanors. They +received the lad civilly enough, and listened attentively when he took up some +remark that was made, and uttered some platitudes, stolen from +D’Argenton, on the rights of labor. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen!” they said to each other; “it is easy to see that +the boy comes from Paris.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack, excited by this applause and sympathy, talked fast and freely. Suddenly +the room swam around—all grew dark. A fresh breeze restored him to +consciousness. He was seated on the bank of the river, and a sailor was bathing +his forehead. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you better?” said the man. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, much better,” answered Jack, his teeth chattering. +</p> + +<p> +“Then go on board.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go where?” said the apprentice, in amazement. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, have you forgotten that you hired a boat, and sent for provisions? +And here comes the man with them.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack was stupefied with amazement, but he was too weak to argue any point; he +embarked without remonstrance. He had a little money left, with which he could +buy some little souvenir for Zénaïde, so that his trip to Nantes would not be +thrown away absolutely. He breakfasted with a poor enough appetite, and sat at +the end of the boat, wrapped in thought. He dreamily recalled books that he had +read—tales of strange adventures on the sea; but why did a certain old +volume of Robinson Crusoe persistently come before him? He saw the rubbed and +yellowed page, the vignette of Robinson in his hammock surrounded by drunken +sailors, and above it the inscription, “And in a night of debauch I +forgot all my good resolutions.” +</p> + +<p> +He was brought back to real life by the songs of his companions, and by a pair +of keen bright eyes that were fixed upon his own. Jack was annoyed by this +gaze, and leaned forward with a bottle in his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Drink with me, captain!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The man declined abruptly. The younger sailor whispered to Jack, “Let him +alone; he did not wish to take you on board; his wife settled things for him; +he thought you had more money than you ought to have!” +</p> + +<p> +Jack was indignant at being treated like a thief. He exclaimed that his money +was his own, that it had been given him by———. Here he +stopped, remembering that his mother had forbidden him to mention her name. +“But,” he continued, “I can have more money when I wish it, +and I am going to buy a wedding present for Zénaïde.” +</p> + +<p> +He talked on, but no one listened, for a grand dispute between the two men was +well under way as to the place where they should land. +</p> + +<p> +At last they entered the harbor of Nantes. Old houses, with carved fronts and +stone balconies, met his eyes, crowded as it were among the shipping at the +wharves. Large vessels lay at anchor in the harbor, looking to the boy like +captives who panted for liberty, sunshine, and space. Then he thought of Mâdou, +of his flight and concealment among the cargo in the hold. But this thought was +gone in a moment, and he found himself on shore between his two companions, +whom he soon loses and finds again. They cross one bridge, and then another, +and wander with neither end nor aim. They drink at intervals; night comes, and +the boy accompanies the sailors to a low dance-house, still in the strange +excitement in which he has been all day. Finally, he finds himself alone on a +bench, in a public square, in a state of exhaustion that is far from sleep. The +profound solitude terrifies him, when suddenly he hears the well-known +cry,— +</p> + +<p> +“Hats! hats! Hats to sell!” +</p> + +<p> +“Bélisaire!” called the boy. +</p> + +<p> +It was Bélisaire. Jack made a futile effort at explanation. The man scolded the +boy gently, lifted him up, and led him away. +</p> + +<p> +Where are they going? And who comes here? and what do they want of him? Rough +men accost him; they shake him and put irons on his wrists, and he cannot +resist, for he is still more than half asleep. He sleeps in the wagon into +which he is thrust; in the boat, where he lies utterly inert; and how happy he +is after being thus buffeted about to finally throw himself on a straw pallet, +shut out from all further disturbance by huge locks and bolts. +</p> + +<p> +In the morning a frightful noise over his head awoke Jack suddenly. Ah, what a +dismal awakening is that of drunkenness! The nervous trembling in every limb, +the intense thirst and exhaustion, the shame and inexpressible anguish of the +human being seeing himself reduced to the level of a beast, and so disgusted +with his tarnished existence that he feels incapable of beginning life again. +</p> + +<p> +It was still too dark to distinguish objects, but he knew that he was not in +his little attic. He caught a glimpse of the coming dawn in the white light +from two high windows. Where was he? In the corner he began to see a confused +mass of cords and pulleys. Suddenly he heard the same noise that had awakened +him: it was a clock, and one that he well knew. He was at Indret, then, but +where? +</p> + +<p> +Could it be that he was shut in the tower where refractory apprentices were +occasionally put? And what had he done? He tried to recall the events of the +day before, and, confused as his mind still was, he remembered enough to cover +him with shame. He groaned heavily. The groan was answered by a sigh from the +corner. He was not alone, then! +</p> + +<p> +“Who is there?” asked Jack, uneasily; “is it +Bélisaire?” he added. But why should Bélisaire be there with him? +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it is I,” answered the man, in a tone of desperation. +</p> + +<p> +“In the name of heaven tell me why we are shut up here like two +criminals?” +</p> + +<p> +“What other people have been doing I can’t tell,” muttered +the old man; “I only speak for myself, and I have done no harm to any +one. My hats are ruined,—and I, too, for that matter!” continued +Bélisaire, dolefully. +</p> + +<p> +“But what have I done?” asked Jack, for he could not imagine that +among the many follies of which he had been guilty there was one more grave +than another. +</p> + +<p> +“They say—But why do you make me tell you? You know well enough +what they say.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, I do not; pray, go on.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, they say that you have stolen Zénaïde’s dowry.” +</p> + +<p> +The boy uttered an exclamation of horror. “But you do not believe this, +Bélisaire?” +</p> + +<p> +The old man did not answer. Every one at Indret thought Jack guilty. Every +circumstance was against the boy. On the first report of the robbery, Jack was +looked for, but was not to be found. Chariot had very well managed matters. All +along the road there were traces of the robbery in the gold pieces displayed so +liberally. Only one thing disturbed the belief of the boy’s guilt in the +minds of the villagers: what could he have done with the six thousand francs? +Neither Bélisaire’s pocket nor his own displayed any indication that such +a sum of money had been in their possession. +</p> + +<p> +Soon after daybreak the superintendent sent for the prisoners. They were +covered with mud, and were unwashed and unshorn; yet Jack had a certain grace +and refinement in spite of all this; but Bélisaire’s naturally ugly +countenance was so distorted by grief and anxiety, that, as the two appeared, +the spectators unanimously decided that this gentle-looking child was the mere +instrument of the wretched being with whom he was unfortunately connected. As +Jack looked about he saw several faces which seemed like those of some terrible +nightmare, and his courage deserted him. He recognized the sailors, and the +proprietors of several of the wineshops, with many others of those whom he had +seen on that disastrous yesterday. The child begged for a private interview +with the superintendent, and was admitted to the office, where he found Father +Rondic, whom Jack went forward at once to greet with extended hand. The old man +drew back sadly but resolutely. +</p> + +<p> +“Out of regard for your youth, Jack,” said the Director, “and +from respect to your parents, and in consideration of your hitherto good +behavior, I have begged that, instead of being carried to Nantes and placed in +prison, you shall remain here. I now tell you that it is for you to decide what +will be done. Tell me the truth. Tell Father Rondic and myself what you have +done with the money, give him back what is left, and—no, do not interrupt +me,” continued the Director, with a frown. “Return the money, and I +will then send you to your parents.” +</p> + +<p> +Here Bélisaire attempted to speak. “Be quiet, fellow!” said the +superintendent; “I cannot understand how you can have the audacity to +speak. We believe you to be in reality the guilty party, and that this child +has simply been your tool.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack wished to protest against this condemnation of his friend; but old Rondic +gave him no time. +</p> + +<p> +“You are quite right, sir, it is bad company that has led the lad astray. +Everybody loved him in my house; we had every confidence in him until he met +this miserable wretch.” +</p> + +<p> +Bélisaire looked so heart-broken at this wholesale condemnation that Jack +rushed boldly forward in his defence. “I assure you, sir, that I met +Bélisaire late in the day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean,” said the superintendent, “that you committed +this robbery all alone?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have done no wrong, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Take care, my lad—you are going down hill with rapidity. Your +guilt is very evident, and it is useless to deny it. You were alone with the +Rondic women in their house all night. Zénaïde showed you the casket, and even +showed you where it was kept. In the night she heard some one moving in your +attic; she spoke; naturally you made no reply. She knew that it must be you, +for there was no one else in the house. Then you must remember that we know how +much money you threw away yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack was about to say, “My mother sent it to me,” when he +remembered that she had forbidden him to mention this. So he hesitatingly +murmured that he had been saving his money for some time. +</p> + +<p> +“What nonsense!” cried the Director. “Do you think you can +make us believe that with your small wages you could have laid aside the amount +you squandered yesterday? Tell the truth, my lad, and repair the evil you have +done as well as possible.” +</p> + +<p> +Then Father Rondic spoke. “Tell us, my boy, where this money is. Remember +that it is Zénaïde’s dowry, that I have toiled day and night to lay it +aside for her, feeling that with it I might make her happy. You did not think +of all this, I am sure, and were led away by the temptation of the moment. But +now that you have had time to reflect, you will tell us the truth. Remember, +Jack, that I am old, that time may not be given me to replace this money. Ah, +my good lad, speak!” +</p> + +<p> +The poor man’s lips trembled. It must have been a hardened criminal who +could have resisted such a touching appeal. Bélisaire was so moved that he made +a series of the most extraordinary gestures. “Give him the money, Jack, +I beg of you!” he whispered. +</p> + +<p> +Alas! if the child had had the money, how gladly he would have placed it in +the hands of old Rondic, but he could only say,— +</p> + +<p> +“I have stolen nothing—I swear I have not!” +</p> + +<p> +The superintendent rose from his chair impatiently. “We have had enough +of this. Your heart must be of adamant to resist such an appeal as has been +made to you. I shall send you up-stairs again, and give you until to-night to +reflect. If you do not then make a full confession, I shall hand you over to +the proper tribunal.” +</p> + +<p> +The boy was then left all the long day in solitude. He tried to sleep, but the +knowledge that every one thought him guilty, that his own shameful conduct had +given ample reason for such a judgment, overwhelmed him with sorrow. How could +he prove his innocence? By showing his mother’s letter. But if +D’Argenton should know of it? No, he could not sacrifice his mother! +What, then, should he do? And the boy lay on the straw bed, turning over in his +bewildered brain the difficulties of his position. Around him went on the +business of life; he heard the workmen come and go. It was evening, and he +would be sent to prison. Suddenly he heard the stairs creak under a heavy +tread, then the turning of the key, and Zénaïde entered hastily. +</p> + +<p> +“Good heavens,” she cried, “how high up you are!” +</p> + +<p> +She said this with a careless air, but she had wept so much that her eyes were +red and inflamed, her hair was roughened and carelessly put up. The poor girl +smiled at Jack. “I am ugly, am I not? I have no figure nor complexion. I +have a big nose and small eyes; but two days ago I had a handsome dowry, and I +cared but little if some of the malicious young girls said, ‘It is only +for your money that Maugin wishes to marry you,’ as if I did not know +this! He wanted my money, but I loved him! And now, Jack, all is changed. +To-night he will come and say farewell, and I shall not complain. Only, Jack, +before he comes, I thought I would have a little talk with you.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack had hidden his face, and was crying. Zénaïde felt a ray of hope at this. +</p> + +<p> +“You will give me back my money, Jack, will you not?” she added +entreatingly. +</p> + +<p> +“But I have not got it, I assure you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do not say that. You are afraid of me, but I will not reproach you. If +you have spent a little you are quite welcome, but tell me where the rest +is!” +</p> + +<p> +“Listen to me, Zénaïde: this is horrible. Why should every one think me +guilty?” +</p> + +<p> +She went on as if he had not spoken. “Do you understand that without this +money I shall be miserable? In your mother’s name I entreat you here on +my knees!” +</p> + +<p> +She threw herself on the floor by the side of the bed where the boy sat, and +gave way to tears and sobs. Jack, who was as unhappy as she, tried to take her +hand. Suddenly she started up. “You will be punished. No one will ever +love you because your heart is bad!” and she left the room. She ran +hastily down the stairs to the superintendent’s room, whom she found with +her father. She could not speak, for her tears choked her. +</p> + +<p> +“Be comforted, my child!” said the Director. “Your father +tells me that the mother of this boy is married to a very rich man. We will +write to them. If they are good people, your dowry will be restored to +you.” +</p> + +<p> +He wrote the following letter:— +</p> + +<p> +“Madame: Your son has stolen a sum of money from the honest and +hard-working man with whom he lived. This sum represents the savings of years. +I have not yet handed him over to the authorities, hoping that he might be +induced to restore at least a portion of this money. But I am afraid that it +has all been squandered among drunken companions. If that is the case, you +should indemnify the Rondics for their loss. The amount is six thousand francs. +I await your decision before taking any further steps.” +</p> + +<p> +And he signed his name. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor things—it is terrible news for them!” said Père Rondic, +who amid his own sorrows could still think of those of others. +</p> + +<p> +Zénaïde looked up indignantly. “Why do you pity these people? If the boy +has taken my money, let them replace it.” +</p> + +<p> +How pitiless is youth! The girl gave not one thought to the mother’s +despair when she should hear of her son’s crime. Old Rondic, on the +contrary, said to himself, “She will die of shame!” +</p> + +<p> +In due time this letter written by the superintendent reached its destination, +as letters which contain bad news generally do. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"></a> +CHAPTER XV.<br /> +CHARLOTTE’S JOURNEY.</h2> + +<p> +One gray morning Charlotte was cutting the last bunches from the vines; the +poet was at work, and Dr. Hirsch was asleep, when the postman reached +Aulnettes. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! a letter from Indret!” said D’Argenton, slowly opening +his newspapers,—“and some verses by Hugo!” +</p> + +<p> +Why did the poet watch this unopened letter as a dog watches a bone that he +does not wish himself, and is yet determined that no one else shall touch? +Simply because Charlotte’s eyes had kindled at the sight of it, and +because this most selfish of beings felt that for a moment he had become a +secondary object in the mother’s eyes. +</p> + +<p> +From the hour of Jack’s departure, his mother’s love for him had +increased. She avoided speaking of him, however, lest she should irritate her +poet. He divined this, and his hatred and jealousy of the child increased. And +when the early letters of Rondic contained complaints of Jack, he was very +much delighted. But this was not enough. He wished to mortify and degrade the +boy still more. His hour had come. At the first words of the letter, for he +finally opened it, his eyes flamed with malicious joy. “Ah! I knew +it!” he cried, and he handed the sheet to Charlotte. +</p> + +<p> +What a terrible blow for her! Wounded in her maternal pride before the poet, +wounded, too, by his evident satisfaction, the poor woman was still more +overwhelmed by the reproaches of her own conscience. “It is my own +fault!” she said to herself, “why did I abandon him?” +</p> + +<p> +Now he must be saved, and at all hazards. But where should she find the money? +She had nothing. The sale of her furniture had brought in some millions of +francs, but they had been quickly spent. The trifles of jewelry she had would +not bring half the necessary sum. She never thought of appealing to +D’Argenton. First, he hated the boy; and next, he was very miserly. +Besides, he was far from rich. They lived with great economy in the winter, the +better to keep up their hospitality during the summer. +</p> + +<p> +“I have always felt,” said D’Argenton, after leaving her time +to finish the letter, “that this boy was bad at heart!” +</p> + +<p> +She made no reply; indeed she hardly heard what he said. She was thinking that +her child would go to prison if she could not obtain the money. +</p> + +<p> +He continued, “What a disgrace this is to me!” The mother was still +saying to herself, “The money, where shall I get it?” +</p> + +<p> +He determined to prevent her asking him the question he saw on her lips. +</p> + +<p> +“We are not rich enough to do anything!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! if you could,” she murmured. +</p> + +<p> +He became very angry. “If I could!” he cried. “I expected +that! You know better than any one else how enormous our expenses are here. It +is enough that for two years I have supported that boy without paying for the +thefts he has committed. Six thousand francs! where shall I find them?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not think of you,” she answered, slowly. +</p> + +<p> +“Of whom, then?” he questioned, sternly. +</p> + +<p> +With heightened color, and with lips quivering with shame, she uttered a name, +expecting from her poet an explosion of wrath. +</p> + +<p> +He was silent for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“I can but make one more sacrifice for you, Charlotte,” he said, +pompously. +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks! thanks! How good you are!” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +And they lowered their voices, for Dr. Hirsch was heard descending the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +It was a most singular conversation—syllabic and disjointed—he +affecting great repugnance, she great brevity. “It was impossible to +trust to a letter,” Charlotte said. Then, terrified at her own audacity, +she added, “Suppose I go to Tours myself.” +</p> + +<p> +With the utmost tranquillity he answered, “Very well, we will go.” +</p> + +<p> +“How good you are, dear!” she cried: “you will go with me +there, and then to Indret with the money!” and the foolish creature +kissed his hands with tears. The truth was that he did not care for her to go +to Tours without him; he knew that she had lived there and been happy. Suppose +she should never return to him! She was so weak, so shallow, so inconsistent! +The sight of her old lover, of the luxury she had relinquished—the +influence of her child, might decide her to cast aside the heavy chains with +which he had loaded her. In addition, he was by no means averse to this little +journey, nor to playing his part in the drama at Indret. +</p> + +<p> +He told Charlotte that he would never abandon her, that he was ready to share +her sorrows as well as her joys; and, in short, convinced Charlotte that he +loved her more than ever. +</p> + +<p> +At dinner he said to Doctor Hirsch, “We are obliged to go to Indret, the +child has got into trouble, and you must keep house in our absence.” They +left by the night express and reached Tours early in the morning. The old +friend of Ida de Barancy lived in one of those pretty châteaux overlooking the +Loire. He was a widower without children, an excellent man, and a man of the +world. In spite of her infidelity, he had none but the kindest recollection of +the light-hearted woman who for a time had brightened his solitude. He +consequently replied to a little note sent by Charlotte that he was ready to +receive her. +</p> + +<p> +D’Argenton and she took a carriage from the hotel, and as they approached +the château, Charlotte began to grow uneasy. “It cannot be,” she +said to herself, “that he intends to go in with me!” She sat in the +corner of the carriage, looking out at the fields where she had so often +wandered with the boy, who was now wearing a workman’s blouse. +</p> + +<p> +D’Argenton watched her from the corner of his eyes, gnawing his moustache +with fury. She was very pretty that morning, a little pale from emotion and +from a night of travel. D’Argenton was uneasy and restless; he began to +regret having accompanied her, and felt embarrassed by the part he was playing. +</p> + +<p> +When he saw the château, with its grounds and fountains, its air of wealth, he +reproached himself for his own imprudence. “She will never return to +Aulnettes,” he thought. At the end of the avenue he stopped the carriage. +“I will wait here,” he said, abruptly; and added, with a sad smile, +“Do not be long.” +</p> + +<p> +Ten minutes later he saw Charlotte on the terrace with a tall and +elegant-looking man. Then began for him a terrible anguish. What were they +saying? Should he ever see her again? And it was that detestable boy that had +given him all this disturbance. The poet sat on the fallen trunk of a tree, +watching feverishly the distant door. Before him was outspread a charming +landscape—wooded hills, sloping vineyards, and meadows overhung with +willows; on one side a ruin of the time of Louis IX., and on the other, one of +those châteaux common enough on the shores of the Loire. Just below him a sort +of canal was in process of building. He watched the workmen in a mechanical +sort of way; they were clothed in uniform, and seemed an organized body. He +rose and sauntered toward them. The laborers were only children, and their +reddened eyes and pale faces told the story of their confinement to the poorer +quarters of the town. +</p> + +<p> +“Who are these children?” questioned the poet. +</p> + +<p> +“They belong to the penitentiary,” was the answer from the official +who superintended them. +</p> + +<p> +D’Argenton asked question after question, saying that he was intimately +connected with a family whose only son had just plunged them into deep +affliction. +</p> + +<p> +“Send him to us,” was the curt reply, “as soon as he leaves +the prison.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I doubt if he goes to prison,” said D’Argenton, with a +shade of regret in his voice; “the parents have paid the amount.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, we have another establishment—the <i>Maison +Paternelle</i>. I have some of the circulars here in my pocket, and perhaps you +would glance over them, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +D’Argenton took the papers and turned back toward the house. The carriage +was coming down the avenue, and soon Charlotte, her color heightened and her +eyes bright with hope for her child, appeared. +</p> + +<p> +“I have succeeded,” she cried, as the poet entered the carriage. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” he answered, dryly, relapsing into silence, turning over his +circulars with an air of affected interest. Charlotte, too, was silent, +supposing his pride wounded; and finally he was obliged to say, “You +succeeded, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Completely. It has always been his intention to give Jack, on his coming +of age, a present of ten thousand francs. He has given it to me now. Six +thousand will repay the money, and the other four thousand I am to employ as I +think best for my child’s advantage.” +</p> + +<p> +“Employ it, then, in placing him in the <i>Maison Paternelle</i>, at +Mertray, for two or three years. It is there only that one can learn to make an +honest man from out of a thief.” +</p> + +<p> +She started, for the harsh word recalled her to reality. We know that in that +poor little brain impressions are very transitory. +</p> + +<p> +“I am ready to do whatever you choose,” she said, “you have +been so good and generous!” +</p> + +<p> +The poet was enchanted; he was still master, and he proceeded to read Charlotte +a long lecture. Her maternal weakness was the cause of all that had happened. +The master-hand of a man was absolutely essential. She did not answer, being +occupied with joy at the thought of her child not being sent to prison. +</p> + +<p> +It was on Sunday morning that they reached Basse Indret. The poet went at once +to the superintendent’s, while Charlotte remained alone at the inn, for +hotel there was none at the village. The rain beating against the windows, and +the loud talking in the house, gave her the first clear impression she had +received of the exile to which she had condemned her boy. However guilty he +might be, he was still her child—her Jack. She remembered him as a little +fellow, bright, intelligent, and sensitive, and the idea that he would +presently appear before her as a thief and in a workman’s blouse, seemed +almost incredible. Ah! had she kept her child with her, or had she sent him +with other boys of his age to school, he would have been kept from temptation. +The old doctor was right, after all. And Jack had lived with these people for +two years! All the prejudices of her superficial nature revolted against her +surroundings. She was incapable of comprehending the grandeur of a task +accomplished, of a life purchased by the fatigue of the body and the labor of +the hands. To change the current of her thoughts, she took up the prospectus of +which we have spoken—“<i>Maison Paternelle</i>.” The system +adopted was absolute isolation. The mother’s heart swelled with anguish, +and she closed the book and went to the window, where she stood with her eyes +fixed on a small bit of the Loire that she saw at the foot of a street, where +the water was as rough as the sea itself. +</p> + +<p> +D’Argenton, in the meantime, was accomplishing his mission. He would not +have relinquished the duty for any amount of money. He was fond of attitudes +and scenes. He prepared in advance the terms in which he should address the +criminal. +</p> + +<p> +An old woman pointed out the house of the Rondics, but when he reached it he +hesitated. Must he not have made a mistake? From the wide open windows came the +sound of gay music, and heavy feet were heard keeping time to it. “No, +this cannot be it,” said D’Argenton, who naturally expected to find +a desolate house. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Zénaïde, it is your turn,” called some one. +</p> + +<p> +“Zenaïde”—why, that was Rondic’s daughter! These people +certainly did not take this affair much to heart. All at once a crowd of +white-capped women passed the window, singing loudly. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Brigadier! come, Jack!” said some one. +</p> + +<p> +Somewhat mystified, the poet pushed open the door, and amid the dust and crowd +he saw Jack, radiant with happiness, dancing with a stout girl, who smiled with +her whole heart at a good-looking fellow in uniform. In a corner sat a +gray-haired man, much amused by all that was going on; with him was a tall, +pale, young woman, who looked very sad. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"></a> +CHAPTER XVI.<br /> +CLARISSE.</h2> + +<p> +This was what had happened. The day after he had written to Jack’s +mother, the superintendent was in his office alone, when Madame Rondic entered, +pale and agitated. Paying little attention to the coolness with which she was +received, her conduct having for a long time habituated her to the silent +contempt of all who respected themselves, she refused to sit down, and, +standing erect, said slowly, attempting to conceal her emotion,— +</p> + +<p> +“I have come to tell you that the apprentice is not guilty; that it is +not he who has stolen my stepdaughter’s dowry.” +</p> + +<p> +The Director started from his chair. “But, ma-dame, every proof is +against him.” +</p> + +<p> +“What proofs? The most important is that, my husband being away, Jack was +alone with us in the house. It is just this proof that I have come to destroy, +for there was another man there that night.” +</p> + +<p> +“What man? Chariot?” +</p> + +<p> +She made a sign of assent. Ah, how pale she was! +</p> + +<p> +“Then he took the money?” +</p> + +<p> +There was a moment’s hesitation. The white lips parted, and an almost +inaudible reply was whispered, “No, it was not he who took it; I gave it +to him!” +</p> + +<p> +“Unhappy woman!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, most unhappy. He said that he needed it for two days only, and I +bore for that time the sight of my husband’s despair and of +Zénaïde’s tears, and the fear of seeing an innocent person condemned. +Nothing came from Chariot. I wrote to him that if by the next day at eleven I +heard nothing, I should denounce myself,—and here I am.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what am I to do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Arrest the real criminals, now that you know who they are.” +</p> + +<p> +“But your husband—it will kill him!” +</p> + +<p> +“And me, too,” she replied, with haughty bitterness. “To die +is a very simple matter; to live is far more difficult.” +</p> + +<p> +She spoke of death with a tone of feverish longing in her voice. +</p> + +<p> +“If your death could repair your fault,” returned the Director, +gravely; “if it could restore the money to the poor girl, I could +understand why you should wish to die. But—” +</p> + +<p> +“What shall be done, then,” she asked, plaintively; and all at once +she became the Clarisse of old. Her unwonted courage and determination failed +her. +</p> + +<p> +“First, we must know what has become of this money; he must have some of +it still.” +</p> + +<p> +Clarisse shook her head. She knew too well how madly that gambler played. She +knew that he had thrust her aside, almost walked over her, to procure this +money, and that he would play until he had lost his last sou. +</p> + +<p> +The superintendent touched his bell. A gendarme entered: +</p> + +<p> +“Go at once to Saint Nazarre,” said his chief; “say to +Chariot that I require his presence here at once. You will wait for him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Chariot is here, sir; I just saw him come out from Madame +Rondic’s; he cannot be far off.