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diff --git a/25302-0.txt b/25302-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b35a8cb --- /dev/null +++ b/25302-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11238 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Jack, by Alphonse Daudet + +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 +www.gutenberg.org. 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. + +Title: Jack + +Author: Alphonse Daudet + +Translator: Mary Neal Sherwood + +Release Date: May 2, 2008 [eBook #25302] +[Most recently updated: March 16, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: David Widger + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JACK *** + + + + +JACK + + By Alphonse Daudet + + Translated by Mary Neal Sherwood + + From The Fortieth Thousand, French Edition. + + Estes And Lauriat, 1877 + + + CONTENTS + + CHAPTER I. VAURIGARD. + CHAPTER II. THE SCHOOL IN THE AVENUE MONTAIGNE. + CHAPTER III. MÂDOU. + CHAPTER IV. THE REUNION. + CHAPTER V. A DINNER WITH IDA. + CHAPTER VI. AMAURY D’ARGENTON. + CHAPTER VII. MÂDOU’S FLIGHT. + CHAPTER VIII. JACK’S DEPARTURE. + CHAPTER IX. PARVA DOMUS, MAGNA QUIES. + CHAPTER X. THE FIRST APPEARANCE OF BÉLISAIRE. + CHAPTER XI. CÉCILE. + CHAPTER XII. LIFE IS NOT A ROMANCE. + CHAPTER XIII. INDRET. + CHAPTER XIV. A MIDNIGHT INTERVIEW. + CHAPTER XV. CHARLOTTE’S JOURNEY. + CHAPTER XVI. CLARISSE. + CHAPTER XVII. IN THE ENGINE-ROOM. + CHAPTER XVIII. D’ARGENTON’S MAGAZINE. + CHAPTER XIX. THE CONVALESCENT. + CHAPTER XX. THE WEDDING-PARTY. + CHAPTER XXI. EFFECTS OF POETRY. + CHAPTER XXII. CÉCILE UNHAPPY RESOLVE. + CHAPTER XXIII. A MELANCHOLY SPECTACLE. + CHAPTER XXIV. DEATH IN THE HOSPITAL. + + + + +JACK + + + + +CHAPTER I. +VAURIGARD. + + +“With a _k_, sir; with a _k_. 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.” + +“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?” + +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. + +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. + +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 _k_. +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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— + +_Ida de Barancy_ + + +Over the face of the priest flashed a singular smile. + +“Is this the child’s name?” he asked. + +The question was almost an impertinence. The lady understood him, and +concealed her embarrassment under an assumption of great dignity. + +“Certainly, sir, certainly.” + +“Ah!” said the priest, gravely. + +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. + +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. + +“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!” + +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,— + +“Don’t be frightened, Jack. Your mother is not going away; you will +find her here.” + +The child still hesitated. + +“Go, my dear,” said Madame de Barancy, with a queenly gesture. + +Then he went without another word, as if he were already conquered by +life, and prepared for all its evils. + +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. + +“This child seems to love you, madame,” said the Superior, touched by +Jack’s submission. + +“Why should he not love me?” answered Madame de Barancy, somewhat +melodramatically; “the poor dear has but his mother in the world.” + +“Ah! you are a widow?” + +“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.” + +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 _soi-disant_ comtesse,— + +“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?” + +“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.” + +Annoyed to find that she was not disposed to comprehend him, the priest +continued,— + +“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—” + +She understood him at last. + +“So,” she said, turning pale, “you refuse to receive my son. Do you +refuse also to tell me why?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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—” + +As she spoke she took the priest’s hand. The good father sought to +disengage it with some little embarrassment. + +“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?” + +But the words he used to calm her only excited her more. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Here the Superior arrested her with an exclamation of astonishment. He +hesitated a moment; then looking her straight in her eyes, said,— + +“So be it, madame. I yield to your wishes. Little Jack pleases me very +much; I consent to receive him among our pupils.” + +“My dear sir!” + +“But on two conditions.” + +“I am ready to accept all.” + +“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.” + +“But he will die, my poor Jack, if he does not see his mother!” + +“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.” + +She rose in indignation. + +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. + +The astute priest had struck well. + +“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—” + +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. + +“Ah, mamma, how good you are! I was afraid you were gone!” + +She took his hand hastily. + +“You will go with me,” she answered; “we are not wanted here.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Look, Jack—” + +“Look, mamma—” + +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. + +A despairing cry from Madame de Barancy aroused the boy from all these +sweet recollections. “_Mon dieu!_” she cried, wringing her hands, “what +have I done to be so wretched?” + +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. + +She started and looked wildly at him. + +“Ah! cruel, cruel child, what harm you have done me in this world!” + +Jack turned pale. “I? What have I done?” + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“Exquisite! exquisite! Yes, you may send it to me—Boulevard Haussmann.” + +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!” + +She was not mistaken. + +Her maid, a tall, stout person of forty years, ugly and masculine, +rushed toward Ida as she entered the house. + +“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.” + +“Don’t scold, Constant. If you only knew what had happened. Look!” and +she pointed to Jack. + +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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“There! get away, Master Jack. Your mother is all right. I must help +her dress now.” + +“What! You do not mean, Constant, that I must go to this ball. I have +no heart to amuse myself.” + +“Pshaw! I know you, madame. You have but five minutes. Just look at +this pretty costume, these rose-colored stockings, and your little +cap.” + +She shook out the skirts, displayed the trimming, and jingled the +little bells which adorned it, and Ida ceased to resist. + +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. + +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. + +The door opened—his mother was ready. + +“Come in, Master Jack, and see if this is not lovely.” + +Ah! what a charming Folly! Silver and pink, lustrous satin and delicate +lace. What a lovely rustling of spangles when she moved! + +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. + +When Madame de Barancy dined out, Master Jack was confided to the +tender mercies of Constant. “She will dine with you,” said Ida. + +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.” + +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. + +But for the moment Jack was of little consequence; each was absorbed in +narrating his or her religious convictions. + +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. + +“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. + +“Hush!” she said; “you should never quarrel over your religions.” + +And Jack—what was he doing all this time? + +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. + +“Who is he, then?” asked the cook. + +“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.” + +Between a yawn and a hiccough, the coachman spoke,— + +“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.” + +He looked in his portfolio, and from among the tumbled and soiled +papers he extracted one, dirtier even than the others. + +“Here it is!” he cried, with an air of triumph. + +He unfolded the prospectus and began to read, or rather to spell with +difficulty: + +“Gymnase Moronval—in the—in the—” + +“Give it to me,” said Mademoiselle Constant; and taking it from him, +she read it at one glance. + +“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—” + +Mademoiselle Constant interrupted herself here to breathe, and to +exclaim, “This seems all right enough!” + +“I think so,” said the cook. + +The reading of the prospectus was resumed, but Jack was soundly asleep, +and heard no more. + +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!” + + + + +CHAPTER II. +THE SCHOOL IN THE AVENUE MONTAIGNE. + + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _Passage des Douze Maisons_. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Is this the Moronval Academy?” said Madame de Barancy’s imposing maid. + +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,— + +“Well do you never mean to open that door, idiots?” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Precisely,” said Moronval, hesitatingly. + +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. + +“Yes, his eyes are like his mother’s,” said Moronval, coolly, examining +Madame Constant as he spoke. + +She made no attempt to disclaim the honor; but Jack cried out in +indignation, “She is not my mamma! She is my nurse!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +It mattered not, however, for Madame Constant was positively dazzled. + +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. + +“Unquestionably,” said Madame Moronval, growing still more erect. + +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. + +“A king’s son! You hear, Master Jack—you will be educated with the son +of a king!” + +“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.” + +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? + +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.” + +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. + +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? + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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!” + +She also pitied him. And why? What was he, then, that they pitied him? +Jack asked himself. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +Moronval presented him as “our great poet, Amaury d’Argenton, Professor +of Literature.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +“Constant,” he whispered, catching her dress, “you will tell mamma to +come and see me.” + +“Certainly. She will come, of course. But don’t cry.” + +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. + +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. + +“A coupé!” said the principal to himself, in astonished admiration. + +“Speaking of Augustin,” said she: “he charged me with a commission. +Have you a pupil named Said?” + +“To be sure—certainly—a delightful person,” said Moronval. + +“And a superb voice. You must hear him,” interrupted Labassandre, +opening the door and calling Said in a voice of thunder. + +A frightful howl was heard in reply, followed by the appearance of the +delightful person. + +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 _vice versa_. + +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. + +“What shall I say to him from you?” asked Constant, in her most amiable +tone. + +“Nothing,” answered Said, promptly. + +“And your parents, how are they? Have you had any news from them +lately?” + +“No.” + +“Have they returned to Egypt, as they thought of doing?” + +“Don’t know: they never write.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Again he caught the dress of his mother’s servant. “Tell her to come +and see me,” he whispered; “O, tell her to come.” + +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. + +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. + +It was Said, who, as a consolation, offered him the stump of a cigar. + +“Take this: I have a trunk full,” said the interesting young man, +shutting his eyes so as to be able to speak. + +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. + +He had escorted Madame Constant to her carriage, and came back inspired +with respectful indulgence for the grief of his new pupil. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +He was dismissed from one institution, where he taught English, for +having struck one of the pupils in his passionate, Creole fashion. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _Passage des Douze Maisons_, and displayed in +the avenue the gorgeous sign we have mentioned. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + + + + +CHAPTER III. +MÂDOU. + + +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. + +Imagine a long building all _rez-de-chaussée_, 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. + +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. + +“This shall be the dormitory,” he said. + +“May it not be somewhat damp?” Madame Moronval ventured to ask. + +“What of that?” he answered, sternly. + +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. + +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. + +As soon as the pupils were in bed, a black servant took away the light, +and Jack remained wide awake. + +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. + +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. + +This thought struck such terror to his soul that involuntarily he +looked to his mother for protection and defence. + +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. + +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. + +“Is not his royal Highness in the school at present?” he asked. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +“I cannot,” said Jack, sighing. + +“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!” + +As he spoke, he threw a blanket on the bed next to Jack. + +“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!” + +“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. + +“What a funny medal!” cried Jack. + +“It is not a medal,” answered the negro; “it is my _Gri-qri_.” + +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. + +“As I shall to my mamma,” said little Barancy; and both children were +silent, each thinking of the one he loved most on earth. + +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?” + +“Dahomey,” answered the negro. + +Jack started up in bed. + +“What! Do you know him? Did you come to this country with him?” + +“Who?” + +“Why, his royal Highness,—you know him,—the little king of Dahomey.” + +“I am he,” said the negro, quietly. + +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! + +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? + +“How did all this happen?” asked the child, timidly. + +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. + +“You are not sleepy,” he said; “and I never wish to sleep if I can talk +of Dahomey. Listen!” + +And in the darkness, where the whites only of his eyes could be seen, +the little negro began his dismal tale. + +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. + +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. + +At this, Jack uttered an exclamation, “O, how beautiful it must be!” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Good gracious!” gasped Jack, pulling the bedclothes over his head. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +The steamers puffing and blowing, and the great ships setting their +sails, all spoke to him of departure and deliverance. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _Passage des Douze Maison_, he would have been very +happy. + +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 _gri-gri_, +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _Tocodonon_, 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. + +And yet that hatred was something prodigious; and Mâdou confided to +Jack his projects of vengeance. + +“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!” + +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. + +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?” + +“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?” + +“Jack, with a _k_. Mamma thinks a great deal about that—” + +“Is your mamma very rich?” + +“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—” + +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? + +“Say, then, little master,” asked the negro suddenly, “what is a +cocotte?” + +“A cocotte?” asked Jack in astonishment. “I don’t know. Is it a +chicken?” + +“I heard the father with a stick say to Madame Moronval that your +mother was a cocotte.” + +“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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. +THE REUNION. + + +Children are like grown people,—the experiences of others are never of +any use to them. + +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. + +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 _au courant_ 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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +Moronval finally concluded that a creature so inconsequent must be +dazzled, not led. + +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 _de_ as she pleased, Madame Moronval said, timidly,— + +“M. Moronval would like to ask you something, but he dares not.” + +“O, tell me, tell me!” said the silly little woman, with a sincere wish +to oblige. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _Montparnasse_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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!” + +The piano was open, the pupils were ranged against the wall; a small +green table, on which stood a glass of _eau-sucré_ 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. + +His friends were not sparing in their praises. + +“Magnificent!” said one. “Sublime!” exclaimed another; and the most +amazing criticism came from yet another,—“Goethe with a heart?” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Vicomte!” He was noble, then! + +She turned toward him, timid and blushing as a young girl. + +“Continue, sir, I beg of you,” she said. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Then followed another brief poem by Argenton, to which Ida listened +breathlessly. + +“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.” + +She spoke to the poet in a low voice and with great courtesy. He, +however, bowed very coldly, apparently careless of her implied +admiration. + +“How happy you are,” she said, “in the possession of such a talent!” + +Then she asked where she could obtain his poems. + +“They are not to be procured, madame,” answered D’Argenton, gravely. + +Without knowing it, she had again wounded his sensitive pride, and he +turned away without vouchsafing another syllable. + +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!” + +“And why can you not?” asked Ida, quickly. + +“Because we have not the funds.” + +“But they can easily be procured. Such talent should not be allowed to +languish!” + +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. + +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. + +Here Ida interrupted him to ask if the poet was not of noble birth. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +“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. + +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. + +The poet no longer conversed; he declaimed, leaning against the +chimney, and careless who heard either his voice or his words. + +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. + +“He knows who I am,” she said, and bowed her head in shame. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER V. +A DINNER WITH IDA. + + +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. + +“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?” + +“Because,” was the answer, “I never visit such women.” + +“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.” + +D’Argenton, after being properly entreated, finished by accepting the +invitation. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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_ and the _my_ for a whole evening, without allowing +any one else to speak. + +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. + +“A little more of this ice, M. d’Argenton, I beg of you.” + +“Not any, madame,” the poet would answer with a frown, and continue, +“Then I said to him—” + +“I am afraid you do not like it,” urged the lady. + +“It is excellent, madame,—and I said these cruel words—” + +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,— + +“I have thought much of our little matter of business. It will cost +less than I fancied.” + +“Indeed!” she answered absently, + +“If, madame, you would accord to me a few moments of your attention—” + +But madame was occupied in looking at her poet, who was walking up and +down the salon silent and preoccupied. + +“Of what can he be thinking?” she said to herself. + +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. + +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. + +Moronval, who looked on, shrugged his shoulders, with a glance at his +wife. “She is simply crazy,” he said to himself. + +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,— + +“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: + +‘And I believe in love, +As I believe in a good God above.’” + + +“As I believe in God above,” said the poet, making as horrible a +grimace as if his finger had been caught in a vice. + +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. + +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. + +“I shall be most happy to recite anything, madame, at your command; but +what?” + +Here Moronval interposed. “Recite the ‘Credo,’ my dear fellow,” he +said. + +“Very well, then; I am satisfied to obey you.” + +The poem commenced gently enough with the words,— + +“Madame, your toilette is charming.” + + +Then irony deepened to bitterness, bitterness to fury, and concluded in +these terrific words: + +“Good Lord, deliver me from this woman so terrible, +Who drains from my heart its life-blood.” + + +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. + +“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!” + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. +AMAURY D’ARGENTON. + + +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 _De_, 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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +“And is your mother very fond of him, too?” continued D’Argenton, +without looking up from his writing. + +“Yes, indeed, sir,” answered the little fellow, innocently. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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!” + +“O, I know very well!” exclaimed Jack in delight; “it is our good +friend.” + +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. + +“That came from our friend at Tours,” said Jack, maliciously. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“Come, Jack, my love; call Constant to take you back to school. It is +quite time.” + +“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. + +She rewarded him for his self-control by a most loving embrace. + +“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. + +“I cannot! I cannot!” he murmured, throwing himself back in his +arm-chair and passing his handkerchief over his forehead. + +Jack turned to his mother in amazement. + +“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!” + +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. + +But these regrets were useless, though Ida shared them. “Why did I not +know him earlier?” she said to herself over and over again. + +“She ought to understand by this time,” said D’Argenton, sulkily, “that +I do not wish to see that boy.” + +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. + +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. + +“You will see,” she said, “how I can aid you. I can work, and, besides, +I shall not be completely penniless.” + +But D’Argenton hesitated. He was, notwithstanding his apparent +enthusiasm and recklessness, extremely methodical and clear-headed. + +“No, we will wait a while. I shall be rich some day, and then—” + +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: _Parva domus, magna quies_. 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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“O, mamma, if we could take Mâdou!” + +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. + +“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!” + +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. + +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. + +“Are you happy, Mâdou?” + +“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. + +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. + +When breakfast was over, Ida proposed that they should visit the +_Jardin d’Acclimation_. + +“That is a splendid idea,” said Jack, “for Mâdou has never been there, +and won’t he be amused!” + +They drove through _La Grande Allée_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +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!” + +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,— + +“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. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. +MÂDOU’S FLIGHT. + + +Some time after this a letter arrived at the academy from D’Argenton. + +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. + +“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? + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +“Ah! sir,” said Constant, mournfully, “it was an unfortunate day for us +when we set foot in your old barracks!” + +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. + +“Pshaw!” said Labassandre, “he does not understand.” Perhaps he did not +fully, but he comprehended enough to make his heart very sore. + +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. + +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 _Jardin d’Aclimation_, 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. + +One night the black boy was undressing, and Jack heard him singing to +himself in a language that was strange. + +“What are you singing, Mâdou?” + +“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? + +“Good,” said Mâdou; “you can remain here, and I will go alone.” + +“And when?” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Dinner-time came, but no Mâdou, no vegetables, and no meat. + +“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. + +“Fifteen francs,” was his wife’s timid answer. + +“Fifteen francs! Then it is certain he has run away!” + +“But where has he gone?” asked the doctor; “he could hardly reach +Dahomey with that amount.” + +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. + +“We will find him, my good sir,” said the official; “have no anxiety.” + +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. + +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?” + +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. + +“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!” + +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!” + +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. + +“Ah, my unfortunate child! have I found you at last?” + +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? + +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. + +Moronval’s glance was like a keen rapier, with a flash like lightning, +crossing a poor little broken blade, shivered and rusty. + +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. + +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!” + +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. + +“Then, Dr. Hirsch, you don’t think him ill?” asked Madame Moronval, +anxiously. + +“Not in the least, madame; that race has a covering like a monitor!” + +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. + +“It’s all over with Mâdou,” he murmured; “Mâdou has lost his Gri-gri, +and will never see Dahomey again.