JACK

By Alphonse Daudet

Translated by Mary Neal Sherwood

From The Fortieth Thousand, French Edition. 

Estes And Lauriat, 1877

JACK

CHAPTER I. ~~VAURIGARD. 

"With a _k_, sir; with a _k_. The name is written and pronounced asin English. The child's godfather was English. A major-general in theIndian army. Lord Pembroke. You know him, perhaps? A man of distinctionand of the highest connections. But--you understand--M. L'Abbé! Howdeliciously he danced! He died a frightful death at Singapore some yearssince, in a tiger-chase organized in his honor by a rajah, one of hisfriends. These rajahs, it seems, are absolute monarchs in their owncountry, --and one especially is very celebrated. What is his name? Waita 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. "AfterJack, what name?"

With his elbow on his desk, and his head slightly bent, the priestexamined from out the corners of eyes bright with ecclesiasticalshrewdness, the young woman who sat before him, with her Jack standingat 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 ofher black costume, and the discreet originality of her hat, all told thestory of a woman who owns her carriage, and who steps from her carpetsto her coupé without the vulgar contact of the streets. Her head wassmall, which always lends height to a woman. Her pretty face had all thebloom of fresh fruit. Smiling and gay, additional vivacity was impartedby large, clear eyes and brilliant teeth, which were to be seen evenwhen her face was in repose. The mobility of her countenance wasextraordinary. Either this, or the lips half parted as if about tospeak, or the narrow brow, --something there was, at all events, thatindicated an absence of reflective powers, a lack of culture, andpossibly explained the blanks in the conversation of this pretty woman;blanks that reminded one of those little Japanese baskets fitting oneinto 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 boysare dressed, and as befitted his name spelled with a _k_. His legswere bare, and he wore a Scotch cap and a plaid. The costume was inaccordance with his years, but not with his long neck and slim figure. 

He seemed embarrassed by it himself, for, awkward and timid, hewould occasionally glance at his half-frozen legs with a despairingexpression, as if he cursed within his soul Lord Pembroke and the wholeIndian 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 anintelligent man. There were the same eyes, but deeper in color and inmeaning; the same brow, but wider; the same mouth, but the lips werefirmly closed. 

Over the woman's face, ideas and impressions glided without leaving afurrow or a trace; in fact, so hastily, that her eyes always seemed toretain a certain astonishment at their flight. With the child, on thecontrary, one felt that impressions remained, and his thoughtful airwould have been almost painful, had it not been combined with a certaincaressing indolence of attitude that indicated a petted child. 

Now leaning against his mother, with one hand in her muff, he listenedto her words with adoring attention, and occasionally looked at thepriest and at all the surroundings with timid curiosity. He had promisednot 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 youpromised. " Then the child choked back his tears and sobs; but itwas easy to see that he was a prey to that first agony of exile andabandonment which the first boarding-school inflicts on those childrenwho have lived only in their homes. 

This examination of mother and child, made by the priest in two orthree minutes, would have satisfied a superficial observer; butFather O------, who had been the director for twenty-five years of thearistocratic institution of the Jesuits at Vaurigard, was a man of theworld, and knew too well the best Parisian society, all its shades ofmanner and dialect, not to understand that in the mother of his newpupil he beheld a representative of an especial class. 

The self-possession with which she entered his office, --self-possessiontoo apparent not to be forced, --her way of seating herself, her uneasylaugh, and above all, the overwhelming flood of words with which shesought to conceal a certain embarrassment, all created in the mind ofthe priest a vague distrust. Unhappily, in Paris the circles are somixed, the community of pleasures and similarity of toilets have sonarrowed the line of demarcation between fashionable women of good andbad society, that the most experienced may at times be deceived, andthis is the reason that the priest regarded this woman with so muchattention. The principal difficulty in arriving at a decision arose fromthe unconnected style of her conversation; but the embarrassed air ofthe mother when he asked for the other name of the child, settled thequestion in his mind. 

She colored, hesitated. "True, " she said; "excuse me; I have not yetpresented myself. What could I have been thinking of?" and drawing asmall, highly-perfumed case from her pocket, she took from it a card, onwhich, in long letters, was to be read the insignificant name--

 _Ida de Barnacy_

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, andconcealed 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 thelips natural to a man who measures the weight and effect of the words heis about to speak. 

Suddenly he arose from his chair, and approaching one of the largewindows that looked on a garden planted with fine trees, and reddenedby the wintry sun, tapped lightly on the glass. A black silhouette wasdrawn on the window, and a young priest appeared immediately within theroom. 

"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 littleman!"

Jack supposed that he was sent out to walk so that he might be sparedthe pain of saying good-bye to his mother, and his terrified, despairingexpression so touched the kind priest that he hastily added, --

"Don't be frightened, Jack. Your mother is not going away; you will findher 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 bylife, and prepared for all its evils. 

When the door closed behind him, there was a moment of silence. Thesteps 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 chirpsof the sparrows on the eaves, the distant pianos, and an indistinctmurmur of voices--the hum of a great boarding-school. 

"This child seems to love you, madame, " said the Superior, touched byJack's submission. 

"Why should he not love me?" answered Madame de Barancy, somewhatmelodramatically; "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 ourmarriage, and under the most painful circumstances. Ah! Monsieur l'Abbé, romance-writers, who are at a loss to invent adventures for theirheroines, do not know that many an apparently quiet life contains enoughfor ten novels. My own story is the best proof of that. The Comtede Barancy belonged, as his name will tell you, to one of the oldestfamilies 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 consignedthe Comte de Barancy to the society of Major-General Pembroke and theRajah of Singapore. He did not let this appear, however, and contentedhimself with replying gently to the _soi-disant_ comtesse, --

"Do you not think with me, madame, that there would be some cruelty insending away a child that seems so warmly attached to you? He is stillvery young; and do you think his physical health good enough to supportthe grief of such a separation?"

"But you are mistaken, sir, " she answered, promptly. "Jack is a veryrobust 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 beenaccustomed. "

Annoyed to find that she was not disposed to comprehend him, the priestcontinued, --

"Besides, just now our dormitories are full; the scholastic year is veryfar advanced; we have even been obliged to decline receiving new pupilsuntil 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 yourefuse also to tell me why?"

"Madame, " answered the priest, "I would have given much if thisexplanation could have been avoided. But since you force it upon me, Imust inform you that this institution, whose head I am, exacts fromthe families who confide their children to us the most unexceptionableconduct and the strictest morality. In Paris there are many laicalinstitutions where your little Jack will receive every care, but withus it would be impossible. I beg of you, " he added, with a gesture ofindignant protestation, "do not make me explain further. I have no rightto question you, no right to reproach you. I regret the pain I am nowgiving, and believe me when I say that my words are as painful to myselfas to you. "

While the priest spoke, over the countenance of Madame de Barancyflitted shadows of anger, grief, and confusion. At first she tried tobrave it out, throwing her head back disdainfully; but the kind words ofthe priest falling on her childish soul made her burst suddenly into apassion of sobs and tears. 

"She was so unhappy, " she cried, "no one could ever know all she haddone 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 todisengage 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, andwith the abandonment in fact of a somewhat coarse nature. The poor manthought, "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 storyof her life, and, willing or not, the Superior found himself compelledto follow her through an obscure recital, whose connecting thread shebroke at every step, without looking to see how she should ever get backagain 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 inFrance was concerned, and she would rather die than speak. 

The Superior hastened to assure her that he had no intention ofquestioning her, but she would not listen to him. She was started, and awind-mill under full sail would have been more easily arrested thanher torrent of words, of which probably not one was true, for shecontradicted herself perpetually throughout her incoherent discourse, yet withal there was something sincere, something touching even in thislove between mother and child. They had always been together. He hadbeen taught at home by masters, and she wished now to separate from himonly because of his intelligence and his eyes that saw things that werenot intended for his vision. 

"The best thing to do, it seems to me, " said the priest, gravely, "wouldbe to live such a life that you need fear neither the scrutiny of yourchild nor of any one else. "

"That was my wish, sir, " she answered. "As Jack grew older, I wished tomake his home all that which it ought to be. Besides, before long, myposition will be assured. For some time I have been thinking ofmarrying, but to do this it was necessary to send my boy away for a timethat 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 yourepulse him and discourage his mother's good resolutions. "

Here the Superior arrested her with an exclamation of astonishment. Hehesitated a moment; then looking her straight in her eyes, said, --

"So be it, madame. I yield to your wishes. Little Jack pleases me verymuch; 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, thechild shall spend his vacations under this roof, and shall not return toyours. "

"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 secondcondition--you will not see him in the parlor, but always here in myprivate room, where I shall take care that you are not interfered withand that no one sees you. "

She rose in indignation. 

The idea that she could never enter the parlor, or be present on thereception-days, when she could astonish the other guests with the beautyof her child, with the richness of her toilette, that she could neversay to her friends, "I met at the school, yesterday, Madame de C------, or Madame de V------, " that she must meet Jack in secret, all thisrevolted her. 

The astute priest had struck well. 

"You are cruel with me, sir. You oblige me to refuse the favor for whichI have so earnestly entreated, but I must protect my dignity as womanand mother. Your conditions are impossible. And what would my childthink--"

She stopped, for outside the glass she saw the fair, curly head of thechild, with eyes brightened by the fresh air and by his anxiety. Upon asign 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 stupefiedby this departure which so strongly resembled a flight. She hardlyacknowledged the respectful salute of the good father, who had alsorisen hastily from his chair; but quickly as she moved, it was not tooquick 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 nota comtesse at all. Her name was not Barancy, and possibly not evenIda. Whence came she? Who was she? No one could say. These complicatedexistences have fortunes so diverse, a past so long and so varied, thatone never knows the last shape they assume. One might liken them tothose revolving lighthouses that have long intervals of shadow betweentheir gleams of fire. Of one thing only was there any certainty: shewas not a Parisian, but came from some provincial town whose accent shestill retained. It was said that at the Gymnase, one evening, two Lyonsmerchants thought they recognized in her a certain Mélanie Favrot, whoformerly kept an establishment of "gloves and perfumery;" but thesemerchants were mistaken. 

Again, an officer in the Hussars insisted that he had seen her eightyears before at Orleans. He also was mistaken. And we all know thatresemblances are often impertinences. 

Madame de Barancy had however travelled much, and made no concealment ofthe fact, but an absolute sorcerer would have been needed to evolve anyfacts from the contradictory accounts she gave of her origin and herlife. One day Ida was born in the colonies, spoke of her mother, acharming créole, of her plantation and her negroes. Another time she hadpassed her childhood in a great chateau on the Loire. She seemed utterlyindifferent as to the manner in which her hearers would piece togetherthese dislocated bits of her existence. 

As may be imagined, in these fantastic recitals, vanity reignedtriumphant, the vanity of a chattering paroquet. Bank and money, titlesand riches, were the texts of her discourse. Rich she certainly was. She had a small hotel on the Boulevard Haussmann; she had horses andcarriages, gorgeous furniture in most questionable taste, three or fourservants, and led a most indolent existence, trifling away her lifeamong women like herself, less confident in her bearing, perhaps, than they, from her provincial birth and breeding. This, and a certainfreshness, the result of a childhood passed in the open air, all kepther somewhat out of the current of Parisian life, where, too, being sonewly 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 anair of such respect that one would have supposed him to be at the courtof France in the days when the brother of the king was so denominated. The child spoke of him simply as "our friend. " The servants announcedhim as "M. Le Comte, " but among themselves they called him "the oldgentleman. "

The old gentleman was very rich, for madame spared nothing, and therewas an enormous expenditure going on constantly in the house. This wasmanaged by Mademoiselle Constant, Ida's waiting-maid. It was this womanwho gave her mistress the addresses of the tradespeople, who guided herinexperience through the mazes of life in Paris; for Ida's pet dream andhope was to be taken for a woman of irreproachable character, and of thehighest fashion. 

Thus it will be seen into what state of mind the reception of FatherO------ had thrown her, and in what a rage she left his presence. Anelegant coupé awaited her at the door of the Institution. She threwherself into it with her child, retaining only sufficient self-commandto say "home, " in so loud a voice that she was heard by a group ofpriests who were talking together, and who quickly dispersed before thiswhirlwind of furs and curled hair. In fact, as soon as the carriage-doorwas closed, the unhappy woman sank into a corner, not in her usualcoquettish position, but overwhelmed and in tears, stifling her sobs inthe quilted cushions. 

What a blow! The priest had refused to take her child, and at the firstglance had discovered the humiliating truth that she believed to havethoroughly disguised under the luxurious surroundings of a woman of theworld and of an irreproachable mother. 

Her wounded pride recalled with renewed flushes of shame the keen eyesof the good father. She recalled all her falsehood, all her folly, andremembered 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. Hevaguely conceived himself to be in fault, the dear little fellow, andyet 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 hadextorted a promise from him not to weep; his trunk was packed, and allwas ready, and the child's heart was full of trouble; and now at thelast moment he was reprieved. 