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is all right. Go after him quickly. Do not tell him, however, that +Madame Rondic is here.” +</p> + +<p> +The man hurried away. Neither the superintendent nor Clarisse spoke. She stood +leaning against the corner of the desk. The jar of the machinery, the wild +whistling of the steam, made a fitting accompaniment to the tumult of her soul. +The door opened. +</p> + +<p> +“You sent for me,” said Chariot, in a gay voice. +</p> + +<p> +The presence of Clarisse, her pallor, and the stern look of his chief, told the +story. She had kept her word. For a moment his bold face lost its color, and he +looked like an animal driven into a corner. +</p> + +<p> +“Not a word,” said the Director; “we know all that you wish +to say. This woman has robbed her husband and her daughter for you. You +promised to return her the money in two days. Where is it?” +</p> + +<p> +Chariot turned beseechingly toward Clarisse. She did not look at him; she had +seen him too well that terrible night. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is the money?” repeated the superintendent. +</p> + +<p> +“Here—I have brought it.” +</p> + +<p> +What he said was true. He had kept his promise to Clarisse, but not finding her +at home, had only too gladly carried it away again. +</p> + +<p> +His chief took up the bills. “Is it all here?” +</p> + +<p> +“All but eight hundred francs,” the other answered, with some +hesitation; “but I will return them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now sit down and write at my dictation,” said the superintendent, +sternly. +</p> + +<p> +Clarisse looked up quickly. This letter was a matter of life and death to her. +</p> + +<p> +“Write: ‘It is I who, in a moment of insane folly, took six +thousand francs from the wardrobe in the Rondic house.’” +</p> + +<p> +Chariot internally rebelled at these words, but he was afraid that Clarisse +would establish the facts in all their naked cruelty. +</p> + +<p> +The superintendent continued: “‘I return the money; it burns me. +Release the poor fellows who have been suspected, and entreat my uncle to +forgive me. Tell him that I am going away, and shall return only when, through +labor and penitence, I shall have acquired the right to shake an honest +man’s hand.’ Now sign it.” +</p> + +<p> +Seeing that Chariot hesitated, the superintendent said, peremptorily, +“Take care, young man! I warn you that if you do not sign this letter, +and address it to me, this woman will be at once arrested.” +</p> + +<p> +Chariot signed. +</p> + +<p> +“Now go,” resumed the superintendent, “to Guérigny, if you +will, and try to behave well. Remember, moreover, that if I hear of you in the +neighborhood of Indret, you will be arrested at once.” +</p> + +<p> +As Chariot left the room, he cast one glance at Clarisse. But the charm was +broken; she turned her head away resolutely, and when the door closed tried to +express her gratitude to the superintendent. +</p> + +<p> +“Do not thank me, madame,” he said; “it is for your +husband’s sake that I have acted, with the hope of sparing him the most +horrible torture that can overwhelm a man.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is in my husband’s name that I thank you. I am thinking of him, +and of the sacrifice I must make for him.” +</p> + +<p> +“What sacrifice?” +</p> + +<p> +“That of living, sir, when death would be so sweet. I am so weary.” +</p> + +<p> +And in fact the woman looked so ill, so prostrated, that the superintendent +feared some catastrophe. He answered compassionately, “Keep up your +courage, madame, and remember that your husband loves you.” +</p> + +<p> +And Jack? Ah, he had his day of triumph! The superintendent ordered a placard +to be put up in all the buildings, announcing the boy’s innocence. He was +fêted and caressed. One thing only was lacking, and that was news of Bélisaire. +</p> + +<p> +When the prison-doors were thrown open, the pedler disappeared. Jack was +greatly distressed at this, but nevertheless breakfasted merrily with Zénaïde +and her soldier, and had forgotten all his woes, when D’Argenton +appeared, majestic and clothed in black. It was in vain that they explained the +finding of the money, the innocence of Jack, and that a second letter had been +sent narrating all these facts; in vain did these good people treat Jack with +familiar kindness: D’Argenton’s manner did not relax; he expressed +in the choicest terms his regret that Jack had given so much trouble. +</p> + +<p> +“But it is I who owe him every apology,” cried the old man. +</p> + +<p> +D’Argenton did not condescend to listen: he spoke of honor and duty, and +of the abyss to which such evil conduct must always lead. Jack was confused, +for he remembered his journey to Nantes, and the stall in which Zénaïde’s +lover could testify to having seen him; he therefore listened with downcast +eyes to the ponderous eloquence of the lecturer, who fairly talked Father +Rondic to sleep. +</p> + +<p> +“You must be very thirsty after talking so long,” said Zénaïde, +innocently, as she brought a pitcher of cider and a fresh cake. And the cake +looked so nice, so fresh and crisp, that the poet—who was, as we know, +something of an epicure—made a breach in it quite as large as that in the +ham made by Bélisaire at Aulnettes. +</p> + +<p> +Jack had discovered one thing only from all D’Argenton’s long +words,—he had learned that the poet had brought the money to rescue him +from disgrace, and the child began to believe that he had done the man great +injustice, and that his coldness was only on the surface. The boy, therefore, +had never been so respectful. This, and the cordial reception of the Rondics, +put the poet into the most amiable state of mind. You should have seen him with +Jack as they trod the narrow streets of Indret! +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I tell him that his mother is so near?” said +D’Argenton, unwilling to introduce her boy to Charlotte in the character +of hero and martyr; it was more than the selfish nature of the man could +support. And yet, to deprive Charlotte and her son of the joy of seeing each +other once more it was necessary to be provided with some reason; and this +reason Jack himself soon furnished. +</p> + +<p> +The poor little fellow, deluded by such extraordinary amiability, acknowledged +to M. d’Argenton that he did not like his present life; that he should +not be anything of a machinist; that he was too far from his mother. He was not +afraid of work, but he liked brain work better than manual labor. These words +had hardly passed the boy’s lips, when he saw a change in his hearer. +</p> + +<p> +“You pain me, Jack, you pain me seriously; and your mother would be very +unhappy did she hear you utter such opinions. You have forgotten apparently +that I have said to you a hundred times that this century was no time for +Utopian dreams, for idle fancies;” and on this text he wandered on for +more than an hour. And while these two walked on the side of the river, a +lonely woman, tired of the solitude of her room in the inn, came down to the +other bank, to watch for the boat that was to bring her the little +criminal,—the boy whom she had not seen for two years, and whom she +dearly loved. But D’Argenton had determined to keep them apart. It was +wisest—Jack was too unsettled. Charlotte would be reasonable enough to +comprehend this, and would willingly make the sacrifice for her child’s +interest. +</p> + +<p> +And thus it came to pass that Jack and his mother, separated only by the river, +so near that they could have heard each other speak across its waters, did not +meet that night, nor for many a long day afterwards. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"></a> +CHAPTER XVII.<br /> +IN THE ENGINE-ROOM.</h2> + +<p> +How is it that days of such interminable length can be merged into such +swiftly-passing years? Two have passed since Zénaïde was married, and since +Jack’s terrible adventure. He has worked conscientiously, and loathes the +thought of a wineshop. The house is sad and desolate since Zénaïde’s +marriage; Madame Rondic rarely goes out, and occupies her accustomed seat at +the window, the curtain of which, however, is never lifted, for she expects no +one now. Her days and nights are all alike monotonous and dreary. Father Rondic +alone preserves his former serenity. +</p> + +<p> +The winter has been a cold one. The Loire has overflowed the island, part of +which remained under water four months, and the air was filled with fogs and +miasma. Jack has had a bad cough, and has passed some weeks in the infirmary. +Occasionally a letter has come for him, tender and loving when his mother wrote +in secret, didactic and severe when the poet looked over her shoulder. The only +news sent by his mother was, that her poet had had a grand reconciliation with +the Moronvals, who now came on Sundays, with some of their pupils, to dine at +Aulnettes. +</p> + +<p> +Moronval, Mâdou, and the academy seemed far enough away to Jack, who thought of +himself in those old days as of a superior being, and could see little +resemblance between his coarse skin and round shoulders, and the dainty pink +and white child whose face he dimly remembered. +</p> + +<p> +Thus were Dr. Rivals’ words justified: “It is social distinctions +that create final and absolute separations.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack thought often of the old doctor and of Cécile, and on the first of January +each year had written them a long letter. But the two last had remained +unanswered. +</p> + +<p> +One thought alone sustained Jack in his sad life: his mother might need him, +and he must work hard for her sake. +</p> + +<p> +Unfortunately wages are in proportion to the value of the work, and not to the +ambition of the workman, and Jack had no talent in the direction of his career. +He was seventeen, his apprenticeship over, and yet he received but three francs +per day. With these three francs he must pay for his room, his food, and his +dress; that is, he must replace his coarse clothing as it was worn out; and +what should he do if his mother were to write and say, “I am coming to +live with you “? +</p> + +<p> +“Look here,” said Père Rondic, “your parents made a great +mistake in not listening to me. You have no business here; now how would you +like to make a voyage? The chief engineer of the ‘Cydnus’ wants an +assistant. You can have six francs per day, be fed, lodged, and warmed. Shall I +write and say you will like the situation?” +</p> + +<p> +The idea of the double pay, the love of travel that Mâdou’s wild tales +had awakened in his childish nature, combined to render Jack highly pleased at +the proposed change. He left Indret one July morning, just four years after his +arrival. What a superb day it was! The air became more fresh as the little +steamer he was on approached the ocean. Jack had never seen the sea. The fresh +salt breeze inspired him with restless longing. Saint Nazarre lay before +him,—the harbor crowded with shipping. They landed at the dock, and there +learned that the Cydnus, of the <i>Compagnie Transatlantique</i>, would sail at +three o’clock that day, and was already lying outside,—this being, +in fact, the only way to have the crew all on board at the moment of departure. +</p> + +<p> +Jack and his companion—for Father Rondic had insisted on seeing him on +board his ship—had no time to see anything of the town, which had all the +vivacity of a market-day. +</p> + +<p> +The wharf was piled with vegetables, with baskets of fruit, and with fowls +which, tied together, were wildly struggling for liberty. Near their +merchandise stood the Breton peasants waiting quietly for purchasers. They were +in no hurry, and made no appeal to the passers-by. In contrast to these, there +was a number of small peddlers, selling pins, cravats, and portemonnaies, who +were loudly crying their wares. Sailors were hurrying to and fro, and Rondic +learned from one of them that the chief engineer of the Cydnus was in a very +bad humor because he had not his full number of stokers on board. +</p> + +<p> +“We must hasten,” said Rondic; and they hailed a boat, and rapidly +threaded their way through the harbor. The enormous transatlantic steamers lay +at their wharves as if asleep; the decks of two large English ships just +arrived from Calcutta were covered with sailors, all hard at work. They passed +between these motionless masses, where the water was as dark as a canal running +through the midst of a city under high walls; then they saw the Cydnus lying, +with her steam on. A wiry little man, in his shirt-sleeves, with three stripes +on his cap, hailed Jack and Rondic as their boat came alongside the steamer. +</p> + +<p> +His words were inaudible through the din and tumult, but his gestures were +eloquent enough. This was Blanchet, the chief engineer. +</p> + +<p> +“You have come, then, have you?” he shouted. “I was afraid +you meant to leave me in the lurch.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was my fault,” said Rondic; “I wished to accompany the +lad, and I could not get away yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +“On board with you, quick!” returned the engineer; “he must +get into his place at once.” +</p> + +<p> +They descended first one ladder, then another, and another. Jack, who had never +been on board a large steamer, was stupefied at the size and the depth of this +one. They descended to an abyss where the eyes accustomed to the light of day +could distinguish absolutely nothing. The heat was stifling, and a final ladder +led to the engine-room, where the heavy atmosphere, charged with a smell of +oil, was almost insupportable. Great activity reigned in this room; a general +examination was being made of the machinery, which glittered with cleanliness. +Jack looked on curiously at the enormous structure, knowing that it would soon +be his duty to watch it day and night. +</p> + +<p> +At the end of the engine-room was a long passage. “That is where the coal +is kept,” said the engineer, carelessly; “and on the other side the +stokers sleep.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack shuddered. The dormitory at the academy, the garret-room at the Rondics, +were palaces in comparison. +</p> + +<p> +The engineer pushed open a small door. Imagine a long cave, reddened by the +reflection of a dozen furnaces in full blast; men, almost naked, were stirring +the fire, the sweat pouring from their faces. +</p> + +<p> +“Here is your man,” said Blanchet to the head workman. +</p> + +<p> +“All right, sir,” said the other without turning round. +</p> + +<p> +“Farewell,” said Rondic. “Take care of yourself, my +boy!” and he was gone. +</p> + +<p> +Jack was soon set to work; his task was to carry the cinders from the furnace +to the deck, and there throw them into the sea. It was very hard work: the +baskets were heavy, the ladders narrow, and the change from the pure air above +to the stifling atmosphere below absolutely suffocating. On the third trip Jack +felt his legs giving way under him. He found it impossible to even lift his +basket, and sank into a corner half fainting. One of the stokers, seeing his +condition, brought him a large flask of brandy. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you; I never drink anything,” said Jack. +</p> + +<p> +The other laughed. “You will drink here,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Never,” murmured Jack; and lifting the heavy basket, more by an +effort of will than by muscular force, he ascended the ladder. +</p> + +<p> +From the deck an animated spectacle was to be seen. The little steamer ran to +and fro from the wharf to the ship, laden with passengers who came hurriedly on +board. The passengers were representatives of all nations. Some were gay, and +others were weeping, but in the faces of all was to be read an anxiety or a +hope; for these displacements, these movings, are almost invariably the result +of some great disturbance, and are, in general, the last quiver of the shock +that throws you from one continent to the other. +</p> + +<p> +This same feverish element pervaded everything, even the vessel that strained +at its anchor. It animated the curious crowd on the jetty who had come, some of +them, to catch a last look of some dear face. It animated the fishing-boats, +whose sails were spread for a night of toil. +</p> + +<p> +Jack, with his empty basket at his feet, stood looking down at the +passengers,—those belonging to the cabins comfortably established, those +of the steerage seated on their slender luggage. Where were they going? What +wild fancy took them away? What cold and stern reality awaited them on their +landing? One couple interested him especially: it was a mother and a child who +recalled to him the memory of Ida and little Jack. The lady was young and in +black, with a heavy wrap thrown about her, a Mexican sarape with wide stripes. +She had a certain air of independence characteristic of the wives of military +or naval officers, who, from the frequent absence of their husbands, are thrown +on their own resources. The child, dressed in the English fashion, looked as if +he might have belonged to Lord Pembroke. When they passed Jack they both turned +aside, and the long silk skirts were lifted that they might not touch his +blackened garments. It was an almost imperceptible movement, but Jack +understood it. A rough oath and a slap on the shoulder interrupted his sad +thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +“What the deuce are you up here for, sir? Go down to your post!” It +was the engineer making his rounds. Jack went down without a word, humiliated +at the reproof. +</p> + +<p> +As he put his foot on the last ladder, a shudder was felt throughout the ship: +she had started. +</p> + +<p> +“Stand there!” said the head stoker. +</p> + +<p> +Jack took his place before one of those gaping mouths; it was his duty to fill +it, and to rake it, and to keep the fire clear. This was not such an easy +matter, as, being unaccustomed to the sea, the pitching of the vessel came near +throwing him into the flames. He nevertheless toiled on courageously, but at +the end of an hour he was blind and deaf, stifled by the blood that rushed to +his head. He did as the others did, and ran to the outer air. Ah, how good it +was! Almost immediately, however, an icy blast struck him between the +shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“Quick, give me the brandy!” he cried with a choked voice, to the +man who had previously offered it to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Here it is, comrade; I knew very well that you would want it before +long.” +</p> + +<p> +He swallowed an enormous draught; it was almost pure alcohol, but he was so +cold that it seemed like water. After a moment a comfortable warmth spread over +his whole system, and then began a burning sensation in his stomach. To +extinguish this fire he drank again. Fire within, and fire without,—flame +upon flame,—was this the way that he was to live in future? +</p> + +<p> +Then began a life of toil, hardship, and drunkenness that lasted three +years:—three years whose seasons were all alike in that heated room down +in the bowels of that big ship. +</p> + +<p> +He sailed from country to country; he heard their names, Italian, French, and +Spanish, but of them all he saw nothing. The fairer the climes they visited, +the hotter was his chamber of torment. When he had emptied his cinders, broken +his coal, and filled his furnaces, he slept the sleep of exhaustion and +intoxication; for a stoker must drink if he lives. In the darkness of his life +there was but one bright spot, his mother. She was like the Madonna in a chapel +where all the lights are extinguished save the one that burns before her +shrine. Now that he had become a man, much of the mystery of her life had +become clear to him. His respect for Charlotte was changed to tender pity, and +he loved her as we love those for whom we suffer. Even in his most despairing +moments he remembered the end for which he toiled, and a mechanical instinct +made him carefully preserve almost every sou of his wages. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, distance and time weakened the intercourse between mother and son. +Jack’s letters became more and more rare. Those of Charlotte were +frequent, but they spoke of things so foreign to his new life, that he read +them only to hear their music, the far off echo of a living tenderness. +</p> + +<p> +Letters from Etiolles told him of D’Argenton; later, some from Paris +spoke of their having again taken up their residence there, and of the poet +having founded a Review, in consequence of the solicitations of friends. This +would be a way of bringing his works prominently before the public, as well as +to increase his income. At Havana Jack found a large package addressed to him. +It was the first number of the magazine. The stoker mechanically turned its +leaves, leaving on them the traces of his blackened fingers; and suddenly, as +he saw the well-known names of D’Argenton, Moronval, and Hirsch on the +smooth pages, he was seized with wild rage and indignation, and he cried aloud, +as he shook his fist impatiently in the air, “Wretches, wretches! what +have you made of me?” +</p> + +<p> +This emotion was but brief; day by day his intellect weakened, and, strangely +enough, he gained in physical health; he was stronger, and better able to +support the fatigues of his daily labor; he seemed hardly to recognize any +difference between his days when the ship tossed and groaned, and his nights +when he slept a drunken sleep, disturbed only by an occasional nightmare. +</p> + +<p> +Was that frightful shock and crash of the Cydnus one of these dreams? That +rushing of water, those cries of frightened women,—was all that a dream? +His comrades called him, shook him. “Jack, Jack!” they cried; he +staggered out, half naked. The engine-room was already half under water, the +compass broken, the fires extinguished. The men ran against each other in the +darkness. “What is it?” they cried. +</p> + +<p> +An American ship had run them down. The men struggled up the narrow ladder; at +the head stood the chief engineer with a revolver in his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“The first man that attempts to pass me I will shoot! Go to your +furnaces! Land is not far off; we shall reach it yet if my orders are +obeyed.” Each one turned, with rage and despair in his heart. They +charged the furnaces with wet coal, and volumes of gas and smoke poured out; +while the water still ascending, in spite of the constant work at the pumps, +was as cold as ice. The pumps refuse to work, the furnaces will not burn. The +stokers are in water up to their shoulders before the voice of the chief +engineer is heard: “Save yourselves, my men, if you can!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"></a> +CHAPTER XVIII.<br /> +D’ARGENTON’S MAGAZINE.</h2> + +<p> +In a narrow street, quiet and orderly, in one of those houses belonging to the +last century, D’Argenton had established himself as editor of the new +magazine; while Jack, our friend Jack, was its proprietor. Do not smile: this +was really the case; his money had been used to establish it. Charlotte had some +little scruple at first in so employing these funds, which she wished to +preserve intact for the boy on his attaining his majority; but she yielded to +the poet’s persuasions. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, my dear, listen! Figures are figures, you know. Can there be a +better investment than this Review? It is far safer than any railroad, at +least. Have I not placed my own funds in it?” +</p> + +<p> +Within six months D’Argenton had sacrificed thirty thousand francs, and +the receipts had been nothing, while the expenses were enormous. Besides the +offices of the magazine, D’Argenton had hired in the same house a large +apartment, from which he had a superb view. The city, the Seine, Nôtre Dame, +numberless spires and domes, were all spread before his eyes. He saw the +carriages pass over the bridges, and the boats glide through the arches. +“Here I can live and breathe,” he said to himself. “It was +impossible for me to accomplish anything in that dull little hole of Aulnettes! +How could one work in such a lethargic atmosphere?” +</p> + +<p> +Charlotte was still young and gay; she managed the house and the kitchen, which +was no small matter with the number of persons who daily assembled around her +table. The poet, too, had recently acquired the habit of dictating instead of +writing, and as Charlotte wrote a graceful English hand, he employed her as +secretary. Every evening, when they were alone, he walked up and down the large +room and dictated for an hour. In the silent old house, his solemn voice, and +another sweeter and fresher, awakened singular echoes. “Our author is +composing,” said the concierge with respect. +</p> + +<p> +Let us look in upon the D’Argenton ménage. We find them installed in a +charming little room, filled with the aroma of green tea and of Havana cigars. +Charlotte is preparing her writing-table, arranging her pens, and straightening +the ream of thick paper. D’Argenton is in excellent vein; he is in the +humor to dictate all night, and twists his moustache, where glitter many +silvery hairs. He waits to be inspired. Charlotte, however, as is often the +case in a household, is very differently disposed: a cloud is on her face, +which is pale and anxious; but notwithstanding her evident fatigue, she dips +her pen in the inkstand. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us see—we are at chapter first. Have you written that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Chapter first,” repeated Charlotte, in a low, sad voice. +</p> + +<p> +The poet looked at her with annoyance; then, with an evident determination not +to question her, he continued,— +</p> + +<p> +“In a valley among the Pyrenees, those Pyrenees so rich in legendary +lore—” +</p> + +<p> +He repeated these words several times, then turning to Charlotte, he said, +“Have you written this?” +</p> + +<p> +She made an effort to repeat the words, but stopped, her voice strangled with +sobs. In vain did she try to restrain herself, her tears flowed in torrents. +</p> + +<p> +“What on earth is the matter?” said D’Argenton. “Is it +this news of the Cydnus? It is a mere flying report, I am sure, and I attach no +importance to it. Dr. Hirsch was to call at the office of the Company to-day, +and he will be here directly.” +</p> + +<p> +He spoke in a satirical tone, slightly disdainful, as the weak, children, +fools, and invalids are often addressed. Was she not something of all these? +</p> + +<p> +“Where were we?” he continued, when she was calmer. “You have +made me lose the thread. Read me all you have written.” +</p> + +<p> +Charlotte wiped her tears away. +</p> + +<p> +“In a valley among the Pyrenees, those Pyrenees so rich in legendary +lore—” +</p> + +<p> +“Go on.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is all,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +The poet was very much surprised; it seemed to him that he had dictated much +more. The terrible advantage thought has over expression bewildered him. All +that he dreamed, all that was in embryo within his brain, he fancied was +already in form and on the page, and he was aghast at the disproportion between +the dream and the reality. His delusion was like that of Don Quixote,—he +believed himself in the Empyrean, and took the vapors from the kitchen for the +breath of heaven, and, seated on his wooden horse, felt all the shock of an +imaginary fall.. Had he been in such a state of mental exaltation merely to +produce those two lines? Were these the only result of that frantic rubbing of +his dishevelled hair, of that weary pacing to and fro?’ +</p> + +<p> +He was furious, for he felt that he was ridiculous. “It is your +fault,” he said to Charlotte. “How can a man work in the face of a +crying woman? It is always the same thing—nothing is accomplished. Years +pass away and the places are filled. Do you not know how small a thing disturbs +literary composition? I ought to live in a tower a thousand feet above all the +futilities of life, instead of being surrounded by caprices, disorder, and +childishness.” As he speaks he strikes a furious blow upon the table, and +poor Charlotte, with the tears pouring from her eyes, gathers up the pens and +papers that have flown about the room in wild confusion. +</p> + +<p> +The arrival of Dr. Hirsch ends this deplorable scene, and after a while +tranquillity is restored. The doctor is not alone; Labassandre comes with him, +and both are grave and mysterious in their manner. +</p> + +<p> +Charlotte turns hastily. “What news, doctor?” she asks. +</p> + +<p> +“None, madame; no news whatever.” +</p> + +<p> +But Charlotte detected a covert glance at D’Argenton, and knew that the +physician’s words were false. +</p> + +<p> +“And what do the officers of the Company say?” continued the +mother, determined to learn the truth. +</p> + +<p> +Labassandre undertook to answer, and while he spoke, the doctor contrived to +convey to D’Argenton that the Cydnus had gone to the +bottom,—“a collision at sea—every soul was lost.” +</p> + +<p> +D’Argenton’s face never changed, and it would have been difficult +to form any idea of his feelings. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been at work,” he said. “Excuse me, I need the fresh +air.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are right,” said Charlotte; “go out for a walk;” +and the poor woman, who usually detained her poet in the house lest the +high-born ladies of the Faubourg St. Germain should entrap him, is this evening +delighted to see him leave her, that she may weep in peace—that she may +yield to all the wild terror and mournful presentiments that assail her. This +is why even the presence of the servant annoys her, and she sends her to her +attic. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame wishes to be alone! Is not madame afraid? The noise of the wind +is very dismal on the balcony.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I am not afraid; leave me.” +</p> + +<p> +At last she was alone. She could think at her ease, without the voice of her +tyrant saying, “What are you thinking about?” Ever since she had +read in the Journal the brief words, “There is no intelligence of the +Cydnus,” the image of her child had pursued her. Her nights had been +sleepless, and she listened to the wind with singular terror. It seemed to blow +from all quarters, rattling the windows and wailing through the chimneys. But +whether it whispered or shrieked, it spoke to her, and said what it always says +to the mothers and wives of sailors, who turn pale as they listen. The wind +comes from afar, but it comes quickly and has met with many adventures. With +one gust it has torn away the sails of a vessel, set fire to a quiet home, and +carried death and destruction on its wings. This it is that gives to its voice +such melancholy intonations. +</p> + +<p> +This night it was dreary enough: it rattles the windows and whistles under the +doors; it wishes to come in, for it bears a message to this poor mother, and it +sounds like an appeal or a warning. The ticking of the clock, the distant noise +of a locomotive, all take the same plaintive tone and beseeching accent. +Charlotte knows only too well what the wind wishes to tell her. It is a story +of a ship rolling on the broad ocean, without sails or rudder—of a +maddened crowd on the deck, of cries and shrieks, curses and prayers. Her +hallucination is so strong that she even hears from the ship a beseeching cry +of “Mamma!” She starts to her feet; she hears it again. To escape +it, she walks about the room, opens the door and looks down the corridor. She +sees nothing, but she hears a sigh, and, raising her lamp higher, discovers a +dark shadow crouched in the corner. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is that?” she cried, half in terror, half in hope. +</p> + +<p> +“It is I, dear mother!” said a weak voice. +</p> + +<p> +She ran toward him. It is her boy—a tall, rough sailor—rising as +she approached him, with the aid of a pair of crutches. And this is what she +has made of her child! Not a word, not an exclamation, not a caress. They look +at each other, and tears fill the eyes of both. +</p> + +<p> +A certain fatality attaches itself to some people, which renders them and all +that they do absolutely ridiculous. When D’Argenton returned that night, +he came with the determination to disclose the fatal news to Charlotte, and to +have the whole affair concluded. The manner in which he turned the key in the +lock announced this solemn determination. But what was his surprise to find the +parlor a blaze of light! Charlotte—and on the table by the fire the +remains of a meal. She came to him in a terrible state of agitation. +</p> + +<p> +“Hush! Pray make no noise—he is here and asleep.