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +In the morning, Dr. Hirsch announced that Mâdou was very ill. “A +brain-fever!” he said, rubbing his hands in glee. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Jack whispered, “It is I, Mâdou,—little Jack.” + +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. + +Mâdou drew one long, shivering sigh. + +“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. + +“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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. +JACK’S DEPARTURE. + + +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. + +“She is in Paris,” said Labassandre, “for I saw her yesterday.” + +Jack listened eagerly. + +“And was he with her?” + +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. + +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. + +“Come!” cried Moronval. + +“Come, come!” repeated Said. + +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! + +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. + +“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. + +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,— + +“A child’s bed, carved and gilded, with curtains!” + +And Jack saw his own bed, where he had slept so long, handled by rough +men. He wished to exclaim, + +“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. + +“What! Master Jack, are you no longer at the school?” + +It was Constant, his mother’s maid—Constant, in her Sunday dress, +wearing pink ribbons, and with an air of great importance. + +“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. + +“Your mother is not here, my poor child,” she said. + +“But where is she? And what are all these people doing?” + +“They have come for the auction. But come with me to the kitchen, +Master Jack, we can talk better there.” + +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. + +“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!” + +Then she informed little Jack that madame was at Etiolles. + +The child repeated the name over and over again to himself. “Is it far +from here?” he asked. + +“Eight good leagues,” answered Augustin. + +But the cook disputed this point; and then followed an animated +discussion as to the route to be taken to reach _Etiolles_. Jack +listened eagerly, for he had already decided to attempt the journey +alone and on foot. + +“Madame lives in a pretty little cottage just at the edge of a wood,” +said Constant. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +But night was close at hand. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“What does he want?” said one of the men. + +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. + +Had he strength enough to reach his mother? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Good evening, gentlemen,” said the child, gently, breathless with +emotion. + +The soldier who carried the lantern raised it in the direction of the +voice. + +“This is a bad hour to travel, my boy,” remarked the officer; “are you +going far?” + +“O, no, sir; not very far,” answered Jack, who did not care to tell the +truth. + +“Ah, well! we can go on together as far as Charenton.” + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“I am very tired,” pleaded Jack; “would you be so kind as to let me +come into your carriage?” + +The man hesitated, but a woman’s voice came to the child’s assistance. +“Ah, what a little fellow! Let him come in here.” + +“Where are you going?” asked the traveller. + +The child hesitated. Like all fugitives, he wished to hide his +destination. “To Villeneuve St George,” he answered, nervously. + +“Come on, then,” said the man, with gruff kindness. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“At the end of the town,” answered Jack, promptly,—“the last house on +the right.” + +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. + +“Is that place far from Etiolles?” asked Jack, with a start. + +“O, no, close by,” answered the gentleman, giving a friendly cut with +his whip to his beast. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +At the last house the carriage stopped. + +“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.” + +Little Jack had the same, but durst not say so. He went toward the +garden-gate. “Good night,” said his new friends, “good night.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +“Am I far from Etiolles?” asked Jack of some laborers who were going to +their work. + +“No, he was not far from Etiolles; he had but to follow the road +straight on through the wood.” + +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. + +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:— + +PARVA DOMUS, MAGNA QUIES. + + +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. + +“Mamma, mamma!” cried Jack, in a weak voice. + +The lady turned quickly, shaded her eyes from the sun, and saw the poor +little worn and travel-stained lad. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. +PARVA DOMUS, MAGNA QUIES. + + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Heavens! how pretty your boy is!” said the old woman, delighted by +Jack’s appearance. + +“Is he not, Mère Archambauld? What did I tell you?” + +“But he looks a good deal more like you, madame, than like his papa. +Good day, my dear! May I give you a kiss?” + +At the word papa, Jack looked up quickly. + +“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. + +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. + +“It is here that HE works,” said his mother, in an awed tone. + +Jack had no need to ask who this HE might be. + +In a low voice, as if in a sanctuary, she continued, without looking at +her son,— + +“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.” + +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?” + +Jack answered with much effort, “I promise, dear mamma.” + +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. + +“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?” + +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,— + +“That I will, Madame d’Argenton.” + +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. + +“Is it you, doctor?” cried Ida from within, in joyous greeting, + +“Yes, madame; I come to learn something about your sick son, of whose +arrival I have heard.” + +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. + +“Your boy is all right, madame. I was afraid, from what I heard through +my servant, that he and you might require my services.” + +What good people these all were, and how thankful little Jack felt that +he had forever left that detestable school! + +When the doctor left, the house was bolted and barred, and the mother +and child went tranquilly to their bedroom. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Another letter. “He will come to-morrow!” + +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. + +“You will remain at the end of the garden,” she said, “and do not come +until I call you.” + +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!” + +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.” + +“You hear, Jack,” said his mother, alarmed at his silence, “and you +understand the sacrifice that your friend is ready to make for you—” + +“Yes, mamma,” stammered Jack. + +“Wait, Charlotte,” interrupted D’Argenton; “he must decide for himself: +I wish to force no one.” + +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. + +“Ah, dear, how good you are!” murmured the poor woman, while the child, +dismissed by an imperative gesture, hastily ran down the stairs. + +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. + +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. + +“_Rise at six_. From six to seven, breakfast; from seven to eight, +recitation; from eight to nine,” and so on. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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!” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +“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?” + +“Pleased? Can one ever be pleased or satisfied in this terrible +profession, which is a perpetual strain on every nerve!” + +“That is true enough, my friend; and yet I would like to know—” + +“To know what? Have you any idea how long it took Goethe to write his +_Faust?_ And yet he lived in a thoroughly artistic atmosphere. He was +not condemned, as I am, to absolute solitude—mental solitude, I mean.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“You know, Charlotte, yesterday a new play by Emile Angier was +produced; it was simply my _Pommes D’Atlante_.” + +“But that is outrageous! I will write myself to this Monsieur Angier,” +said poor Lottie, in a great state of indignation. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER X. +THE FIRST APPEARANCE OF BÉLISAIRE. + + +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. + +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. + +Fatigued by the child’s restlessness, the forester’s wife looked out at +the weather, and said to Jack,— + +“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.” + +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. + +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!” + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“Half a mile exactly,” answered the child. + +“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.” + +The child thought of his own memorable journey, and he wished to do a +kind act. + +“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. + +“Are you in pain?” asked the child. + +“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!” + +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.” + +Mother Archambauld frowned, but nevertheless put on the table a big +loaf and a pot of wine. + +“Now a slice of ham,” said Jack, in a tone of command. + +“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. + +“Never mind! bring it out!” said the child, delighted at playing the +part of host. + +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. + +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. + +But while they were taking off their wraps in the hall; D’Argenton +perceived the formidable pile of hats. + +“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. + +“Come here, Charlotte. Master Jack receives his friends to-day, it +seems.” + +“O, Jack! Jack!” cried the mother in a horrified tone of reproach. + +“Do not scold him, madame,” stammered Bélisaire. “I only am in fault!” + +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?” + +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!” + +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. + +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. + +Charlotte, utterly stupefied by such audacity, could only mechanically +repeat his words. + +“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.” + +Jack by this time was quite alarmed at what he had done, and could only +beg pardon in a troubled tone. + +“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. + +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. + +This was her only resource in the serious perplexities of life; and, +naturally, her question remained unanswered. + +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. + +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. + +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!” + +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. + +“Nonsense, my dear; he only wants a little amusement.” + +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. + +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. + +“Jack!” said D’Argenton, peremptorily, and pointed to the door. + +“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. + +“Bring her to see us, doctor,” said Charlotte; “the two children would +be so happy together.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +The only prescription given by the doctor was a verbal one, “Keep him +amused, madame; keep him amused!” + +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. + +Then the poet took to building; he planned a new staircase and an +Italian terrace: but even this did not amuse him. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +“You are a lucky fellow,” said Labassandre. “Tomorrow I shall be in +that hot, dusty town, eating a miserable dinner.” + +“It is a good thing to be certain of having even a miserable dinner,” +grumbled Dr. Hirsch. + +“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—” + +“And we can make excursions,” interrupted Charlotte, gayly. + +“But what would become of my rehearsals?” said Labassandre. + +“But you, Dr. Hirsch,” continued Charlotte, “you are tied down to the +opera-house!” + +“Certainly not; and my patients are nearly all in the country at this +season.” + +The idea of Dr. Hirsch having any patients was very funny, and yet no +one laughed. + +“Well, decide!” cried the poet, “In the first place, you would be doing +me a favor, and could prescribe for me.” + +“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. + +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.” + +“There I differ from you!” cried Dr. Hirsch, fiercely, snuffing the +battle from afar. + +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. + +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. + +Charlotte listened with tears in her eyes. + +“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.” + +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: + +PARVA DOMUS, MAGNA QUIES. + + + + + +CHAPTER XI. +CÉCILE. + + +“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. + +“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?” + +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. + +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. + +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? + +“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!” + +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!” + +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. + +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. + +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!” + +“Yes; but who knows anything about these people? Whence do they come?” +answered his wife. “Who knows them?” + +“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.” + +Madame Rivals shook her head. She had but slight confidence in her +husband’s insight into character, and sighed in an ostentatious way. + +Old Rivals colored guiltily, but returned in a moment to his original +idea. + +“The child will be ill if she has not some change. Besides, what harm +could possibly happen?” + +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. + +“Do you not go to school, my dear?” + +“No, madame,” was the answer; and then quickly added,—for a child’s +instinct is very delicate,—“Mamma teaches me.” + +“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.” + +“The child is not very clever,” answered the doctor, anxious to excuse +his friends. + +“No, it is not that; it is that his stepfather does not like him.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Poor Charlotte was in despair. “Madame Archambauld, are there eggs?—is +there any game? Company has come, and what shall we give them?” + +“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. + +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? + +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. + +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. + +“Send him to school now,” said Doctor Rivals to his mother, “and I +answer for his making a figure.” + +“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. + +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. + +“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?” + +“It was I, sir.” + +Cécile had expressed a wish for a living squirrel, and Jack had +manufactured a most ingenious snare of steel wire. + +“Did you make it yourself, without any aid?” + +“Yes, sir,” answered the child. + +“It is wonderful, very wonderful,” continued the singer, turning to the +others. “The child has a positive genius for mechanics.” + +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.” + +“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. + +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: _Work and +Liberty_. 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. + +“Yes,” said Charlotte, “but you were very strong, and I have heard you +say that the life was a hard one.” + +“Precisely; but I am inclined to believe that the individual in +question is sufficiently robust.” + +“I will answer for that,” said Dr. Hirsch. + +Charlotte made other objections. She hinted that some natures were more +refined than others—“that certain aristocratic instincts—” + +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.” + +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. + +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.” + +The old man was delighted, and said to his wife, “You see, my dear, +that I did well to make them open their eyes.” + +“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.” + + + + +CHAPTER XII. +LIFE IS NOT A ROMANCE. + + +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. + +“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:— + +“FOUNDRY D’INDRET. + “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. + + +“Rondic.” + + +“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.” + +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 _Passage des Douze Maisons_. 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. + +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? + +“Then must I go away?” asked the child, faintly. + +The men smiled pityingly, and from the window came a great sob. + +“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.” + +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. + +“It is preposterous!” he cried. “The very idea of making a mechanic of +you is absurd. I will see your father at once.” + +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. + +“I wish to say a few words in private to you, sir,” said Mr. Rivals. + +“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.” + +“But, my friend “—Charlotte said, timidly, fearing the explanation that +was forthcoming. + +“Go on, doctor,” interrupted the poet, sternly. + +“Jack has just told me that you have apprenticed him to the Forge at +Indret. This, of course, is a mistake on his part.” + +“Not in the least, sir.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Jack tried to excuse himself. His friend bade him be silent, and +continued,— + +“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.” + +“I deny the degradation,” shouted Labassandre. “Manual labor does not +degrade a man. The Saviour of the world was a carpenter.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +Jack, who had not yet said a word, dismayed at this vivid picture of +the future, started up from his seat in the corner. + +“I will not be a mechanic!” he said, in a firm voice. + +“O, Jack!” cried his mother, in consternation. + +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,— + +“May I be hanged if I ever cross this threshold again!” + +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. + +“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.” + +A sob from the child interrupted her. + +“Then you, too, send me away!” + +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.” + +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? + +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.” + +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. + +But he, supposing that her embarrassment came from anxiety, and +possibly from shame, tore himself away, and ran toward the stairs. + +“Come, mama, I will tell him that I accept.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +The child extended his hand, which was quickly ingulfed in the enormous +paw of the artist. + +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. + +“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. + +“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!” + +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. + +Charlotte embraced Jack tenderly and with tears. “You will take good +care of him, M. Labassandre?” + +“As of my best note, madame.” + +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. + +“Write often!” cried the mother. + +And the poet shouted, in stentorian tones, “Remember, Jack, life is not +a romance!” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. +INDRET. + + +The opera-singer stood upright in the boat and cried, “Is not the scene +beautiful, Jack?” + +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. + +“And Indret—where is it?” asked Jack. + +“There, that island opposite.” + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +“And how are you all?” asked Labassandre. + +“Well enough, well enough, thank Heaven! And this is our new +apprentice?—he looks very small and not over-strong.” + +“Strong as an ox, my dear; and warranted by all the physicians in +Paris!” + +“So much the better, for it is a hard life here. But now hasten, for we +must present ourselves to the Director at once.” + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +They had now reached an old château of the time of the League. + +“Here we are,” said Rondic; and addressing his brother, “Will you go up +with us?” + +“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.” + +He pulled down his velvet vest, and glanced at his yellow boots and +knapsack. Rondic made no remark, but seemed somewhat annoyed. + +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. + +“Ah, it is you, Père Rondic!” + +“Yes, sir; I come to present the new apprentice, and to thank you for—” + +“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?” + +“No, sir; on the contrary, I have been assured that he is remarkably +robust.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“No; he spoke to me of Chariot, our poor sister’s son, who is giving us +a great deal of trouble.” + +“In what way?” asked the artist. + +“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.” + +“I will see what I can do,” answered Labassandre, pompously. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Is she not pretty?” asked Rondic of his brother. “She has been giving +a lecture to her nephew.” + +Madame Rondic turned at that moment, and greeted them warmly. “I hope,” +she said to the child, “that you will be happy with us.” + +They entered the house, and as they took their seats at the table, +Labassandre said with a theatrical start, “And where is Zénaïde?” + +“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.” + +“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—” + +“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. + +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. + +He did not appear to notice this, but replied with jests which left +more than one scar. + +“And I wished them to marry each other,” said Father Rondic, in a +despairing, complaining tone, as he heard them dispute. + +“And I made no objection,” said the young man with a laugh, as he +looked at his cousin. + +“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!” + +These words were said with so much unction that for a few moments the +handsome cousin was silent and discomfited. + +Clarisse was startled, and turned to her daughter-in-law with a timid +look of appeal. + +“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. + +“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!” + +“He is right!” cried Labassandre, thumping loud applause on the table. +A hot discussion now arose; but Chariot was firm in his refusal. + +Zénaïde did not open her lips, but she never took her eyes from her +stepmother, who was busy about the table. + +“And you, mamma,” said she at last, “is it not your opinion that +Chariot should go to Guérigny?” + +“Certainly, certainly,” answered Madame Rondic, quickly, “I think he +ought to accept the offer.” + +Chariot rose quickly from his chair. + +“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.” + +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. + +Jack listened to them sadly. “Must I become like these?” he said to +himself, with a thrill of horror. + +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. + +“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, + +“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!” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“And he is going!” she cried, with more passion than her ordinary +appearance would have led one to suppose her capable of. + +Then Zénaïde spoke—remonstrating, reasoning. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _Inferno_. 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. + +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. + +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. + +“What a wicked, impudent woman,” she cried, “not only to relate her +crime, but to boast of it!” + +“It is true that she was guilty,” said Clarisse, “but she was also very +unhappy.” + +“Unhappy! Don’t say that, mamma; one would think that you pitied this +Francesca.” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +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. + +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. + +The pedler was far down the street. + +“Bélisaire!” shouted Jack. + +The man turned. “I was sure it was you,” continued Jack, breathlessly. +“Do you come here often?” + +“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?” + +The boy hesitated, and the pedler seeing this, continued,— + +“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?” + +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. + +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,— + +“What did you want of that man?” + +The child answered that he had known him at Etiolles, and that they had +been talking of his parents. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. +A MIDNIGHT INTERVIEW. + + +“Chateau des Aulnettes. + + +“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. + +“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 ‘_La +Fille de Faust_’ 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. + +“Your loving mother, + +“Charlotte.” + +“P. S. Ten o’clock at night. + +“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. _He_ 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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“You are right,” said old Rondic; “your books distract your attention.” + +In the workshop Jack heard constant allusions made to the Rondic +household, and particularly to the relations existing between Clarisse +and Chariot. + +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!” + +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. + +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!” + +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.” + +Bélisaire looked at him with amazement. + +“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?” + +The pedler’s face turned scarlet. + +“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!” + +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?” + +That Father Rondic knew nothing of all that was going on, was not +astonishing. But Zênaïde, where was she? Of what was she thinking? + +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? + +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!” + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +So thinking one dark night, as he entered the house, he ran against +some one who was coming down the steps. + +“Is that you, Bélisaire?” + +There was no reply, but as Jack pushed open the door, he saw that he +was not mistaken, that Bélisaire had been there. + +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. + +In the parlor Zénaïde and Maugin were alone. + +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. + +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?” + +Clarisse came in, pale but calm. + +“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. + +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,— + +“What a night it is, M. Maugin! I wish you were safely at home.” + +“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! + +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. + +“How cold it must be to-night on the Loire,” said Zénaïde. + +“Cold, indeed!” answered Clarisse, with a shiver. + +“Come,” she said, as the clock struck ten, “let us go to bed.” + +Then seeing that Jack was about to lock the outer door as usual, she +stopped him, saying,— + +“I have done it myself. Let us go up stairs.” + +But Zénaïde had not finished talking of M. Maugin. “Do you like his +moustache, Jack?” she asked. + +“Will you go to bed?” asked Madame Rondic, pretending to laugh, but +trembling nervously. + +At last the three are on the narrow staircase. + +“Good night,” said Clarisse; “I am dying with sleep.” + +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. + +“And my trousseau, Jack, you have not seen it! Wait, and I will show it +to you.” + +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. + +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!” + +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. + +“Let the boy go to bed,” said her stepmother in an irritated tone; “you +know he must be up early.” + +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. + +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. + +“I entreat you,” he whispered, “if you love me—” + +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. + +“No, no,” she answered, indignantly, “it is impossible.” + +“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.” + +She looked at him with an expression of absolute terror. + +“No, no,” she repeated, “it cannot be. You must find some other way.” + +“But there is none.” + +“Listen. I have a rich friend; I will write to her and ask her to lend +me the money.” + +“But I must have it to-morrow.” + +“Well, then, find the Director; tell him the truth.” + +“And he will dismiss me instantly. No; my plan is much the best. In two +days I will restore the money.” + +“You only say that.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +Chariot started. “Is that so?” he asked. + +“Yes; the poor girl is very happy. It would kill her to lose it. +Besides, the key is not in the wardrobe.” + +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. + +Through her tears she mechanically repeated the words, “It is +impossible.” + +Suddenly he rose to his feet. + +“You will not? Very good. Only one thing remains then. Farewell! I will +not survive disgrace.” + +He expected a cry. No; she came toward him. + +“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.” + +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. + +She followed him. “Where are you going?” she asked. + +“Leave me!” he said, roughly. She snatched his arm. + +“Take care!” she whispered with quivering lips. “If you take one more +step in that direction, I will call for assistance!” + +“Call, then! Let the world know that your nephew is your lover, and +your lover a thief.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Another glass, my boy!” + +“No more, thank you. I fear it would make me very ill.” + +Chariot laughed. “And you a Parisian! Waiter, bring more wine!” + +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?” + +“I wonder,” thought the apprentice, “if he wishes me to carry his +letters, instead of Bélisaire!” + +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. + +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. + +“Look here, M. Chariot, listen to me, and don’t play any more.” + +The blow struck home, for the young man’s lips trembled nervously, and +he swallowed a glass of brandy at one gulp. + +At that moment the factory-bell sounded. + +“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. + +“Hallo! a yellow boy!” said the barkeeper, unaccustomed to seeing such +in the possession of apprentices. Chariot started, but made no remark. + +“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.” + +Chariot said, mechanically, “Is it?” and turned away with a smile. + +The innkeeper fingered the gold piece with some uneasiness. + +“Hurry,” said Jack, “or I shall be late.” + +“I wish, my boy,” said Chariot, “that you could have remained with me +until my boat left, which will not be for an hour.” + +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.” + +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. + +“O, had you seen her this morning, you would have pitied her. She was +so pale that she looked as if she were dead.” + +Chariot started. + +“And she ate nothing. I am afraid she will be ill. And she never +spoke.” + +“Poor woman!” said Chariot, with a sigh of relief which Jack took for +one of sorrow. + +They reached the wharf. The boat was not there. A thick fog covered the +river from one shore to the other. + +“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. + +“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!” + +“Don’t mention it,” said the lad, heartily; “but pray give up +gambling.” + +“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. + +“Listen!” they said to each other; “it is easy to see that the boy +comes from Paris.” + +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. + +“Are you better?” said the man. + +“Yes, much better,” answered Jack, his teeth chattering. + +“Then go on board.” + +“Go where?” said the apprentice, in amazement. + +“Why, have you forgotten that you hired a boat, and sent for +provisions? And here comes the man with them.” + +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.” + +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. + +“Drink with me, captain!” he said. + +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!” + +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.” + +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. + +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,— + +“Hats! hats! Hats to sell!” + +“Bélisaire!” called the boy. + +It was Bélisaire. Jack made a futile effort at explanation. The man +scolded the boy gently, lifted him up, and led him away. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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! + +“Who is there?” asked Jack, uneasily; “is it Bélisaire?” he added. But +why should Bélisaire be there with him? + +“Yes, it is I,” answered the man, in a tone of desperation. + +“In the name of heaven tell me why we are shut up here like two +criminals?” + +“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. + +“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. + +“They say—But why do you make me tell you? You know well enough what +they say.” + +“Indeed, I do not; pray, go on.” + +“Well, they say that you have stolen Zénaïde’s dowry.” + +The boy uttered an exclamation of horror. “But you do not believe this, +Bélisaire?” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +Jack wished to protest against this condemnation of his friend; but old +Rondic gave him no time. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“Do you mean,” said the superintendent, “that you committed this +robbery all alone?” + +“I have done no wrong, sir.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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!” + +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. + +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,— + +“I have stolen nothing—I swear I have not!” + +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.” + +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. + +“Good heavens,” she cried, “how high up you are!” + +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.” + +Jack had hidden his face, and was crying. Zénaïde felt a ray of hope at +this. + +“You will give me back my money, Jack, will you not?” she added +entreatingly. + +“But I have not got it, I assure you.” + +“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!” + +“Listen to me, Zénaïde: this is horrible. Why should every one think me +guilty?” + +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!” + +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. + +“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.” + +He wrote the following letter:— + +“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.” + +And he signed his name. + +“Poor things—it is terrible news for them!” said Père Rondic, who amid +his own sorrows could still think of those of others. + +Zénaïde looked up indignantly. “Why do you pity these people? If the +boy has taken my money, let them replace it.” + +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!” + +In due time this letter written by the superintendent reached its +destination, as letters which contain bad news generally do. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. +CHARLOTTE’S JOURNEY. + + +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. + +“Ah! a letter from Indret!” said D’Argenton, slowly opening his +newspapers,—“and some verses by Hugo!” + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +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. + +“I have always felt,” said D’Argenton, after leaving her time to finish +the letter, “that this boy was bad at heart!” + +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. + +He continued, “What a disgrace this is to me!” The mother was still +saying to herself, “The money, where shall I get it?” + +He determined to prevent her asking him the question he saw on her +lips. + +“We are not rich enough to do anything!” + +“Ah! if you could,” she murmured. + +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?” + +“I did not think of you,” she answered, slowly. + +“Of whom, then?” he questioned, sternly. + +With heightened color, and with lips quivering with shame, she uttered +a name, expecting from her poet an explosion of wrath. + +He was silent for a moment. + +“I can but make one more sacrifice for you, Charlotte,” he said, +pompously. + +“Thanks! thanks! How good you are!” she cried. + +And they lowered their voices, for Dr. Hirsch was heard descending the +stairs. + +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.” + +With the utmost tranquillity he answered, “Very well, we will go.” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +“Who are these children?” questioned the poet. + +“They belong to the penitentiary,” was the answer from the official who +superintended them. + +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. + +“Send him to us,” was the curt reply, “as soon as he leaves the +prison.” + +“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.” + +“Well, then, we have another establishment—the _Maison Paternelle_. I +have some of the circulars here in my pocket, and perhaps you would +glance over them, sir.” + +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. + +“I have succeeded,” she cried, as the poet entered the carriage. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“Employ it, then, in placing him in the _Maison Paternelle_, 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.” + +She started, for the harsh word recalled her to reality. We know that +in that poor little brain impressions are very transitory. + +“I am ready to do whatever you choose,” she said, “you have been so +good and generous!” + +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. + +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—“_Maison Paternelle_.” 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. + +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. + +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. + +“Come, Zénaïde, it is your turn,” called some one. + +“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. + +“Come, Brigadier! come, Jack!” said some one. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. +CLARISSE. + + +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,— + +“I have come to tell you that the apprentice is not guilty; that it is +not he who has stolen my stepdaughter’s dowry.” + +The Director started from his chair. “But, ma-dame, every proof is +against him.” + +“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.” + +“What man? Chariot?” + +She made a sign of assent. Ah, how pale she was! + +“Then he took the money?” + +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!” + +“Unhappy woman!” + +“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.” + +“But what am I to do?” + +“Arrest the real criminals, now that you know who they are.” + +“But your husband—it will kill him!” + +“And me, too,” she replied, with haughty bitterness. “To die is a very +simple matter; to live is far more difficult.” + +She spoke of death with a tone of feverish longing in her voice. + +“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—” + +“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. + +“First, we must know what has become of this money; he must have some +of it still.” + +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. + +The superintendent touched his bell. A gendarme entered: + +“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.” + +“Chariot is here, sir; I just saw him come out from Madame Rondic’s; he +cannot be far off.” + +“That is all right. Go after him quickly. Do not tell him, however, +that Madame Rondic is here.” + +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. + +“You sent for me,” said Chariot, in a gay voice. + +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. + +“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?” + +Chariot turned beseechingly toward Clarisse. She did not look at him; +she had seen him too well that terrible night. + +“Where is the money?” repeated the superintendent. + +“Here—I have brought it.” + +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. + +His chief took up the bills. “Is it all here?” + +“All but eight hundred francs,” the other answered, with some +hesitation; “but I will return them.” + +“Now sit down and write at my dictation,” said the superintendent, +sternly. + +Clarisse looked up quickly. This letter was a matter of life and death +to her. + +“Write: ‘It is I who, in a moment of insane folly, took six thousand +francs from the wardrobe in the Rondic house.’” + +Chariot internally rebelled at these words, but he was afraid that +Clarisse would establish the facts in all their naked cruelty. + +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.” + +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.” + +Chariot signed. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“What sacrifice?” + +“That of living, sir, when death would be so sweet. I am so weary.” + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +“But it is I who owe him every apology,” cried the old man. + +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. + +“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. + +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! + +“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. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. +IN THE ENGINE-ROOM. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Thus were Dr. Rivals’ words justified: “It is social distinctions that +create final and absolute separations.” + +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. + +One thought alone sustained Jack in his sad life: his mother might need +him, and he must work hard for her sake. + +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 “? + +“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?” + +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 _Compagnie Transatlantique_, 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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +His words were inaudible through the din and tumult, but his gestures +were eloquent enough. This was Blanchet, the chief engineer. + +“You have come, then, have you?” he shouted. “I was afraid you meant to +leave me in the lurch.” + +“It was my fault,” said Rondic; “I wished to accompany the lad, and I +could not get away yesterday.” + +“On board with you, quick!” returned the engineer; “he must get into +his place at once.” + +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. + +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.” + +Jack shuddered. The dormitory at the academy, the garret-room at the +Rondics, were palaces in comparison. + +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. + +“Here is your man,” said Blanchet to the head workman. + +“All right, sir,” said the other without turning round. + +“Farewell,” said Rondic. “Take care of yourself, my boy!” and he was +gone. + +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. + +“Thank you; I never drink anything,” said Jack. + +The other laughed. “You will drink here,” he answered. + +“Never,” murmured Jack; and lifting the heavy basket, more by an effort +of will than by muscular force, he ascended the ladder. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +As he put his foot on the last ladder, a shudder was felt throughout +the ship: she had started. + +“Stand there!” said the head stoker. + +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. + +“Quick, give me the brandy!” he cried with a choked voice, to the man +who had previously offered it to him. + +“Here it is, comrade; I knew very well that you would want it before +long.” + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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!” + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. +D’ARGENTON’S MAGAZINE. + + +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. + +“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?” + +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?” + +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. + +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. + +“Let us see—we are at chapter first. Have you written that?” + +“Chapter first,” repeated Charlotte, in a low, sad voice. + +The poet looked at her with annoyance; then, with an evident +determination not to question her, he continued,— + +“In a valley among the Pyrenees, those Pyrenees so rich in legendary +lore—” + +He repeated these words several times, then turning to Charlotte, he +said, “Have you written this?” + +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. + +“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.” + +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? + +“Where were we?” he continued, when she was calmer. “You have made me +lose the thread. Read me all you have written.” + +Charlotte wiped her tears away. + +“In a valley among the Pyrenees, those Pyrenees so rich in legendary +lore—” + +“Go on.” + +“It is all,” she answered. + +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?’ + +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. + +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. + +Charlotte turns hastily. “What news, doctor?” she asks. + +“None, madame; no news whatever.” + +But Charlotte detected a covert glance at D’Argenton, and knew that the +physician’s words were false. + +“And what do the officers of the Company say?” continued the mother, +determined to learn the truth. + +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.” + +D’Argenton’s face never changed, and it would have been difficult to +form any idea of his feelings. + +“I have been at work,” he said. “Excuse me, I need the fresh air.” + +“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. + +“Madame wishes to be alone! Is not madame afraid? The noise of the wind +is very dismal on the balcony.” + +“No, I am not afraid; leave me.” + +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. + +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. + +“Who is that?” she cried, half in terror, half in hope. + +“It is I, dear mother!” said a weak voice. + +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. + +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. + +“Hush! Pray make no noise—he is here and asleep.” + +“Who is here?” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“He is intoxicated,” said D’Argent on sometimes. + +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. + +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?” + +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. + +“Why do you wish to know?” + +“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.” + +She looked around to assure herself that they were entirely alone. + +“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.” + +“What was my father’s name?” + +She hesitated, much agitated, for she was not prepared for this sudden +curiosity; and yet she could not refuse to answer these questions. + +“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—” + +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. + +“What was my father’s name?” he repeated. + +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. + +“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.” + +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?” + +“I will speak to Moronval,” was the reply. + +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. + +At the end of a week it was announced that Jack was useless in the +office. + +“But, my dear,” said Charlotte, “he does all he can!” + +“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.” + +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? + +“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.” + +She thanked him enthusiastically, and it was decided that she would go +the next day to install her son at Aulnettes. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. +THE CONVALESCENT. + + +“And to think that for five years I have been allowed to remain in the +belief that my Jack was a thief!” + +“But, Dr. Rivals—” + +“And that if I had not happened to ask for a glass of milk at the +Archambaulds, I should have continued to think so!” + +It was, on feet, at the forester’s cottage that Jack and his old friend +had met. + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +Jack hesitated, as if he read his thoughts. The doctor added,— + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +The next day he knocked at the Rivals’ door. + +“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. + +“Come in, Jack,” said a sweet voice. + +Instead of obeying, he was seized with a strange emotion of fear. + +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! + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +The old woman finally finished her discourse, and, as she passed Jack +going out, recognized him. + +“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. + +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. + +“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?” + +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. + +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.” + +When she had served her grandfather, Cécile turned toward their guest. + +“Do you drink brandy?” she asked. + +“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.” + +She looked at her old friend sadly and seriously. + +“Will you have some?” + +“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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +But now the question of his birth occupied him to the exclusion of all +others. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Here is Jack!” said Moronval. + +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. + +Jack extended his hand to D’Argenton, who gave one finger in return, +and asked if the house at Aulnettes was rented. + +“Rented?” said the other, not understanding. + +“To be sure. Seeing you here, I supposed that of course the house was +occupied, and you were compelled to leave it.” + +“No,” said Jack, somewhat disconcerted; “no one has even called to look +at the place.” + +“What are you here for?” + +“To see my mother.” + +“Filial affection is a most excellent thing. Unfortunately, however, +there are travelling expenses to be thought of.” + +“I came on foot,” said Jack, with simple dignity. + +“Indeed!” drawled D’Argenton, and then added, “I am glad to see that +your legs are in better order than your arms.” + +And pleased at this mot, the poet bowed coldly, and went on. + +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. + +“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.” + +They were talking in the centre of the room; a half dozen workmen were +going to and fro, driving nails, and moving the furniture. + +“I wish to speak seriously,” said Jack. + +“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?” + +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. + +Jack said to himself, “I had better have written,” and did not know +what to say first. + +“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. + +“I should like—I should like to talk to you of my father,” he said, +with some hesitation. + +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. + +“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.” + +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! + +“Is it true that my father was noble?” he asked, suddenly. + +“Indeed he was, my child.” + +“A marquis?” + +“No, only a baron.” + +“But I supposed—in fact, you told me—” + +“No, no—it was the elder branch of the Bulac family that was noble.” + +“He was connected then with the Bulac family?” + +“Most assuredly. He was the head of the younger branch.” + +“And his name was—” + +“The Baron de Bulac—a lieutenant in the navy.” + +Jack felt dizzy, and had only strength to ask, “How long since he +died?” + +“O, years and years!” said Charlotte, hurriedly. + +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? + +“You are looking ill, child,” said Charlotte, interrupting herself in +the midst of a long romance she was telling, “your hands are like ice.” + +“Never mind, I shall get warm with exercise,” answered Jack, with +difficulty. + +“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. + +“You see I must leave you; write often, and take good care of +yourself.” + +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. + +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 _Consolation_, 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. + +“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,— + +“Do you drink brandy, Jack?” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +“Mademoiselle!” he answered, with a start. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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.” + +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.” + +“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. + +“You have come to take me away,” he exclaimed. + +“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?” + +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. + +“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?” + +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. + +“Above all, Jack, if you write to me, be sure that you put on your +letter ‘_to be called for_,’ 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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Are you cold, Jack?” said the doctor, suddenly. + +How could he be cold? The fringe of Cécile’s great shawl just touched +him. + +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. + +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. + +One morning he entered M. Rivals’ house to thank him for all his +kindness, and to inform him of his decision. + +“You are right,” said the old man; “you are well now bodily and +mentally, and you can soon find some employment.” + +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. + +Jack colored and hesitated. + +“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.” + +Jack, without answering, hid his face in his hands. + +“Why are you so troubled, my boy?” continued his old friend. + +“I did not dare to speak to you,” answered Jack; “I am poor and without +any position.” + +“You can remedy all this.” + +“But there is something else: you do not know that I am illegitimate!” + +“Yes, I know—and so is she,” said the doctor, calmly. “Now listen to a +long story.” + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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.’ + +“‘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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“‘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.’ + +“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. + +“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. + +“‘Have you really as many names as that?’ said my poor child, laughing; +‘and I am only Madeleine Rivals.’ + +“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! + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“‘It is I,’ she whispered hoarsely; ‘I have come.’ + +“‘Good heavens! what has happened? Where is Nadine?’ + +“She did not answer; her eyes closed, and she trembled violently from +head to foot. You may imagine my suspense. + +“‘Speak to me, my child. What has happened? Where is your husband?’ + +“‘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. + +“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. + +“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.’ + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“Meanwhile the future alarmed me: my granddaughter must some day learn +the truth, and that truth must be divulged if she should ever marry. + +“‘She must never love any one,’ said her grandmother. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +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? + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Jack,” she said, after he had explained all his plans, “I will wait +for you, not only four years, but forever.” + +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. + +“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. + +“And they are nice and thick, my dear, and will keep those poor little +feet warm.” + +Jack’s appearance did not seem to surprise him. + +“Where did you come from?” he asked, as calmly as if he had seen him +the night before. + +“How are you, Bélisaire? Is this your child?” + +“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. + +“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. + +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.” + +“At Eyssendeck’s?” said the pedler. “It is not easy to get in there; +one must bring the best of recommendations.” + +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.” + +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. + +“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!” + +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. + +“Good evening,” said the pedler. + +“Good evening,” said the friendly voices from within. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“You have a taste for housekeeping, Bélisaire,” said Jack, “and have +things nicely arranged.” + +“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.” + +“Waiting for what?” asked Jack. + +“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.” + +“How should I do, Bélisaire?” + +“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.” + +“No, Bélisaire, nothing would be too simple. I wish to be very +economical, for I, too, am thinking of marrying.” + +“Really! But in that case we can’t make our arrangements.” + +Jack laughed, and explained that his marriage was an affair of four +years later. + +“Well, then, it is all settled. What a happy chance it was that we met. +Hark! I hear Madame Weber.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Now,” said Bélisaire, with simplicity, “how could she guess so well?” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _dévote_ 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.” + +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.” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. +THE WEDDING-PARTY. + + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +“Turn to the right,” said Bélisaire, who was making the coffee. + +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. + +“I beg your pardon, sir,” she said; “I made a mistake.” + +At the sound of her voice Jack rises from his chair in astonishment + +“Mother!” he cried. + +She ran to him and took refuge in his arms. + +“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—” + +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. + +“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! + +“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.” + +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,— + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Under her son’s caresses she became tranquillized. There came an +occasional sob, like a child who has wept for a long time. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Bélisaire, my mother has come to live with me; how shall we manage?” + +Bélisaire started as he thought, “And now the marriage must be +postponed, for Jack will not be one of our little ménage!” + +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. + +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. + +“You know,” he said, “that if marketing is disagreeable to you, good +Madame Weber will attend to the dinners.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +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. + +“Well!” she said, running to meet him; “and what do you think of it!” + +“It is altogether charming. And how quick you have been!” + +“Yes; Bélisaire helped me, and his nice widow also. I have invited them +to dine with us.” + +“But what will you do for dishes?” + +“You will see. I have bought a few, and our neighbors on the other side +have lent me some. They are very obliging also.” + +Jack, who had never thought these people particularly complaisant, +opened his eyes wide. + +“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.” + +This was thoroughly characteristic. A carriage at two francs to save +fifteen cents! She evidently knew where the best things were to be +found. + +The bread came from the Vienna bakery, and the coffee and dessert from +the _Palais Royale_. Jack listened with a sinking heart. She saw that +something was wrong. + +“Have I spent too much?” she asked. + +“No, I think not,—for one occasion,” he answered, with same hesitation. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +Their guests gone, and Jack and his mother alone, she was astonished to +see him bring out a pile of books. + +“What are you going to do?” she asked. + +“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 _Gymnase_, when the _Ingenue_ 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!” + +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. + +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.’” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _carte_,—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?” + +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.” + +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. + +“A thousand pardons, my friends, but I had a carriage that crept.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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! + +“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. + +“It is late,” he said. + +“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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. +EFFECTS OF POETRY. + + +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 _qui vive_. Some one spoke of relatives that M. Rivals had in +the Pyrenees. + +“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!” + +Cécile having said how fond she was of the sea, Ida again began,— + +“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.” + +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. + +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 _les +convenances_. 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. + +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. + +“What is it, dear mother?” said Jack, who had hastened to follow her. + +“Ah!” she said, with rapidly falling tears, “you know I have so much +buried here!” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Here lived a dirty, pretentious old woman, who spent her time in making +a certain kind of antiquated trimming of narrow, colored ribbons. + +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 _à la Titus or à la Grecque_, and the +emperor, in his green coat and white trousers, carrying in his arms +across the garden the fainting Madame de Schwartzenberg. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“I have done nothing,” she said, sadly. “The weather is so warm, and I +am discouraged.” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“I certainly know that man,” said Jack to his mother; “it is—it must be +M. Rondic.” + +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. + +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. + +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—” + +“Yes, she is dead; she was drowned in the Loire accidentally.” + +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!” + +Jack glanced at his mother, and was quite ready to agree with his +companion. + +“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.” + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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.” + +“You do not need him, I think,” said Jack, quietly, though he was in +reality as much moved as his mother herself. + +“Of course I do not,” she answered, hurriedly. + +“And what shall you say?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“You are full of courage, my boy,” she said, kissing him. + +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. + +“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. + +“You startled me,” she said, half pouting. + +“What are you reading?” he asked. + +“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:— + +THE PARTING. + +A POEM. + +By the Vicomte Amacry d’Abgenton. + + +And commenced thus:— + +“TO ONE WHO HAS GONE. +“What! with out one word of farewell, +Without a turn of the head...” + + +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?” + +“Yes; two or three days ago.” + +Ida was dying to pick up the book from the floor, but dared not. After +a while she stooped, carelessly. + +“You do not intend to keep those verses, do you? They are simply +absurd.” + +“But I do not think them so.” + +“He simply beats his wings and crows, mother dear; his words touch no +human heart.” + +“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.” + +Jack could not restrain himself. “But the woman is yourself,” he cried, +“and you know under what circumstances you left.” + +She answered, coldly,— + +“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!” + +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. + +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. + +This done, D’Argenton decided that it was time to make a grand _coup_. +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.” + +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. + +“Why do you come here?” asked Jack. + +The other stammered and colored. “I was told that your mother was +here.” + +“So she is; but I am with her, and you shall not see her.” + +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. + +“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.” + +Jack shrugged his shoulders. “Of what use are these theatricals between +us, sir? You detest me, and I return the compliment!” + +“And since when have we been such enemies, Jack?” + +“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.” + +“It is true, Jack, that our position toward each other has been +entirely false. But, my dear friend, life is not a romance.” + +But Jack cut short this discourse. + +“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!” + +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. + +“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.” + +“We need nothing. The work of my hands supplies us with all we +require.” + +“You are very proud, my dear Jack; you were not so always.” + +“That is very true, sir, and also that your presence, that I once was +forced to endure, has now become odious to me.” + +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. + +“I was there,” she said in a low voice; “I heard everything, even that +I was old and had wrinkles.” + +He approached her, took her hands, and looked into the depths of her +eyes. + +“He is not far away. Shall I call him?” + +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!” + +Some days after this scene, Jack wrote the following letter to M. +Rivals:— + +“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. + +“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. + +“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.