If his mother had not been in so much trouble now, he would have thankedher; how happy would he have been curled up at her side, under herfurs, in the little coupé in which they had had so many happy hourstogether--hours which were now to be repeated. And Jack thought ofthe afternoons in the Bois, of the long drives through the gay cityof Paris--a city so new to both of them, and full of excitement andinterest. A monument, perhaps, or even a mere street incident, delightedthem. 

"Look, Jack--"

"Look, mamma--"

They were two children together, and together they peered from thewindow, --the child's head with its golden curls close to the mother'sface tightly veiled in black lace. 

A despairing cry from Madame de Barancy aroused the boy from all thesesweet recollections. "_Mon dieu!_" she cried, wringing her hands, "whathave I done to be so wretched?"

This exclamation naturally elicited no response, and little Jack, notknowing 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 thoughther absolutely perfect; and without knowing it, he had injured her insome mysterious way. The poor child was now overwhelmed with despairalso, but remained utterly silent, as if the noisy demonstrations of hismother had shocked him, and made him ashamed of any manifestations onhis own part. He was seized with a sort of nervous spasm. His mothertook him in her arms. "No, no, dear child, I was only in jest; besensible, dear. What! must I rock my long-legged boy as if he were ababy? 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, laughedgayly, that Jack too might laugh. It was one of the privileges of thisinconsequent nature never to retain impressions for any length of time. Singularly enough, too, the tears she had just shed only seemed to addnew freshness and brilliancy to her youthful beauty, as a sudden showerupon a dove's plumage seems to bring out new lustre without penetratingbelow the surface. 

"Where are we now?" said she, suddenly dropping the window that wascovered with mist. "At the Madeleine. How quickly we have come! We muststop somewhere; at the pastry-cook's, I think. Dry your eyes, littleone, we will buy some meringues. "

They alighted at the fashionable confectioner's, where there was a greatcrowd. Rich furs and rustling silks crushed each other; and women'sfaces with veils half lifted were reflected in the surrounding mirrorswhich were set in gilt frames and cream-colored panels; glitteringglass, 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 previoushour, gave her an appetite. She called for a quantity of meringues andnougat, and finished by a glass of wine. Jack followed her example, butwith more moderation, his great grief having filled his eyes with unshedtears and his heart with suppressed sighs. 

When they left the shop the weather was so fine, although cold, and theflower-market of the Madeleine so fragrant with the sweet perfume ofviolets, that Ida determined to dismiss the carriage and return on foot. Briskly, and yet with a certain slowness of step, that indicated a womanaccustomed to admiration, she started on her walk, leading Jack bythe hand. The fresh air, the gay streets and attractive shops, quiterestored Ida's good-humor. Then suddenly, by what connection of ideasI know not, she remembered a masqued ball to which she was going thatnight, 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 hadalways been made up of just such trifles, and who felt as much as hismother 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 toiletteof his mother always interested him, and he fully appreciated theadmiration her beauty excited as they went through the streets and intothe 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 toJack 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 tothis ball; it is a great secret, It is five o'clock. How Constant willscold!"

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 willnot be ready in season. No one could make her toilette in such a littlewhile. "

"Don't scold, Constant. If you only knew what had happened. Look!" andshe pointed to Jack. 

The factotum seemed utterly out of patience. "What! Master Jack backagain! That is very naughty, sir, after all you promised. The policewill 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 youunderstand? They insulted me!" Whereupon she began to cry again, and toask of heaven why she was so unhappy. What with the meringues and thenougat, 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 womanwho is no stranger to such scenes, went in and out of the room, openedand shut wardrobes, with a certain self-possession that seemed tosay, "This will soon pass off. " But she did not perform her duties insilence. 

"What folly it was to take this child to the Fathers! As if it was aplace 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 atvery short notice. "

Jack, terrified at seeing his mother so ill, had seated himself on theedge of the bed; where, looking at her anxiously, he in silence askedher pardon for the sorrow he had caused her. 

"There! get away, Master Jack. Your mother is all right. I must help herdress now. "

"What! You do not mean, Constant, that I must go to this ball. I have noheart to amuse myself. "

"Pshaw! I know you, madame. You have but five minutes. Just look at thispretty costume, these rose-colored stockings, and your little cap. "

She shook out the skirts, displayed the trimming, and jingled the littlebells which adorned it, and Ida ceased to resist. 

While his mother was dressing, Jack went into the boudoir, and remainedalone in the dark. The little room, perfumed and coquettish, was, itis true, partially illuminated by the gas lamps on the boulevard. Sadlyenough the child leaned against the windows and thought of the day thatwas just over. By degrees, without knowing how, he felt himself to be"the poor child" of whom the priest had spoken in such compassionatetones. 

It is so singular to hear one's self pitied when one believes one's selfto be happy. There are sorrows, in fact, so well concealed, that thosewho have caused them, and even sometimes their victims, do not divinethem. 

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 delicatelace. 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 thePsyche, without at that time asking heaven why she was so unhappy. ThenConstant threw over her shoulders a warm cloak, and accompanied her tothe carriage, while Jack, leaning over the railing, watched from stairto stair, moving almost as if she were dancing the little pink slippersembroidered with silver, that bore his mother to balls where childrencould not go. As the last sound of the silver bells died away, he turnedtowards the salon, disturbed and anxious for the first time by thesolitude in which he ordinarily passed his evenings. 

When Madame de Barancy dined out, Master Jack was confided to the tendermercies of Constant. "She will dine with you, " said Ida. 

Two places were laid in the dining-room that seemed so huge on suchdays. But very often Constant, finding her dinner anything but cheerful, took the child and joined her companions below, where they feastedgayly. The table-cloth was soiled, and the conversation was not of thepurest; and very often the conduct of the mistress of the house wascommented upon, in words to be sure that were slightly veiled, so as notto frighten the child. This evening there was a grand discussion as tothe refusal of the Fathers to receive the boy. The coachman declaredthat it was all for the best, --that the priests would have made of thechild "a hypocrite and a Jesuit. "

Constant protested against these words. She was not a professor ofreligion, she said, but she would not hear it spoken ill of. Then thediscussion changed to the great disappointment of Jack, who listenedwith all his little ears, hoping to hear why this priest, who appearedso good, was not willing to receive him. 

But for the moment Jack was of little consequence; each was absorbed innarrating his or her religious convictions. 

The coachman, who had been drinking, said that his God was the sun; infact, he, like the elephants, adored the sun! Suddenly some one askedhow he knew that elephants adored the sun. 

"I saw it once in a photograph, " said he, sternly. Upon whichMademoiselle Constant vehemently accused him of impiety and atheism;while the cook, a stout Picardian with true peasant shrewdness, toldthem 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 interminablediscussions of these brutes, he slept, with his head on his arms, andhis fair curls spread over his velvet sleeves. In his unrestful slumberhe heard the hum of the servants' voices, and at last he fancied thatthey were talking of him; but the voices seemed to reach from afaroff--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'tremain 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 MoronvalAcademy. But what of that? it is a college all the same. I put my childthere once, when I was ordered off with the Egyptian army. The grocergave me the prospectus, and I think I have it still. "

He looked in his portfolio, and from among the tumbled and soiled papershe 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 withdifficulty:

"Gymnase Moronval--in the--in the--"

"Give it to me, " said Mademoiselle Constant; and taking it from him, sheread it at one glance. 

"Moronval Academy--situated in the finest quarter of Paris--afamily school--large garden--the number of pupils limited--course ofinstruction--particular attention paid to the correction of the accentof foreigners--"

Mademoiselle Constant interrupted herself here to breathe, and toexclaim, "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 discussionaround this kitchen-table, while his mother was dancing as Folly inher rose-colored skirts and silver bells, he was dreaming of the kindpriest, 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 theprospectus. And no one can deny that the Avenue Montaigne is wellsituated in the Champs Elysées, but it has an incongruous unfinishedaspect, as of a road merely sketched and not completed. 

By the side of the fine hotels with their plate-glass windows hung withsilken draperies, stand the houses of workmen, whence issue the noise ofhammers and grating of saws. One part of the Faubourg seems also to berelinquished to gardens after the style of Mabille. 

At the time of which I speak, and possibly now? from the avenue ran twoor three narrow lanes whose sordid aspect offered a strange contrast tothe superb buildings near them. One of these lanes opened at the number23, and announced on a gilded sign swinging in the passage, that theMoronval Academy was there situated. This sign, however, once passed, itseemed to you that you were taken back forty years, and to the otherend of Paris. The black mud, the stream in the centre of the lane, thereverberations from the high walls, the drinking-shops built from oldplanks, all seemed to belong to the past. From every nook and cranny, from stairs and balconies, whence fluttered linen hung to dry, streamedforth 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 anumber of persons. English grooms in shabby liveries, worn-out jockeys, and dilapidated body-servants, seemed there to congregate. To these mustbe added the horde of workpeople who returned at sunset; those who letchairs, or tiny carriages drawn by goats; dog-fanciers, beggars of allsorts, dwarfs from the hippodrome and their microscopic ponies. Pictureall these to yourself, and you will have some idea of this singularspot--so near to the Champs Elysées that the tops of the green treeswere to be seen, and the roar of carriages was but faintly subdued. 

It was in this place that the Moronval Academy was situated. Two orthree times during the day a tall, thin mulatto made his appearance inthe street. He wore on his head a broad-brimmed Quaker hat placed so farback that it resembled a halo; long hair swept over his shoulders, andhe crossed the street with a timid, terrified air, followed by a troopof boys of every shade of complexion varying from a coffee tint tobright copper, and thence to profound black. These lads wore the coarseuniform of the school, and had an unfed and uncared-for aspect. 

The principal of the Moronval Academy himself took his pupils--hischildren of the sun, as he called them--out for their daily walks; andthe comings and goings of this singular party gave the finishing touchof oddity to the appearance of the _Passage des Douze Maisons_. 

Most assuredly, had Madame de Barancy herself brought her child to theAcademy, the sight of the place would have terrified her, and she wouldnever have consented to leave her darling there. But her visit to theJesuits had been so unfortunate, her reception so different from thatwhich she had anticipated, that the poor creature, timid at heart andeasily disconcerted, feared some new humiliation, and delegated toMadame Constant, her maid, the task of placing Jack at the school chosenfor him by her servants. 

It was one cold, gray morning that Ida's carriage drew up in front ofthe gilt sign of the Moronval Academy. The lane was deserted, but thewalls and the signs all had a damp and greenish look, as if a recentinundation had there left its traces. Constant stepped forward bravely, leading the child by one hand, and carrying an umbrella in the other. Atthe twelfth house she halted. It was at the end of the lane just whereit closes, save for a narrow passage into La Rue Marbouf, betweentwo high walls on which grated the dry branches of old shrubbery andancient trees. A certain cleanliness indicated the vicinity of thearistocratic institution; and the oyster-shells, old sardine-boxes, andempty bottles were carefully swept away from the green door, that was assolid and distrustful in aspect as if it led to a prison or a convent. 

The profound silence that reigned was suddenly broken by a vigorousassault of the bell by Madame Constant. Jack felt chilled to the heartby the sound of this bell, and the sparrows on the one tree in thegarden fluttered away in sudden fright. 

No one opened the door, but a panel was pushed away, and behindthe heavy grating appeared a black face, with protuberant lips andastonished 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, pointedhead. Then a Creole, with a pale yellow skin, was also inspired bycuriosity and peered out. But the door still remained closed, andMadame Constant was losing her temper, when a sharp voice cried from adistance, --

"Well do you never mean to open that door, idiots?"

Then they all began to whisper; keys were turned, bolts were pushedback, oaths were muttered, kicks were administered, and after manyineffectual struggles the door was finally opened; but Jack saw only theretreating forms of the schoolboys, who ran off in as much fright as didthe sparrows just before. 

In the doorway stood a tall, colored man, whose large white cravat madehis face look still more black. M. Moronval begged Madame Constant towalk in, offered her his arm, and conducted her through a garden, largeenough, 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 byMoronval to suit his own needs. 

In one of the alleys they met a small negro with a broom and a pail. Herespectfully stood aside as they passed, and when M. Moronval said, in alow voice, "A fire in the drawing-room, " the boy looked as much startledas if he had been told that the drawing-room itself was burning. 

The order was by no means an unnecessary one. Nothing could have beencolder than this great room, whose waxed floor looked like a frozen, slippery lake. The furniture itself had the same polar aspect, envelopedin coverings not made for it. But Madame Constant cared little for thenaked walls and the discomforts of the apartment; she was occupied withthe impression she was making, and the part she was playing, that ofa lady of importance. She was quite condescending, and felt surethat children must be well off in this place, the rooms were sospacious, --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 forhis 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 greaterectness, as if reluctant to lose an inch of her height, and perhaps todisguise a trifling deformity of the shoulders; but she had a kind andwomanly expression, and drawing the child towards her, admired his longcurls and his eyes. 