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Jack, of course. He has been shipwrecked, and is severely injured. He +has been saved as by a miracle. He has just come from Rio Janeiro, where he +spent two months in a hospital.” +</p> + +<p> +D’Argenton forced a smile, which Charlotte endeavored to believe was one +of satisfaction. It must be acknowledged that he behaved very well, and said at +once that Jack must stay there until he was entirely recovered. In fact, he +could do no less for the actual proprietor of his Review. +</p> + +<p> +The first excitement over, the ordinary life of the poet and Charlotte was +resumed, changed only by the presence of the poor lame fellow, whose legs were +badly burned by the explosion of a boiler, and had not yet healed. He was +clothed in a jacket of blue cloth. His light moustache, the color of ripe +wheat, was struggling into sight through the thick coating of tan that darkened +his face; his eyes were red and inflamed, for the lashes had been burned off; +and in a state of apathy painful to witness, the son of Ida de Barancy dragged +himself from chair to chair, to the irritation of D’Argenton and to the +great shame of his mother. When some stranger entered the house and cast an +astonished glance at this figure, which offered so strange a contrast to the +quiet, luxurious surroundings, she hastened to say, “It is my son, he has +been very ill,” in the same way that the mothers of deformed children +quickly mention the relationship, lest they should surprise a smile or a +compassionate look. But if she was pained in seeing her darling in this state, +and blushed at the vulgarity of his manners or his awkwardness at the table, +she was still more mortified at the tone of contempt with which her +husband’s friends spoke of her son. +</p> + +<p> +Jack saw little difference in the habitués of the house, save that they were +older, had less hair and fewer teeth; in every other respect they were the +same. They had attained no higher social position, and were still without +visible means of support. +</p> + +<p> +They met every day to discuss the prospects of the Review, and twice each week +they all dined at D’Argenton’s table. Moronval generally brought +with him his two last pupils. One was a young Japanese prince of an indefinite +age, and who, robbed of his floating robes, seemed very small and slender. With +his little cane and hat, he looked like a figure of yellow clay fallen from an +étagère upon the Parisian sidewalk. The other, with narrow slits of eyes and a +black beard, recalled certain vague remembrances to Jack, who at last +recognized his old friend Said who had offered him cigar ends on their first +interview. +</p> + +<p> +The education of this unfortunate youth had been long since finished, but his +parents had left him with Moronval to be initiated into the manners and customs +of fashionable society. All these persons treated Jack with a certain air of +condescension. He remained Master Jack to but one person—that was that +most amiable of women, Madame Moronval, who wore the same silk dress that he +had seen her in years before. He cared little whether he was called +“Master Jack,” or “My boy,”—his two months in the +hospital, his three years of alcoholic indulgence, the atmosphere of the +engine-room, and the final tempestuous conclusion, had caused him such profound +exhaustion, such a desire for quiet, that he sat with his pipe between his +teeth, silent and half asleep. +</p> + +<p> +“He is intoxicated,” said D’Argent on sometimes. +</p> + +<p> +This was not the case; but the young man found his only pleasure in the society +of his mother on the rare occasions when the poet was absent. Then he drew his +chair close to hers, and listened to her rather than talk himself. Her voice +made a delicious murmur in his ears like that of the first bees on a warm +spring day. +</p> + +<p> +Once, when they were alone, he said to Charlotte, very slowly, “When I +was a child I went on a long voyage—did I not?” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him a little troubled. It was the first time in his life that he +had asked a question in regard to his history. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you wish to know?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because, three years ago, the first day that I was on board a steamer, I +had a singular sensation. It seemed to me that I had seen it all before; the +cabins, and the narrow ladders, impressed me as familiar; it seemed to me that +I had once played on those very stairs.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked around to assure herself that they were entirely alone. +</p> + +<p> +“It was not a dream, Jack. You were three years old when we came from +Algiers. Your father died suddenly, and we came back to Tours.” +</p> + +<p> +“What was my father’s name?” +</p> + +<p> +She hesitated, much agitated, for she was not prepared for this sudden +curiosity; and yet she could not refuse to answer these questions. +</p> + +<p> +“He was called by one of the grandest names in France, my child—by +a name that you and I would bear to-day if a sudden and terrible catastrophe +had not prevented him from repairing his fault. Ah, we were very young when we +met! I must tell you that at that time I had a perfect passion for the chase. I +remember a little Arabian horse called Soliman—” +</p> + +<p> +She was gone, at full speed, mounted on this horse, and Jack made no effort to +interrupt her—he knew that it was useless. But when she stopped to take +breath, he profited by this brief halt to return to his fixed idea. +</p> + +<p> +“What was my father’s name?” he repeated. +</p> + +<p> +How astonished those clear eyes looked! She had totally forgotten of whom they +had been speaking. She answered quickly,—“He was called the Marquis +de l’Epau.” Jack certainly had but little of his mother’s +respect for high birth, its rights and its prerogatives, for he received with +the greatest tranquillity the intelligence of his illustrious descent. What +mattered it to him that his father was a marquis, and bore a distinguished +name? This did not prevent his son from earning his bread as a stoker on the +Cydnus. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, Charlotte,” said D’Argenton impatiently, one day, +“something must be done! A decided step must be taken with this boy. He +cannot remain here forever without doing anything. He is quite well again; he +eats like an ox. He coughs a little still, to be sure, but Dr. Hirsch says that +is nothing,—that he will always cough. He must decide on something. If +the life in the engine-room of a steamer is too severe for him, let him try a +railroad.” +</p> + +<p> +Charlotte ventured to say, timidly, “If you could see how he loses his +breath when he climbs the stairs, and how thin he is, you would still feel that +he is far from well. Can you not employ him on some of the office work?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will speak to Moronval,” was the reply. +</p> + +<p> +The result of this was, that Jack for some days did everything in the office +except sweep the rooms. With his usual imperturbability, Jack fulfilled these +various duties, enduring the contemptuous remarks of Moronval with the same +indifference that he opposed to D’Argenton’s cold contempt. +Moronval had a certain fixed salary on the magazine; it was small, to be sure, +but he added to it by supplementary labors, for which he was paid certain sums +on account. The subscription books lay open on the desk, expenses went on, but +no receipts came in. In fact, there was but one subscriber, Charlotte’s +friend at Tours, and but one proprietor, and he, with a glue-pot and brush, was +at work in a corner. Neither Jack nor any one else realized this; but +D’Argenton knew it and felt it hourly, and soon hated more strongly than +ever the youth upon whose money he was living. +</p> + +<p> +At the end of a week it was announced that Jack was useless in the office. +</p> + +<p> +“But, my dear,” said Charlotte, “he does all he can!” +</p> + +<p> +“And what is that? He is lazy and indifferent; he knows not how to sit +nor how to stand, and he falls asleep over his plate at dinner; and since this +great, shambling fellow has appeared here, you have grown ten years older, my +love. Besides, he drinks, I assure you that he drinks.” +</p> + +<p> +Charlotte bowed her head and wept; she knew that her son drank, but whose fault +was it? Had they not thrown him into the gulf? +</p> + +<p> +“I have an idea, Charlotte! Suppose we send him to Etiolles for change of +air. We will give him a little money, and it will be a good thing for +him.” +</p> + +<p> +She thanked him enthusiastically, and it was decided that she would go the next +day to install her son at Aulnettes. +</p> + +<p> +They arrived there on one of those soft autumnal mornings which have all the +beauty of summer without its excessive heat. There was not a breath in the air; +the birds sang loudly, the fallen leaves rustled gently, and a perfume of rich +maturity of ripened grain and fruit filled the air. The paths through the woods +were still green and fresh; Jack recognized them all, and, seeing them, +regained a portion of his lost youth. Nature herself seemed to welcome him with +open arms, and he was soothed and comforted. Charlotte left her son early the +next morning, and the little house, with its windows thrown wide open to the +soft air and sunlight, had a peaceful aspect. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"></a> +CHAPTER XIX.<br /> +THE CONVALESCENT.</h2> + +<p> +“And to think that for five years I have been allowed to remain in the +belief that my Jack was a thief!” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Dr. Rivals—” +</p> + +<p> +“And that if I had not happened to ask for a glass of milk at the +Archambaulds, I should have continued to think so!” +</p> + +<p> +It was, on feet, at the forester’s cottage that Jack and his old friend +had met. +</p> + +<p> +For ten days the youth had been living in solitude at Aulnettes. Each day he +had become more like the Jack of his childhood. The only persons with whom he +held any communication were the old forester and his wife, who had served +Charlotte faithfully for so long a time. She watched over his health, purchased +his provisions, and often cooked his dinner over her own fire, while he sat and +smoked at the door. These people never asked a question, but when they saw his +thin figure and heard his constant cough, they shook their heads. +</p> + +<p> +The interview between Dr. Rivals and Jack was at first embarrassing to both, +but after a little conversation, and as soon as the doctor understood the +truth, the awkwardness passed away. +</p> + +<p> +“And now,” said the old gentleman, gayly, “I hope we shall +see you often. You have been sent out to grass, apparently, like an old horse, +but you need more than that. You require great care, my boy, great +care,—particularly in the coming season. Etiolles is not Nice, you +understand. Our house is changed, for my poor wife died four years +ago,—died of absolute grief. My granddaughter does her best to take her +place; she keeps my books and makes up my prescriptions. How glad she will be +to see you! Now when will you come?” +</p> + +<p> +Jack hesitated, as if he read his thoughts. The doctor added,— +</p> + +<p> +“Cécile knows nothing of all your troubles; so come without any feeling +of restraint. It is too cold for you to be out late to-night; this fog is not +good for you; but I shall expect you at breakfast to-morrow. Now in with you +quickly; you must not be out after the dews begin to fall. If you do not appear +I shall come for you.” +</p> + +<p> +As Jack closed the door of the house, he had a singular impression. It seemed +to him that he had just come home from one of those long drives with the +doctor; that he should find his mother in the dining-room, while the poet was +above in the tower. +</p> + +<p> +He passed the evening in the chimney-corner, before a fire made of dried +grape-vines, for life in the engine-room had made him very chilly. As of old, +when he returned from his country excursions with the doctor, the remembrance +of his kindness and affection rendered him impervious to the slights he +received at home, so now did the prospect of seeing Cécile people his solitude +with dear phantoms and happy visions, that remained with him even while he +slept. +</p> + +<p> +The next day he knocked at the Rivals’ door. +</p> + +<p> +“The doctor has not come in. Mademoiselle is in the office,” was +the reply of the little servant who had replaced the faithful old woman he had +known. Jack turned to the office; he knocked hurriedly, impatient to behold his +former companion. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in, Jack,” said a sweet voice. +</p> + +<p> +Instead of obeying, he was seized with a strange emotion of fear. +</p> + +<p> +The door opened suddenly, and Jack asked himself if the charming apparition on +the threshold, in her blue dress and clustering blonde hair, was not the sun +itself. How intimidated he would have been had not the little hand slipped into +his own recalled so many sweet recollections of their common child-hood! +</p> + +<p> +“Life has been very hard for you, my grandfather tells me,” she +said. “I have had much sorrow, too. Dear grandmamma is dead; she loved +you, and often spoke of you.” +</p> + +<p> +He sat opposite to her, looking at her. She was tall and graceful; as she stood +leaning against the corner of an old bookcase, she bent her head slightly to +talk to her friend, and reminded him of a bird. +</p> + +<p> +Jack remembered that his mother was beautiful also; but in Cécile there was +something indefinable—an aroma of some divine spring-time, something +fresh and pure, to which Charlotte’s mannerisms and graces bore little +resemblance. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly, while he sat in this ecstasy before her, he caught sight of his own +hand. It seemed enormous to him; it was black and hardened, and the nails were +broken and deformed,—irretrievably injured by contact with fire and iron. +He was ashamed, but could not conceal them even by putting them in his pocket. +But he saw himself now with the eyes of others, dressed in shabby clothes and +an old vest of D’Argenton’s, that was too small for him and too +short in the sleeves. In addition to this physical awkwardness, poor Jack was +overwhelmed by the memory of all the disgraceful scenes through which he had +passed. The drunken orgies, the hours of beastly intoxication, all returned to +his recollection, and it seemed to him that Cécile knew them, too. The slight +cloud that hung on her fair young brow, the compassion he read in her eyes, all +told him that she understood his shame and humiliation. He wished to run away +and shut himself into a room at Aulnettes, and never leave it again. +</p> + +<p> +Fortunately, some one came into the office, and Cécile, busy at her scales, +writing the labels as her grandmother had done, gave Jack time to recover his +equanimity. +</p> + +<p> +How good and patient she was! These poor peasant women were very stupid and +wearisome with their long explanations. She encouraged them with her sympathy, +cheered them with her words of counsel, and reproved them gently for their +mistakes. +</p> + +<p> +She was busy at this moment with an old acquaintance of Jack’s,—the +very woman who had taken so much pleasure in terrifying him when he was little. +Bowed, as nearly all the peasantry are by their daily labor, burned by the sun, +and powdered by the dust, old Salé yet retained a little life in her sharp +eyes. She spoke of her good man, who had been sick for months,—who could +not work, and yet had to eat. She said two or three things calculated to +disconcert a young girl, and looked Cécile directly in the face with malicious +delight. Two or three times Jack felt a strong inclination to put the wretch +out of the door; but he restrained himself when he saw the cold dignity with +which Cécile listened. +</p> + +<p> +The old woman finally finished her discourse, and, as she passed Jack going +out, recognized him. +</p> + +<p> +“What!” she exclaimed, “the little Aulnettes boy come to life +again? Ah, Mademoiselle Cécile, your uncle won’t want you to marry him +now, I fancy, though there was a time when everybody thought that was what the +doctor desired;” and, chuckling, she left the room. +</p> + +<p> +Jack turned pale. The old woman had finally struck the blow that, so many years +ago, she had threatened him with. But Jack was not the only one who was +disturbed. A fair face, bent low over a big book, was scarlet with annoyance. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Catherine, bring the soup.” It was the doctor who spoke. +“And you two, have you not found a word to say to each other after seven +years’ absence?” +</p> + +<p> +At the table Jack was no more at his ease. He was afraid that some of his bad +habits would show themselves; and his hands—what could he do with them? +With one he must hold his fork, but with the other? The whiteness of the linen +made it look appallingly black. Cécile saw his discomfort, and understanding +that her watchfulness increased it, hardly glanced again in his direction. +</p> + +<p> +Catherine took away the dessert, and put before the young girl hot water, +sugar, and a bottle of old brandy. It was she who since her grandmother’s +death had mixed the doctor’s grog. And the good man had not gained by the +change; for she, as the doctor observed in a melancholy tone, “diminished +daily the quantity of alcohol.” +</p> + +<p> +When she had served her grandfather, Cécile turned toward their guest. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you drink brandy?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Does he drink brandy?” said the doctor, with a laugh, “and +he in an engine-room for three years? Don’t you know—ignorant +little puss that you are—that that is the only way the poor fellows can +live? On board a vessel where I was, one fellow drank a bottle of pure spirit +at a draught. Make Jack’s strong, my dear.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at her old friend sadly and seriously. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you have some?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, mademoiselle,” he answered, in a low, ashamed voice; and he +withdrew his glass,—for which effort of self-denial he was rewarded by +one of those eloquent looks of gratitude which some women can give, and which +are only understood by those whom they address. +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my word, a conversion!” said the doctor, laughing. But Jack +was converted only after the fashion of savages, who consent to believe in God +only to please the missionaries. The peasants of Etiolles, at work in the +fields, who saw Jack on his way home that night, might have had every reason to +suppose that he was crazy or intoxicated. He was talking to himself, and +gesticulating wildly. “Yes,” he exclaimed, “M. +d’Argenton was right: I am a mere artisan and must live and die with my +equals; it is useless for me to try and rise above them.” It was a very +long time since the young man had felt any such energy. New thoughts and ideas +crowded into his mind; among them was Cécile’s image. What a marvel of +grace and purity she was! He sighed as he thought that had he been differently +educated, he might have ventured to ask her to become his wife. At this moment, +as he turned a sharp angle in the road, he found himself face to face with +Mother Salé, who was dragging a fagot of wood. The old woman looked at him with +a wicked smile, that in his present mood exasperated him to such a degree that +his look of anger so terrified the old creature that she dropped her fagot and +ran into the wood. +</p> + +<p> +That evening he spent in darkness, and lighted neither fire nor lamp. Seated in +a corner of the dining-room, with his eyes fixed on the glass doors that led to +the garden, through which the soft mist of a superb autumnal night was visible, +he thought of his childhood, and of the last years of his life. +</p> + +<p> +No, Cécile would not marry him. In the first place, he was a mechanic; +secondly, his birth was illegitimate. It was the first time in his life that +this thought had weighed upon him, for Jack had not lived among very scrupulous +people. He had never heard his father’s name mentioned, and therefore +rarely thought of him, being as unable to measure the extent of his loss as a +deaf mute is unable to realize the blessing of the senses he lacks. +</p> + +<p> +But now the question of his birth occupied him to the exclusion of all others. +</p> + +<p> +He had listened calmly to the name of his father when Charlotte told it; but +now he would like to learn from her every detail. Was he really a marquis? Was +he certainly dead? Had not his mother said this merely to avoid the disclosure +of a mortifying desertion? And if this father were still alive, would he not be +willing to give his name to his son? The poor fellow was ignorant of the fact +that a true woman’s heart is more moved by compassion than by all the +vain distinctions of the world. +</p> + +<p> +“I will write to my mother,” he thought. But the questions he +wished to ask were so delicate and complicated, that he resolved to see her at +once, and have one of those earnest conversations where eyes do the work of +words, and where silence is as eloquent as speech. Unfortunately he had no +money for his railroad fare. “Pshaw!” he said, “I can go on +foot. I did it when I was eleven, and I can surely try it again.” And he +did try it the next day; and if it seemed to him less long and less lonely than +it did before, it was far more sad. +</p> + +<p> +Jack saw the spot where he had slept, the little gate at Villeneuve +Saint-George’s, where he had been dropped by the kind couple from their +carriage, the pile of stones where the recumbent form of a man had so terrified +him, and he sighed to think that if the Jack of his youth could suddenly rise +from the dust of the highway, he would be more afraid of the Jack of to-day +than of any other dismal wanderer. +</p> + +<p> +He reached Paris in the afternoon. A settled, cold rain was falling; and +pursuing the comparison that he had made of his souvenirs with the present +time, he recalled the glow of the sunset on that May evening when his mother +appeared to him, like the archangel Michael, wrapped in glory, and chasing away +the shades of night. +</p> + +<p> +Instead of the little house at Aulnettes where Ida sang amid her roses, Jack +saw D’Argenton just issuing from the door, followed by Moronval, who was +carrying a bundle of proofs. +</p> + +<p> +“Here is Jack!” said Moronval. +</p> + +<p> +The poet started and looked up. To see these two men, one dressed with so much +care, brushed, perfumed, and gloved; the other in a velvet coat, much too short +for him, shiny from wear and weather, no one would have supposed that any tie +could exist between them. +</p> + +<p> +Jack extended his hand to D’Argenton, who gave one finger in return, and +asked if the house at Aulnettes was rented. +</p> + +<p> +“Rented?” said the other, not understanding. +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure. Seeing you here, I supposed that of course the house was +occupied, and you were compelled to leave it.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Jack, somewhat disconcerted; “no one has even +called to look at the place.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are you here for?” +</p> + +<p> +“To see my mother.” +</p> + +<p> +“Filial affection is a most excellent thing. Unfortunately, however, +there are travelling expenses to be thought of.” +</p> + +<p> +“I came on foot,” said Jack, with simple dignity. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed!” drawled D’Argenton, and then added, “I am +glad to see that your legs are in better order than your arms.” +</p> + +<p> +And pleased at this mot, the poet bowed coldly, and went on. +</p> + +<p> +A week before, and these words would have scarcely been noticed by Jack, but +since the previous night he had not been the same person. His pride was now so +wounded that he would have returned to Aulnettes without seeing his mother, had +he not wished to speak to her most seriously. He entered the salon; it was in +disorder: chairs and benches were being brought in, for a great fête was in +progress of arrangement, which was the reason that D’Argenton was so out +of temper on seeing Jack. Charlotte did not appear pleased, but stopped in some +of her preparations. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it you, my dear Jack. You come for money, too, I fancy. I forgot it +utterly,—that is, I begged Dr. Hirsch to hand it to you. He is going to +Aulnettes in two or three days to make some very curious experiments with +perfumes. He has made an extraordinary discovery.” +</p> + +<p> +They were talking in the centre of the room; a half dozen workmen were going to +and fro, driving nails, and moving the furniture. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish to speak seriously,” said Jack. +</p> + +<p> +“What! now? You know that serious conversation is not my forte; and +to-day all is in confusion. We have sent out five hundred invitations, it will +be superb! Come here, then, if it is absolutely necessary. I have arranged a +veranda for smoking. Come and see if it is not convenient?” +</p> + +<p> +She went with him into a veranda covered with striped cotton, furnished with a +sofa and jardinière, but rather dismal-looking with the rain pattering on the +zinc roof. +</p> + +<p> +Jack said to himself, “I had better have written,” and did not know +what to say first. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” said Charlotte, leaning her chin on her hand in that +graceful attitude that some women adopt when they listen. He hesitated a +moment, as one hesitates in placing a heavy load upon an étagère of trifles, +for that which he had to say seemed too much for that pretty little head that +leaned toward him. +</p> + +<p> +“I should like—I should like to talk to you of my father,” he +said, with some hesitation. +</p> + +<p> +On the end of her tongue she had the words, “What folly!” If she +did not utter them, the expression of her face, in which were to be read +amazement and fear, spoke for her. +</p> + +<p> +“It is too sad for us, my child, to discuss. But still, painful as it is +to me, I understand your feelings, and am ready to gratify you. Besides,” +she added, solemnly, “I have always intended, when you were twenty, to +reveal to you the secret of your birth.” +</p> + +<p> +It was time now for him to look astonished. Had she forgotten that three months +previous she had made this disclosure. Nevertheless, he uttered no protest, he +wished to compare her story of to-day with an older narration. How well he knew +her! +</p> + +<p> +“Is it true that my father was noble?” he asked, suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed he was, my child.” +</p> + +<p> +“A marquis?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, only a baron.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I supposed—in fact, you told me—” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no—it was the elder branch of the Bulac family that was +noble.” +</p> + +<p> +“He was connected then with the Bulac family?” +</p> + +<p> +“Most assuredly. He was the head of the younger branch.” +</p> + +<p> +“And his name was—” +</p> + +<p> +“The Baron de Bulac—a lieutenant in the navy.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack felt dizzy, and had only strength to ask, “How long since he +died?” +</p> + +<p> +“O, years and years!” said Charlotte, hurriedly. +</p> + +<p> +That his father was dead he was sure; but had his mother told him a falsehood +now, or on the previous occasion? Was he a De Bulac or a L’Epau? +</p> + +<p> +“You are looking ill, child,” said Charlotte, interrupting herself +in the midst of a long romance she was telling, “your hands are like +ice.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind, I shall get warm with exercise,” answered Jack, with +difficulty. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going so soon? Well, it is best that you should get back before +it is late.” She kissed him tenderly, tied a handkerchief around his +throat, and slipped some money into his pocket. She fancied that his silence +and sadness came from seeing all the preparations for a fête in which he was to +have no share, and when her maid summoned her for the waiting coiffeur, she +said good-bye hurriedly. +</p> + +<p> +“You see I must leave you; write often, and take good care of +yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +He went slowly down the steps, with his face turned toward his mother all the +time. He was sad at heart, but not by reason of this fête from which he was +excluded, but at the thought of all the happiness in life from which he had +been always shut out. He thought of the children who could love and respect +their parents, who had a name, a fireside, and a family. He remembered, too, +that his unhappy fate would prevent him from asking any woman to share his +life. He was wretched without realizing that to regret these joys was in fact +to be worthy of them, and that it was only the fall perception of the sad +truths of his destiny that would impart the strength to cope with them. +</p> + +<p> +Wrapped in these dismal meditations, he had reached the Lyons station, a spot +where the mud seems deeper, and the fog thicker, than elsewhere. It was just +the hour that the manufactories closed. A tired crowd, overwhelmed by +discouragement and distress, hurried through the streets, going at once to the +wine-shops, some of which had as a sign the one word <i>Consolation</i>, as if +drunkenness and forgetfulness were the sole refuge for the wretched. Jack, +feeling that darkness had settled down on his life as absolutely as it had on +this cold autumnal night, uttered an exclamation of despair. +</p> + +<p> +“They are right; what is there left to do but to drink?” and +entering one of those miserable drinking-shops, Jack called for a double +measure of brandy. Just as he lifted his glass, amid the din of coarse voices, +and through the thick smoke, he heard a flute-like voice,— +</p> + +<p> +“Do you drink brandy, Jack?” +</p> + +<p> +No, he did not drink it, nor would he ever touch it again. He left the shop +abruptly, leaving his glass untouched and the money on the counter. +</p> + +<p> +How Jack had a sharp illness of some weeks’ duration after this long +walk; how Dr. Hirsch experimented upon him until routed by Dr. Rivals, who +carried the youth to his own house and nursed him again to health, is too long +a story. We prefer also to introduce our readers to Jack seated in a +comfortable arm-chair, reading at the window of the doctor’s office. It +was peaceful about him, a peace that came from the sunny sky, the silent house, +and the gentle footfall of Cécile. +</p> + +<p> +He was so happy that he rarely spoke, and contented himself with watching the +movements of the dear presence that pervaded the simple home. She sewed and +kept her grandfather’s accounts. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure,” she said, looking up from her book, “that the +dear man forgets half his visits. Did you notice what he said yesterday, +Jack?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle!” he answered, with a start. +</p> + +<p> +He had not heard one word, although he had been watching her with all his eyes. +If Cécile said, “My friend,” it seemed to Jack that no other person +had ever so called him; and when she said farewell, or good-night, his heart +contracted as if he were never to see her again. Her slightest words were full +of meaning, and her simple, unaffected ways were a delight to the youth. In his +state of convalescence he was more susceptible to these influences than he +would ordinarily have been. +</p> + +<p> +O, the delicious days he spent in that blessed home! The office, a large, +deserted room, with white curtains at the windows opening on a village street, +communicated to him its healthful calm. The room was filled with the odors of +plants culled in the splendor of their flowering, and he drank it in with +delight. +</p> + +<p> +In the scent of the balsam he heard the rushing of the clear brooks in the +forest, and the woods were green and shady, when he caught the odor of the +herbs gathered from the foot of the tall oaks. +</p> + +<p> +With returning strength Jack tried to read; he turned over the old volumes, and +found those in which he had studied so long before, and which he could now far +better comprehend. The doctor was out nearly all day, and the two young people +remained alone. This would have horrified many a prudent mother, and, of +course, had Madame Rivals been living, it would not have been permitted; but +the doctor was a child himself, and then, who knows? he may have had his own +plans. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile D’Argenton, informed of Jack’s removal to the Rivals, saw +fit to take great offence. “It is not at all proper,” wrote +Charlotte, “that you should remain there. People will think us unwilling +to give you the care you need? You place us in a false position.” +</p> + +<p> +This letter failing to produce any effect, the poet wrote +himself:—“I sent Hirsch to cure you, but you preferred a country +idiot to the science of our friend! As you call yourself better, I give you now +two days to return to Aulnettes. If you are not there at the expiration of that +time, I shall consider that you have been guilty of flagrant disobedience, and +from that moment all is over between us.” +</p> + +<p> +As Jack did not move, Charlotte appeared on the scene. She came with much +dignity, and with a crowd of phrases that she had learned by heart from her +poet. M. Rivals received her at the door, and, not in the least intimidated by +her coldness, said at once, “I ought to tell you, madame, that it is my +fault alone that your son did not obey you. He has passed through a great +crisis. Fortunately he is at an age when constitutions can be reformed, and I +trust that his will resist the rough trials to which it has been exposed. +Hirsch would have killed him with his musk and his other perfumes. I took him +away from the poisonous atmosphere, and now I hope the boy is out of danger. +Leave him to me a while longer, and you shall have him back more healthy than +ever, and capable of renewing the battle of life; but if you let that impostor +Hirsch get hold of him again, I shall think that you wish to get rid of him +forever.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! M. Rivals, what a thing to say! What have I done to deserve such an +insult?” and Charlotte burst into tears. The doctor soothed her with a +few kind words, and then let her go alone into the office to see her son. She +found him changed and improved much, as if he had thrown off some outer husk, +but exhausted and weakened by the transformation. He turned pale when he saw +her. +</p> + +<p> +“You have come to take me away,” he exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all,” she answered, hastily. “The doctor wishes you +to remain, and where would you be so well as with the doctor who loves you so +tenderly?” +</p> + +<p> +For the first time in his life Jack had been happy away from his mother, and a +departure from the roof under which he was would have certainly caused him a +relapse. Charlotte was evidently uncomfortable; she looked tired and troubled. +</p> + +<p> +“We have a large entertainment every month, and every fortnight a +reading, and all the confusion gives me a headache. Then the Japanese prince at +the Moronval Academy has written a poem, M. D’Argenton has translated it +into French, and we are both of us learning the Japanese tongue. I find it very +difficult, and have come to the conclusion that literature is not my forte. The +Review does not bring in a single cent, and has not now one subscriber. By the +way, our good friend at Tours is dead. Do you remember him?” +</p> + +<p> +At this moment Cécile came in and was received by Charlotte with the most +flattering exclamations and much warmth of manner. She talked of +D’Argenton and of their friend at Tours, which annoyed Jack intensely, +for he would have wished neither person to have been mentioned in +Cécile’s pure presence, and over and over again he stopped the careless +babble of his mother who had no such scruples. They urged Madame +D’Argenton to remain to dinner, but she had already lingered too long, +and was uneasily occupied in inventing a series of excuses for her delay, which +should be in readiness when she encountered her poet’s frowning face. +</p> + +<p> +“Above all, Jack, if you write to me, be sure that you put on your letter +‘<i>to be called for</i>,’ for M. D’Argenton is much vexed +with you just now. So do not be astonished if I scold you a little in my next +letter, for he is always there when I write. He even dictates my sentences +sometimes; but don’t mind, dear, you will understand.” +</p> + +<p> +She acknowledged her slavery with naïveté, and Jack was consoled for the +tyranny by which she was oppressed by seeing her go away in excellent spirits, +and with her shawl wrapped so gracefully around her, and her travelling-bag +carried as lightly as she carried all the burdens of life. +</p> + +<p> +Have you ever seen those water-lilies, whose long stems arise from the depths +of the river, finding their way through all obstacles until they expand on the +surface, opening their magnificent white cups, and filling the air with their +delicate perfume? Thus grew and flowered the love of these two young hearts. +With Cécile, the divine flower had grown in a limpid soul, where the most +careless eyes could have discerned it. With Jack, its roots had been tangled +and deformed, but when the stems reached the regions of air and light, they +straightened themselves, and needed but little more to burst into flower. +</p> + +<p> +“If you wish,” said M. Rivals, one evening, “we will go +to-morrow to the vintage at Coudray; the farmer will send his wagon; you two +can go in that in the morning, and I will join you at dinner.” +</p> + +<p> +They accepted the proposition with delight. They started on a bright morning at +the end of October. A soft haze hung over the landscape, retreating before +them, as it seemed; upon the mown fields and on the bundles of golden grain, +upon the slender plants, the last remains of the summer’s brightness, +long silken threads floated like particles of gray fog. The river ran on one +side of the highway, bordered by huge trees. The freshness of the air +heightened the spirits of the two young travellers, who sat on the rough seat +with their feet in the straw, and holding on with both hands to the side of the +wagon. One of the farmer’s daughters drove a young ass, who, harassed by +the wasps, which are very numerous at the time when the air is full of the +aroma of ripening fruits, impatiently shook his long ears. +</p> + +<p> +They went on and on until they reached a hill-side, where they saw a crowd at +work. Jack and Cécile each snatched a wicker basket and joined the others. What +a pretty sight it was! The rustic landscape seen between the vine-draped +arches, the narrow stream, winding and picturesque, full of green islands, a +little cascade and its white foam, and above all, the fog showing through a +golden mist, and a fresh breeze that suggested long evenings and bright fires. +</p> + +<p> +This charming day was very short, at least so Jack found it. He did not leave +Cécile’s side for a minute. She wore a broad-brimmed hat and a skirt of +flowered cambric. He filled her basket with the finest of the grapes, exquisite +in their purple bloom, delicate as the dust on the wings of a butterfly. They +examined the fruit together; and when Jack raised his eyes, he admired on the +cheeks of the young girl the same faint, powdery bloom. Her hair, blown in the +wind in a soft halo above her brow, added to this effect. He had never seen a +face so changed and brightened as hers. Exercise and the excitement of her +pretty toil, the gayety of the vineyard, the laughs and shouts of the laborers, +had absolutely transformed M. Rivals’ quiet housekeeper. She became a +child once more, ran down the slopes, lifted her basket on her shoulder, +watched her burden carefully, and walked with that rhythmical step which Jack +remembered to have seen in the Breton women as they bore on their heads their +full water-jugs. There came a time in the day when these two young persons, +overwhelmed by fatigue, took their seats at the entrance of a little grove +where the dry leaves rustled under their feet. +</p> + +<p> +And then? Ah, well, they said nothing. They let the night descend softly on the +most beautiful dream of their lives; and when the swift autumnal twilight +brought out in the darkness the bright windows of the simple homes scattered +about, the wind freshened, and Cécile insisted on fastening around Jack’s +throat the scarf she had brought, the warmth and softness of the fabric, the +consciousness of being cared for, was like a caress to the lover. +</p> + +<p> +He took her hand, and her fingers lingered in his for a moment; that was all. +When they returned to the farm the doctor had just arrived; they heard his +cheery voice in the courtyard. The chill of the early autumnal evenings has a +charm that both Cécile and Jack felt as they entered the large room filled with +the light from the fire. At supper innumerable dusty bottles were produced, but +Jack manifested profound indifference to their charms. The doctor, on the +contrary, fully appreciated them, so fully that his granddaughter quietly left +her seat, ordered the carriage to be harnessed, and wrapped herself in her +cloak. Dr. Rivals seeing her in readiness, rose without remonstrance, leaving +on the table his half-filled glass. +</p> + +<p> +The three drove home, as in the olden days, through the quiet country roads; +the cabriolet, which had increased in size as had its occupants, groaned a +little on its well-used springs. This noise took nothing from the charm of the +drive, which the stars, so numberless in autumn, seemed to follow with a golden +shower. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you cold, Jack?” said the doctor, suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +How could he be cold? The fringe of Cécile’s great shawl just touched +him. +</p> + +<p> +Alas! why must there be a to-morrow to such delicious days? Jack knew now that +he loved Cécile, but he realized also that this love would be to him only an +additional cause of sorrow. She was too far above him, and although he had +changed much since he had been so near her, although he had thrown aside much +of the roughness of his habits and appearance, he still felt himself unworthy +of the lovely fairy who had transformed him. +</p> + +<p> +The mere idea that the girl should know that he adored her was distasteful to +him. Besides, as his bodily health returned, he began to grow ashamed of his +hours of inaction in “the office.” What would she think of him +should he continue to remain there? Cost what it would, he must go. +</p> + +<p> +One morning he entered M. Rivals’ house to thank him for all his +kindness, and to inform him of his decision. +</p> + +<p> +“You are right,” said the old man; “you are well now bodily +and mentally, and you can soon find some employment.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a long silence, and Jack was disturbed by the singular attention with +which M. Rivals regarded him. “You have something to say to me,” +said the doctor, abruptly. +</p> + +<p> +Jack colored and hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought,” continued the doctor, “that when a youth was in +love with a girl who had no other relation than an old grandfather, the proper +thing was to speak to him frankly.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack, without answering, hid his face in his hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Why are you so troubled, my boy?” continued his old friend. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not dare to speak to you,” answered Jack; “I am poor +and without any position.” +</p> + +<p> +“You can remedy all this.” +</p> + +<p> +“But there is something else: you do not know that I am +illegitimate!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I know—and so is she,” said the doctor, calmly. +“Now listen to a long story.” +</p> + +<p> +They were in the doctor’s library. Through the open window they saw a +superb autumnal landscape, long country roads bordered with leafless trees; and +beyond, the old country cemetery, its yew-trees prostrated, and its crosses +upheaved. +</p> + +<p> +“You have never been there,” said M. Rivals, pointing out to Jack +this melancholy spot. “Nearly in the centre is a large white stone, on +which is the one word Madeleine. +</p> + +<p> +“There lies my daughter, Cécile’s mother. She wished to be placed +apart from us all, and desired that only her Christian name should be put upon +her tomb, saying that she was not worthy to bear the name of her father and +mother. Dear child, she was so proud! She had done nothing to merit this exile +after death, and if any should have been punished, it was I, an old fool, whose +obstinacy brought all our misfortunes upon us. +</p> + +<p> +“One day, eighteen years ago this very month, I was sent for in a hurry +on account of an accident that had happened at a hunt in the Forêt de Sénart. A +gentleman had been shot in the leg. I found the wounded man on the state-bed at +the Archambaulds. He was a handsome fellow, with light hair and eyes, those +northern eyes that have something of the cold glitter of ice. He bore with +admirable courage the extraction of the balls, and, the operation over, thanked +me in excellent French, though with a foreign accent. As he could not be moved +without danger, I continued to attend him at the forester’s; I learned +that he was a Russian of high rank,—‘the Comte Nadine,’ his +companions called him. +</p> + +<p> +“Although the wound was dangerous, Nadine, thanks to his youth and good +constitution, as well as to the care of Mother Archambauld, was soon able to +leave his bed, but as he could not walk at all, I took compassion on his +loneliness, and often carried him in my cabriolet home to my own house to dine. +Sometimes, when the weather was bad, he spent the night with us. I must +acknowledge to you that I adored the man. He had great stores of information, +had been everywhere, and seen everything. To my wife he gave the pharmaceutic +recipes of his own land, to my daughter he taught the melodies of the Ukraine. +We were positively enchanted with him all of us, and when I turned my face +homeward on a rainy evening, I thought with pleasure that I should find so +congenial a person at my fireside. My wife resisted somewhat the general +enthusiasm, but as it was rather her habit to cultivate a certain distrust as a +balance to my recklessness, I paid little attention. Meanwhile our invalid was +quite well enough to return to Paris, but he did not go, and I did not ask +either myself or him why he lingered. +</p> + +<p> +“One day my wife said, ‘M. Nadine must explain why he comes so +often to the house; people are beginning to gossip about Madeleine and +himself.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘What nonsense!’ I exclaimed. I had the absurd notion that +the count lingered at Etiolles on my account; I thought he liked our long +talks, idiot that I was. Had I looked at my daughter when he entered the room, +I should have seen her change color and bend assiduously over her embroidery +all the while he was there. But there are no eyes so blind as those which will +not see; and I chose to be blind. Finally, when Madeleine acknowledged to her +mother that they loved each other, I went to find the comte to force an +explanation. +</p> + +<p> +“He loved my daughter, he said, and asked me for her hand, although he +wished me to understand the obstacles that would be thrown in the way by his +family. He said, however, that he was of an age to act for himself, and that he +had some small income, which, added to the amount that I could give Madeleine, +would secure their comfort. +</p> + +<p> +“A great disproportion of fortune would have terrified me, while the very +moderation of his resources attracted me. And then his air of lordly decision, +his promptness in arranging everything, was singularly attractive. In short, he +was installed in the house as my future son-in-law, without my asking too +curiously by what door he entered. I realized that there was something a little +irregular in the affair, but my daughter was very happy; and when her mother +said, ‘We must know more before we give up our daughter,’ I laughed +at her, I was so certain that all was right. One day I spoke of him to M. +Viéville, one of the huntsmen. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Indeed, I know nothing of the Comte Nadine,’ he said; +‘he strikes me as an excellent fellow. I know that he bears a celebrated +name, and that he is well educated. But if I had a daughter involved, I should +wish to know more than this. I should write, if I were you, to the Russian +embassy; they can tell you everything there.’ +</p> + +<p> +“You suppose, of course, that I went to the embassy. That is just what I +did not do; I was too careless, too blindly confident, too busy. I have never +been able in my whole life to do what I wished, for I have never had any time; +my whole existence has been too short for the half of what I have wished to do. +Tormented by my wife on the subject of this additional information, I finished +by lying, ‘Yes, yes, I went there; everything is satisfactory.’ +Since then I remember the singular air of the comte each time he thought I was +going to Paris; but at that time I saw nothing; I was absorbed in the plans +that my children were making for their future happiness. They were to live with +us three months in the year, and to spend the rest of the time in St. +Petersburg, where Nadine was offered a government situation. My poor wife ended +in sharing my joy and satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +“The end of the winter passed in correspondence. The count’s papers +were long in coming, his parents utterly refused their consent. At last the +papers came—a package of hieroglyphics impossible to +decipher,—certificates of birth, baptism, &c. That which particularly +amused us was a sheet filled with the titles of my future son-in-law, +Ivanovitch Nicolaevitch Stephanovitch. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Have you really as many names as that?’ said my poor child, +laughing; ‘and I am only Madeleine Rivals.’ +</p> + +<p> +“There was at first some talk of the marriage taking place in Paris with +great pomp, but Nadine reflected that it was not wise to brave the paternal +authority on this point, so the ceremony took place at Etiolles, in the little +church where to this very day are to be seen the records of an irreparable +falsehood. How happy I was that morning as I entered the church with my +daughter trembling on my arm, feeling that she owed all her happiness to me! +</p> + +<p> +“Then, after mass, breakfast at the house, and the departure of the +bridal couple in a post-chaise—I can see them now as they drove away. +</p> + +<p> +“The ones who go are generally happy; those who stay are sad enough. When +we took our seats at the table that night, the empty chair at our side was +dreary enough. I had business which took me out-of-doors; but the poor mother +was alone the greater part of the time, and her heart was devoured by her +regrets. Such is the destiny of women; all their sorrows and their griefs come +from within, and are interwoven with their daily lives and employments. +</p> + +<p> +“The letters that we soon began to receive from Pisa, and Florence, were +radiant with happiness. I began to build a little house by the side of our own; +we chose the furniture and the wall papers. ‘They are here—they are +there,’ we said; and at last we expected the final letters we should +receive before they returned. +</p> + +<p> +“One evening I came in late; my wife had gone to her room; I supped +alone; when suddenly I heard a step in the garden. The door opened, my daughter +appeared; but she was no longer the fair young girl whom I had parted with a +month before. She looked thin and ill, was poorly dressed, and carried in her +hand a little travelling-bag. +</p> + +<p> +“‘It is I,’ she whispered hoarsely; ‘I have +come.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Good heavens! what has happened? Where is Nadine?’ +</p> + +<p> +“She did not answer; her eyes closed, and she trembled violently from +head to foot. You may imagine my suspense. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Speak to me, my child. What has happened? Where is your +husband?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I have none—I have never had one;’ and suddenly, +without looking at me, she began to tell me, in a low voice, her horrible +history. +</p> + +<p> +“He was not a count, his name was not Nadine. He was a Russian Jew by the +name of Roesh, a miserable adventurer. He was married at Riga, married at St. +Petersburg. All his papers were false, manufactured by himself. His resources +he owed to his skill in counterfeiting bills on the Russian bank. At Turin he +had been arrested on an order of extradition. Think of my little girl alone in +this foreign town, separated violently from her husband, learning abruptly that +he was a forger and a bigamist,—for he made a full confession of his +crimes. She had but one thought, that of seeking refuge with us. Her brain was +so bewildered, that, as she told us afterwards, when she was asked where she +was going, she simply answered ‘To mamma.’ She left Turin hastily, +without her luggage, and at last she was safe with us, and weeping for the +first time since the catastrophe. +</p> + +<p> +“I said, ‘Restrain yourself, my love, you will awaken your +mother!’ but my tears fell as fast as her own. The next day my wife +learned all; she did not reproach me. ‘I knew,’ she said, +‘from the beginning that there was some misfortune in this +marriage.’ And, in fact, she had certain presentiments of evil from the +hour that the man came under our roof. What is the diagnosis of a physician +compared to the warning and confidences whispered by destiny into the ear of +certain women? In the neighborhood the arrival of my child was quickly known. +‘Your travellers have returned,’ they said. They asked few +questions, for they readily saw that I was unhappy. They noticed that the count +was not with us, that Madeleine and her mother never went out; and very soon I +found myself met with compassionate glances that were harder to bear than +anything else. My daughter had not confided to me that a child would be born +from this disastrous union, but sat sewing day after day, ornamenting the +dainty garments, which are the joy and pride of mothers, with ribbons and lace; +I fancied, however, that she looked at them with feelings of shame, for the +least allusion to the man who had deceived her made her turn pale. But my wife, +who saw things with clearer vision than my own, said, ‘You are mistaken: +she loves him still.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, she loved, and strong as was her contempt and distrust, her love +was stronger still. It was this that killed her, for she died soon after +Cécile’s birth. We found under her pillow a letter, worn in all its +folds, the only one she had ever received from Nadine, written before their +marriage. She had read it often, but she died without once pronouncing the name +that I am sure trembled all the time on her lips. +</p> + +<p> +“You are astonished that in a tranquil village like this a complicated +drama could have been enacted, such as would seem possible only in the crowded +cities of London and Paris. When fate thus attacks, by chance as it were, a +little corner so sheltered by hedges and trees, I am reminded of those spent +balls which during a battle kill a laborer at work in the fields, or a child +returning from school. I think if we had not had little Cécile, my wife would +have died with her daughter. Her life from that hour was one long silence, full +of regrets and self-reproach. +</p> + +<p> +“But it was necessary to bring up this child, and to keep her in +ignorance of the circumstances of her birth. This was a matter of difficulty; +it is true that we were relieved of her father, who died a few months after his +condemnation. Unfortunately, several persons knew the whole story; and we +wished to preserve Cécile from all the gossip she would hear if she associated +with other children. You saw how solitary her life was. Thanks to this +precaution, she to-day knows nothing of the tempest that surrounded her birth; +for not one of the kind people about us would utter one word which would give +her reason to suspect that there was any mystery. My wife, however, was always +in dread of some childish questions from Cécile. But I had other fears: who +could be certain that the child of my child did not inherit from her father +some of his vices? I acknowledge to you, Jack, that for years I dreaded seeing +her father’s characteristics in Cécile; I dreaded the discovery of deceit +and falsehood; but what joy it has been to me to find that the child is the +perfected image of her mother! She has the same tender and half-sad smile, the +same candid eyes, and lips that can say No. +</p> + +<p> +“Meanwhile the future alarmed me: my granddaughter must some day learn +the truth, and that truth must be divulged if she should ever marry. +</p> + +<p> +“‘She must never love any one,’ said her grandmother. +</p> + +<p> +“If this were possible, would it be wise to pass through life without a +protector? Her destiny must be united with a fate as exceptional as her own. +Such a one could hardly be found in our village, and in Paris we knew no one. +It was about the time when these anxieties occupied our minds that your mother +came to this place. She was supposed to be the wife of D’Argenton, but +the forester’s wife told me the real circumstances. I said to myself +instantly, ‘This boy ought to be Cécile’s husband;’ and from +that time I attended to your education. +</p> + +<p> +“I looked forward to the time that you, a man grown, would come to me and +ask her hand. This was the reason, of course, that I was so indignant when +D’Argenton sent you to Indret. I said to myself, however, Jack may emerge +from this trial in triumph. If he studies, if he works with his head as well as +his hands, he may still be worthy of the wife I wish to give him. The letters +that we received from you were all that they should be, and I ventured to +indulge the hope I have named. Suddenly came the intelligence of the robbery. +Ah, my friend, how terrified I was! how I bemoaned the weakness of your mother, +and the tyranny of the monster who had driven you to evil courses! I respected, +nevertheless, the tender affection that existed toward you in the heart of my +little girl, I had not the courage to undeceive her. We talked of you +constantly until the day when I told her that I had seen you at the +forester’s. If you could have seen the light in her eyes, and how busy +she was all day! a sign with her always of some excitement, as if her heart +beating too quickly needed something, either a pen or a needle, to regulate its +movements. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Jack, you love my child. I have watched you for two months, and I +am satisfied that the future is in your own hands. I wish you to study medicine +and take my place at Etiolles. I first thought of keeping you here, but I +concluded that it would take four years to complete your studies, and that your +residence with us for that length of time would not be advisable. In Paris you +can study in the evening, and work all day, and come to us on Sundays. I will +examine your week’s work and advise you, and Cécile will encourage you. +Velpeau and others have done this, and you can do the same. Will you try? +Cécile is the reward.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack was utterly overwhelmed, and could only heartily shake the hand of the old +man. But perhaps Cécile’s affection was only that of a sister: and four +years was a long time: would she consent to wait? +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, my boy, I cannot answer these questions,” said M. Rivals, +gayly; “but I authorize you to ask them at headquarters. Cécile is +up-stairs; go and speak to her.” +</p> + +<p> +That was rather a difficult matter, with a heart going like a trip-hammer, and +a voice choked with emotion. Cécile was writing in the office. +</p> + +<p> +“Cécile,” he said, as he entered the room, “I am going +away.” She rose from her seat, very pale. “I am going to +work,” he continued. “Your grandfather has given me permission to +tell you that I love you, and that I hope to win you as my wife.” +</p> + +<p> +He spoke in so low a voice that any other person than Cécile would have failed +to understand him. But she understood him very well. And in this room, lighted +by the level rays of the setting sun, the young girl stood listening to this +declaration of love as to an echo of her own thoughts. She was perfectly +unabashed and undisturbed, a tender smile on her lips, and her eyes full of +tears. She understood perfectly that their life would be no holiday, that they +would be racked by separations and long years of waiting. +</p> + +<p> +“Jack,” she said, after he had explained all his plans, “I +will wait for you, not only four years, but forever.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack went to Paris in search of employment, found it in the house of +Eyssendeck, at six francs a day; then tried to procure lodgings not too far +removed from the manufactory. He was happy, full of hope and courage, impatient +to begin his double work as mechanic and student. The crowd pushed against him, +and he did not feel them; nor was he conscious of the cold of this December +night; nor did he hear the young apprentice girls, as they passed him, say to +each other, “What a handsome man!” The great Faubourg was alive and +seemed to encourage him with its gayety. +</p> + +<p> +“What a pleasure it is to live!” said Jack; “and how hard I +mean to work!” Suddenly he stumbled against a great square basket filled +with fur hats and caps; this basket stood at the door of a shoemaker’s +stall. Jack looked in and saw Bélisaire, as ugly as ever, but cleaner and +better clothed. Jack was delighted to see him, and entered at once; but +Bélisaire was too deeply absorbed in the examination of a pair of shoes that +the cobbler was showing him, to look up. These shoes were not for himself, but +for a tiny child of four or five years of age, pale and thin, with a head much +too large for his body. Bélisaire was talking to the child. +</p> + +<p> +“And they are nice and thick, my dear, and will keep those poor little +feet warm.