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. +CÉCILE UNHAPPY RESOLVE. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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: + +“Do not come to-morrow; we are going away for a week. + Rivals.” + + +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.” + +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.” + +“What is the matter, my child?” + +“Nothing, dear grandfather, save that I can never marry Jack.” + +“You frighten me, Cécile! Tell me what you mean.” + +“I am simply beginning to understand myself. I do not love him; I was +mistaken.” + +“Good heavens, child, are you quite mad? You have had some childish +misunderstanding.” + +“No, grandpapa, I assure you that I have for Jack a sister’s +friendship, nothing more. I cannot be his wife.” + +The doctor was startled. “Cécile,” he said, gravely, “do you love any +other person?” + +She colored. “No; but I do not wish to marry;” and to all that M. +Rivals said she would make no other reply. + +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.” + +Cécile’s pale features quivered nervously. Her grandfather took her +hand. + +“My child,” he said, “think well before you decide a question of such +importance.” + +“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.” + +“Then you mean to give the boy his dismissal,” said the doctor, in a +rage. “Good heavens! what strange creatures women are!” + +She looked at him with such an expression of despair that he stopped +short. + +“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.” + +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. + +The next Saturday, when Dr. Rivals said to his granddaughter, “He will +come to-morrow; is your decision irrevocable?” + +“Irrevocable,” she said, slowly. + +Jack arrived early on Sunday. When he reached the door the servant +said, “My master is waiting for you in the garden.” + +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. + +“Cécile is here—is she not?” were the youth’s first words. + +“No, my friend, I left her—at—where we have been, you know; and she +will remain some time.” + +“Dr. Rivals, tell me what is wrong. She does not wish to see me again? +Is that it?” + +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.” + +“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.” + +He staggered to his feet. His friend took his hand. “Forgive me, my +brave boy; I hoped to make you both happy.” + +“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. + +“But you will breakfast with me,” said the doctor. + +“No; I should be too sad a guest.” + +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?” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +While M. Rivals bent over the sick man, he half opened his eyes. “Tell +him, wife, tell him,” he muttered. + +The old woman paid no attention, and the man began again: “Tell him, I +say, tell him.” + +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. + +“What young lady? Of whom do you speak?” asked the doctor, turning +hastily around. + +“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.” + +M. Rivals seized the old peasant woman and shook her violently. + +“And you dared to do that?” he cried, in a furious rage. + +“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.” + +“The wretch! But who could have told him?” + +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 _Prie-Dieu_, was Cécile asleep, in an attitude that told of a night +of prayer and tears. She opened her eyes as her grandfather touched +her. + +“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.” + +She hid her face on his shoulder. “I am so ashamed,” she whispered. + +“And this is the reason that you did not wish to marry? Tell me why?” + +“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.” + +“But you love him?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“And he was willing to marry me!” + +“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.” + +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.” + +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?” + +“No; but he can come and tell you himself all that you wish to know,” +answered her grandfather, with a smile. + +“But he may not wish to come.” + +“Well, then, we will go to him. It is Sunday; let us find him and bring +him home with us.” + +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. + +“What do you want?” + +“The gentleman of the house.” + +“He is not at home.” + +“And the young lady?” + +“She is not at home, either.” + +“When will they be back?” + +“I have no idea!” And she closed the door. + +“Good heavens!” said Bélisaire, in a choked voice; “and must he be +permitted to die without any help?” + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. +A MELANCHOLY SPECTACLE. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Madame, madame!” she cried. + +Charlotte went to her. “What is it?” she asked. + +“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.” + +“I will see him,” said Charlotte, much moved; for she guessed at the +purport of the message. + +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. + +“What is it?” said D’Argenton, impatiently, when he reached the +ante-room. + +“Jack is very ill,” said the tenor. + +“I don’t believe it,” answered the poet. + +“This man swears that it is so.” + +D’Argenton looked at the man, whose face was not absolutely unknown to +him. + +“Did you come from the gentleman,—that is to say, did he send you?” + +“No; he is too sick to send any one. It is three weeks since he has +been in his bed, and very, very ill.” + +“What is his disease?” + +“Something on the lungs, and the doctors say that he cannot live; so I +thought I had better come and tell his mother.” + +“What is your name?” + +“Bélisaire, sir; but the lady knows me.” + +“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.” + +“Sir?” said the pedler, interrogatively, for he did not comprehend +these sarcastic words. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Alone?” said his wife. + +He told in a low voice that he had not been permitted to see Jack’s +mother. + +“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!” + +“But, had I undertaken such a thing, I should simply have been +arrested,” said the poor man, in a distressed tone. + +“But what are we going to do?” resumed Madame Bélisaire. “This poor boy +must have better care than we can give him.” + +A neighbor spoke. “He must go to the hospital, as the physician said.” + +“Hush, hush! not so loud!” said Bélisaire, pointing to the bed; “I’m +afraid he heard you.” + +“What of that? He is not your brother, nor your son; and it would be +better for you in every respect.” + +“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. + +The neighbors shrugged their shoulders and went away. After their +departure, the room looked less cold and less bare. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“But, Mr. Jack, you cannot walk there, weak as you are.” + +“Yes, I can, if your husband will give me the help of his arm.” + +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. + +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. + +Finally the physician reached the stout man next to Jack. “And what is +the matter with you, sir?” he asked. + +“My chest burns like fire,” was the answer. + +“Ah, your chest burns like fire, does it! Do you not sometimes drink +too much brandy?” + +“Never, sir,” answered the patient indignantly. + +“Well, then, if you do not drink brandy, how about wine?” + +“I drink what I want of that, of course.” + +“Ah, yes, I understand! You drink with your friends.” + +“On pay-days I do, certainly.” + +“That is, you get drunk once in the week. Let me see your tongue.” + +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. + +“Stand up, my man,” and the doctor applied his ear to the damp clothing +of the invalid. “Did you walk here?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +“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.” + +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 “_au +revoir_” 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.” + +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. + +“Protect, O God, my friends and my enemies, all prisoners and +travellers, the sick and the dying.” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. +DEATH IN THE HOSPITAL. + + +“Come, wake up! Visitors are here.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“What is your trade?” + +“A machinist.” + +“Do you drink?” + +“Not now; I did at one time.” + +Then a long silence. + +“What sort of a life have you led, my poor boy?” + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +Jack does not speak; his eyes are wide open and fixed. Of what is he +thinking? + +“Jack,” said the good woman, suddenly, “I am going to find your +mother;” and she smiled encouragingly. + +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. + +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? + +“No,” she said, “that is all nonsense;” but finally yielded to the +persuasions of her husband, and allowed him to go in her stead. + +“I will bring her this time, never fear!” he said, with an air of +confidence. + +“Where are you going?” asked the concierge, stopping him at the foot of +the staircase. + +“To M. D’Argenton’s.” + +“Are you the man who was here last night?” + +“Precisely,” answered Bélisaire, innocently. + +“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.” + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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,— + +“What is the matter with him? I am afraid he is suffering more.” + +“It is on account of his mother, whom he expects, and he is troubled +that she does not come.” + +“But she must be sent for.” + +“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.” + +Suddenly the woman rose in a fit of anger. + +“Don’t cry, dear,” said she to Jack, as she would have spoken to her +little child; “I am going for your mother.” + +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!” + +The sister tried to soothe him. “Calm yourself, my child.” + +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!” + +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. + +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. + +“Madame, madame! come at once!” + +“Madame Bélisaire!” cried Charlotte, turning pale. + +“Your child is very ill; he asks for you!” + +“But this is a persecution,” said D’Argenton. “Let us pass. If the +gentleman is ill, we will send him a physician.” + +“He has physicians, and more than he wants, for he is at the hospital.” + +“At the hospital!” + +“Yes, he is there just now, but not for very long. I warn you, if you +wish to see him you must hurry.” + +“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. + +“Madame, your son is dying! Ah, God, is it possible that a mother can +have a heart like this!” + +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. + +Just as Madame Bélisaire left the hospital, two persons hurried in,—a +young girl and an old man. + +A divine face bent over Jack. “It is I, my love, it is Cécile.” + +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! + +As she spoke, a great calm came to Jack, following all the bitterness +and anger of the past weeks. + +“Then you love me?” he whispered. + +“Yes, Jack; I have always loved you.” + +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. + +“How good you are to come, Cécile! Now I shall not utter another +murmur. I am ready to die, with you at my side.” + +“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.” + +This was true enough. He was transfigured with happiness. He pressed +Cécile’s hand to his cheek, and whispered an occasional word of +tenderness. + +“All that was lacking to me in life, you have given me, dear. You have +been friend and sister, wife and mother.” + +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. + +Suddenly Jack half lifted himself: “I hear her,” he whispered; “she is +coming!” + +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. + +When they arrived at the outer door, Charlotte stopped. “I cannot go +on,” she said, “I am frightened.” + +“Come on,” the other answered, roughly; “you must. Ah, to such women as +you, God should never give children!” + +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. + +“Jack, my child!” + +M. Rivals turned. “Hush,” he said, sternly. + +Then came a sigh—a long, shivering sigh. + +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. + +The doctor bent over him. “Jack, my friend; it is your mother, she is +here!” + +And she, unhappy woman, stretched out her arms toward him. “Jack, it is +I! I am here!” + +Not a movement. + +The mother cried in a tone of horror, “Dead?” + +“No,” said old Rivals; “no,—_Delivered_.” + +THE END. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JACK *** + +***** This file should be named 25302-0.txt or 25302-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/5/3/0/25302/ + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +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. 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