"Yes, his eyes are like his mother's, " said Moronval, coolly, examiningMadame Constant as he spoke. 

She made no attempt to disclaim the honor; but Jack cried out inindignation, "She is not my mamma! She is my nurse!"

Upon which Madame Moronval repented of her urbanity, and became morereserved. Fortunately her husband saw matters in a different light, andconcluded that a servant trusted to the extent of placing her master'schildren at school, must be a person of some importance in the house. 

Madame Constant soon convinced him of the correctness of thisconclusion. She spoke loudly and decidedly--stated that the choice of aschool had been left entirely to her own discretion, and each time thatshe pronounced the name of her mistress, it was with a patronizing airthat drove poor Jack to the verge of despair. 

The terms of the school were spoken of: three thousand francs per annumwas named as the amount asked; and then Moronval launched forth on thesuperior advantages of his institution; it combined everything neededfor the development of both soul and body. The pupils accompanied theirmasters to the theatre and into the world. Instead of making of the boysintrusted to his charge mere machines of Greek and Latin, he sought todevelop in them every good quality, to prepare them for their dutiesin every position in life, and to surround them with those familyinfluences of which they had too many of them been totally deprived. Buttheir mental instruction was by no means neglected; quite the contrary. The most eminent men, savans and artists, did not shrink from thephilanthropic duty of instructing the young in this remarkableinstitution, and were employed as professors of sciences, history, music, and literature. The French language was made a matter of especialimportance, and the pronunciation was taught by a new and infalliblemethod of which Madame Moronval was the author. Besides all this, everyweek there was a public lecture, to which friends and relatives of thepupils were invited, and where they could thoroughly convince themselvesof the excellence of the system pursued at the Moronval Academy. 

This long tirade of the principal, who needed, possibly, more than anyone else the advantages of lessons in pronunciation from his wife, was achieved more quickly for the reason that, in Creole fashion, heswallowed 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 itwas necessary that the child should receive an aristocratic and finishededucation. 

"Unquestionably, " said Madame Moronval, growing still more erect. 

Here her husband added that he only received into his establishmentstrangers of great distinction, scions of great families, nobles, princes, and the like. At that very time he had under his roof a childof royal birth, --a son of the king of Dahomey. At this the enthusiasm ofMadame Constant burst all boundaries. 

"A king's son! You hear, Master Jack--you will be educated with the sonof a king!"

"Yes, " resumed the instructor, gravely; "I have been intrusted by hisDahomian Majesty with the education of his royal Highness, and I believethat 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 thefire, that he shook so convulsively, and made such a hideous noise withthe shovel and tongs?

M. Moronval continued. "I hope, and Madame Moronval hopes, that theyoung king, when on the throne of his ancestors, will remember the goodadvice and the noble examples afforded him by his teachers in Paris, the happy years spent with them, their indefatigable cares and assiduousefforts on his behalf. "

Here Jack was surprised to see the black boy kneeling before thechimney, turn toward him, and shake his woolly head violently, while hismouth opened wide in silent but furious denial. 

Did he wish to say that his royal Highness would never remember thegood lessons received at the academy, or did he mean that he would neverforget them? But what could this poor black boy know about it?

Madame Constant announced, in pompous terms, that she was willing to paya quarter in advance. Moronval waved his hand condescendingly, as if tosay, "There is no need of that. "

But the old house told a far different tale, --the shabby furniture, thedismantled walls, the worn carpets, as well as the threadbare coat ofMoronval himself, and the shiny scant robe of the little woman with thelong chin. 

But that which proved the fact more than anything else was the eagernesswith which the pair went to find in another room the superb register inwhich they inscribed the ages of the pupils, their names, and the dateof their entrance into the academy. 

While these important facts were being written, the black boy remainedcrouched in front of the fire, which seemed quite useless while heabsorbed all its heat. The chimney, which at first had refused toconsume the least bit of wood, as stomachs after too long fasting rejectfood, had now revived, and a beautiful red flame was to be seen. Thenegro, with his head on his hands, his eyes fixed as in a trance, lookedlike a little black silhouette against a scarlet background. His mouthopened in intense delight, and his eyes were perfectly round. He seemedto 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 housethe poor child felt himself utterly lost and desolate, discarded by hismother, and rendered still more miserable by the vague idea that thesecolored pupils, from every corner of the globe, had brought with them anatmosphere of unhappiness and of restlessness. He remembered, too, theJesuits' college, so fresh and sweet; the fine trees, the green-houses, the whole appearance of refinement, and the kind hand of the Superiorlaid for a moment upon his head. 

Ah! why had he not remained there? And as this occurred to him, he saidto himself, that perhaps they would not have him here either. He lookedtoward the table. There by the big register the husband and wife werebusy whispering with Madame Constant. They looked at him, and he caughta word now and then. The little woman sighed, and twice Jack heard hersay, 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 littleheart. He could have wept with shame, for in his childish mind heattributed 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 anotherrefusal? Suddenly he saw Constant draw her purse and hand to theprincipal some notes and gold pieces. Yes, they were going to keephim. He was delighted, poor child, for he little knew that the greatmisfortune 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 notrecovered 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 theparlor? What a luxury!" and he drew a long breath. In fact, thenew-comer was in the habit of drawing long breaths at the end of eachsentence, a habit he had acquired in singing; and these breaths werealmost like the roaring of a wild beast. Catching sight of the strangersand the pile of money, he stopped short with the words on his lips. Delight and surprise succeeded each other on his countenance, whosemuscles seemed habituated to all facial contortions. 

Moronval turned gravely toward the waiting woman. "M. Labassandre, ofthe Imperial Academy of Music, our Professor of Music. " Labassandrebowed once, twice, three times, and then, by way of restoring hisself-possession, and putting matters at once on a pleasant footing forall parties, administered a kick to the black boy, who did not seem atall astonished, but picked himself up and disappeared from the room. 

The door again opened, and two persons entered. One was very ugly--amean face without a beard, huge spectacles with convex glasses, andwearing an overcoat buttoned to the chin, which bore all up and down thefront 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 chemicalmanipulations, his fingers were every color of the rainbow. The lastcomer was very different. Imagine a handsome man, dressed with thegreatest care, scrupulously gloved and shod, his hair thrown back from aforehead already unnaturally high. He had a haughty, aggressive air;his heavy blonde moustache, much twisted at the ends, and a large, paleface, gave him the look of a sick soldier. 

Moronval presented him as "our great poet, Amaury d'Argenton, Professorof 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 gleamof 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 thoughtthis Argenton looked proud; but upon Jack the man made a very strongimpression, and the child shrank from him with terror and repugnance. 

Jack felt that all these men might make him wretched, but this one morethan all others. Instinctively, on seeing him enter, the child felthim 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, washe to encounter those pale, blue eyes, with half-shut, heavy lids, whoseglances were cold as steel! The eyes have been called the windows of thesoul, 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 principalapproached his new pupil, and giving him a little friendly tap on thecheek, he said, "Come, come, my young friend, you must look brighterthan this. "

And in fact, Jack, as the moment drew near that he must say farewell tohis mother's maid, felt his eyes swimming in tears. Not that he had anygreat affection for this woman, but she was a part of his home, she sawhis mother daily, and the separation was final when she was gone. 

"Constant, " he whispered, catching her dress, "you will tell mamma tocome 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 himthat all these strange eyes were fixed upon him, and that the Professorof Literature examined him with especial severity: and he controlledhimself. 

The snow fell heavily. Moronval proposed to send for a carriage, butthe maid said that Augustin and the coupé were waiting at the end of thelane. 

"A coupé!" said the principal to himself, in astonished admiration. 

"Speaking of Augustin, " said she: "he charged me with a commission. Haveyou 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 thedelightful person. 

An awkward schoolboy appeared, whose tunic, like all tunics, and, indeed, like all the clothing of boys of a certain age, was too shortand too tight for him; drawn in, in the fashion of a caftan, it toldthe story at once of an Egyptian in European clothing. His featureswere regular and delicate enough, but the yellow skin was stretchedso tightly over the bones and muscles that the eyes seemed to close ofthemselves whenever the mouth opened, and _vice versa_. 

This miserable young man, whose skin was so scanty, inspired you with astrong desire to relieve his sufferings by cutting a slit somewhere. Heat once remembered Augustin, who had been his parents' coachman, and whohad given him all his cigar-stumps. 

"What shall I say to him from you?" asked Constant, in her most amiabletone. 

"Nothing, " answered Said, promptly. 

"And your parents, how are they? Have you had any news from themlately?"

"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 beeneducated in the art of conversation, and Jack listened with manymisgivings. 

The indifferent fashion with which this youth spoke of his parents, added to what M. Moronval had previously said of the family influencesof which most of his pupils had been deprived since infancy, impressedhim unfavorably. 

It seemed to the child that he was to live among orphans or cast-offchildren, and would be himself as much cast off as if he had come fromTimbuctoo or Otaheite. 

Again he caught the dress of his mother's servant. "Tell her to come andsee me, " he whispered; "O, tell her to come. "

And when the door closed behind her, he understood that one chapterin his life was finished; that his existence as a spoiled child, as apetted baby, had vanished into the past, and those dear and happy dayswould never again return. 

While he stood silently weeping, with his face pressed against awindow that led into the garden, a hand was extended over his shouldercontaining 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 toaccept 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 inspiredwith respectful indulgence for the grief of his new pupil. 

The coachman, Augustin, had such fine furs, the coupé was so wellappointed, that the little fellow, Jack, profited by the magnificence ofthe 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 permitthe boys to have a holiday in honor of the new pupil. "

Poor little fellow! He was soon surrounded by a noisy crowd, whoquestioned him without mercy. With his blonde curls, his plaid suit, and bare legs, he sat motionless and timid, wondering at the franticgestipulations of these little boys of foreign birth, and among themall, looked much like an elegant little Parisian shut up in the greatmonkey cage in the Jardin des Plantes. 

This was the idea that occurred to Moronval, but he was aroused fromhis silent hilarity by the noise of a discussion too animated to bealtogether amiable. He heard the puffs and sighs of Labassandre and thesolemn little voice of madame. Easily divining the bone of contention, he hastened to the assistance of his wife, whom he found heroicallydefending the money paid by Madame Constant against the demands of theprofessors, whose salaries were greatly in arrear. 

Evariste Moronval, lawyer, politician, and littérateur, had been sentfrom Pointe-à-Petre in 1848 as secretary to a deputy from Guadaloupe. At that time he was just twenty-five, energetic and ambitious, withconsiderable ability and cultivation. Being poor, however, he accepteda dependent position which insured his expenses paid to Paris, thatmarvellous city, the heat of whose lurid flames extends so far over theworld that it attracts even the moths from the colonies. 

On landing, he left his deputy in the lurch, easily made a fewacquaintances, and attempted a political career, in which path he hadobtained a certain success in Guadaloupe; but he had not taken intoaccount his horrible colonial accent, of which, notwithstanding everyeffort, he was never able to rid himself. The first time he spoke inpublic, the shouts of laughter that greeted him proved conclusively thathe could never make a name, for himself in Paris as a public speaker. Hethen resolved to write, but he was clever enough to understand thatit was far easier to win a reputation at Pointe-à-Petre than in Paris. Haughty and tenacious, and spoiled by small successes, he passed fromjournal to journal, without being retained for any length of time on thestaff of any one. Then began those hard experiences of life which eithercrush a man to the earth or harden him to iron. He joined the army ofthe ten thousand men who live by their wits in Paris, who rise eachmorning dizzy with hunger and ambitious dreams, make their breakfastfrom off a penny-roll, black the seams of their coats with ink, whitentheir shirt-collars with billiard-chalk, and warm themselves in thechurches and libraries. 

He became familiar with all these degradations and miseries, --to creditrefused at the low eating-house, to the non-admittance to his garret ateleven o'clock at night, and to the scanty bit of candle, and to shoesin holes. 

He was one of those professors of--it matters not what, who writearticles for the encyclopaedias at a half centime a line, a historyof 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, forhaving struck one of the pupils in his passionate, Creole fashion. 

After three years of this miserable existence, when he had eaten anincalculable number of raw artichokes and radishes, when he had lost hisillusions and ruined his stomach, chance sent him to give lessons ina young ladies' school kept by three sisters. The two eldest were overforty; the third was thirty, --small, sentimental, and pretentious. Shesaw little prospect of marriage, when Moronval offered himself and wasaccepted. 

Once married, they lived some time in the house with the elder sisters;both made themselves useful in giving lessons. But Moronval had retainedmany of his bachelor habits, which were far from agreeable in thatpeaceful and well-ordered boarding-school. Besides, the Creole treatedhis pupils too much as he might have done his slaves at work on thesugar-cane plantation. 

The elder sisters, who adored Madame Moronval, were nevertheless obligedto separate from her, and paid her as an indemnification a satisfactorysum. What should be done with this money? Moronval wished to start ajournal, or a review; but to make money was his first wish. Finally, abrilliant idea came to him one day. 