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack’s appearance did not seem to surprise him. +</p> + +<p> +“Where did you come from?” he asked, as calmly as if he had seen +him the night before. +</p> + +<p> +“How are you, Bélisaire? Is this your child?” +</p> + +<p> +“O, no; it belongs to Madame Weber,” said the pedler, with a sigh; +and when he had ascertained that the little thing was well fitted, Bélisaire +drew from his pocket a long purse of red wool, and took out some silver pieces +that he placed in the cobbler’s hand with that air of importance assumed +by working people when they pay away money. +</p> + +<p> +“Where are you going, comrade?” said the pedler to Jack, as they +stood on the pavement, in a tone so expressive that it seemed to say, If you +take this side, I shall go the other. +</p> + +<p> +Jack, who felt this without being able to understand it, said, “I hardly +know where I am going. I am a journeyman at Eyssendeck’s, and I want to +find a room not too far away.” +</p> + +<p> +“At Eyssendeck’s?” said the pedler. “It is not easy to +get in there; one must bring the best of recommendations.” +</p> + +<p> +The expression of his eyes enlightened Jack. Bélisaire believed him guilty of +the robbery,—so true it is that accusations, however unfounded and +however explained away, yet leave spots and tarnishes. When Bélisaire saw the +letters of the superintendent at Indret, and heard the whole story, his whole +face lighted up with his old smile. “Listen, Jack, it is too late to seek +a lodging to-night; come with me, for I have a room where you can sleep +tonight, and perhaps can suggest something that will suit you. But we will talk +about that as we sup. Come now.” +</p> + +<p> +Behold the three—Jack, the pedler, and Madame Weber’s little one, +whose new shoes clattered on the sidewalk famously—were soon hurrying +along the streets. Bélisaire informed Jack that his sister was now a widow, and +that he had gone into business with her. Occasionally, in the full tide of his +history, he stopped to shout his old cry of “Hats! hats! Hats to +sell!” But before he reached his home, he was obliged to lift into his +arms Madame Weber’s little boy, who had begun to weep despairingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor little fellow!” said Bélisaire, “he is not in the habit +of walking. He rarely goes out, and it is merely that I may take him out with +me sometimes that I have had him measured for these new shoes. His mother is +away from home at work all day; she is a good, hard-working woman, and has to +leave her child to the care of a neighbor. Here we are!” +</p> + +<p> +They entered one of those large houses whose numerous windows are like narrow +slits in the walls. The doors open on the long corridors, which serve as +ante-rooms, where the poor people place their stoves and their boxes. At this +hour they were at dinner. Jack, as he passed, looked in at the doors, which +stood wide open. +</p> + +<p> +“Good evening,” said the pedler. +</p> + +<p> +“Good evening,” said the friendly voices from within. +</p> + +<p> +In some rooms it was different: there was no fire, no light—a woman and +children watching for the father, who was at the wine-shop round the corner. +</p> + +<p> +The pedler’s room was at the top of the house, and he seemed very proud +of it. “I am going to show you how well I am established, but you must +wait until I have taken this child to its mother.” He looked under the +door of a room opposite his own, pulled out a key and unlocked it, went +directly to the stove where had simmered all day the soup for the evening meal. +He lighted a candle and fastened the child into a high chair at the table, gave +it a spoon and a saucepan to play with, and then said, “Come away +quickly; Madame Weber will be here in a minute, and I wish to hear what she +will say when she sees the child’s new shoes.” He smiled as he +opened his room—a long attic divided in two. A pile of hats told his +business, and the bare walls his poverty. +</p> + +<p> +Bélisaire lighted his lamp and arranged his dinner, which consisted of a fine +salad of potatoes and salt herring. He took from a closet two plates, bread and +wine, and placed them on a little table. “Now,” he said, with an +air of triumph, “all is ready, though it is not much like that famous ham +you gave me in the country.” The potato salad was excellent, however, and +Jack did justice to it. Bélisaire was delighted with the appetite of his guest, +and did his duty as host with great delight, rising every two or three minutes +to see if the water was boiling for the coffee. +</p> + +<p> +“You have a taste for housekeeping, Bélisaire,” said Jack, +“and have things nicely arranged.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not yet,” answered the pedler; “I need very many +articles,—in fact, these are only lent to me by Madame Weber while we are +waiting.” +</p> + +<p> +“Waiting for what?” asked Jack. +</p> + +<p> +“Until we can be married!” answered the pedler, boldly, indifferent +to Jack’s gay laugh. “Madame Weber is a good woman, and you will +see her soon. We are not rich enough to start alone in housekeeping, but if we +could find some one to share the expenses, we would lodge and feed him, do his +washing and all, and it would not be a bad thing for him, any more than for us. +Where there is enough for two there is always enough for three, you know! The +difficulty is to find some one who is orderly and sober, and won’t make +too much trouble in the house.” +</p> + +<p> +“How should I do, Bélisaire?” +</p> + +<p> +“Would you like it, Jack? I have been thinking about it for an hour, but +did not dare speak of it. Perhaps our table would be too simple for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Bélisaire, nothing would be too simple. I wish to be very +economical, for I, too, am thinking of marrying.” +</p> + +<p> +“Really! But in that case we can’t make our arrangements.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack laughed, and explained that his marriage was an affair of four years +later. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, it is all settled. What a happy chance it was that we met. +Hark! I hear Madame Weber.” +</p> + +<p> +A heavy step mounted the stairs; the child heard it too, for it began a +melancholy wail. “I am coming,” cried the woman from the end of the +corridor, to console the little one. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen,” said Bélisaire. The door opened; an exclamation, followed +by a laugh, was heard, and presently Madame Weber, with her child on her arm, +entered Bélisaire’s room. She was a tall, good-looking woman, of about +thirty, and she laughed as she showed him the little one’s feet, but +there was a tear in her eye as she said, “You are the person who has done +this.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” said Bélisaire, with simplicity, “how could she guess +so well?” +</p> + +<p> +Madame Weber took a seat at the table, and a cup of coffee, and Jack was +presented to her as their future associate. I must acknowledge that she +received him with a certain reserve, but when she had examined the aspirant for +this distinction, and learned that the two men had known each other for ten +years, and that she had before her the hero of the story of the ham that she +had heard so many times, her face lost its expression of distrust, and she held +out her hand to Jack. +</p> + +<p> +“This time Bélisaire is right. He has brought me a half dozen of his +comrades who were not worth the cord to hang them with. He is very innocent, +because he is so good.” +</p> + +<p> +Then came a discussion as to arrangements. It was decided that until the +marriage he should share Bélisaire’s room and buy himself a bed; they +would share the expenses, and Jack would pay his proportion every Saturday. +After the marriage, they would establish themselves more commodiously, and +nearer the Eyssendeck Works. This establishment recalled to him Indret on a +smaller scale. Owing to lack of space, there were in the same room three rows, +one above the other, of machines. Jack was on the upper floor, where all the +noise and dust of the place ascended. When he leaned over the railing of the +gallery, he beheld a constant whirl of human arms, and a regular and monotonous +beat of machinery. +</p> + +<p> +The heat was intense, worse than at Indret, because there was less ventilation; +but Jack bore up bravely under it, for his inner life supported him through all +the trials of the day. His companions saw intuitively that he lived apart from +them, indifferent to their petty quarrels and rivalries. Jack shared neither +their pleasures nor their hatreds. He never listened to their sullen +complaints, nor the muttered thunder of this great Faubourg, concealed like a +Ghetto in this magnificent city. He paid no attention to the socialistic +theories, the natural growth in the minds of those who live poor and suffering +so near the wealthier classes. +</p> + +<p> +I am not disposed to assert that Jack’s companions liked him especially, +but they respected him at all events. As to the workwomen, they looked upon him +much as a Prince Rodolphe,—for they had all read “The Mysteries of +Paris,”—and admired his tall, slender figure and his careful dress. +But the poor girls threw away their smiles, for he passed their corner of the +establishment with scarcely a glance. This corner was never without its +excitement and drama, for most of the workwomen had a lover among the men, and +this led to all sorts of jealousies and scenes. +</p> + +<p> +Jack went to and fro from the manufactory alone. He was in haste to reach his +lodgings, to throw aside his workman’s blouse, and to bury himself in his +books. Surrounded with these, many of them those he had used at school, he +commenced the labors of the evening, and was astonished to find with what +facility he regained all that he thought he had forever lost. Sometimes, +however, he encountered an unexpected difficulty, and it was touching to see +the young man, whose hands were distorted and clumsy from handling heavy +weights, sometimes throw aside his pen in despair. At his side Bélisaire sat +sewing the straw of his summer hats, in respectful silence, the stupefaction of +a savage assistant at a magician’s incantations. He frowned when Jack +frowned, grew impatient, and when his comrade came to the end of some difficult +passage, nodded his head with an air of triumph. The noise of the +pedler’s big needle passing through the stiff straw, the student’s +pen scratching upon the paper, the gigantic dictionaries hastily taken up and +thrown down, filled the attic with a quiet and healthy atmosphere; and when +Jack raised his eyes he saw from the windows the light of other lamps, and +other shadows courageously prolonging their labors into the middle of the +night. +</p> + +<p> +After her child was asleep, Madame Weber, to economize coal and oil, brought +her work to the room of her friend; she sowed in silence. It had been decided +that they should not marry until spring, the winter to the poor being always a +season of anxiety and privation. Jack, as he wrote, thought, “How happy +they are.” His own happiness came on Sundays. Never did any coquette take +such pains with her toilette as did Jack on those days, for he was determined +that nothing about him should remind Cécile of his daily toil; well might he +have been taken for Prince Rodolphe had he been seen as he started off. +</p> + +<p> +Delicious day! without hours or minutes—a day of uninterrupted felicity. +The whole house greeted him warmly, a bright fire burned in the salon, flowers +bloomed at the windows, and Cécile and the doctor made him feel how dear he was +to them both. After they had dined, M. Rivals examined the work of the week, +corrected everything, and explained all that had puzzled the youth. +</p> + +<p> +Then came a walk through the woods, if the day was fair, and they often passed +the chalet where Dr. Hirsch still came to pursue certain experiments. So black +was the smoke that poured from the chimneys, that one would have fancied that +the man was burning all the drugs in the world. “Don’t you smell +the poison?” said M. Rivals, indignantly. But the young people passed the +house in silence; they instinctively felt that there were no kindly sentiments +within those walls toward them, and, in fact, feared that the fanatic Dr. +Hirsch was sent there as a spy. But what had they to fear, after all? Was not +all intercourse between D’Argenton and Charlotte’s son forever +ended? For three months they had not met. Since Jack had been engaged to +Cécile, and understood the dignity and purity of love, he had hated +D’Argenton, making him responsible for the fault of his weak mother, +whose chains were riveted more closely by the violence and tyranny under which +a nobler nature would have revolted. Charlotte, who feared scenes and +explanations, had relinquished all hope of reconciliation between these two +men. She never mentioned her son to D’Argenton, and saw him only in +secret. +</p> + +<p> +She had even visited the machine-shop in a fiacre and closely veiled, and +Jack’s fellow-workmen had seen him talking earnestly with a woman elegant +in appearance and still young. They circulated all sorts of gossip in regard to +the mysterious visitor, which finally reached Jack’s ears, who begged his +mother not to expose herself to such remarks. They then saw each other in the +gardens, or in some of the churches; for, like many other women of similar +characteristics, she had become <i>dévote</i> as she grew old, as much from an +overflow of idle sentimentality as from a passion for honors and ceremonies. In +these rare and brief interviews Charlotte talked all the time, as was her +habit, but with a worn, sad air. She said, however, that she was happy and at +peace, and that she had every confidence in M. d’Argenton’s +brilliant future. But one day, as mother and son were leaving the church-door, +she said to him, with some embarrassment, “Jack, can you let me have a +little money for a few days? I have made some mistake in my accounts, and have +not money enough to carry me to the end of the month, and I dare not ask +D’Argenton for a penny.” +</p> + +<p> +He did not let her finish; he had just been paid off, and he placed the whole +amount in his mother’s hand. Then, in the bright sunshine he saw what the +obscurity of the church had concealed: traces of tears and a look of despair on +the face that was generally so smiling and fresh. Intense compassion filled his +heart. “You are unhappy,” he said; “come to me, I shall-be so +glad to have you.” +</p> + +<p> +She started. “No, it is impossible,” she said, in a low voice; +“he has so many trials just now;” and she hurried away as if to +escape some temptation. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"></a> +CHAPTER XX.<br /> +THE WEDDING-PARTY.</h2> + +<p> +It was a summer morning. The pedler and his comrade were up before daybreak. +One was sweeping and dusting, with as little noise as possible, careful not to +disturb his companion, who was established at the open window. The sky was the +cloudless one of June, pale blue with a faint tinge of rose still lingering in +the east, that could be seen between the chimneys. In front of Jack was a zinc +roof, which, when the sun was in mid-heaven, became a terrible mirror. At this +moment it reflected faintly the tints of the sky, so that the tall chimneys +looked like the masts of a vessel floating on a glittering sea. Below was heard +the noise from the poultry owned by the various inhabitants of the Faubourg. +Suddenly a cry was heard: “Madame Jacob! Madame Mathieu! Here is your +bread.” +</p> + +<p> +It was four o’clock. The labors of the day had begun. The woman whose +daily business it was to supply that quarter with bread from the baker’s +had begun her rounds. Her basket was filled with loaves of all sizes, +sweet-smelling and warm. She carries them all through the corridors, placing +them at the corners of the various doors; her shrill voice aroused the +sleepers; doors opened and shut; childish voices uttered cries of joy, and +little bare feet pattered to meet the good woman, and returned hugging a loaf +as big as themselves, with that peculiar gesture that you see in the poor +people who come out of the bake-shops, and which shows the thoughtful observer +what that hard-earned bread signifies to them. +</p> + +<p> +All the world is now astir; windows are thrown open, even those where the lamps +have burned the greater part of the night. At one sits a sad-faced woman, at a +sewing-machine, aided by a little girl, who hands her the several pieces of her +work. At another a young girl, with hair already neatly braided, is carefully +cutting a slice of bread for her slender breakfast, watching that no crumb +shall fall on the floor she swept at daybreak. Further on is a window shaded by +a large red curtain to keep off the reflection from the zinc roof. All these +rooms open on the other side into a dark and ugly house of enormous size. But +the student heeds nothing but his work. One sound only depresses him at times, +and that is the voice of an old woman, who says every morning, before the +noises of the street have begun, “How happy people ought to be who can go +to the country on a day like this!” To whom does the poor woman utter +these words, day after day? To the whole world, to herself, or only to the +canary, whose cage, covered with fresh leaves, she hangs on the shutters? +Perhaps she is talking to her flowers. Jack never knew, but he is much of her +opinion, and would gladly echo her words; for his first waking thoughts turn +toward a tranquil village street, toward a little green door, Jack has just +reached this point in his reverie when a rustle of silk is heard, and the +handle of his door rattles. +</p> + +<p> +“Turn to the right,” said Bélisaire, who was making the coffee. +</p> + +<p> +The handle is still aimlessly rattled. Bélisaire, with the coffee-pot in his +hand, impatiently throws it open, and Charlotte rushes in. Bélisaire, stupefied +at this inundation of flounces, feathers, and laces, bows again and again, +while Jack’s mother, who does not recognize him, excuses herself, and +retreats toward the door. +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon, sir,” she said; “I made a mistake.” +</p> + +<p> +At the sound of her voice Jack rises from his chair in astonishment +</p> + +<p> +“Mother!” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +She ran to him and took refuge in his arms. +</p> + +<p> +“Save me, my child, save me! That man, for whom I have sacrificed +everything,—my life and that of my child,—has beaten me cruelly. +This morning, when he came in after two days’ absence, I ventured to make +some observation; I thought I had a right to speak. He flew into a frightful +passion, and—” +</p> + +<p> +The end of her sentence was lost in a torrent of tears and in convulsive sobs. +Bélisaire had retired at her first words, and discreetly closed the door after +him. Jack looks at his mother, full of terror and pity. How pale and how +changed she is! In the clear light of the young day the marks of time are +clearly visible on her face, and the gray hairs, that she has not taken the +trouble to conceal, shine like silver on her blue-veined temples. Without any +attempt at controlling her emotion, she speaks without restraint, pouring forth +all her wrongs. +</p> + +<p> +“How I have suffered, Jack! He passes his life now at the cafés and in +dissipation. Did you know that, when he went to Indret with that money, I was +there in the village, and crazy to see you? He reproaches me with the bread you +ate under his roof, and yet—yes, I will tell you what I never meant you +to know—I had ten thousand francs of yours that were given to me for you +exclusively. Well, D’Argenton put them into his Review; I know that he +meant to pay you large interest, but the ten thousand francs have been +swallowed up with all the others, and when I asked him if he did not intend to +account to you for them, do you know what he did? He drew up a long bill of all +that he has paid for you. Your board at Etiolles, that amounts to fifteen +thousand francs. But he does not ask you to pay the difference; is not that +very generous?” and Charlotte laughed sarcastically. “I tell you I +have borne everything,” she continued,—“the rages he has +fallen into on your account, and the mean way in which he has talked with his +friends of the affair at Indret; as if your innocence had never been fully +established! +</p> + +<p> +“And then to leave me in ignorance of his where-abouts, to spend his time +with some countess in the Faubourg St. Germaine,—for those women are all +crazy about him,—and then to receive my reproaches with such disdain, and +finally to strike me! Me, Ida de Barancy! This was too much. I dressed, and put +on my hat, and then I went to him. I said, ‘Look at me, M. +d’Argenton; look at me well; it is the last time that you will see me; I +am going to my child.’ And then I came away.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack had listened in silence to these revelations, growing paler and paler, and +so filled with shame for the woman who narrated them that he could not look at +her. When she had finished, he took her hand gently, and with much sweetness, +but also with much solemnity, he said,— +</p> + +<p> +“I thank you for having come to me, dear mother. Only one thing was +lacking to complete my happiness, and that was your presence. Now take care! I +shall never allow you to leave me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Leave you! No, Jack; we will always live together—we two. You know +I told you that the day would come when I should need you. It has come +now.” +</p> + +<p> +Under her son’s caresses she became tranquillized. There came an +occasional sob, like a child who has wept for a long time. +</p> + +<p> +“You see,” she said, “how happy we may be. I owe you much +care and tenderness. I feel now that I can breathe freely. Your room is bare +and small, but it seems to me like Paradise itself.” +</p> + +<p> +This brief summary of the apartment regarded by Bélisaire as so magnificent, +disturbed Jack somewhat as to the future; but he had no time now for +discussions; he had but half an hour before he must leave, and he must decide +at once on something definite. He must consult Bélisaire, whom he heard +patiently pacing the corridor, and who would have waited until nightfall +without once knocking to see if the interview was over. +</p> + +<p> +“Bélisaire, my mother has come to live with me; how shall we +manage?” +</p> + +<p> +Bélisaire started as he thought, “And now the marriage must be postponed, +for Jack will not be one of our little ménage!” +</p> + +<p> +But he concealed his disappointment, and exerted himself to suggest some plan +that would relieve his friend of present embarrassment. It was decided finally +that he should relinquish the room to Jack and his mother and find for himself +a closet to sleep in, depositing his stock of hats and his furniture with +Madame Weber. +</p> + +<p> +Jack presented his friend to Bélisaire, who remembered very well the fair lady +at Aulnettes, and at once placed himself for the day at the service of Ida de +Barancy; for “Charlotte” was no more heard of. A bed must be +purchased, a couple of chairs, and a dressing-bureau. Jack took from the drawer +where he kept his savings three or four gold pieces which he gave his mother. +</p> + +<p> +“You know,” he said, “that if marketing is disagreeable to +you, good Madame Weber will attend to the dinners.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all; Bélisaire will simply tell me where to go. I intend to do +everything for you; you will see the nice little dinner I shall have ready for +you when you come back to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +She had laid aside her shawl, rolled up her sleeves, and was all ready to begin +her work. Jack, delighted to see her so energetic, embraced her with his whole +heart, and left his room in a very joyous frame of mind. With what courage he +toiled all day! The present unfortunate career and hopeless future of his +mother had troubled him for some time, and marred his joys and his hopes. To +what depth of degradation would D’Argenton compel her to sink! To what +end was she destined! Now all was changed. Ida, tenderly protected by his +filial love, would become worthy of her whom she would some day call “my +daughter.” +</p> + +<p> +It seemed to Jack, moreover, that this event in some way diminished the +distance between Cécile and himself, and he smiled to himself as he thought of +it. But after his work, as he drew near his home, he was seized by a panic. +Should he find his mother there? He knew with what promptitude Ida gave wings +to her fancies and caprices, and he feared lest she had felt the temptation to +re-tie the knot so hastily broken. But on the staircase this dread vanished. +Above all the noises of the house he heard a fresh, clear voice singing like a +lark. Jack stood on the threshold in mute amazement. Thoroughly freshened and +cleaned, with Bélisaire’s goods gone, and with the addition of a pretty +bed and dainty dressing-bureau, the room looked like a different place. There +were flowers on the chimney, and the table was spread with a white cloth, on +which stood a tempting-looking pie and a bottle of wine. Ida, in an embroidered +skirt and loose sack, a little cap mounted on the top of her puffs, hardly +looked like herself. +</p> + +<p> +“Well!” she said, running to meet him; “and what do you think +of it!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is altogether charming. And how quick you have been!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; Bélisaire helped me, and his nice widow also. I have invited them +to dine with us.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what will you do for dishes?” +</p> + +<p> +“You will see. I have bought a few, and our neighbors on the other side +have lent me some. They are very obliging also.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack, who had never thought these people particularly complaisant, opened his +eyes wide. +</p> + +<p> +“But this is not all. I went to buy this pie at a place where they sell +them fifteen cents less than anywhere else. It was so far, however, that I had +to take a carriage to return.” +</p> + +<p> +This was thoroughly characteristic. A carriage at two francs to save fifteen +cents! She evidently knew where the best things were to be found. +</p> + +<p> +The bread came from the Vienna bakery, and the coffee and dessert from the +<i>Palais Royale</i>. Jack listened with a sinking heart. She saw that +something was wrong. +</p> + +<p> +“Have I spent too much?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I think not,—for one occasion,” he answered, with same +hesitation. +</p> + +<p> +“But I have not been extravagant. Look here,” she said, and she +showed him a long green book; “in this I mean to keep my accounts. I will +show my entries to you after dinner.” +</p> + +<p> +Bélisaire and Madame Weber with her child now entered the room. It was truly +delicious to see the airs of condescension with which Ida received them; but +her manner was withal so kind that they were soon entirely at their ease. +</p> + +<p> +Bélisaire was somewhat out of spirits, for he saw that his marriage must be +indefinitely postponed, as he had lost his “comrade.” Ah, one may +well compare the events of this world to the see-saws arranged by children, +which lifts one of the players, while the other at the same time feels all the +hardness of the earth below. Jack mounted toward the light, while his companion +descended toward the implacable reality. To begin with, the person called +Bélisaire—who should in reality have been named Resignation, Devotion, or +Patience—was now obliged to relinquish his pleasant room and sleep in a +closet, the only place on that floor; not for worlds would he have gone farther +from Madame Weber. +</p> + +<p> +Their guests gone, and Jack and his mother alone, she was astonished to see him +bring out a pile of books. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you going to do?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I am going to study.” And he then told her of the double life he +led; of his hopes, and the reward that was held out to him at the end. Until +then he had never confided them to her, fearing that she would inform +D’Argenton, whom he utterly distrusted, and he feared that in some way +his happiness would be compromised. But now that his mother belonged to him +alone, he could speak to her of Cécile and of his supreme joy. Jack talked with +enthusiasm of his love, but soon saw that his mother did not understand him. +She had a certain amount of sentiment, but love had not the same signification +for her that it had for him. She listened to him with the same interest that +she would have felt in the third act at the <i>Gymnase</i>, when the +<i>Ingenue</i> in a white dress, with rose-colored ribbons, listened to the +declaration of a lover with frizzed hair. She was pleased with the spectacle as +presented by her son, and said two or three times, “How nice! how very +nice! It makes me think of Paul and Virginia!” +</p> + +<p> +Fortunately, lovers, when speaking of their passion, listen to the echoes of +their words in their own hearts, and Jack, thus absorbed, heard none of the +commonplace comments of his mother. +</p> + +<p> +Jack had been living a week in this way when, one evening, Bélisaire came to +meet him with a radiant face. “We are to be married at once! Madame Weber +has found a ‘comrade.’” +</p> + +<p> +Jack, who had been the unintentional cause of his friend’s +disappointment, was equally well pleased. This pleasure, however, did not last; +for, on seeing “the comrade,” he received a most unpleasant +impression. The man was tall and powerfully built, but the expression of his +face was far from agreeable. +</p> + +<p> +The great day arrived at last. Among the middle classes, a day is generally +given to the civil marriage, another to the wedding at the church; but the +people to whom time is money cannot afford this. So they generally take +Saturday for the two ceremonies. +</p> + +<p> +Bélisaire’s wedding, therefore, occurred on that day, and was really one +of the most imposing of the many processions they met on their way to the +municipality. Although the white dress of the bride was missing, Madame Weber, +in her quality of widow, wore a dress of brilliant blue of that bright indigo +shade so dear to persons who like solid colors; a many-hued shawl was carefully +folded on her arm, and a superb cap, ornamented with ribbons and flowers, +displayed her beaming peasant face. She walked by the side of Bélisaire’s +father, a little dried-up old man, with a hooked nose and abrupt movements, and +a perpetual cough that his new daughter-in-law endeavored to soothe by rubbing +his back with considerable violence. These repeated frictions somewhat +disturbed the dignity of the wedding procession. +</p> + +<p> +Bélisaire came next, giving his arm to his sister, whose nose was as hooked as +her father’s. Bélisaire himself looked almost handsome; he led by one +hand Madame Weber’s little child. Then came a crowd of relatives and +friends, and finally Jack, Madame de Barancy being unwilling to do more than +honor the wedding-dinner with her presence. This repast was to take place at +Vincennes. +</p> + +<p> +When the train that brought the party reached the restaurant, the room engaged +by Bélisaire was still occupied. This gave them time to look at the lake and to +amuse themselves with examining the crowd of merrymakers. They were dancing and +singing, playing blind-man’s-buff and innumerable other games; under the +trees a girl was mending the flounces of a bride’s dress. O, those white +dresses! With what joy those girls let them drag over the lawn, imagining +themselves for that one occasion women of fashion. It is precisely this +illusion that the people seek in their hours of amusement: a pretence of +riches, a momentary semblance of the envied and happy of this earth. +</p> + +<p> +Bélisaire’s party were too hungry to be gay, and they hailed with joy the +announcement that dinner was ready at last. The table was laid in one of those +large rooms whose walls were frescoed in faded colors, and whose size was +apparently increased by innumerable mirrors. At each end of the table was a +huge bouquet of artificial orange blossoms, a centrepiece of pink and white +sugar, and ornaments of the same, which had officiated at many a wedding-dinner +in the previous six months. They took their seats in solemn silence, though +Madame de Barancy had not yet arrived. +</p> + +<p> +The guests were somewhat intimidated by the black-coated waiters, who +disdainfully looked at these poor people who were dining at a dollar per head, +a sum which each one of the guests thought of with respect, and envied +Belisaire who could afford such an extravagant entertainment. The waiters were, +however, filled with profound contempt, which they expressed by winks at each +other, invisible however to the guests. +</p> + +<p> +Belisaire had just at his side one of these gentlemen, who filled him with holy +horror; another, opposite behind his wife’s chair, watched him so +disagreeably that the good man scarcely dared lift his eyes from the +<i>carte</i>,—on which, among familiar words like ducks, chickens, and +beans, appeared the well-known names of generals, towns, and +battles—Marengo, Richelieu, and so on. Bélisaire, like the others, was +stupefied, the more so when two plates of soup were presented with the +question, “Bisque, or Purée de Crécy?” Or two bottles: +“Xeres, or Pacaset, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +They answered at hazard as one does in some of those society games where you +are requested to select one of two flowers. In fact, the answer was of little +consequence since both plates contained the same tasteless mixture. There was +so much ceremony that the dinner threatened to be very dull, and interminable +as well, from the indecision of the guests as to the dishes they should accept. +It was Madame Weber’s clear head and decided hand that cut this Gordian +knot. She turned to her child. “Eat everything,” she said, +“it costs us enough.” +</p> + +<p> +These words of wisdom had their effect on the whole assembly, and after a +little the table was gay enough. Suddenly the door was thrown open, and Ida de +Barancy entered, smiling and charming. +</p> + +<p> +“A thousand pardons, my friends, but I had a carriage that crept.” +</p> + +<p> +She wore her most beautiful dress, for she rarely had an opportunity nowadays +of making a toilette, and produced a most extraordinary effect. The way in +which she took her seat by Belisaire, and put her gloves in a wineglass, the +manner in which she signed to one of the waiters to bring her the carte, +overwhelmed the assembly with admiration. It was delightful to see her order +about those imposing waiters. One of them she had recognized, the one who +terrified Bélisaire so much. “You are here then, now!” she said +carelessly; and shook her bracelets, and kissed her hand to her son, asked for +a footstool, some ice, and eau-de-Seltz, and soon knew the resources of the +establishment. +</p> + +<p> +“But, good heavens, you are not very gay here!” she cried suddenly. +She rose, took her plate in one hand, her glass in the other. “I ask +permission to change places with Madame Bélisaire; I am quite sure that her +husband will not complain.” +</p> + +<p> +This was done with much grace and consideration. The little Weber uttered a +shout of indignation on seeing his mother rise from her chair, and all this +noise and confusion soon changed the previous stiffness and restraint into +laughs and gayety. The waiters went round and round the table executing +marvellous feats, serving twenty persons from one duck so adroitly carved and +served that each one had as much as he wanted. And the peas fell like hail on +the plates; and the beans—prepared at one end of the table with salt, +pepper, and butter; and such butter!