He knew that children were sent from all parts of the world to finishtheir education in Paris. They came from Persia, from Japan, Hindostan, and Guinea, confided to the care of ship-captains, or to merchants. Suchpeople being generally well provided with money, and having but littleexperience in getting rid of it, Moronval decided that there was an easymine to work. Besides, the wonderful system of Madame Moronval could beapplied in perfection to the correction of foreign accents, to defectivepronunciation. The Professor immediately caused advertisements to beinserted in the colonial journals, where were soon to be seen the mostamazing advertisements in several languages. 

During the first year, the nephew of the Iman of Zanzibar, and twosuperb blacks from the coast of Guinea, appeared upon the scene. It wasnot until they arrived that Moronval bestirred himself to find a localhabitation and a name. Finally, in order to combine economy with theexigencies of his new position, he hired the buildings we have justvisited in this hideous _Passage des Douze Maisons_, and displayed inthe avenue the gorgeous sign we have mentioned. 

The owner of the property induced Moronval to believe that certainimprovements would soon be made, in fact, that an appropriation wasordered for a new boulevard on one side of the building. This convictioninduced Moronval to forget all the inconveniences, the dampness ofthe dormitory, the cold of certain rooms, the heat of others. This wasnothing: the appropriation bill was ready for the signature, and thingswould be all right soon. 

But Moronval was forced to endure that long period of waiting, only toowell known to Parisians in the last twenty years; and this wore heavilyupon him, costing him more thought and more anxiety than did theimprovement or welfare of his pupils. He soon discovered that he hadbeen hugely duped, and this discovery had the worst effect on thepassionate, weak nature of the Creole. His discouragement degeneratedinto absolute incapacity and indolence. The pupils had no supervisionwhatever. Provided they went to bed early, so that they used the leastpossible fire and light, he was satisfied. Their day was cut up intoclass hours, to be sure, but these were interfered with by every capriceof the principal, who sent the pupils hither and thither on his personalservice. 

And Moronval called about him all his former acquaintances, --a physicianwithout a diploma, a poet who never published, an opera singer withoutan engagement, --all of whom were in a state of constant indignationagainst the world which refused to recognize their rare merits. 

Have you noticed how such people by a system of mutual attraction seemto herd together, supporting each other as it were by their mutualcomplaints? 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 theirpipes, the smoke from which soon became so thick that they could neithersee nor hear. They talked loudly, contradicted each other with vehemencein a vocabulary of their own, where art, science, and literature werepicked into fragments as precious stuffs might be under the applicationof violent acids. 

And the "children of the sun, " what became of them amid all this? MadameMoronval alone, who preserved the good traditions of her former home andschool, made any attempts to perform the duties they had undertaken, but the kitchen, her needle, and the care of the great establishmentabsorbed a great part of her time. 

As it was necessary that they should go out, their uniforms were keptin order, for the pupils were proud of their braided tunics, and of thechevrons reaching to the elbow. In the Moronval Academy, as incertain armies of South America, all were sergeants. It was a triflingcompensation for the miseries of exile and for the harsh treatment ofsurly masters. Moronval was quite pleasant the first days of each newquarter, when his exchequer was full; he had even then been known tosmile; but the rest of the time he avenged himself on these black skinsfor the negro blood in his own veins. 

His violence accomplished that which his indolence had begun. Very soonhe began to lose his pupils; of the fifteen that were there at one timethere remained but eight. 

"Number of pupils limited, " said the prospectus, and there was a certainamount of melancholy truth in the announcement. A dismal silence seemedto settle down on the great establishment, which was even threatenedwith a seizure of the furniture, when Jack appeared upon the scene. Itof course was no very great sum, this quarter in advance, but Moronvalunderstood certain prospective advantages, and even had a very clearperception of Ida's true nature, having cross-examined Constant withvery good results. This day, therefore, witnessed a certain armedneutrality between masters and pupils. A good dinner in honor of the newarrival was served, all the professors were present, and "the childrenof the sun" even had a drop of wine, which startling event had nothappened to them for a long time. 

CHAPTER III. ~~MÂDOU. 

If the Moronval Academy still exists, I desire to stigmatize it now andforever as the most unhealthy spot I ever knew. Its dampness makes itmost objectionable for children. 

Imagine a long building all _rez-de-chaussée_, without windows, andlighted only from above. About the room hung an indescribable odor ofcollodion and ether, as if it had once been used by a photographer. Thegarden was shut in by high walls covered with ivy which dripped withmoisture. The dormitory stood against a superb hotel; and on one sidewas a stable, always noisy with the oaths of grooms, the trampling ofhorses' feet, and the rattling of pumps. From one end of the year tothe other the place was always damp, the only difference being that, according to the different seasons of the year, the dampness was eithervery cold or very warm. In summer it was filled with moisture like abathroom. In addition, a crowd of winged creatures, who lived among theold ivy on the walls, attracted by the brightness of the glass in thelow roof, introduced themselves into the dormitory through the smallestcrevice, and struck their wings against the glass, humming loudly, andfinally falling on the beds in clouds. 

The winter's humidity was worse still; the cold crept into the dormitorythrough the uneven floors and the thin walls, but after two hours ofshivering the pupils might succeed in getting warm if they drew theirknees up to their chins and kept the bedclothes well over their heads. The paternal eye of Moronval saw at once the propriety of utilizing thisotherwise 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 placedthere, with a lavatory at the end, a wretched bit of carpet near thedoor, and all was in readiness. 

Why not? After all, a dormitory is only a place to sleep in, andchildren should be able to sleep anywhere, in spite of heat or cold, ofbad air and of creeping things, in spite of the noise of pumps and ofhorses. They catch rheumatism, ophthalmia, and bronchitis, to be sure, but they sleep all the same the calm sweet sleep of children worn out byout-door exercise and play, and undisturbed by anxieties for the morrow. This is the popular belief in regard to children, but too many of usknow that the truth is quite different. For example, the first nightlittle Jack could not close his eyes. He had never slept in a strangehouse, and the change was great from his own little room at home, dimlylighted by a night-lamp, and littered with his favorite playthings, tothe 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 theskylight, filled the room with a bluish light. He looked at the beds, standing close together foot to foot the length of the room, most ofthem unoccupied, their coverings rolled up in a bundle at one end. Sevenor eight were animated by an occasional snore, by a hollow cough, or astifled exclamation. 

The new-comer had the best place, a little sheltered from the wind ofthe door. Nevertheless, he was far from warm, and the cold kept him fromsleep as much as the novelty of his surroundings. He went over and overagain in his memory every trifling detail of the day's events. Hesaw Moronval's bulky white cravat, the enormous spectacles of Dr. Hirsch--his soiled and spotted overcoat; but above all he recalled thecold and haughty eyes of "his enemy, " as he already in his innermostheart called D'Argenton. 

This thought struck such terror to his soul that involuntarily he lookedto his mother for protection and defence. 

Where was she at that moment? A dozen different clocks at that instantstruck eleven. She was probably at some ball or theatre. She would sooncome in, all wrapped in furs and laces. When she came, it mattered nothow late, she always opened Jack's door and bent over his bed to kisshim. Even in his sleep he was generally conscious of her presence, andsmilingly opened his eyes to admire her toilette. And now he shudderedas he thought of the change; and yet it was not altogether painful, for the chevrons of his uniform delighted him, and he was happy inconcealing his long legs in the skirt of his tunic. He had made two orthree new acquaintances, --a thing very agreeable to most children; hehad found his fellow-pupils odd enough, but their oddities interestedhim. They had snowballed each other in the garden, which, to a child whohad been living in the warm boudoir of a pretty woman, was a very novelamusement. 

One thing puzzled Jack: he had not yet seen his royal Highness. Wherewas the little king of Dahomey, of whom M. Moronval had spoken sowarmly? Was he in the Infirmary? Ah! if he could only see him, talk withhim, 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 hethought 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 astonishedsilence. Jack's question remained unanswered, and the child's thoughtsran on as he lay in his bed, listening to occasional gusts of musicthat rang through the house from the lungs of Labassandre, and to theperpetual sound of the pumps in the stable. 

Moronval's guests were gone, with a final bang of the large gate, andall was silent. Suddenly the dormitory door was thrown open, and thesmall black servant entered, with a lantern in his hand. 

He shook off the snow that lay thick on his black head, and creptbetween the two rows of beds, with his head drawn down between hisshoulders, and his teeth chattering. 

Jack looked at the grotesque shadows on the wall, which exaggerated allthe peculiarities of the black boy--the protruding mouth, the enormousears, and retreating forehead. 

The boy hung his lantern at the end of the dormitory and stood therewarming his hands, which were covered with chilblains. His face, thoughdirty, was so honest and kindly, that Jack's heart warmed toward him. Ashe stood there the negro looked out into the garden. "Ah! the snow I thesnow!" he murmured sadly. 

His way of speaking, and the sweet voice, touched little Jack, wholooked at the boy with lively pity and curiosity. The negro saw it, andsaid, 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, cententiously. "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 shouldoccupy 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 laughedgently as he said these words, and prepared to glide into bed, halfclothed as he was, when suddenly he stopped, drew from his breast anivory 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 thatit was an amulet--something to bring him good luck. His Aunt Kérika hadgiven it to him when he left his native land, --the aunt who had broughthim up, and to whom he hoped to return at some future day. 

"As I shall to my mamma, " said little Barancy; and both children weresilent, each thinking of the one he loved most on earth. 

Jack returned to the charge in a few minutes. "And your country--is it apretty 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 hadseen at work all day making fires, sweeping the corridors, waiting onthe table, and rinsing glasses!

The negro spoke the truth, nevertheless. The expression of his face grewvery 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 ledJack to examine this black boy, seated on the edge of his bed, his whiteshirt open, while on his dark breast shone the ivory amulet, with newinterest?

"How did all this happen?" asked the child, timidly. 

The black boy turned quickly to extinguish the lantern. "M. Moronval notlike it if Mâdou lets it burn. " Then he pulled his couch close to thatof Jack. 

"You are not sleepy, " he said; "and I never wish to sleep if I can talkof 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: towhom France, Holland, and England sent presents and envoys. His fatherhad 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 humanheads after a battle or a sacrifice. Mâdou was born in this palace. HisAunt Kérika, general-in-chief of the Amazons, took him with her in allher expeditions. How beautiful she was, this Kérika! tall and large as aman, --in a blue tunic; her naked arms and legs loaded with braceletsand anklets; her bow slung over her shoulder, and the tail of a horsestreaming below her waist. Upon her head, in her woolly locks, shewore two small antelope horns joining in a half-moon; as if these blackwarriors had preserved among themselves the tradition of Diana the whitehuntress! And what an eye she had, what deftness of hand! Why, she couldcut off the head of an Ashantee at a single blow. But, however terribleKérika might have been on the battlefield, to her nephew Mâdou she wasalways very gentle, bestowing on him gifts of all kinds: necklaces ofcoral and of amber, and all the shells he desired, --shells being themoney in that part of the world. She even gave him a small but gorgeousmusket, presented to herself by the Queen of England, and which Kérikafound too light for her own use. Mâdou always carried it when he went tothe forests to hunt with his aunt. 

There the trees were so close together, and the foliage so thick, thatthe sun never penetrated to these green temples. Then Mâdou describedwith enthusiasm the flowers and the fruits, the butterflies, and birdswith wonderful plumage, and Jack listened in delight and astonishment. There were serpents, too, but they were harmless; and black monkeysleaped from tree to tree; and large mysterious lakes, that had neverreflected the skies in their brown depths, lay here and there in theforests. 

At this, Jack uttered an exclamation, "O, how beautiful it must be!"

"Yes, very beautiful, " said the black boy, who undoubtedly exaggerateda little, and saw his dear native land through the prism of absence, ofchildish 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 bivouackedin the jungles, building huge fires to drive away wild beasts, who wereheard in the distance roaring horribly. The birds were aroused; and thebats, silent and black as shadows, attracted by the fire-light, hoveredover and about it until daybreak, when they assembled on some gigantictree, motionless, and pressed against each other, looking like somesingular leaves, dry and dead. 

In this open-air life the little prince grew strong and manly, --couldwield a sabre and carry a gun at an age when children are usually tiedto their mother's apron-string. The king was proud of his son, the heirto his throne. But, alas! it seemed that it was not enough, even for anegro prince, to know how to shoot an elephant through the eye; he mustalso learn to read books and writing, for, said the wise king to hisson, "White man always has paper in his pocket to cheat black man with. "Of course some European might have been found in Dahomey who couldinstruct the prince, --for French and English flags floated over theships in the harbors. But the king had himself been sent by his fatherto a town called Marseilles, very far at the end of the world; and hewished his son to receive a similar education. 

How unhappy the little prince was in leaving Kérika; he looked at hissabre, hung his gun against the wall, and set sail with M. Bonfils, aclerk in a mercantile house, who sent him home every year with the golddust stolen from the poor negroes. 