—were mixed by a waiter who smiled +maliciously as he stirred the fell combination. +</p> + +<p> +At last the champagne came. With the exception of Ida, not one person there +knew anything more of this wine than the name; and champagne signified to them +riches, gay dinners, and gorgeous festivals. They talked about it in a low +voice, waited and watched for it. Finally, at dessert, a waiter appeared with a +silver-capped bottle that he proceeded to open. Ida, who never lost an +opportunity of making a sensation and assuming an attitude, put her pretty +hands over her ears, but the cork came out like any other cork; the waiter, +holding the bottle high, went around the table very quickly. The bottle was +inexhaustible; each person had some froth and a few drops at the bottom of the +glass, which he drank with respect, and even believed that there was still more +in the bottle. It did not matter: the magic of the word champagne had produced +its effect, and there is so much French gayety in the least particle of its +froth that an astonishing animation at once pervaded the assembly. A dance was +proposed; but music costs so much! +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! if we only had a piano,” said Ida de Barancy, with a sigh, at +the same time moving her fingers on the table as if she knew how to play. +Bélisaire disappeared for a few moments, but soon returned with a village +musician, who was ready to play until morning. Jack and his mother at first +felt out of their element in the noisy romp that ensued, but Ida finally +organized a cotillon, and the rustling of her silk skirts and the jangling of +her bracelets filled the souls of the younger women with admiration and +jealousy. Meanwhile the night wore on, the little Weber was asleep wrapped in a +shawl on a sofa in the corner. Jack had made many signs to Ida, who pretended +not to understand, carried away as she was by the pleasure and happiness about +her. Jack was like an old father who is anxious to take his daughter home from +a ball. +</p> + +<p> +“It is late,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Wait, dear,” was her answer. At length, however, he seized her +cloak, and wrapping it around her, drew her away. There was no train at that +hour, and indeed no omnibus; fortunately a fiacre was passing, which they +hailed. But the newly married pair decided to return on foot through the Bois +de Vincennes. The fresh morning air was delicious after the heat of the +restaurant; the child slept sweetly on Bélisaire’s shoulder, and did not +even awake when he was placed in his bed. Madame Bélisaire threw aside her +wedding-dress, assumed a plainer one, and at once entered on the duties of the +day. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"></a> +CHAPTER XXI.<br /> +EFFECTS OF POETRY.</h2> + +<p> +The first visit of Madame de Barancy at Etoilles gave Jack great pleasure and +also great anxiety. He was proud of his mother, but he knew her, nevertheless, +to be weak and rash. He feared Cécile’s calm judgment and intuitive +perceptions, keen and quick as they sometimes are in the young. The first few +moments tranquillized him a little. The emphatic tone in which Ida addressed +Cécile as “my daughter” was all well enough, but when under the +influence of a good breakfast Madame de Barancy dropped her serious air and +began some of her extravagant stories, Jack felt all his apprehensions revive. +She kept her auditors on the <i>qui vive</i>. Some one spoke of relatives that +M. Rivals had in the Pyrenees. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, yes, the Pyrenees!” she sighed. “Gavarni, the Mer de +Glace, and all that. I made that journey fifteen years ago with a friend of my +family, the Duc de Casares, a Spaniard. I made his acquaintance at Biarritz in +a most amusing way!” +</p> + +<p> +Cécile having said how fond she was of the sea, Ida again began,— +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, my love, had you seen it as I have seen it in a tempest off Palma! I +was in the saloon with the captain, a coarse sort of man, who insisted on my +drinking punch. I refused. Then the wretch got very angry, and opened the +window, took me just at the waist, and held me above the water in the lightning +and rain.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack tried to cut in two these dangerous recitals, but they came to life again, +like those reptiles which, however mutilated, still retain life and animation. +</p> + +<p> +The climax of his uneasiness was reached, however, when, just as his lessons +were to begin, he heard his mother propose to Cécile to go down into the +garden. What would she say when he was not there? He watched them from the +window; Cécile’s slender figure and quiet movements were those of a +well-born, well-bred woman, while Ida, still handsome, but loud in her style +and costume, affected the manners of a young girl. For the first time Jack felt +his lessons to be very long, and only breathed freely again when they were all +together walking in the woods. But on this day his mother’s presence +disturbed the harmony. She had no comprehension of love, and saw it only as +something utterly ridiculous. But the worst of all was the sudden respect she +entertained for <i>les convenances</i>. She recalled the young people, bade +them “not to wander away so far, but to keep in sight,” and then +she looked at the doctor in a significant way. Jack saw more than once that his +mother grated on the old doctor’s nerves; but the forest was so lovely, +Cécile so affectionate, and the few words they exchanged were so mingled with +the sweet clatter of birds and the humming of bees, that by degrees the poor +boy forgot his terrible companion. But Ida wished to make a sensation, so they +stopped at the forester’s. Mère Archambauld was delighted to see her old +mistress, paid her many compliments, but asked not a question in regard to +D’Argenton, her keen personal sense telling her that she had best not. +But the sight of this good creature, for a long time so intimately connected +with their life at Aulnettes, was too much for Ida. Without waiting for the +lunch so carefully prepared by Mother Archambauld, she rose suddenly from her +chair, as suddenly as if in answer to a summons unheard by the others, and went +swiftly through the forest paths to her old home at Aulnettes. +</p> + +<p> +The tower was more enshrouded than ever in its green foliage, and the blinds +were closely drawn. Ida stood in lonely silence, listening to the tale told +with silent eloquence by these gray stones. Then she broke a branch from the +clematis that threw its sprays over the wall, and inhaled the breath of its +starry white blossoms. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, dear mother?” said Jack, who had hastened to follow +her. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” she said, with rapidly falling tears, “you know I have +so much buried here!” +</p> + +<p> +Indeed the house, in its melancholy silence and with the Latin inscription over +the door, resembled a tomb. She dried her eyes, but for that evening her gayety +was gone. In vain did Cécile, who had been told that Madame D’Argenton +was separated from her husband, try with minor cares to efface the painful +impression of the day; in vain did Jack seek to interest her in all his +projects for the future. +</p> + +<p> +“You see, my child,” she said, on her way home, “that it is +not best for me to come here with you. I have suffered too much, and the wound +is too recent.” +</p> + +<p> +Her voice trembled, and it was easy to see that, after all the humiliations to +which she had been subjected by this man, she yet loved him. +</p> + +<p> +For many Sundays after, Jack came alone to Etiolles, and relinquished what to +him was the greatest happiness of the day, the twilight walk, and the quiet +talk with Cécile, that he might return to Paris in time to dine with his +mother. He took the afternoon train, and passed from the tranquillity of the +country to the animation of a Sunday in the Faubourg. The sidewalks were +covered by little tables, where families sat drinking their coffee, and crowds +were standing, with their noses in the air, watching an enormous yellow balloon +that had just been released from its moorings. +</p> + +<p> +In remoter streets, people sat on the steps of the doors, and in the courtyard +of the large, silent house the concierge was chatting with his neighbors, who +had taken chairs out to breathe air a little fresher than they could obtain in +their confined quarters within. +</p> + +<p> +Sometimes, in Jack’s absence, Ida, tired of her loneliness, went to a +little reading-room kept by a certain Madame Lévèque. The shop was filled with +mouldy books, was literally obstructed by magazines and illustrated papers, +which she let for a sou a day. +</p> + +<p> +Here lived a dirty, pretentious old woman, who spent her time in making a +certain kind of antiquated trimming of narrow, colored ribbons. +</p> + +<p> +It seems that Madame Lévèque had known better days, and that under the first +empire her father was a man of considerable importance. “I am the +godchild of the Duc de Dantzic,” she said to Ida, with emphasis. She was +one of the relics of past days, such as one finds occasionally in the secluded +corners of old Paris. Like the dusty contents of her shop, her gilt-edged books +torn and incomplete, her conversation glittered with stories of past splendors. +That enchanting reign, of which she had seen but the conclusion, had dazzled +her eyes, and the mere tone in which she pronounced the titles of that time +evoked the memory of epaulettes and gold lace. And her anecdotes of Josephine, +and of the ladies of the court! One especial tale Madame Lévèque was never +tired of telling: it was of the fire at the Austrian embassy, the night of the +famous ball given by the Princess of Schwartzenberg. All her subsequent years +had been lighted by those flames, and by that light she saw a procession of +gorgeous marshals, tall ladies in very low dresses, with heads dressed <i>à la +Titus or à la Grecque</i>, and the emperor, in his green coat and white +trousers, carrying in his arms across the garden the fainting Madame de +Schwartzenberg. +</p> + +<p> +Ida, with her passion for rank, delighted in the society of this half-crazed +old creature, and while the two women sat in the dark shop, with the names of +dukes and marquises gliding lightly from their tongues, a workman would come in +to buy a paper for a sou, or some woman, impatient for the conclusion of some +serial romance, would come in to ask if the magazine had not yet arrived, and +cheerfully pay the two cents that would deprive her, if she were old, of her +snuff, and, if she were young, of her radishes for breakfast. +</p> + +<p> +Occasionally Madame Lévèque passed a Sunday with friends, and then Ida had no +other amusement than that which she derived from turning over a pile of books +taken at hazard from Madame Lévèque’s shelves. These books were soiled +and tumbled, with spots of grease and crumbs of bread upon them, showing that +they had been read while eating. She sat reading by the window,—reading +until her head swam. She read to escape thinking. Singularly out of place in +this house, the incessant toil that she saw going on about her depressed her, +instead of, as with her son, exciting her to more strenuous exertions. +</p> + +<p> +The pale, sad woman who sat at her machine day after day, the other with her +sing-song repetition of the words, “How happy people ought to be who can +go to the country in such weather!” exasperated her almost beyond +endurance. The transparent blue of the sky, the soft summer air, made all these +miseries seem blacker and less endurable; in the same way that the repose of +Sunday, disturbed only by church-bells and the twitter of the sparrows on the +roofs, weighed painfully on her spirits. She thought of her early life, of her +drives and walks, of the gay parties in the country, and above all of the more +recent years at Etiolles. She thought of D’Argenton reciting one of his +poems on the porch in the moonlight. Where was he? What was he doing? Three +months had passed since she left him, and he had not written one word. Then the +book fell from her hands, and she sat buried in thought until the arrival of +her son, whom she endeavored to welcome with a smile. But he read the whole +story in the disorder of the room and in the careless toilet. Nothing was in +readiness for dinner. +</p> + +<p> +“I have done nothing,” she said, sadly. “The weather is so +warm, and I am discouraged.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why discouraged, dear mother? Are you not with me? You want some little +amusement, I fancy. Let us dine out to-day,” he continued, with a tender, +pitying smile. But Ida wished to make a toilet; to take out from her wardrobe +some one of her pretty costumes of other days, too coquettish, too conspicuous +for her present circumstances. To dress as modestly as possible, and walk +through these poor streets, afforded her no amusement. In spite of her care to +avoid anything noticeable in her costume, Jack always detected some +eccentricity,—in the length of her skirts, which required a carriage, or +in the cut of her corsage, or the trimming of her hat. Jack and his mother then +went to dine at Bagnolet or Romainville, and dined drearily enough. They +attempted some little conversation, but they found it almost impossible. Their +lives had been so different that they really now had little in common. While +Ida was disgusted with the coarse table-cloth spotted by wine, and polished, +with a disgusted face, her plate and glass with her napkin, Jack hardly +perceived this negligence of service, but was astonished at his mother’s +ignorance and indifference upon many other points. +</p> + +<p> +She had certain phrases caught from D’Argenton, a peremptory tone in +discussion, a didactic “I think so; I believe; I know.” She +generally began and finished her arguments with some disdainful gesture that +signified, “I am very good to take the trouble to talk to you.” +Thanks to that miracle of assimilation by which, at the end of some years, +husband and wife resemble each other, Jack was terrified to see an occasional +look of D’Argenton on his mother’s face. On her lips was often to +be detected the sarcastic smile that had been the bugbear of his boy-hood, and +which he always dreaded to see in D’Argenton. Never had a sculptor found +in his clay more docile material than the pretentious poet had discovered in +this poor woman. +</p> + +<p> +After dinner, one of their favorite walks on these long summer evenings was the +Square des Buttes-Chaumont, a melancholy-looking spot on the old heights of +Montfauçon. The grottos and bridges, the precipices and pine groves, seemed to +add to the general dreariness. But there was something artificial and romantic +in the place that pleased Ida by its resemblance to a park. She allowed her +dress to trail over the sand of the alleys, admired the exotics, and would have +liked to write her name on the ruined wall, with the scores of others that were +already there. When they were tired with walking, they took their seats at the +summit of the hill, to enjoy the superb view that was spread out before them. +Paris, softened and veiled by dust and smoke, lay at their feet. The heights +around the faubourgs looked in the mist like an immense circle, connected by +Pere la Chaise on one side, and Montmartre on the other, with Montfauçon; +nearer them they could witness the enjoyment of the people. In the winding +alleys and under the groups of trees young people were singing and dancing, +while on the hillside, sitting amid the yellowed grass, and on the dried red +earth, families were gathered together like flocks of sheep. +</p> + +<p> +Ida saw all this with weary, contemptuous eyes, and her very attitude said, +“How inexpressibly tiresome it is!” Jack felt helpless before this +persistent melancholy. He thought he might make the acquaintance of some one of +these honest, simple families, and perhaps in their society his mother might be +cheered. Once he thought he had found what he wanted. It was one Sunday. Before +them walked an old man, rustic in appearance, leading two little children, over +whom he was bending with that wonderful patience which only grandfathers are +possessed of. +</p> + +<p> +“I certainly know that man,” said Jack to his mother; “it +is—it must be M. Rondic.” +</p> + +<p> +Rondic it was, but so aged and grown so thin, that it was a wonder that his +former apprentice had recognized him. The girl with him was a miniature of +Zénaïde, while the boy looked like Maugin. +</p> + +<p> +The good old man showed great pleasure in meeting Jack, but his smile was sad, +and then Jack saw that he wore crape on his hat. The youth dared not ask a +question until, as they turned a corner, Zénaïde bore down upon them like a +ship under full sail. She had changed her plaited skirt and ruffled cap for a +Parisian dress and bonnet, and looked larger than ever. She had the arm of her +husband, who was now attached to one of the custom-houses, and who was in +uniform. Zénaïde adored M. Maugin and was absurdly proud of him, while he +looked very happy in being so worshipped. +</p> + +<p> +Jack presented his mother to all these good people; then, as they divided into +two groups, he said in a low voice to Zenaïde, “What has happened? Is it +possible that Madame Clarisse—” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, she is dead; she was drowned in the Loire accidentally.” +</p> + +<p> +Then she added, “We say ‘accidentally’ on father’s +account; but you, who knew her so well, may be quite sure that it was by no +accident that she perished. She died because she could never see Chariot again. +Ah, what wicked men there are in this world!” +</p> + +<p> +Jack glanced at his mother, and was quite ready to agree with his companion. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor father! we thought that he could not survive the shock,” +resumed Zénaïde; “but then he never suspected the truth. When M. Maugin +got his position in Paris, we made him come with us, and we live all together +in the Rue des Silas at Charonne. You will come and see him, won’t you, +Jack? You know he always loved you; and now only the children amuse him. +Perhaps you can make him talk. But let us join him; he is looking at us, and +thinks we are speaking of him, and he does not like that.” +</p> + +<p> +Ida, who was deep in conversation with M. Maugin, stopped short as Jack +approached her. He suspected that she had been talking of D’Argenton, as +indeed she had, praising his genius and recounting his successes, which, had +she confined herself to the truth, would not have taken long. They separated, +promising to meet again soon; and Jack, not long afterward, called upon them +with his mother. +</p> + +<p> +He found the old ornaments on the chimney that he had learned to know so well +at Indret, the sponges and corals; he recognized the big wardrobe as an old +friend. The rooms were exquisitely clean, and presented a perfect picture of a +Breton interior transplanted to Paris. But he soon saw that his mother was +bored by Zénaïde, who was too energetic and positive to suit her, and that +there, as everywhere else, she was haunted by the same melancholy and the same +disgust which she expressed in the brief phrase, “It smells of the +work-shop.” +</p> + +<p> +The house, the room she lived in, the bread she ate, all seemed impregnated +with one smell, one especial flavor. If she opened the window, she perceived it +even more strongly; if she went out, each breath of wind brought it to her. The +people she saw—even her own Jack, when he returned at night with his +blouse spotted with oil—exhaled the same baleful odor, which she fancied +clung even to herself—the odor of toil—and filled her with immense +sadness. +</p> + +<p> +One evening, Jack found his mother in a state of extraordinary excitement; her +eyes were bright and complexion animated. “D’Argenton has written +to me!” she cried, as he entered the room; “yes, my dear, he has +actually dared to write to me. For four months he did not vouchsafe a syllable. +He writes me now that he is about to return to Paris, and that, if I need him, +he is at my disposal.” +</p> + +<p> +“You do not need him, I think,” said Jack, quietly, though he was +in reality as much moved as his mother herself. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course I do not,” she answered, hurriedly. +</p> + +<p> +“And what shall you say?” +</p> + +<p> +“Say! To a wretch who has dared to lift his hand to me? You do not yet +know me. I have, thank Heaven, more pride than that. I have just finished his +letter, and have torn it into a thousand bits. I am curious to see his house, +though, now that I am not there to keep all in order. He is evidently out of +spirits, and perhaps he is not well, as he has been for two months +at—what is the name of the place?” and she calmly drew from her +pocket the letter which she said she had destroyed. “Ah, yes, it is at +the springs of Royat that he has been. What nonsense! Those mineral springs +have always been bad for him.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack colored at her falsehood, but said not one word. All the evening she was +busy, and seemed to have regained the courage and animation of her first days +with her son. While at work she talked to herself. Suddenly she crossed the +room to Jack. +</p> + +<p> +“You are full of courage, my boy,” she said, kissing him. +</p> + +<p> +He was occupied in watching all that was going on within his mother’s +mind. “It is not I whom she kisses,” he said, shrewdly; and his +suspicions were confirmed by a trifle that proved how completely the past had +taken possession of the poor woman’s mind. She never ceased humming the +words of a little song of D’Argenton’s, which the poet was in the +habit of singing himself at the piano in the twilight. Over and over again she +sang the refrain, and the words revived in Jack’s mind only sad and +shameful memories. Ah, if he had dared, what words he would have said to the +woman before him! But she was his mother; he loved her, and wished by his own +respect to teach her to respect herself. He therefore kept strict guard over +his lips. This first warning of coming danger, however, awoke in him all the +jealous foreboding of a man who was about to be betrayed. He studied her way of +saying good-bye to him when he left in the morning, and he analyzed her smile +of greeting on his return. He could not watch her himself, nor could he confide +to any other person the distrust with which she inspired him. He knew how often +a woman surrounds the man whom she deceives in an atmosphere of tender +attentions,—the manifestations of hidden remorse. Once, on his way home, +he thought he saw Hirsch and Labassandre turning a distant corner. +</p> + +<p> +“Has any one been here?” he said to the concierge; and by the way +he was answered he saw that some plot was already organized against him. The +Sunday after on his return from Etiolles he found his mother so completely +absorbed in her book that she did not even hear him come in. He would not have +noticed this, knowing her mania for romances, had not Ida made an attempt to +conceal the book. +</p> + +<p> +“You startled me,” she said, half pouting. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you reading?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,—some nonsense. And how are our friends?” But as she +spoke, a blush covered her face and glowed under her fine transparent skin. It +was one of the peculiarities of this childish nature that she was at once +prompt and unskilful in falsehood. Annoyed by his earnest gaze, she rose from +her chair. “You wish to know what I am reading! Look, then.” He saw +once more the glossy cover of the Review that he had read for the first time in +the engine-room of the Cydnus; only it was thinner and smaller. Jack would not +have opened it if the following title on the outer page had not met his +eyes:— +</p> + +<p class="center"> +THE PARTING.<br /> +<br /> +A POEM.<br /> +<br /> +By the Vicomte Amacry d’Abgenton. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +And commenced thus:— +</p> + +<p class="center"> +“TO ONE WHO HAS GONE.<br /> +“What! with out one word of farewell,<br /> +Without a turn of the head...” +</p> + +<p> +Two hundred lines followed these. That there might be no mistake, the name of +Charlotte occurred several times. Jack flung down the magazine with a shrug of +the shoulders. “And he dared to send you this?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; two or three days ago.” +</p> + +<p> +Ida was dying to pick up the book from the floor, but dared not. After a while +she stooped, carelessly. +</p> + +<p> +“You do not intend to keep those verses, do you? They are simply +absurd.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I do not think them so.” +</p> + +<p> +“He simply beats his wings and crows, mother dear; his words touch no +human heart.” +</p> + +<p> +“Be more just, Jack,”—her voice trembled,—“heaven +knows that I know M. D’Argenton better than any one, his faults and the +defects of his nature, because I have suffered from them. The man I give up to +you; as to the poet, it is a different thing. In the opinion of every one, the +peculiarity of M. D’Argenton’s genius is the sympathetic quality of +his verses. Musset had its irksome degree; and I think that the beginning of +this poem, ‘The Parting,’ is very touching: the young woman who +goes away in the morning fog in her ball-dress without one word of +farewell.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack could not restrain himself. “But the woman is yourself,” he +cried, “and you know under what circumstances you left.” +</p> + +<p> +She answered, coldly,— +</p> + +<p> +“Is it kind in you, my son, to recall such humiliations? Had M. +D’Argenton treated me a thousand times worse than he has, I should be +able, I hope, to recognize the fact that he stands at the head of the poets of +France. More than one person who speaks of him with contempt to-day, will yet +be proud of having known him and of having sat at his table!” And as she +finished she left the room with great dignity. Jack took his seat at his desk, +but his heart was not in his work. He felt that “the enemy,” as in +his childish days he had called the vicomte, was gradually making his +approaches. In fact Amaury d’Argenton was as unhappy apart from Charlotte +as she was herself. Victim and executioner, indispensable to each other, he +felt profoundly the emptiness of divided lives. From the first hour of their +separation the poet had adopted a dramatic and Byronic tone as of a broken +heart. He was seen in the restaurants at night, surrounded by a group of +flatterers who talked of her; he wished to have every one know his misery and +its details; he wished to have people think that he was drowning his sorrows in +dissipation. When he said, “Waiter! bring me some pure absinthe,” +it was that some one at the next table might whisper, “He is killing +himself by inches—all for a woman!” +</p> + +<p> +D’Argenton succeeded simply in disordering his stomach and injuring his +constitution. His “attacks” were more frequent, and +Charlotte’s absence was extremely inconvenient. What other woman would +ever have endured his perpetual complaints? Who would administer his powders +and tisanes. He was afraid, too, to be alone, and made some one, Hirsch or +another, sleep on a sofa in his room. The evenings were dreary because he was +environed by disorder and dust, which all women, even that foolish Ida, +contrive to get rid of in some way. Neither the fire nor the lamp would burn, +and currents of air whistled under all the doors; and in the depths of his +selfish nature D’Argenton sincerely regretted his companion, and became +seriously unhappy. Then he decided to take a journey, but that did him no good, +to judge from the melancholy tone of his letters to his friends. +</p> + +<p> +One idea tormented him, that the woman whom he so regretted was happy away from +him, and in the society of her son. Moronval said, “Write a poem about +it,” and D’Argenton went to work. Unfortunately, instead of being +calmed by this composition, he was more excited than ever, and the separation +became more and more intolerable. As soon as the Review appeared, Hirsch and +Labassandre were bidden to carry a copy at once to the Rue des Panoyeaux. +</p> + +<p> +This done, D’Argenton decided that it was time to make a grand +<i>coup</i>. He dressed with great care, took a fiacre, and presented himself +at Charlotte’s door at an hour that he knew Jack must be away. +D’Argenton was very pale, and the beating of his heart choked him. One of +the greatest mysteries in human nature is that such persons have a heart, and +that that heart is capable of beating. It was not love that moved him, but he +saw a certain romance in the affair, the carriage stationed at the corner as +for an elopement, and above all the hope of gratifying his hatred of Jack. He +pictured to himself the disappointment of the youth on his return to find that +the bird had flown. He meant to appear suddenly before Charlotte, to throw +himself at her feet, and, giving her no time to think, to carry her away with +him at once. She must be very much changed since he last saw her if she could +resist him. He entered her room without knocking, saying in a low voice, +“It is I.” +</p> + +<p> +There was no Charlotte; but instead, Jack stood before him. Jack, on account of +the occurrence of his mother’s birthday, had a holiday, and was at work +with his books. Ida was asleep on her bed in the alcove. The two men looked at +each other in silence. This time the poet had not the advantage. In the first +place, he was not at home; next, how could he treat as an inferior this tall, +proud-looking fellow, in whose intelligent face appeared, as if still more to +exasperate the lover, something of his mother’s beauty. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you come here?” asked Jack. +</p> + +<p> +The other stammered and colored. “I was told that your mother was +here.” +</p> + +<p> +“So she is; but I am with her, and you shall not see her.” +</p> + +<p> +This was said rapidly and in a low voice; then Jack took D’Argenton by +the shoulder and wheeled him back into the corridor. The poet with some +difficulty preserved his footing. +</p> + +<p> +“Jack,” he said, endeavoring to be dignified,—“there +has been a misunderstanding for some time between us, but now that you are a +man, all this should cease. I offer you my hand, my child.