Mâdou, however, was resigned; he wished to be a great king some day, tocommand the troop of Amazons, to be the proprietor of these fields ofcorn and wheat, and of the palace filled with jars of palm-oil and withtreasures of gold and ivory. To own these riches he must deserve them, and be capable of defending them when necessary, --and Mâdou earlylearned that it is hard to be a king; for when one has more pleasuresthan the rest of the world, one has also greater responsibilities. 

His departure was the occasion of great public fetes, of sacrifices tothe fetish and to the divinities of the sea. All the temples were thrownopen for these solemnities, the prayers of the nation were offeredthere, and at the last moment, when the ship set sail, fifteen prisonersof war were executed on the shore, and the executioner threw their headsinto 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 theactors in them; and Jack was very glad that he was in the MoronvalAcademy rather than in that terrible land of Dahomey. 

Mâdou seeing the effect he had produced, dwelt no longer on theceremonies preceding his departure, but proceeded to describe hisarrival and life at Marseilles. 

He told of the college there, of the high walls and the benches in thecourt-yard, where the pupils cut their names; of the solemn professor, who sternly said, if a whisper was heard, "Not so much noise, ifyou please!" The close air of the recitation-rooms, the monotonousscratching of pens, the lessons repeated over and over again, were allnew and very trying to Mâdou. His one idea was to get into the sun; butthe walls were so high, the court-yard so narrow, that he could neverfind enough to bask in. Nothing amused or interested him. He was neverallowed 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, wherehe often saw merchandise from his own country, and sometimes went intoecstasies at some well-known mark. 

The steamers puffing and blowing, and the great ships setting theirsails, all spoke to him of departure and deliverance. 

Mâdou dreamed of these ships all through school-hours, --one had broughthim to that cold gray land, another would take him away. And possessedby this fixed idea, he paid no attention to his A B C's, for his eyessaw nothing save the blue of the sea and the blue of the sky above. Theresult of this was, that one fine day he escaped from the college andhid 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 shipwas in the middle of the Gulf of Lyons. Any other child would have beenkept on board; but when Mâdou's name was known, the captain took hisroyal Highness back to Marseilles, relying on a reward. 

After that, the boy became more and more unhappy, for he was kept a veryclose prisoner. Notwithstanding all this, he escaped once more; and thistime, on being discovered, made no resistance, but obeyed so gently, andwith such a sad smile, that no one had the heart to punish him. Atlast the principal of the institution declined the responsibility of sodetermined a pupil. Should he send the little prince back to Dahomey? M. Bonfils dared not permit this, fearing thereby to lose the good gracesof the king. In the midst of these perplexities Moronvol's advertisementappeared, and the prince was at once dispatched to 23 AvenueMontaigne, --"the most beautiful situation in Paris, "--where he wasreceived, as you may well believe, with open arms. This heir of afar-off kingdom was a godsend to the academy. He was constantly onexhibition; M. Moronval showed him at theatres and concerts, and alongthe boulevards, reminding one of those perambulating advertisements thatare 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 Dukeof Burgundy. The two were announced as "His Royal Highness the Prince ofDahomey, and M. Moronval, his tutor. "

For a month the newspapers were full of anecdotes of Mâdou; an attachéof a London paper was sent to interview him, and they had a long andserious talk as to the course the young prince should pursue when calledto the throne of his ancestors. The English journal published an accountof the curious dialogue, and the vague replies certainly left much to bedesired. 

At first all the expenses of the academy were discharged by thissolitary pupil, Monsieur Bonfils paying the bill that was presentedto him without a word of dispute. Mâdou's education, however, madebut little progress. He still continued among the A B C's, and MadameMoronval's charming method made no impression upon him. His defectivepronunciation was still retained, and his half-childish way of speakingwas not changed. But he was gay and happy. All the other children werecompelled to yield to him a certain deference. At first this was adifficult matter, as his intense blackness seemed to indicate to theseother children of the sun that he was a slave. 

And how amiable the professors were to this bullet-headed boy, who, inspite of his natural amiability, so sturdily refused to profit by theirinstructions! Every one of the teachers had his own private idea of whatcould be done in the future under the patronage of this embryo king. It was the refrain of all their conversations. As soon as Mâdou wascrowned, they would all go to Dahomey. Labassandre intended to developthe musical taste of Dahomey, and saw himself the director of aconservatory, and at the head of the Royal Chapel. 

Madame Moronval meant to apply her method to class upon class of crispblack heads. But Dr. Hirsch saw innumerable beds in a hospital, upon theinmates of which he could experiment without fear of any interferencefrom the police. The first few weeks, therefore, of his sojourn at Parisseemed to Mâdou very sweet. If only the sun would shine out brightly, ifthe fine rain would cease to fall, or the thick fog clear away; if, inshort, the boy could once have been thoroughly warm, he would have beencontent; and if Kérika, with her gun and her bow, her arms covered withclanking bracelets, could occasionally have appeared in the _Passage desDouze 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, takenprisoner by the Ashantees, who meant to found a new dynasty. The royaltroops and the regiment of Amazons had all been conquered and dispersed. Kérika alone was saved, and she dispatched M. Bonfils to Mâdou to tellhim to remain in France, and to take good care of his Gri-gri, for itwas written in the great book that if Mâdou did not lose that amulet, hewould come into his kingdom. The poor little king was in great trouble. Moronval, who placed no faith in the _gri-gri_, presented his bill--andsuch a bill!--to M. Bonfils, who paid it, but informed the principalthat in future, if he consented to keep Mâdou, he must not rely upon anypresent compensation, but upon the gratitude of the king as soon as thefortunes and chances of war should restore him to his throne. Wouldthe principal oblige M. Bonfils by at once signifying his intentions?Moronval promptly and nobly said, "I will keep the child. " Observe thatit was no longer "his Royal Highness. " And the boy at once becamelike all the other scholars, and was scolded and punished as theywere, --more, in fact, for the professors were out of temper with him, feeling apparently, that they had been deluded by false pretences. Thechild could understand little of this, and tried in vain all the gentleways that had seemed to win so much affection before. It was worse stillthe next quarter, when Moronval, receiving no money, realized that Mâdouwas a burden to him. He dismissed the servant, and installed Mâdou inhis place, not without a scene with the young prince. The first timea broom was placed in his hands and its use explained to him, Mâdouobstinately refused. But M. Moronval had an irresistible argument ready, and after a heavy caning the boy gave up. Besides, he preferred to sweeprather than to learn to read. The prince, therefore, scrubbed and sweptwith singular energy, and the salon of the Moronvals was scrupulouslyclean; but Moronval's heart was not softened. In vain did the littlefellow work; in vain did he seek to obtain a kindly word from hismaster; in vain did he hover about him with all the touching humility ofa submissive hound: he rarely obtained any other recompense than a blow. 

The boy was in despair. The skies grew grayer and grayer, the rainseemed to fall more persistently, and the snow was colder than ever. 

O Kérika! Aunt Kérika! so haughty and so tender, where are you? Come andsee what they are doing with your little king! How he is treated, howscantily he is fed, how ragged are his clothes, and how cold he is! Hehas 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--hefollows him. 

Mâdou's honesty and ingenuity had, however, so won the confidence ofMadame Moronval, that she sent him to market. Behold, therefore, thislast descendant of the powerful _Tocodonon_, the founder of the Dahomiandynasty, staggering daily from the market under the weight of a hugebasket, half fed and half clothed, cold to the very heart; for nothingwarms him now, neither violent exercise, nor blows, nor the shame ofhaving become a servant; nor even his hatred of "the father with astick, " as he called Moronval. 

And yet that hatred was something prodigious; and Mâdou confided to Jackhis projects of vengeance. 

"When Mâdou goes home to Dahomey, he will write a little letter to thefather with the stick; he will tell him to come to Dahomey, and he willcut off his head into the copper basin, and afterwards will cover a bigdrum 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 thedrum, and was frightened. He fancied that he heard the whizzing of thesabres, and the heavy thud of the falling heads; he pulled the blanketover his head, and held his breath. 

Mâdou, who was excited by his own story, wished to talk on, but hethought 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 Mâdouin 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, shehas 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 nicecakes, and where we met plenty of officers in uniform. The gentlemenwere 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. Whenwe first went to Paris I did not like it; I missed the trees and thecountry; but mamma petted me so much, and was so good to me, that I wassoon happy again. I was dressed like the little English boys, and myhair was curled, and every day we went to the Bois. At last my mamma'sold friend said that I ought to learn something; so mamma took me to theJesuit College--"

Here Jack stopped suddenly. To say that the Fathers would not receivehim, wounded his self-love sorely. Notwithstanding the ignorance andinnocence of his age, he felt that there was something humiliating tohis 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 onlyserious trouble of his life. Why had they not been willing to receivehim? why did his mother weep? and why did the Superior pity him?

"Say, then, little master, " asked the negro suddenly, "what is acocotte?"

"A cocotte?" asked Jack in astonishment. "I don't know. Is it achicken?"

"I heard the father with a stick say to Madame Moronval that your motherwas a cocotte. "

"What an ideal. You misunderstood, " and at the thought of his motherbeing 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 previousconversation, and the two little, lonely fellows, after having confidedto 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 ofany use to them. 

Jack had been terrified by Madou's story, but he thought of it only as afrightful tale, or a bloody battle seen at the theatre. The first monthswere so happy at the academy, every one was so kind, that he forgot thatMâdou for a time had been equally happy. 

At table he occupied the next seat to Moronval, drank his wine, sharedhis dessert; while the other children, as soon as the cakes and fruitappeared, rose abruptly from the table. Opposite Jack sat Dr. Hirsch, whose finances, to judge from his appearance, were in a most deplorablecondition. He enlivened the repast by all sorts of scientific jokes, bydescriptions of surgical operations, by accounts of infectious diseases, and, in fact, kept his hearers _au courant_ with all the ailments of theday; and, if he heard of a case of leprosy, of elephantiasis, or of theplague, 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 ofdropping into your plate, or glass, a pinch of powder, or a few dropsfrom 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 generalbicarbonate, 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 thehealth of the little De Barancy, every one was enthusiastic over hissweetness and cleverness. The singing teacher, Labassandre, at the leastjoke made by the child, threw himself back in his chair with a loudlaugh, pounded the table with his fist, and wiped his eyes with a cornerof his napkin. 

Even D'Argenton, the handsome D'Argenton, relaxed, a pale smile crossedhis big moustache, and his cold blue eyes were turned on the child withhaughty approval. Jack was delighted. He did not understand, nor did hewish to understand, the signs made to him by Mâdou, as he waited uponthe table, with a napkin in one hand and a plate in the other. Mâdouknew better than any one else the real value of these exaggeratedpraises 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 itssilver chevrons, was it not too large for Jack only because it had beenmade for Mâdou? The story of the little negro should have been a warningto the small De Barancy against the sin of pride, for the installationof both boys in the Moronval Academy had been precisely of the samecharacter. 

The holiday instituted in honor of Jack was insensibly prolonged intoweeks. 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 BoulevardHauss-mann, and had fully acquainted himself with the resources of thelady there. When, therefore, Madame de Barancy came to see Jack, whichwas very often, she met with a warm reception, and had an attentiveaudience for all the vain and foolish stories she saw fit to tell. Atfirst Madame Moronval wished to preserve a certain dignified coolnesstoward such a person, but her husband soon changed that idea, and shesaw herself obliged to lay aside her womanly scruples in favor of herinterests. 

"Jack! Jack! here comes your mother, " some one would cry as the dooropened, and Ida would sail in beautifully dressed, with packages ofcakes and bonbons in her hands and her muff. It was a festival for everyone; they all shared the delicacies, and Madame de Barancy ungloved herhand, the one on which were the most rings, and condescended to take aportion. The poor creature was so generous, and money slipped so easilythrough her fingers, that she generally brought with her cakes all sortsof presents, playthings, &c. , which she distributed as the fancy struckher. It is easy to imagine the enthusiastic praises lavished upon thisinconsiderate, reckless generosity. Moronval alone had a smile of pityand of envy at seeing money so wasted, which should have gone to theassistance of some brave, generous soul like himself, for example. This was his fixed idea. And as he sat looking at Ida and gnawing hisfinger-nails, he had an absent, anxious air like that of a man who comesto ask a loan, and has his petition on the end of his lips. Moronval'sdream for some time had been to establish a Review consecrated tocolonial interests, in this way hoping to satisfy his politicalaspirations 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 themother of his new pupil might be induced to defray the expenses of thisReview, but he did not wish to move too rapidly lest he should frightenthe lady away; he intended to prepare the way gently. Unfortunately, Madame de Barancy, on account of her very fickleness of nature, wasdifficult to reach. She would continually change the conversation justat the important point, because she found it very uninteresting. 

"If she could be inspired with an idea of writing!" said Moronvalto himself, and immediately insinuated to her that between Madame deSévigné and George Sand there was a vacant niche to fill; but he mightas well have attempted to carry on a conversation with a bird that wasfluttering about his head. 

"I am not strong-minded nor literary, " said Ida, with a half yawn, oneday when he had been speaking with feverish impatience for a long time. 

Moronval finally concluded that a creature so inconsequent must bedazzled, not led. 

One day, when Ida was holding audience in the parlor, telling wonderfultales of her various acquaintances to whose often plebeian names sheadded 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 wishto oblige. 

The principal was sorely tempted to ask her at once for funds for theReview, but being himself very distrustful, he thought it wiser toact with great prudence; so he contented himself with asking Madame deBarancy to be present at one of their literary reunions on the followingSaturday. Formerly these little fêtes took place every week, but sinceMâdou's fall they had been very infrequent. It was in vain that Moronvalhad extinguished a candle with every guest that left, in vain had hedried the tea-leaves from the teapot in the sun on the window-sill, andserved it again the following week, the expense still was too great. Butnow he determined to hazard another attempt in that direction. Madame deBarancy accepted the invitation with eagerness. The idea of makingher appearance in the salon as a married woman of position was veryattractive to her, for it was one round of the ladder conquered, onwhich she hoped to ascend from her irregular and unsatisfactory life. 

This was a most splendid fête at which she assisted. In the memoryof all beholders no such entertainment had taken place. Two coloredlanterns hung on the acacias at the entrance, the vestibule was lighted, and at least thirty candles were burning in the salon, the floor ofwhich Mâdou had so waxed and rubbed for the occasion that it was asbrilliant 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 asto the part that the prince should take at the soirée. 

Should he be withdrawn from his domestic duties and restored for oneday only to his title and ancient splendor? This idea was very tempting;but, then, who would hand the plates and announce the guests? Who couldreplace him? No one of the other scholars, for each had some one inParis who might not be pleased with this system of education; andfinally it was decided that the soirée must be deprived of the presenceand prestige of his royal Highness. At eight o'clock, "the children ofthe sun" took their seats on the benches, and among them the blonde headof little De Barancy glittered like a star on the dark background. 

Moronval had issued numerous invitations among the artistic and literaryworld--the one at least which he frequented--and the representatives ofart, 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 beseen, to sing or to recite something, to prove to themselves that theywere still alive. Then, after this breath of pure air, this glimpse ofthe heavens above, comforted by a semblance of glory and success, theyreturned to their squalid apartments, having gained a little strengthto vegetate. There were philosophers wiser than Leibnitz; there werepainters longing for fame, but whose pictures looked as if an earthquakehad shaken everything from its perpendicular; musicians--inventorsof new instruments; savans in the style of Dr. Hirsch, whose brainscontained a little of everything, but where nothing could be found byreason of the disorder and the dust. It was sad to see them; and iftheir insatiate pretensions, as obtrusive as their bushy heads, theiroffensive pride and pompous manners, had not given one an inclination tolaugh, their half-starved air and the feverish glitter of eyes thathad wept over so many lost illusions and disappointed hopes, would haveawakened profound compassion in the hearts of lookers-on. 

Besides these there were others, who, finding art too hard ataskmistress and too niggardly in her rewards, sought other employment.. For example, a lyric poet kept an intelligence office, a sculptor was anagent 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 ofmen of genius. Proud of being allowed to accompany their husbands, theysmiled upon them with an air of gratified maternal vanity. Then therewere the habitués of the house, the three professors; Labassandrein gala costume, exercising his lungs at intervals by tremendousinspirations; and D'Argenton, the handsome D'Argenton, curled andpomaded, wearing light gloves, and his manners a charming mixture ofauthority, 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 laterand the countess did not appear; for Ida de Barancy was called thecountess under that roof. Every one was uncomfortable. Little Madame deMoronval went from group to group, saying, with an amiable air, "We willwait a few moments, the countess has not yet arrived!"

The piano was open, the pupils were ranged against the wall; a smallgreen table, on which stood a glass of _eau-sucré_ and a reading-lamp, was in readiness. M. Moronval, imposing in his white vest; Madame, redand oppressed by all the worry of the evening; and Mâdotu, shivering inthe wind from the door, --all are waiting for the countess. Meanwhile, as she came not, D'Argenton consented to recite a poem that all hisassistants knew, for they had heard it a dozen times before. Standing infront 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 mostamazing criticism came from yet another, --"Goethe with a heart?"

Here Ida entered. The poet did not see her, for his eyes were lifted tothe ceiling. But she saw him, poor woman; and from that moment her heartwas 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 hispale face, wearing a dress-coat and evening gloves, reciting alove poem, and, believing in love as he did in God, he produced anextraordinary effect upon her. 

He was the hero of her dreams, and corresponded with all the foolishsentimental ideas that lie hidden very often in the hearts of suchwomen. 

From that very moment she was his, and he took exclusive possession ofher heart. She paid no attention to her little Jack, who made franticsigns to her as he threw her kiss after kiss; nor had she eyes forMoronval, who bowed to the ground; nor for the curious glances thatexamined her from head to foot, as she stood before them in her blackvelvet dress and her little white opera hat, trimmed with black rosesand ornamented with tulle strings which wrapped about her like a scarf. Years after she recalled the profound impression of that evening, andsaw as in a dream her poet as she saw him first in that salon, whichseemed to her, seen through the vista of years, immense and superb. Thefuture might heap misery upon her; her past could humiliate and woundher, crush her life, and something more precious than life itself; butthe recollection of that brief moment of ecstasy could never be effaced. 

"You see, madame, " said Moronval, with his most insinuating smile, "thatwe made a beginning before your arrival. M. Le Vicomte Àmaury d'Argentonwas 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 hadinjured the effect of his poem--destroyed its point; and such things arenot easily pardoned. He bowed, and answered with cold haughtiness thathe had finished. Then he turned away without troubling himself moreabout her. The poor woman felt a strange pang at her heart. She haddispleased him, and the very thought was unendurable. It needed alllittle Jack's tender caresses and outspoken joy--all his delight at theadmiration expressed for her, the attentions of everybody, the idea thatshe was queen of the fete--to efface the sorrow she felt, and which sheshowed by a silence of at least five minutes, which silence for a naturelike hers was something as extraordinary as restful. The disturbance ofher entrance being at last over, every one seated himself to await thenext recitation. 

Mademoiselle Constant, who had accompanied her mistress, took her seatmajestically on the front bench next the pupils. Jack swung himself onthe arm of his mother's chair, between her and M. Moronval, who smoothedthe lad's hair in the most paternal way. 

The assemblage was really quite imposing, and Madame Moronval tookdignified possession of the little table and the shaded lamp, andproceeded to read an ethnographic composition of her husband's on theMongolian races. It was long and tedious--one of those lucubrationsthat are delivered before certain scientific societies, and succeed inlulling the members to sleep. Madame Moronval took this opportunity ofdemonstrating the peculiarities of her method, which had the merit--ifmerit it were--of holding the attention as in a vice, and the words andsyllables seemed to reverberate through your own brain. To see MadameMoronval open her mouth to sound her o's, to hear the r's rattle inher throat, was more edifying than agreeable. The mouths of the eightchildren opposite mechanically followed each one of her gestures, producing a most extraordinary effect; one absolutely fascinating toMademoiselle Constant. 

But the countess saw nothing of all this; she had eyes but for her poetleaning against the door of the drawing-room, with arms folded and eyesmoodily cast down. In vain did Ida seek to attract his attention; heglanced occasionally about the salon, but her arm-chair might as wellhave been vacant; he did not appear to see her, and the poor woman wasrendered so utterly miserable by this neglect and indifference, that sheforgot 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 listenedbreathlessly. 

"Ah, how beautiful!" she cried; "how beautiful!" and she turned toMoronval, 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 impliedadmiration. 

"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 heturned away without vouchsafing another syllable. 

But Moronval profited by this opening. "Think of it!" he said; "thinkthat such verses as those cannot find a publisher! That such genius asthat 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 tolanguish!"

She spoke with great earnestness; and Moronval saw at once that he hadplayed his cards well, and proceeded to take advantage of the lady'sweakness by talking to her of D'Argenton, whom he painted in glowingcolors. 

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 thenoblest families in Auvergne. His father was ruined by the dishonesty ofan agent. "

This was his text, which he proceeded to enlarge upon, and illustrate bymany romantic incidents. Ida drank in the whole story; and while thesetwo were absorbed in earnest conversation, Jack grew jealous, and madevarious efforts to attract his mother's attention. "Jack, do be quiet!"and "Jack, you are insufferable!" finally sent him off, with tearfuleyes and swollen lips, to sulk in the corner of the salon. Meanwhilethe literary entertainments of the evening went on, and finallyLabassandre, after numerous entreaties, was induced to sing. His voicewas so powerful, and so pervaded the house, that Mâdou, who was in thekitchen preparing tea, replied by a frightful war-cry. The poor fellowworshipped 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 ofthem, apparently absorbed in conversation with one of the professors. Heappeared to be out of temper--and with whom? With the whole world; forhe was one of that very large class who are at war against society, andagainst the manners and customs of their day. 

At this very moment he was declaiming violently, "You have all the vicesof 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 morevehemently and more aggressively. He wished, he said, that all Francecould hear what he thought. The nation was abased, crushed beyond allhope of recuperation. As for himself, he had determined to emigrate toAmerica. 

All this time the poet was vaguely conscious of the admiring gaze thatwas bent upon him. He experienced something of the same sensation thatone has in the fields in the early evening, when the moon suddenly risesbehind you and compels you to turn toward its silent presence. The eyesof this woman magnetized him in the same way. The words she caught inregard to leaving France struck a chill to her heart. A funereal gloomsettled over the room. Additional dismay overwhelmed her as D'Argentonwound up with a vigorous tirade against French women, --their lightnessand coquetry, the insincerity of their smiles, and the venality of theirlove. 

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 thathe was indifferent, and fancied that his invectives were addressed toherself. 

"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. HadDr. Hirsch, who was always so interested in pathological singularities, been then at leisure, he might have made a curious study of this case ofinstantaneous combustion. 

An hour before, Madame Moronval had dispatched Jack to bed, with twoor three of the younger children; the others were gaping in silentwretchedness, stupefied by all they saw and heard. The Chinese lanternsswung in the wind each side of the garden-gate; the lane was unlighted, and not even a policeman enlivened its muddy sidewalk; but thedisputative little group that left the Moronval Academy cared littlefor the gloom, the cold, or the dampness. 

When they reached the avenue they found that the hour for the omnibushad passed. They accepted this as they did the other disagreeables oflife--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 eachborrow a little, and with it gain a grace to suffer, and a calm serenitythat may well be envied. 

CHAPTER V. ~~A DINNER WITH IDA. 

The next day the Moronvals received from Madame de Barancy an invitationfor 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 Moron-val handed him thecoquettish perfumed note. Then the principal grew very angry, as he sawhis 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 thekind of person you imagine. Besides, to serve a friend, you shouldlay aside your scruples. You see that I need the countess, that she isdisposed to look favorably on my Colonial Review, and you should do allthat lies in your power to favor my views. Come, now, think better ofit. "

D'Argenton, after being properly entreated, finished by accepting theinvitation. 

On the following Monday, therefore, Moronval and his wife left theacademy under the supervision of Dr. Hirsch, and presented themselves inthe Boulevard Haussmann, where the poet was to join them. 

Dinner was at seven; D'Argenton did not arrive until half an hour pastthe time. Ida was in a state of great anxiety. "Do you think he willcome?" she asked; "perhaps he is ill. He looks very delicate. "

At last he appeared with the air of a conquering hero, making someindifferent excuse for his lack of punctuality. His manner, however, wasless disdainful than usual, for the hotel had impressed him. Its luxury, the flowers, and thick carpets; the little boudoir with its bouquets ofwhite lilacs; the commonplace salon, like a dentist's waiting-room, ablue ceiling and gilded mouldings, the ebony furniture, cushioned withgold color, and the balcony exposed to the dust of the boulevard, --allcharmed the attaché of the Moronval Academy, and gave him a favorableimpression 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, andD'Argenton, without flattering the countess as openly as did Moronval;yet succeeded in doing so in a more subtile manner, by thawing under herinfluence to a very marked extent. 

He was an interminable talker, and submitted with a very bad grace toany interruption. He was arbitrary and egotistical, and rang the changeson the _I_ and the _my_ for a whole evening, without allowing any oneelse to speak. 

Unhappily, to be a good listener is a quality far above natureslike that of the countess; and the dinner was characterized by someunfortunate incidents. D'Argenton was particularly fond of repeating thereplies he had made to the various editors and theatrical managers whohad declined his articles, and refused to print his prose or his verse. His mots on these occasions had been clever and caustic; but with Madamede Barancy he was never able to reach that point, preceded as it mustnecessarily be with lengthy explanations. At the critical moment Idawould invariably interrupt him, --always, to be sure, with some thoughtfor 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 afit of the sulks, wondered what she had done to displease him. Two orthree times during dinner she was quite ready to weep, but did her bestto hide her feelings by urging all the delicacies of her table upon M. And Madame Moronval. Dinner over, and the guests established in the wellwarmed 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 lessthan 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 anddown 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 leavingthe table, to walk for half an hour, no matter where he might chance tobe. 