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack shrugged his shoulders. “Of what use are these theatricals between +us, sir? You detest me, and I return the compliment!” +</p> + +<p> +“And since when have we been such enemies, Jack?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ever since we knew each other! My earliest recollection is of absolute +hatred toward you. Besides, why should we not hate each other like the +bitterest of foes? By what other name should I call you? Who and what are you? +Believe me that if ever in my life I have thought of you without anger, it has +never been without a blush of shame.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is true, Jack, that our position toward each other has been entirely +false. But, my dear friend, life is not a romance.” +</p> + +<p> +But Jack cut short this discourse. +</p> + +<p> +“You are right, sir, life is not a romance: it is, on the contrary, a +very serious and positive matter. In proof of which, permit me to say that +every instant of my time is occupied, and that I cannot lose one of them in +useless discussions. For ten years my mother has been your slave. All that I +suffered in this time my pride will never let you know. My mother now belongs +to me, and I mean to keep her. What do you want of her? Her hair is gray, and +your treatment of her has made great wrinkles on her forehead. She is no longer +a pretty woman, but she is my mother!” +</p> + +<p> +They looked each other straight in the face as they stood in that narrow, +squalid corridor. It was a fitting frame for a scene so humiliating. +</p> + +<p> +“You strangely mistake the sense of my words,” said the poet, +deadly pale. “I know that your resources must be very moderate; I come, +as an old friend, to see if I can serve you in any way.” +</p> + +<p> +“We need nothing. The work of my hands supplies us with all we +require.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are very proud, my dear Jack; you were not so always.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is very true, sir, and also that your presence, that I once was +forced to endure, has now become odious to me.” +</p> + +<p> +The attitude of the young man was so determined and so insulting, his looks so +thoroughly carried out his words, that the poet dared not add one word, and +descended the stairs, where his careful costume was strangely out of place. +When Jack heard his last footfall, he returned to his room: on the threshold +stood Ida, strangely white, her eyes swollen with tears and sleep. +</p> + +<p> +“I was there,” she said in a low voice; “I heard everything, +even that I was old and had wrinkles.” +</p> + +<p> +He approached her, took her hands, and looked into the depths of her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“He is not far away. Shall I call him?” +</p> + +<p> +She disengaged her hands, threw her arms around his neck, and with one of those +sudden impulses that prevented her from being utterly unworthy, exclaimed, +“You are right, Jack; I am your mother, and only your mother!” +</p> + +<p> +Some days after this scene, Jack wrote the following letter to M. +Rivals:— +</p> + +<p> +“My Dear Friend: She has left me, and gone back to him. It all happened +in such an unexpected manner that I have not yet recovered from the blow. Alas! +she of whom I must complain is my mother. It would be more dignified to keep +silence, but I cannot. I knew in my childhood a negro lad who said, ‘If +the world could not sigh, the world would stifle!’ I never fully +understood this until to-day, for it seems to me that if I do not write you +this letter, that I could not live. I could not wait until Sunday because I +could not speak before Cécile. I told you of the explanation that man and I +had, did I not? Well, from that time my mother was so very sad, and seemed so +worn out by the scene she had gone through, that I resolved to change our +residence. I understood that a battle was being fought, and that, if I wished +her to be victorious, if I wished to keep my mother with me, that I must employ +all means and devices. Our street and house displeased her. I wanted something +gayer and more airy. I hired then at Charonne Rue de Silas three rooms newly +papered. I furnished these rooms with great care. All the money I had +saved—pardon me these details—I devoted to this purpose. Bélisaire +aided me in moving, while Zénaïde was in the same street, and I counted on her +in many ways. All these arrangements were made secretly, and I hoped a great +surprise and pleasure was in store for my mother. The place was as quiet as a +village street, the trees were well grown and green, and I fancied that she +would, when established there, have less to regret in the country-life she had +so much enjoyed. +</p> + +<p> +“Yesterday evening everything was in readiness. Belisaire was to tell her +that I was waiting for her at the Rondics, and then he was to take her to our +new home. I was there waiting; white curtains hung at all the windows, and +great bunches of roses were on the chimney. I had made a little fire, for the +evening was cool, and it gave a home look to the room. In the midst of my +contentment I had a sudden presentiment. It was like an electric spark. +‘She will not come.’ In vain did I call myself an idiot, in vain +did I arrange and rearrange her chair and her footstool. I knew that she would +never come. More than once in my life I have had these intuitions. One might +believe that Fate, before striking her heaviest blows, had a moment of +compassion, and gave me a warning. +</p> + +<p> +“She did not come, but Bélisaire brought a note from her. It was very +brief, merely stating that M. D’Argenton was very ill, and that she +regarded it as her duty to watch at his side. As soon as he was well she would +return. Ill! I had not thought of that. I might call myself ill, too, and keep +her at my bedside. How well he understood her, the wretch! How thoroughly he +had studied that weak but kindly nature! You remember those +‘attacks’ he talked of at Etiolles, and which so soon disappeared +after a good dinner. It is one of those which he now has. But my mother was +only too glad of an excuse, and allowed herself to be deceived. But to return +to my story. Behold me alone in this little home, amid all the wasted efforts, +time and money! Was it not cruel? I could not remain there; I returned to my +old room. The house seemed to me as sad as a funeral-chamber. I permitted the +fire to die out, and the roses wither and fall on the marble hearth below with +a gentle rustle. I took the rooms for two years, and I shall keep them with +something of the same superstition with which one preserves for a long time the +cage from which some favorite bird has flown. If my mother returns we will go +there together. But if she does not I shall never inhabit the place. I have now +told you all, but do not let Cécile see this letter. Ah, my friend, will she +too desert me? The treachery of those we love is terrible indeed. But of what +am I thinking; I have her word and her promise, and Cécile always tells the +truth.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"></a> +CHAPTER XXII.<br /> +CÉCILE UNHAPPY RESOLVE.</h2> + +<p> +For a long time Jack had faith that his mother would return. In the morning, in +the evening, in the silence of midday, he fancied that he heard the rustling of +her dress, her light step on the threshold. When he went to the Rondics he +glanced at the little house, hoping to see the windows opened and Ida installed +in the refuge, the address of which, with the key, he had sent to her: +“The house is ready. Come when you will.” Not a word in reply. The +desertion was final and absolute. +</p> + +<p> +Jack was in great grief. When our mothers do us harm, it wounds and grieves us, +and seems like a direct cruelty from the hand of God. But Cécile was the +magician to cure him; she knew just the words to use, and her delicate +tenderness defied the rough trials of destiny. A great resource to him at this +time was hard work, which is one’s best defence against sorrow and +regrets. While his mother had been with him, she, without knowing it, had often +prevented him from working. Her indecision had been at times very harassing. +She sometimes was all ready to go out, with hat and shawl on, when she would +suddenly decide to remain at home. Now that she was gone, he took rapid strides +and regained his lost time. Each Sunday he went to Etiolles; he was at once +more in love, and wiser. The doctor was delighted with the progress of his +pupil; before a year was over, he said, if he went on in this way, he could +take his degree. +</p> + +<p> +These words thrilled Jack with joy, and when he repeated them to Bélisaire, the +little attic positively glowed and palpitated with happiness. Madame Bélisaire +was suddenly filled with a desire to learn, and her husband must teach her to +read. But while M. Rivals was pleased at Jack’s progress with his books, +he was discontented with the state of his health; the old cough had come back, +his eyes were feverish and his hands hot. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not like this,” said the good man; “you work too hard; +you must stop; you have plenty of time: Cécile does not mean to run +away.” +</p> + +<p> +Never had the girl been more loving and tender; she seemed to feel that she +must take his mother’s place as well as her own; and it was precisely +this sweetness that induced Jack to make greater exertions each day. His bodily +frame was in the same condition as that of the Fakirs of India—urged to +such a point of feverish excitement that pain becomes a pleasure. He was +grateful to the cold of his little attic, and to the hard dry cough that kept +him from sleeping. Sometimes at his writing-table he suddenly felt lightness +throughout all his being—a strange clearness of perception and an +extraordinary excitement of all his intellectual faculties; but this was +accompanied with great physical exhaustion. +</p> + +<p> +His work went like lightning, and all the difficulties of his task disappeared. +He would have gone on thus to the end of his labor, had he not received a +painful shock. A telegram arrived: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Do not come to-morrow; we are going away for a week.<br /> + Rivals.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack received that despatch just as Madame Bélisaire had ironed his fine linen +for the next day. The suddenness of this departure, the brevity of the +despatch, and even the printed characters instead of his friend’s +well-known writing, affected him most painfully. He expected a letter from +Cécile or the doctor to explain the mystery, but nothing came, and for a week +he was a prey to suspense and anxiety. The truth was: neither Cécile nor the +doctor had left home, but that M. Rivals wished for time to prepare the youth +for an unexpected blow—for a decision of Cécile’s so extraordinary +that he hoped his granddaughter would be induced to reconsider it. One evening, +on coming into the house, he had found Cécile in a state of singular agitation; +her lips were pale but firmly closed. He tried to make her smile at the +dinner-table, but in vain; and suddenly, in reply to some remark of his in +regard to Jack’s coming, she said, “I do not wish him to +come.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her in amazement. She was as pale as death, but in a firm voice +she repeated, “I do not wish him to come on Sunday, or ever again.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter, my child?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, dear grandfather, save that I can never marry Jack.” +</p> + +<p> +“You frighten me, Cécile! Tell me what you mean.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am simply beginning to understand myself. I do not love him; I was +mistaken.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good heavens, child, are you quite mad? You have had some childish +misunderstanding.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, grandpapa, I assure you that I have for Jack a sister’s +friendship, nothing more. I cannot be his wife.” +</p> + +<p> +The doctor was startled. “Cécile,” he said, gravely, “do you +love any other person?” +</p> + +<p> +She colored. “No; but I do not wish to marry;” and to all that M. +Rivals said she would make no other reply. +</p> + +<p> +He asked her what would be said, what would be thought by their little world. +“Remember,” he said, “that to Jack this will be a frightful +blow; his whole future will be sacrificed.” +</p> + +<p> +Cécile’s pale features quivered nervously. Her grandfather took her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“My child,” he said, “think well before you decide a question +of such importance.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she answered; “the sooner he knows my decision the +better for us both. I know that I am going to pain him deeply, but the longer +we delay the worse it will be, and I cannot see him again until he knows the +truth; I am incapable of such treachery.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you mean to give the boy his dismissal,” said the doctor, in +a rage. “Good heavens! what strange creatures women are!” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him with such an expression of despair that he stopped short. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, little girl, I am not angry with you. It is my fault more than +yours. You were too young to know your own mind. I am an old fool, and shall +always be one until the bitter end.” +</p> + +<p> +Then came the painful duty of writing to Jack. He began a dozen letters, +destroyed them all, and finally sent the telegram, hoping that Cécile would +have come to her senses before the week was over. +</p> + +<p> +The next Saturday, when Dr. Rivals said to his granddaughter, “He will +come to-morrow; is your decision irrevocable?” +</p> + +<p> +“Irrevocable,” she said, slowly. +</p> + +<p> +Jack arrived early on Sunday. When he reached the door the servant said, +“My master is waiting for you in the garden.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack felt chilled to the heart, and the doctor’s face increased his +fears, for he, though for forty years accustomed to the sight of human +suffering, was as troubled as Jack. +</p> + +<p> +“Cécile is here—is she not?” were the youth’s first +words. +</p> + +<p> +“No, my friend, I left her—at—where we have been, you know; +and she will remain some time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dr. Rivals, tell me what is wrong. She does not wish to see me again? Is +that it?” +</p> + +<p> +The doctor could not answer. Jack seated himself for fear he should fall. They +were at the foot of the garden. It was a fresh, bright November morning; +hoar-frost lay on the lawn, a faint haze hung over the distant hills and +reminded him of that day at Coudray, the vintage, and their first whisper of +love. The doctor laid a paternal hand on his shoulder. “Jack,” he +whispered, “do not be unhappy. She is very young and will perhaps change +her mind. It is a mere caprice.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, doctor, Cécile never has caprices. That would be horrible—to +drive a knife into a man’s heart merely from caprice! I am sure she has +reflected for a long time before she came to this decision. She knew that her +love was my life, and that in tearing it up my life would also perish. If she +has done this, then it is because she knew well that it was her duty so to do. +I ought to have expected it; I should have known that so great a happiness +could not be for me.” +</p> + +<p> +He staggered to his feet. His friend took his hand. “Forgive me, my brave +boy; I hoped to make you both happy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do not reproach yourself. Tell her that I accept her decision. Last +year,” he continued, “I began the only happy season of my life. I +was born on that day, and to-day I die. But these few happy months I owe to you +and to Cécile;” and the youth hurried away. +</p> + +<p> +“But you will breakfast with me,” said the doctor. +</p> + +<p> +“No; I should be too sad a guest.” +</p> + +<p> +He crossed the garden with a firm step, and went away without once looking +back. Had he turned he would have seen, half hidden by the curtain of a window +in the second story, a face as pale and agitated as his own. The girl extended +her slender arms, and tears rained down her cheeks. The following days were sad +enough. The little house that had for months been bright and gay, resumed its +ancient mournful aspect. The doctor, much troubled, noticed that his +granddaughter spent much of her time in her mother’s former room. Where +Madeleine had formerly wept, her child now shed in turn her tears. “Would +she die as did her mother?” +</p> + +<p> +The doctor asked himself, day after day, If she did not love Jack, why was she +so sad? If she did love him, why had she refused him? The old man was sure that +there was some mystery, something that he ought to know; but at the least +question, Cécile ran away as if in fear. +</p> + +<p> +One night the bell rang a summons from a dying man. It was the husband of old +Salé, who had met with an accident. These people lived near Aulnettes, in a +miserable little hole, and on a straw bed in the corner lay the sick man. When +Dr. Rivals entered the place he was nearly suffocated by the odor of burning +herbs. +</p> + +<p> +“What have you been doing here, Mother Salé?” he said. The old +woman hesitated, and wished to tell a falsehood; he gave her no time, however. +“So Hirsch is here again, is he?” he continued. “Open the +doors and windows, you will be suffocated.” +</p> + +<p> +While M. Rivals bent over the sick man, he half opened his eyes. “Tell +him, wife, tell him,” he muttered. +</p> + +<p> +The old woman paid no attention, and the man began again: “Tell him, I +say, tell him.” +</p> + +<p> +The doctor looked at Mother Salé, who turned a deep scarlet. “I am sure I +am very sorry if I said anything to hurt the feelings of such a good young +lady,” she muttered. +</p> + +<p> +“What young lady? Of whom do you speak?” asked the doctor, turning +hastily around. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, I will tell you the truth. The mad doctor gave me twenty +francs to tell Mamselle Cécile the story of her father and mother.” +</p> + +<p> +M. Rivals seized the old peasant woman and shook her violently. +</p> + +<p> +“And you dared to do that?” he cried, in a furious rage. +</p> + +<p> +“It was for twenty francs. I could never have opened my lips but for the +twenty francs, sir. In the first place, I knew nothing about it until he told +me, so that I could repeat it.” +</p> + +<p> +“The wretch! But who could have told him?” +</p> + +<p> +A groan from the sick-bed recalled the physician to his duty. All the long +night he watched there, and when all was over he returned in haste to Etiolles +and went directly in search of Cécile. Her room was empty, and the bed had not +been slept in. His heart stood still. He ran to the office, still he found no +one. But the door of Madeleine’s old room stood open, and there among the +relics of the dear dead, prostrate on the <i>Prie-Dieu</i>, was Cécile asleep, +in an attitude that told of a night of prayer and tears. She opened her eyes as +her grandfather touched her. +</p> + +<p> +“And the wretches told you the secret that we have taken so much pains to +hide from you! And strangers and enemies told you, my poor little darling, the +sad tale we concealed.” +</p> + +<p> +She hid her face on his shoulder. “I am so ashamed,” she whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“And this is the reason that you did not wish to marry? Tell me +why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I did not wish to acknowledge my mother’s dishonor, and my +conscience compelled me to have no secrets from my husband. There was but one +thing to do, and I did it.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you love him?” +</p> + +<p> +“With my whole heart; and I believe he loves me so well that he would +marry me in spite of my shameful history; but I would never consent to such a +sacrifice. A man does not marry a girl who has no father—who has no name, +or, if she had one, it would be that of a robber and forger.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you are mistaken, my child; Jack was proud and happy to marry you +with a thorough knowledge of your history. I told it all to him, and if you had +had more confidence in me, you would have avoided this trial to us all.” +</p> + +<p> +“And he was willing to marry me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Child! he loves you. Besides, your destinies are similar. He has no +father, and his mother has never been married. The only difference between you +is that your mother was a saint, and his is a sinner.” +</p> + +<p> +Then the doctor, who had told Jack Cécile’s history, now related to her +the long martyrdom of the youth she loved. He told her of his exile from his +mother’s arms—of all that he had endured. “I understand it +all now,” he cried; “it is she who has told Hirsch of your +mother’s marriage.” +</p> + +<p> +While the doctor was talking, Cécile was overwhelmed with despair to think that +she had caused Jack, already so unhappy, so much needless sorrow. “O, how +he has suffered!” she sobbed. “Have you heard anything from +him?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; but he can come and tell you himself all that you wish to +know,” answered her grandfather, with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“But he may not wish to come.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, we will go to him. It is Sunday; let us find him and bring +him home with us.” +</p> + +<p> +An hour or two later, M. Rivals and his granddaughter were on their way to +Paris. Just after they left, a man stopped before the house. He looked at the +little door. “This is the place,” he said, and he rang. The servant +opened the door, but seeing before her one of those dangerous pedlers that +wander through the country, she attempted to close it again. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you want?” +</p> + +<p> +“The gentleman of the house.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is not at home.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the young lady?” +</p> + +<p> +“She is not at home, either.” +</p> + +<p> +“When will they be back?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no idea!” And she closed the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Good heavens!” said Bélisaire, in a choked voice; “and must +he be permitted to die without any help?” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"></a> +CHAPTER XXIII.<br /> +A MELANCHOLY SPECTACLE.</h2> + +<p> +That evening there was a great literary entertainment at the editors of the +Review; a fête had been arranged to celebrate Charlotte’s return, at +which it was proposed that D’Argenton should read his new poem. +</p> + +<p> +But was there not something rather ridiculous in deploring the absence of a +person who was then present? And how could he describe the sufferings of a +deserted lover, he who was supposed at the moment to be at the summit of bliss, +by reason of the return of the beloved object? Never had the apartments been so +luxuriously arranged; flowers were there in profusion. The toilet of Charlotte +was in exquisite taste, white with clusters of violets, and all the +surroundings breathed an atmosphere of riches. Yet nothing could have been more +deceptive. The Review was in a dying condition; the numbers appearing at longer +intervals, and growing small by degrees and beautifully less. D’Argenton +had swallowed up in it the half of his fortune, and now wished to sell it. It +was this unfortunate situation, added to an attack skilfully managed, that had +induced the foolish Charlotte to return to him. He had only to assume before +her the air of a great man crushed by unmerited misfortune, for her to reply +that she would serve him always. +</p> + +<p> +D’Argenton was foolish and conceited, but he understood the nature of +this woman in a most wonderful degree. She thought him handsomer and more +fascinating than he was twelve years before, when she saw him for the first +time, under the chandeliers of the Moronval salon. Many of the same persons +were there also: Labassandre in bottle-green velvet, with the high boots of +Faust; and Dr. Hirsch with his coat-sleeves spotted by various chemicals; and +Moronval in a black coat very white in the seams, and a white cravat very black +in the folds; several “children of the sun,”—the everlasting +Japanese prince, and the Egyptian from the banks of the Nile. What a strange +set of people they were! They might have been a band of pilgrims on the march +toward some unknown Mecca, whose golden lamps retreat before them. During the +twelve years that we have known them, many have fallen from the ranks, but +others have risen to take their places; nothing discourages them, neither cold +nor heat, nor even hunger. They hurry on, but they never arrive. Among them +D’Argenton, better clothed and better fed, resembled a rich Hadji with +his harem, his pipes, and his riches; on this evening he was especially +radiant, for he had triumphed. +</p> + +<p> +During the reading of the poem Charlotte sat in an attitude of feigned +indifference, blushing occasionally at veiled allusions to herself. Near her +was Madame Moronval, who, small as she was, seemed quite tall because of the +extraordinary height of her forehead and the length of her chin. The poem went +on and on, the fire crackled on the hearth, and the wind rattled against the +glass doors of the balcony, as it did on a certain night of which Charlotte +apparently had but little remembrance. Suddenly, during a most pathetic +passage, the door opened suddenly; the servant appeared, and with a terrified +air summoned her mistress. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame, madame!” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +Charlotte went to her. “What is it?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“A man insists on seeing you. I told him that it was impossible; but he +said he would wait for you, and he seated himself on the stairs.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will see him,” said Charlotte, much moved; for she guessed at +the purport of the message. +</p> + +<p> +But D’Argenton objected, and turning toward Labassandre, he said, +“Will you have the goodness to see who this intruder is?” and the +poet turned back to the table to resume his reading. But the door opened again +wide enough to admit the head and arm of Labassandre, who beckoned earnestly. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” said D’Argenton, impatiently, when he reached +the ante-room. +</p> + +<p> +“Jack is very ill,” said the tenor. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t believe it,” answered the poet. +</p> + +<p> +“This man swears that it is so.” +</p> + +<p> +D’Argenton looked at the man, whose face was not absolutely unknown to +him. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you come from the gentleman,—that is to say, did he send +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; he is too sick to send any one. It is three weeks since he has been +in his bed, and very, very ill.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is his disease?” +</p> + +<p> +“Something on the lungs, and the doctors say that he cannot live; so I +thought I had better come and tell his mother.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is your name?” +</p> + +<p> +“Bélisaire, sir; but the lady knows me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, then,” said the poet, “you will say to the one +who sent you, that the game is a good one, though rather old, and he had better +try something else.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir?” said the pedler, interrogatively, for he did not comprehend +these sarcastic words. +</p> + +<p> +But D’Argenton had left the room, and Bélisaire stood in silent +amazement, having caught a glimpse of the lighted salon and its crowd of +people. +</p> + +<p> +“It is nothing, only a mistake,” said the poet on his entrance; and +while he majestically resumed his reading, the pedler hurried home through the +dark streets, through the sharp hail and fierce wind, eager to reach Jack, who +lay in a high fever, on the narrow iron bed in the attic-room. +</p> + +<p> +He had been taken ill on his return from Etiolles; he lay there, almost without +speaking, a victim to fever and a severe cold, so serious, that the physicians +warned his friends that they had everything to fear. Bélisaire wished to summon +M. Rivals, but to this Jack refused to consent. This was the only energy he had +shown since his illness, and the only time he had spoken voluntarily, save when +he told his friend to take his watch, and a ring he owned, and sell them. +</p> + +<p> +All Jack’s savings had been absorbed in furnishing the rooms at Charonne, +and the Bélisaire household was equally impoverished through their recent +marriage. But it mattered very little; the pedler and his wife were capable of +every sacrifice for their friend; they carried to the Mont de Piété the greater +part of their furniture, piece by piece—for medicines were so dear. They +were advised to send Jack to the hospital. “He would be better off; and, +besides, he would then cost you nothing,” was the argument employed. The +good people were now at the end of their resources, and decided to inform +Charlotte of her son’s danger. +</p> + +<p> +“Bring her back with you,” said Madame Bélisaire to her husband. +“To see his mother would be such a comfort to the lad. He never speaks of +her because he is so proud.” +</p> + +<p> +But Bélisaire did not bring her. He returned in a very unhappy frame of mind, +from the reception he had received. His wife, with her child asleep on her lap, +talked in a low voice to a neighbor, in front of a poor little fire—such +a one as is called a widow’s fire by the people. The two women listened +to Jack’s painful breathing, and to the horrible cough that choked him. +One would never have recognized this unfurnished, dismal room as the bright +attic where cheerful voices had resounded such a short time before. There was +no sign of books or studies. A pot of tisane was simmering on the hearth, +filling the air with that peculiar odor which tells of a sickroom. Bélisaire +came in. +</p> + +<p> +“Alone?” said his wife. +</p> + +<p> +He told in a low voice that he had not been permitted to see Jack’s +mother. +</p> + +<p> +“But had you no blood in your veins? You should have entered by force and +called aloud, ‘Madame, your son is dying!’ Ah, my poor Bélisaire, +you will never be anything but a weak chicken!” +</p> + +<p> +“But, had I undertaken such a thing, I should simply have been +arrested,” said the poor man, in a distressed tone. +</p> + +<p> +“But what are we going to do?” resumed Madame Bélisaire. +“This poor boy must have better care than we can give him.” +</p> + +<p> +A neighbor spoke. “He must go to the hospital, as the physician +said.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush, hush! not so loud!” said Bélisaire, pointing to the bed; +“I’m afraid he heard you.” +</p> + +<p> +“What of that? He is not your brother, nor your son; and it would be +better for you in every respect.” +</p> + +<p> +“But he is my friend,” answered Bélisaire, proudly; and in his tone +was so much honest devotion that his wife’s eyes filled with tears. +</p> + +<p> +The neighbors shrugged their shoulders and went away. After their departure, +the room looked less cold and less bare. +</p> + +<p> +Jack had heard all that was said. In spite of his weakness he slept little, and +lay with his face turned to the wall, with eyes wide open. If that blank +surface, wrinkled and tarnished like the face of a very old woman, could have +spoken, it would have said that in those pitiful eyes but one expression could +have been seen, that of utter and overwhelming despair. He never complained, +however; he even tried, at times, to smile at his stout nurse, when she brought +him his tisanes. The long and solitary days passed away in this inaction and +helplessness. Why was he not strong in health and body like the people about +him, and yet for whom did he wish to labor? His mother had left him, Cécile had +deserted him. The faces of these two women haunted him day and night. When +Charlotte’s gay and indifferent smile faded away, the delicate features +of Cécile appeared before him, veiled in the mystery of her strange refusal; +and the youth lay there incapable of a word or a gesture, while his pulses beat +with accelerated force, and his hollow cough shook him from head to foot. +</p> + +<p> +The day after this conversation at Jack’s bedside, Madame Bélisaire was +much startled, on entering the room, to find him, tall and gaunt, sitting in +front of the fire. “Why are you out of your bed?” she asked with +severity. +</p> + +<p> +“I am going to the hospital, my kind friend; it is impossible for me to +stay here any longer. Do not attempt to detain me, for go I will.