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 beatbefore. Foolish and ignorant, while at the same time credulous andromantic; very near that fatal age--thirty years--which is almostcertain to create in woman a great transformation; she now, aided by thememory of every romance she had ever read, created for herself an idealwho resembled D'Argenton. The expression of her face so changed inlooking at him, her laughing eyes assumed so tender an expression, thather passion soon ceased to be a mystery to any one. 

Moron val, who looked on, shrugged his shoulders, with a glance at hiswife. "She is simply crazy, " he said to himself. 

She certainly was crazed in a degree; and, after dinner, she tormentedherself 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 thatbeautiful poem which created such a sensation the other evening. Ihave 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 grimaceas if his finger had been caught in a vice. 

The countess, who had but a vague idea of prosody, understood simplythat she had again incurred the displeasure of D'Argenton. The factis that he had begun to affect her in a manner quite beyond her owncontrol, and which, in its unreasoning terror, was somewhat like thetimid worship offered by the Japanese to their hideous idols. 

Under the influence of his presence she was more foolish by far thannature had made her; her piquancy forsook her, and the versatilitythat rendered her so charmingly absurd was quite gone. But D'Argentonrelented, and suspended his hygienic exercise for a moment. 

"I shall be most happy to recite anything, madame, at your command; butwhat?"

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 inthese 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 painfulrecollections, D'Argenton relapsed into silence, and said not anotherword the whole evening. Poor Ida was also thoughtful, haunted by vaguefears of the noble ladies who had so warped the gentle spirit of herpoet, so drained his heart that there was not a drop left for her. 

"You know, my dear fellow, " said Moronval, as they strolled throughthe empty boulevards, arm-inarm, that night, little Madame Moronvalpattering on in front of them, --"you know if I can succeed in theestablishment of my Review, that I shall make you editor-in-chief!"

Moronval threw the half of his cargo overboard in order to save hisship, for he saw that unless the poet was enlisted, the countess wouldtake no interest in the scheme. D'Argenton made no reply, for he wasabsorbed in thoughts of Ida. 

No man can play the part of a lyric poet, a martyr to love, withoutbeing conscious of, and touched by, that silent adoration which appealsto his vanity, both as a man of letters and a man of the world. Sincehe had seen Ida in her luxurious home, about which there was the samesuspicion of vulgarity that clung about herself, the rigidity of hisprinciples had amazingly softened. 

CHAPTER VI. ~~AMAURY D'ARGENTON. 

Amaury d'Argenton belonged to one of those ancient provincial familieswhose castles resembled great farms. Impoverished for the three lastgenerations, they had finally sold their property, and come to Paris toseek their fortunes; with little change for the better, however; and forthe last thirty years they had dropped the _De_, which Amaury venturedto 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 constantlack of money which imbitters the lives of so many of us, he had neverlaughed nor played like other children. A scholarship that was obtainedfor him enabled him to complete his studies, and his only recreation wasobtained through the kindness of an aunt who resided in the Marais, andwho gave him gloves and other trifles, which the poet very early in lifelearned to regard as essentials. 

Such a childhood ripens early into bitter maturity. Infinite prosperityis needed to efface such early impressions, and we often see men whohave attained to high honors, who are rich and powerful, and yet whohave never conquered the timidity born of their early deprivations. D'Argenton's bitterness was not without reason: at twenty-five he hadsucceeded in nothing; he had published a volume at his own expense, andhad lived on bread and water in consequence for at least six months. He was industrious as well as ambitious; but something more than thesequalities are essential to a poet, whose imagination and genius must beendowed with wings. These D'Argenton had not; he felt merely that vagueuneasiness which indicates a missing limb, but that was all, and he lostboth time and trouble in ineffectual efforts; his aunt aided him by asmall allowance, but his life bore not the shadow of a resemblance tothe picture drawn by Ida. In fact, D'Argenton had never been entangledin any serious love affair; his nature was cold and prudent, and yet hehad been beloved by more than one woman. To D'Argenton, however, theirsociety had always seemed a waste of time. Ida de Barancy was the firstwho 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, itwas always with the same deprecating air and timid voice. The poet, while adopting an air of utter indifference, cultivated the affectionand society of little Jack, whom he induced to talk freely of hismother. 

Jack being extremely flattered, gladly gave every information in hispower, 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 sokind, " babbled Jack, "he comes to see us every day; or, if he does notcome, he sends us great baskets of fruit, and playthings for me. "

"And is your mother very fond of him, too?" continued D'Argenton, withoutlooking 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 childrenare not always so transparent as we believe; and it is difficult to saywhen they understand matters that go on about them, and when they donot. That mysterious growth that is constantly going on within them, has unexpected seasons of bursting into flower, and they suddenly masstogether the disconnected fragments of information they have acquiredand intuitively attain the result. 

Had Jack, therefore, no perception of the hidden rage that filled theheart of his professor when he questioned him in regard to their kindfriend? Jack did not like D'Argenton; in addition to his first dislike, he was now actuated by strong jealousy. His mother was too much occupiedby this man. When he passed the day with her, she in her turn plied himwith questions, and asked if his teacher never spoke to him of her. 

"Never, " said Jack, calmly. And yet that very day D'Argenton had desiredhim to present his compliments to the countess, with a copy of hispoems; but Jack at first forgot the volume, and finally lost it, as muchfrom cunning as from heedlessness. 

Thus, while these two dissimilar natures were attracted toward eachother, the child stood between them suspicious and defiant, as if healready 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, orto a concert, and Jack was sent back to school with his pockets full ofdainties, in which the other children shared. 

One evening, as he entered his mother's house, he saw the dining-tablelaid for three, and a gorgeous display of flowers and crystal. Hismother met him, exquisitely dressed, wearing in her hair sprays of whitelilacs, like those that filled the vases. The blazing fire alone lightedthe salon, into which she gayly drew the boy, as she said, "Guess who ishere!"

"O, I know very well!" exclaimed Jack in delight; "it is our goodfriend. "

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 sooverwhelmed by his disappointment that he with difficulty restrained histears. 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 soentirely out of place that you would have gladly disappeared from offthe face of the globe, painfully conscious, withal, that had youso vanished, no one would have missed you? When Jack spoke, no onelistened; his questions were unheard and his wants unheeded. Theconversation between his mother and D'Argenton was incomprehensible tohim, although he saw that his mother blushed more than once, and hastilyraised her glass to her lips as if to conceal her rising color. Wherewere those gay little dinners when Jack sat close at his mother's sideand reigned an absolute king at the table? This recollection came tothe boy's mind just as Madame de Barancy offered a superb pear toD'Argenton. 

"That came from our friend at Tours, " said Jack, maliciously. 

D'Argenton, who was about to peel the fruit, dropped it upon his platewith a shrug of the shoulders. What an angry glance Ida threw upon herchild! She had never looked at him in that way before. Jack didnot venture to speak again, and the evening to him was but a drearycontinuation of the repast. 

Ida and the poet talked in low voices, and in that confidential tonethat indicates great intimacy. He told her of his sad childhood and ofhis early home. He described the ruined towers and the long corridorswhere the wind raged and howled. He then depicted his early strugglesin the great city, the constant obstacles thrown in the way of thedevelopment 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 interrupthim, but listened with a smile, and her absorption was so great thatwhen he ceased speaking she still listened, although nothing was to beheard in the salon save the ticking of the clock and the rustling of theleaves of the album that Jack, half asleep, was turning over. Suddenlyshe rose with a start. 

"Come, Jack, my love; call Constant to take you back to school. It isquite time. "

"O, mamma!" said the child, sadly; but he dared not say that hegenerally remained much later. He did not wish to be troublesome to hismother, nor to meet again such an expression in her ordinarily sereneand 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 towardhim 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 hisarm-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 Barancysought to conciliate her poet, the child returned with a heavy heart tohis school; and in the cold dormitory, as he thought of the professorinstalled in his mother's chimney-corner, said to himself, "He is verycomfortable there. I wonder how long he means to stay!"

In D'Argenton's exclamation and in his repugnance to Jack, there wascertainly some acting, but there was also real feeling. He was veryjealous of the child, who represented to him Ida's past, not that thepoet was profoundly in love with the countess. He, on the contrary, loved himself in her, and, Narcissus-like, worshipped his own image whichhe saw reflected in her clear eyes. But D'Argenton would have preferredto be the first to disturb those depths. 

But these regrets were useless, though Ida shared them. "Why did I notknow him earlier?" she said to herself over and over again. 

"She ought to understand by this time, " said D'Argenton, sulkily, "thatI do not wish to see that boy. "

But even for her poet's sake Ida could not keep her child away from herentirely. She did not, however, go so often to the academy, nor summonJack from school, as she had done, and this change was by no means thesmallest of the sacrifices she was called upon to make. 

As to the hotel she occupied, her carriage, and the luxury in which shelived, 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 apparententhusiasm 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 heirhe 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 daysthat were to come. They would live in the country, but not so far awayfrom Paris that they would be deprived of its advantages. They wouldhave a little cottage, over the door of which should be inscribed thislegend: _Parva domus, magna quies_. There he could work, write abook--a novel, and later, a volume of poems. The titles of both were inreadiness, but that was all. 

Then the publishers would make him offers; he would be famous, perhapsa member of the Academy--though, to be sure, that institution wasmildewed, moth-eaten, and ready to fall. 

"That is nothing!" said Ida; "you must be a member!" and she saw herselfalready in a corner on a reception-day, modestly and quietly dressed, asbefitted the wife of a man of letters. While they waited, however, they regaled themselves on the pears sent by "the kind friend, who wascertainly 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 manylittle 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 theirlives than that which naturally grew out of an increasing estrangementbetween Moronval and his professor of literature. The principal, dailyexpecting a decision from Ida on the subject of the Review, suspectedD'Argenton of influencing her against the project, and this belief heended by expressing to the poet. 

One morning, Jack, who now went out but rarely, looked out of thewindows with longing eyes. The spring sunshine was so bright, the sky soblue, that he longed for liberty and out-door life. 

The leaf-buds of the lilacs were swelling, and the flower-beds in thegarden were gently upheaved, as if with the movements of invisible life. 

From the lane without came the sounds of children at play, and ofsinging-birds, all revelling in the sunshine. It was one of those dayswhen every window is thrown open to let in the light and air, and todrive away all wintry shadows, all that blackness imparted by the lengthof the nights and the smoke of the fires. 

While Jack was longing for wings, the door-bell rang, and his motherentered in great haste and much agitated, although dressed with greatcare. She came for him to breakfast with her in the Bois, and would notbring him back until night. He must ask Moronval's permission first; butas Ida brought the quarterly payment, you may imagine that permissionwas easily granted. 

"How jolly!" cried Jack; "how jolly!" and while his mother casuallyinformed Moronval that M. D'Argenton had told her the evening previousthat he was summoned to Auvergne, to his aunt who was dying, the boy ranto change his dress. On his way he met Mâdou, who, sad and lonely, wasbusy with his pails and brooms, and had not had time to find out thatthe air was soft and the sunshipe warm. On seeing him, Jack had a brightidea. 

"O, mamma, if we could take Mâdou!"

This permission was a little difficult to procure, so multifarious werethe duties of the prince; but Jack was so persistent that kind MadameMoronval agreed for that day to assume the black boy's place. 

"Mâdou! Mâdou!" cried the child, rushing toward him. "Quick, dressyourself and come out in the carriage with us; we are going tobreakfast in the Bois!"

There was a moment of confusion. Mâdou stood still in amazement, whileMadame Moronval borrowed a tunic that would be suitable for him in thisemergency. Little Jack danced with joy, while Madame de Barancy, excitedlike a canary by the noise, chattered on to Moronval, giving him detailsin regard to the illness of D'Argenton's aunt. 

At last they started, Jack and his mother seated side by side in thevictoria, and Mâdou on the box with Augustin. The progress would hardlybe regarded as a royal one, but Mâdou was satisfied. The drive itselfwas charming, the Avenue de l'Imperatrice was filled with peopledriving, riding, and walking. Children of all ages enlivened the scene. Babies, in their long white skirts, gazing about with the sweetsolemnity of infancy, and older children fancifully dressed, with theirtutors 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 placesquite green and fresh already. There were some spots where the tops ofthe trees were in leaf, but the foliage was so minute that it lookedlike smoke. The holly, whose crisp, stiff leaves had been covered withsnow half the winter, jostled the timid and distrustful lilacs whoseleaf-buds were only beginning to swell The carriage drew up at therestaurant, and while the breakfast ordered by Madame de Barancy was incourse of preparation, she and the children took a walk to the lake. Atthis early hour there were few of those superb equipages to be seen thatappeared later in the day. The lake was lovely, with white swans dottingit here and there, and now and then a gentle ripple shook its surface, and miniature waves dashed against the fringe of old willows on oneside. 