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Mr. Jack, you cannot walk there, weak as you are.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I can, if your husband will give me the help of his arm.” +</p> + +<p> +It was useless to resist such determination, and Jack said farewell to Madame +Bélisaire, and descended the stairs with one sad look of farewell at the humble +home which had been illuminated by so many fair dreams and hopes. How long the +walk was! They stopped occasionally, but dared not linger long, for the air was +sharp. Under the lowering December skies the sick youth looked worse even than +when he lay in his bed. His hair was wet with perspiration, the hurrying crowds +made him dizzy and faint. Paris is like a huge battlefield where mere existence +demands a struggle; and Jack seemed like a wounded soldier borne from the field +by a comrade. +</p> + +<p> +It was still early when they reached the hospital. Early as it was, however, +they found the huge waiting-room filled with persons. An enormous stove made +the air of the room almost intolerable, with its smell of hot iron. When Jack +entered, assisted by Bélisaire/all eyes were turned upon him. They were +awaiting the arrival of the physician, who would give, or refuse, a card of +admittance. Each one was describing his symptoms to some indifferent hearer, +and endeavoring to show that he was more ill than any one else. Jack listened +to these dismal conversations, seated between a stout man who coughed +violently, and a slender young girl whose thin shawl was so tightly drawn over +her head that only her wild and affrighted eyes were to be seen. Then the door +opened, and a small, wiry man appeared; it was the physician. A profound +silence followed all along the benches. The doctor warmed his hands at the +stove, while he cast a scrutinizing glance about the room. Then he began his +rounds, followed by a boy carrying the cards of admission to the different +hospitals. What joy for the poor wretches when they were pronounced sick enough +to receive a ticket. What disappointment, what entreaties from those who were +told that they must struggle on yet a little longer! The examination was brief, +and if it seemed somewhat brutal at times, it must be remembered that the +number of applicants was very large, and that the poor creatures loved to +linger over the recital of their woes. +</p> + +<p> +Finally the physician reached the stout man next to Jack. “And what is +the matter with you, sir?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“My chest burns like fire,” was the answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, your chest burns like fire, does it! Do you not sometimes drink too +much brandy?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never, sir,” answered the patient indignantly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, if you do not drink brandy, how about wine?” +</p> + +<p> +“I drink what I want of that, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, yes, I understand! You drink with your friends.” +</p> + +<p> +“On pay-days I do, certainly.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is, you get drunk once in the week. Let me see your tongue.” +</p> + +<p> +When the physician reached Jack, he examined him attentively, asked his age and +how long he had been ill. Jack answered with much difficulty, and while he +spoke, Bélisaire stood behind him with a face full of anxiety. +</p> + +<p> +“Stand up, my man,” and the doctor applied his ear to the damp +clothing of the invalid. “Did you walk here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is most extraordinary that you were able to do so, in the state in +which you are; but you must not try it again;” and he handed him a ticket +and passed on to continue his inspection. +</p> + +<p> +Of all the thousand rapid and confused impressions that one receives in the +streets of Paris, do you remember any one more painful than the sight of one of +those litters, sheltered from the sun’s rays by a striped cover, and +borne by two men, one behind and the other in front,—the form of a human +being vaguely defined under the linen sheets? Women cross themselves when these +litters pass them, as they do when a crow flies over their heads. +</p> + +<p> +Sometimes, a mother, a daughter, or a sister, walks at the side of the sick +man, their eyes swimming in tears at this last indignity to which the poor are +subjected. Jack thus lay, consoled by the sound of the familiar tread of his +faithful Bélisaire, who occasionally took his hand to prove to him that he was +not completely deserted. +</p> + +<p> +The sick man at last reached the hospital to which he had been ordered. It was +a dreary structure, looking out on one side upon a damp garden, on the other on +a dark court. Twenty beds, two arm-chairs, and a stove, were the furniture of +the large room to which Jack was carried. Five or six phantoms in cotton +nightcaps looked up from a game of dominos to inspect him, and two or three +more started from the stove as if frightened. +</p> + +<p> +The corner of the room was brightened by an altar to the Virgin, decorated with +flowers, candles, and lace; and near by was the desk of the matron, who came +forward, and in a soft voice, the tones of which seemed half lost among the +folds of her veil, said: +</p> + +<p> +“Poor fellow, how sick he looks! he must go to bed at once. We have no +bed yet, but the one at the end there will soon be empty. While we are waiting, +we will put him on a couch.” +</p> + +<p> +This couch was placed close to the bed “that would soon be empty,” +from whence were heard long sighs, dreary enough in themselves, but made a +thousand times more melancholy by the utter indifference with which they were +heard by the others in the room. The man was dying, but Jack was himself too +ill to notice this. He hardly heard Bélisaire’s “<i>au +revoir</i>” nor the rattling of dishes as the soup was distributed, nor a +whispering at his side; he was not asleep, but exhausted by fatigue. Suddenly a +woman’s voice, calm and clear, said, “Let us pray.” +</p> + +<p> +He saw the dim outline of a woman kneeling near the altar, but in vain did he +attempt to follow the words that fell rapidly from her lips. The concluding +sentence reached him, however. +</p> + +<p> +“Protect, O God, my friends and my enemies, all prisoners and travellers, +the sick and the dying.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack slept a feverish sleep, and his dreams were a confused mixture of +prisoners rattling their chains, and of travellers wandering over endless +roads. He was one of these travellers: he was on a highway, like that of +Etiolles; Cécile and his mother were before him refusing to wait until he could +reach them; this he was prevented from doing by a row of enormous machines, the +pistons of which were moving with dizzy haste, and from whose chimneys were +pouring out dark volumes of smoke. Jack determined to pass between them; he is +seized by their iron arms, torn and mangled, and scalded with the hot steam; +but he got through and took refuge in the Foret de Sénart, amid the freshness +of which Jack became once more a child and was on his way to the +forester’s; but there at the cross-road stood mother Salé; he turned to +run, and ran for miles, with the old woman close behind him; he heard her +nearer and nearer, he felt her hot breath on his shoulder; she seized him at +last, and with all her weight crushed in his chest. Jack awoke with a start; he +recognized the large room, the beds in a line, and heard the sighs and coughs. +He dreamed no more, and yet he still felt the same weight across his body, +something so cold and heavy that he called aloud in terror. The nurses ran, and +lifted something, placed it in the next bed, and drew the curtains round it +closely. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"></a> +CHAPTER XXIV.<br /> +DEATH IN THE HOSPITAL.</h2> + +<p> +“Come, wake up! Visitors are here.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack opened his eyes, and the first thing that struck him was the curtains of +the next bed,—they hung in such straight and motionless folds to the very +ground. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my boy, you had a pretty bad time last night. The poor fellow in +the next bed had convulsions and fell over on you. I suppose you were terribly +frightened. Now raise yourself a little that we may see you. But you are very +weak.” +</p> + +<p> +The man who spoke was about forty years of age, wearing a velvet coat and a +white apron. His beard was fair and his eyes bright. He feels the sick +man’s pulse and asks him some questions. +</p> + +<p> +“What is your trade?” +</p> + +<p> +“A machinist.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you drink?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not now; I did at one time.” +</p> + +<p> +Then a long silence. +</p> + +<p> +“What sort of a life have you led, my poor boy?” +</p> + +<p> +Jack saw in the physician’s face the same sympathetic interest that he +had perceived the previous day. The students surrounded the bed, and the doctor +explained to them various symptoms that he observed. They were at once +interesting and alarming, he said; and Jack listened with some curiosity to the +words “inspiration,” “expiration,” +“phthisis,” &c., and at last understood that his was looked +upon as a most critical case,—so critical that, after the physician had +left the room, the good sister approached, and with gentle discretion asked if +his family were in Paris, and if he could send to them. +</p> + +<p> +His family! Who were they? A man and a woman who were already there at the foot +of the bed. They belonged to the lower classes; but he had no other friends +than these, no other relatives. +</p> + +<p> +“And how are we to-day?” said Bélisaire, cheerily, though he kept +his tears back with difficulty. Madame Bélisaire lays on the table two fine +oranges she has brought, and then, after a kind remark or two, sits in silence. +</p> + +<p> +Jack does not speak; his eyes are wide open and fixed. Of what is he thinking? +</p> + +<p> +“Jack,” said the good woman, suddenly, “I am going to find +your mother;” and she smiled encouragingly. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, that is what he wants; now that he knows that he must die, he forgets all +the wrongs his mother has been guilty of toward him. +</p> + +<p> +But Bélisaire does not wish his wife to go. He knows that she holds in utter +contempt “the fine lady,” as she calls Jack’s mother, that +she detests the man with the moustache, and that she will make a scene, and +perhaps—who knows but the police may be called in? +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she said, “that is all nonsense;” but finally +yielded to the persuasions of her husband, and allowed him to go in her stead. +</p> + +<p> +“I will bring her this time, never fear!” he said, with an air of +confidence. +</p> + +<p> +“Where are you going?” asked the concierge, stopping him at the +foot of the staircase. +</p> + +<p> +“To M. D’Argenton’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you the man who was here last night?” +</p> + +<p> +“Precisely,” answered Bélisaire, innocently. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you need not go up, for there is no one there; they have gone to +the country, and will not return for some time.” +</p> + +<p> +In the country, in all this cold and snow! It seemed impossible. In vain did he +insist, in vain did he say that the lady’s son was very ill—dying +in the hospital. The concierge held to his statement, and would not permit +Bélisaire to go one step further. +</p> + +<p> +The poor man retreated to the street again. Suddenly a brilliant idea struck +him. Jack had never told him any of the particulars of what had taken place +between the Rivals and himself; he had merely stated the fact that the marriage +was broken off. But at Indret and in Paris he had often spoken of the goodness +and charity of the kind doctor. If he could only be induced to come to +Jack’s bedside, so that the poor boy could have some familiar face about +him! Without further hesitation he started for Etiolles. Alas, we saw him at +the end of this long walk! +</p> + +<p> +During all this time, his wife sat at their friend’s side, and knew not +what to think of this prolonged absence, nor how to calm the agitation into +which the sick youth was thrown by the expectation of seeing his mother. His +excitement was unfortunately increased by the crowd that always appeared on +Sundays at the hospital. Each moment some one of the doors was thrown open, and +each time Jack expected to see his mother. The visitors were clean and neatly +dressed who gathered about the patients they had come to see, telling them +family news and encouraging them. Sometimes the voices were choked with tears, +though the eyes were dry, Jack heard a constant murmur of voices, and the +perfume of oranges filled the room. But what a disappointment it was, after +being lifted by the aid of a little stick hung by cords, when he saw that his +mother had not come! He fell back more exhausted, more despairing than ever. +</p> + +<p> +With him, as with all others who are on the threshold of death, the slender +thread of life that remained to him was too fragile to attach itself to the +robust years of his manhood, and took him beyond them into the far away days +when he was little Jack, the velvet-clad darling of Ida de Barancy. +</p> + +<p> +The crowd still came, women and little children, who stood in displeased +surprise at their father’s emaciation and at his nightcap, and uttered +exclamations of delight at the sight of the beautifully dressed altar. But +Jack’s mother did not appear. Madame Bélisaire knows not what to say. She +has hinted that M. D’Argenton may be ill, or that his mother is driving +in the Bois, and now she spreads a colored handkerchief on her knees and pares +an orange. +</p> + +<p> +“She will not come!” said Jack. These very words he had spoken in +that little home at Charonne which he had prepared with so much tender care. +But his voice was now weaker, and had even a little anger in its accents. +“She will not come!” he repeated; and the poor boy closed his eyes, +but not in sleep. He thought of Cécile. The sister heard his sighs, and said to +Madame Bélisaire, whose large face was shining with tears,— +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter with him? I am afraid he is suffering more.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is on account of his mother, whom he expects, and he is troubled that +she does not come.” +</p> + +<p> +“But she must be sent for.” +</p> + +<p> +“My husband went long ago. But she is a fine lady; she won’t come +to a hospital and run the risk of soiling her silk skirts.” +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly the woman rose in a fit of anger. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t cry, dear,” said she to Jack, as she would have spoken +to her little child; “I am going for your mother.” +</p> + +<p> +Jack understood what she said, understood that she had gone, but still +continued to repeat, in a harsh voice, the words, “She will not come! she +will not come!” +</p> + +<p> +The sister tried to soothe him. “Calm yourself, my child.” +</p> + +<p> +Then Jack rose in a sort of delirium. “I tell you she will not come. You +do not know her, she is a heartless mother; all the misery of my miserable life +has come from her! My heart is one huge wound, from the gashes she has cut in +it. When he pretended to be ill, she went to him on wings, and would never +again leave him; and I am dying, and she refuses to come to me. What a cruel +mother! it is she who has killed me, and she does not wish to see me +die!” +</p> + +<p> +Exhausted by this effort, Jack let his head fall back on the pillow, and the +sister bent over him in gentle pity, while the brief winter’s day ended +in a yellow twilight and occasional gusts of snow. +</p> + +<p> +Charlotte and D’Argenton descended from their carriage. They had just +returned from a fashionable concert, and were carefully dressed in velvet and +furs, light gloves and laces. She was in the best of spirits. Remember that she +had just shown herself in public with her poet, and had shown herself, too, to +be as pretty as she was ten years before. The complexion was heightened by the +sharp wintry air, and the soft wraps in which she was enveloped added to her +beauty as does the satin and quilted lining of a casket enhance the brilliancy +of the gems within. Â woman of the people stood on the sidewalk, and rushed +forward on seeing her. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame, madame! come at once!” +</p> + +<p> +“Madame Bélisaire!” cried Charlotte, turning pale. +</p> + +<p> +“Your child is very ill; he asks for you!” +</p> + +<p> +“But this is a persecution,” said D’Argenton. “Let us +pass. If the gentleman is ill, we will send him a physician.” +</p> + +<p> +“He has physicians, and more than he wants, for he is at the +hospital.” +</p> + +<p> +“At the hospital!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, he is there just now, but not for very long. I warn you, if you +wish to see him you must hurry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come on, Charlotte, come on! It is a frightful lie. It is some trap laid +ready for you;” and the poet drew Charlotte to the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame, your son is dying! Ah, God, is it possible that a mother can +have a heart like this!” +</p> + +<p> +Charlotte turned toward her. “Show me where he is,” she said; and +the two women hurried through the streets, leaving D’Argenton in a state +of rage, convinced that it was a mere device of his enemies. +</p> + +<p> +Just as Madame Bélisaire left the hospital, two persons hurried in,—a +young girl and an old man. +</p> + +<p> +A divine face bent over Jack. “It is I, my love, it is Cécile.” +</p> + +<p> +It was indeed she. It was her fair pale face, paler than usual by reason of her +tears and her watchings; and the hand that held his was the slender one that +had already brought the youth such happiness, and yet did its part in bringing +him where we now see him; for fate is often cruel enough to strike you through +your dearest and best. The sick youth opens his weary eyes to see that he is +not dreaming. Cécile is really there; she implores his pardon, and explains why +she gave him such pain. Ah, if she had but known that their destinies were so +similar! +</p> + +<p> +As she spoke, a great calm came to Jack, following all the bitterness and anger +of the past weeks. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you love me?” he whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Jack; I have always loved you.” +</p> + +<p> +Whispered in this alcove, that had heard so many dying groans, this word love +had a most extraordinary sweetness, as if some wandering bird had taken refuge +there. +</p> + +<p> +“How good you are to come, Cécile! Now I shall not utter another murmur. +I am ready to die, with you at my side.” +</p> + +<p> +“Die! Who is talking of dying?” said the old doctor in his +heartiest voice. “Have no fear, my boy, we will pull you through. You do +not look like the same person you were when we came.” +</p> + +<p> +This was true enough. He was transfigured with happiness. He pressed +Cécile’s hand to his cheek, and whispered an occasional word of +tenderness. +</p> + +<p> +“All that was lacking to me in life, you have given me, dear. You have +been friend and sister, wife and mother.” +</p> + +<p> +But his excitement soon gave place to exhaustion, his feverish color to +frightful pallor. The ravages made by disease were only too plainly visible. +Cécile looked at her grandfather in fright; the room was full of shadows, and +it seemed to her that she recognized a Presence more sombre, more mysterious +than Night. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly Jack half lifted himself: “I hear her,” he whispered; +“she is coming!” +</p> + +<p> +But the watchers at his side heard only the wintry wind in the corridors, the +steps of the retreating crowd in the court below, and the distant noises in the +street. He listened a moment, said a few unintelligible words, then his head +fell back and his eyes closed. But he was right. Two women were running up the +stairs. They had been allowed to enter, though the hour for the admittance of +visitors had long since passed. But it was one of those occasions where rules +may be broken and set aside. +</p> + +<p> +When they arrived at the outer door, Charlotte stopped. “I cannot go +on,” she said, “I am frightened.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come on,” the other answered, roughly; “you must. Ah, to +such women as you, God should never give children!” +</p> + +<p> +And she pushed Charlotte toward the staircase. The large room, the shaded +lamps, the kneeling forms, the mother saw at one glance; and farther on, at the +end of the apartment, were two men bending over a bed, and Cécile Rivals, pale +as death, supporting a head on her breast. +</p> + +<p> +“Jack, my child!” +</p> + +<p> +M. Rivals turned. “Hush,” he said, sternly. +</p> + +<p> +Then came a sigh—a long, shivering sigh. +</p> + +<p> +Charlotte crept nearer, with failing limbs and sinking heart. It was Jack +indeed, with arms stiffly falling at his side, and eyes fixed on vacancy. +</p> + +<p> +The doctor bent over him. “Jack, my friend; it is your mother, she is +here!” +</p> + +<p> +And she, unhappy woman, stretched out her arms toward him. “Jack, it is +I! I am here!” +</p> + +<p> +Not a movement. +</p> + +<p> +The mother cried in a tone of horror, “Dead?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said old Rivals; “no,—<i>Delivered</i>.” +</p> + +<p class="center"> +THE END. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block;margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JACK ***</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This file should be named 25302-h.htm or 25302-h.zip</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in https://www.gutenberg.org/2/5/3/0/25302/</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following +the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use +of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for +copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very +easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation +of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project +Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may +do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected +by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark +license, especially commercial redistribution. +</div> + +<div style='margin:0.83em 0; font-size:1.1em; text-align:center'>START: FULL LICENSE<br /> +<span style='font-size:smaller'>THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE<br /> +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK</span> +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full +Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at +www.gutenberg.org/license. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or +destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your +possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a +Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound +by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person +or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this +agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the +Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection +of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual +works in the collection are in the public domain in the United +States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the +United States and you are located in the United States, we do not +claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, +displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as +all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope +that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting +free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ +works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the +Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily +comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the +same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when +you share it without charge with others. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are +in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, +check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this +agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, +distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any +other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no +representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any +country other than the United States. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other +immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear +prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work +on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, +performed, viewed, copied or distributed: +</div> + +<blockquote> + <div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> + This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most + other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions + whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms + of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online + at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you + are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws + of the country where you are located before using this eBook. + </div> +</blockquote> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is +derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not +contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the +copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in +the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are +redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply +either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or +obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ +trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any +additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms +will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works +posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the +beginning of this work. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg™ License. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including +any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access +to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format +other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official +version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website +(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense +to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means +of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain +Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the +full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +provided that: +</div> + +<div style='margin-left:0.7em;'> + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed + to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has + agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid + within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are + legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty + payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in + Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg + Literary Archive Foundation.” + </div> + + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ + License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all + copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue + all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ + works. + </div> + + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of + any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of + receipt of the work. + </div> + + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works. + </div> +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project +Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than +are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing +from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of +the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set +forth in Section 3 below. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project +Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may +contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate +or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or +other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or +cannot be read by your equipment. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium +with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you +with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in +lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person +or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second +opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If +the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing +without further opportunities to fix the problem. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO +OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of +damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement +violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the +agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or +limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or +unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the +remaining provisions. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in +accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the +production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, +including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of +the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this +or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or +additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any +Defect you cause. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™ +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of +computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It +exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations +from people in all walks of life. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future +generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see +Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by +U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, +Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up +to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website +and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread +public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND +DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state +visit <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/donate/">www.gutenberg.org/donate</a>. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To +donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project +Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be +freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and +distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of +volunteer support. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in +the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not +necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper +edition. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Most people start at our website which has the main PG search +facility: <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. +</div> + +</body> +</html> |