What a walk! And what a breakfast served at the open windows! Thechildren attacked it with the vigor of schoolboys. They laughedincessantly from the beginning to the end of the repast. 

When breakfast was over, Ida proposed that they should visit the _Jardind'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 theanimals, who, as they passed, looked at them with sleepy or inquisitiveeyes, or smelled with pink nostrils at the fresh bread they had broughtfrom the restaurant. 

Mâdou, who at first had made a pretence of interest only to gratifyJack, now became absorbed in what he saw. He did not need to examine theblue ticket over the little inclosures to recognize certain animals fromhis own land. With mingled pain and pleasure he looked at the kangaroos, and seemed to suffer in seeing them in the limited space which theycovered in three leaps. 

He stood in silence before the light grating where the antelopes wereinclosed. The birds, too, awakened his compassion. The ostriches andcassowaries looked mournful enough in the shade of their solitaryexotic; but the parrots and smaller birds in a long cage, without evena green leaf or twig, were absolutely pitiful, and Mâdou thought of theAcademy Moronval and of himself. The plumage of the birds was dull andtorn; they told a tale of past battles, of dismal flutterings againstthe bars of their prison-house. Even the rose-colored flamingoes and thelong-billed ibex, who seem associated with the Nile and the desert andthe immovable sphinx, all assumed a thoroughly commonplace aspect amongthe white peacocks and the little Chinese ducks that paddled at ease intheir miniature pond. 

By degrees the garden filled up with people, and there suddenly appearedat the end of the avenue so strange and fantastic a spectacle that Mâdoustood still in silent ecstasy. He saw the heads of two elephants, whowere slowly approaching, waving their trunks slowly, and bearing ontheir broad backs a crowd of women with light umbrellas, of childrenwith straw hats and colored ribbons. Following the elephant came agiraffe carrying his small and haughty head very high. This singularcaravan wound through the circuitous road, with many nervous laughs andterrified cries. 

Under the glowing sunlight every tint of color was thrown out in reliefupon the thick and rugged skin of the elephants, who extended theirtrunks either toward the tops of the trees or to the pockets of thespectators, 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. Mâdouwas absolutely faint with emotion, but when he learned that he toocould mount the clumsy animals, his grave face became almost tragic inexpression. Jack refused to accompany him, and remained with his mother, whom he considered too grave for this fête-day. He liked to walk closeat her side, or linger behind her in the dust of her long silken skirts, which she disdained to lift. They seated themselves, and watched thelittle black boy climb on the back of the elephant. Once there, thechild seemed in his native place. He was no longer an exile, nor theawkward schoolboy, nor the little servant, humiliated by his menialduties and by his master's tyranny. He seemed imbued with new life, andhis eyes sparkled with energy and determination. Happy little king! Twoor three times he went around the garden. "Again! again!" he cried, and over the little bridge, between the inclosures of the kangaroosand other animals, he went to and fro, excited almost to madness by theheavy long strides of the elephant. Kérika, Dahomey, war-like scenes, and the hunt, all returned to his memory. He spoke to the elephant inhis native tongue, and as he heard the sweet African voice, the hugecreature shut his eyes with delight and trumpeted his pleasure. Thezebras neighed, and the antelopes started in terror, while from thegreat cage of tropical birds, where the sun shone most fully, camewarblings and flutterings of wings, discordant screams, and an enragedchatter, all the tumult, in short, on a small scale, of a primevalforest 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 rosekeen and cold, as so often happens in the early spring. This wintrychill affected the spirits of the children, and they grew strangelyquiet and sad. Madame de Barancy for a wonder was also very silent. Shehad something she wished to say, and she probably found some difficultyin 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 newsto tell you!"

He understood at once that some great misfortune was impending, and heturned 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 youbehind, but I will write to you. Do not cry, dear, for it hurts me; Ishall 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 afortune to come, and money affairs, and other things that were not atall interesting to the child, who in reality paid little attention toher words, for he was weeping silently but chokingly. The gay streetsseemed no longer the Paris of the morning, the sunshine was gone, theflowers on the corner-stands were faded, and all was very dreary, forhe saw through eyes dim with tears, and the child was about to lose hismother. 

CHAPTER VII. ~~MADOU'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 changedthe position of his private affairs that he must offer his resignationas Professor of Literature. In a somewhat abrupt postscript he addedthat Madame de Barancy was obliged to leave Paris for an indefinitetime, and that she confided her little Jack to M. Moronval's paternalcare. In case of illness or accident to the child, a letter could beforwarded to the mother under cover to D'Argenton. 

"The paternal care of Moronval!" Had the poet laughed aloud as he pennedthese words? Did he not know perfectly well the child's fate at theacademy as soon as it was understood that his mother had left Paris, andthat 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 tornadomight 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 ofher years--for she was by no means in her earliest youth--should be soheartless 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 cherishedproject, he was more indignant that D'Argenton and Ida should have madeuse of him and his house to advance their own plans. He hurried off tothe Boulevard Haussmann to learn all he could; but the mystery was nonearer elucidation. 

Constant was expecting a letter from her mistress, and knew only thatshe had broken entirely with all past relations; that the house was tobe given up, and the furniture sold. 

"Ah! sir, " said Constant, mournfully, "it was an unfortunate day for uswhen we set foot in your old barracks!"

The preceptor returned home convinced that at the termination ofthe next quarter Jack would be withdrawn from the school. Deciding, therefore, that the child was no longer a mine of wealth, he determinedto 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 asthe butt for all the teachers. No more dainties, no more wine for him. There were constant allusions made to D'Argenton: he was selfish andvain, a man totally without genius; as to his noble birth, it was morethan doubtful; the château in the mountains, of which he discoursed sofluently, existed only in his imagination. These fierce attacks on theman whom he detested, amused the child; but something prevented himfrom joining in the servile applause of the other children, who eagerlylaughed at each one of Moronval's witticisms. The fact was, that Jackdreaded the veiled allusions to his mother with which these remarksinvariably 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 friendlyword to Jack, or by sending him on some trifling errand. During hisabsence, she administered a reproof to her husband and his friends. 

"Pshaw!" said Labassandre, "he does not understand. " Perhaps he did notfully, 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 thesame as his own, that his mother had no husband; and, one day, when oneof 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, andJack for the first time was severely flogged. 

From that day the charm was broken, and Jack's daily life did notgreatly differ from that of Mâdou, who was at this time very unhappy. The pleasant weather, and the day at the _Jardin d'Aclimation_, hadgiven him a terrible fit of homesickness. His melancholy at first tookthe form of a sullen revolt against his exacting masters. Suddenly allthis was changed, the boy's eyes grew bright, and he seemed to go aboutthe house and the garden as if in a dream. 

One night the black boy was undressing, and Jack heard him singing tohimself in a language that was strange. 

"What are you singing, Mâdou?"

"I am not singing, sir; I'm talking negro talk!" and Mâdou confided tohis friend his intention of running away from school. He had thought ofit for some time, and was only waiting for pleasant weather; and now hemeant 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 mademany objections. Dahomey had no charms for him. He thought of the copperbasin, 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 heknew 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 hadrelinquished his project. 

The classes were busy for an hour or two, when Moronval appeared. "Whereis Mâdou?" he asked abruptly. "He has gone to market, " answered madame. Jack, however, said to himself that Madou 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'sprolonged absence. 

Dinner-time came, but no Mâdou, no vegetables, and no meat. 

"Something must have happened, " said Madame Moronval, more indulgentthan her impatient husband, who paced up and down the corridor with hisrod in his hand, while the hungry schoolboys were quite ready to devoureach other. Finally, Madame Moronval sallied forth herself to buy someprovisions; and on her return, burdened with packages, she was greetedby an enthusiastic shout from the children, who, when the fiercenessof their hunger abated, ventured on surmises as to Madou's whereabouts. Moronval shrewdly suspected the truth. "How much money did he have?" heasked. 

"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 reachDahomey with that amount. "

Moronval scowled fiercely, and went to report to the police, for it wasvery essential to him that the child should be found, or, at all events, prevented from reaching Marseilles. Moronval was in wholesome fear ofMonsieur Bonfils. "The world is so wicked, you know, " he said tohis wife; "the boy might make some complaints which would injure theschool. " 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 ofvery little importance, compared to the dangers that the poor childruns--this dethroned king without country or people;" and Moronvaldashed 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, insteadof awaiting quietly at home the result of the investigations, as he hadbeen advised to do, he started out himself, with all the children tojoin in the search. 

They went to each one of the gates, interrogated the custom-houseofficers, and gave them a description of Mâdou. Then the party repairedto the police court, for Moronval had the singular idea that in thisway his pupils might learn something of Parisian life. The children, fortunately, were too young to understand all they saw, but they carriedaway with them a most sinister impression. Jack especially, who wasthe most intelligent of the boys, returned to the academy with a heavyheart, shocked at the glimpse he had caught of this under-current oflife. Over and over again he said to himself, "Where can Mâdou be?"

Then the child consoled himself with the thought that the negro was faron the road to Marseilles; which road little Jack pictured to himself asrunning straight as an arrow, with the sea at its termination, and thevessel lying ready to sail. Only one thing disturbed him in regardto Mâdou's journey: the weather, that had been so fine the day ofhis departure, had suddenly changed; and now the rain fell intorrents, --hail too, and even snow; and the wind blew around their fraildwelling, causing the poor little children of the sun to shiver in theirsleep, and dream of a rocking ship and a heavy sea. Curled up under hisblankets one night, listening to the howling of the fierce wind, Jackthought of his friend, imagined him half frozen lying under a tree, histhin clothing thoroughly wet. But the reality was worse than this. 

"He is found!" cried Moronval, rushing into the dining-room, onemorning. "He is found; I have just been notified by the police. Give memy hat and my cane!"

He was in a state of great excitement. As much from the desire toflatter 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 ofthe 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 longarms eagerly about the neck of the little black boy, the inspector ofpolice could not help thinking: "At last I have seen one teacher wholoves his pupils!" Mâdou, however, displayed the utmost indifference. His face was positively without expression; not a ray of shame or ofapprehension was visible. His eyes were wide open, but he seemed tosee nothing; his face was pale--and the pallor of a negro is somethingappalling. He was covered with mud from head to foot, and looked likesome amphibious animal who, after swimming in the water, had rolled inthe mud on the shore. No hat, and no shoes. What had happened to him? Healone could have told you, and he would not speak. The policeman said, that, making his rounds the evening before, he had found the boy hiddenin a lime-kiln, that he was half-starved, and stupefied by the excessiveheat. Why had he lingered in Paris?

This question Moronval did not ask; nor, indeed, did he speak one wordto Mâdou during their long drive to the academy. The boy was so worn outand crushed that he sank into a corner, while Moronval glanced at himoccasionally with an expression of rage that at any other time wouldhave 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 couldhardly recognize the little king. Mâdou, as he passed, said good morningin so mournful a tone that Jack's eyes filled with tears. The childrensaw nothing more of the black boy that day. Recitations went on in theirusual routine, and at intervals the sound of a lash was heard, and heavygroans from Moronval's private study. Madame Moronval turned pale, andthe book she held trembled. Even when all was again silent, Jack fanciedthat he still heard the groans. 

At dinner the principal was radiant, though seemingly exhausted byfatigue. "The little wretch!" he said to Dr. Hirsch and his wife. "Thelittle wretch! Just, see the state he has put me into!"

That night Jack found the bed next to his occupied. Poor Mâdou had puthis master into such a state that he himself had not been able to goto bed without assistance. Madame Moronval and Dr. Hirsch were therewatching the lad, whose sleep was broken by those heavy sighs and sobscommon 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 burninghot as a brick from the furnace. "Dear Mâdou, " he whispered. Mâdou halfopened his eyes and looked at his friend with an expression of utterdiscouragement. 

"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 afterhe had run away from the academy, the fifteen francs of market-moneyand his medal had been stolen from him. Then, relinquishing all idea ofMarseilles, of the ship and of the sea, knowing that without his Gri-griDahomey was unattainable, Mâdou had spent eight days and nights in thelowest depths of Paris, looking for his amulet. Fearing that Moronvalwould discover his whereabouts, he hid during the day and venturedinto the streets only after nightfall. He slept by the side of piles ofbricks and mortar, which partly protected him from the wind; or crawledinto 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 withoutcontamination, for he thought only of finding his amulet. He had shareda crust of bread with assassins, and drank with robbers; but the littleking escaped from these dangers as he had from others in Dahomey, where, when hunting with Kérika, he had been awakened by the trumpeting ofelephants and the roaring of wild beasts, and saw, under some gigantictree, the dim shadow of some strange animal passing between himselfand the bivouac fires; or caught a glimpse of some great snake slowlywinding through the underbrush. But the monsters to be found in Parisare more terrible even than those in the African forests; or they wouldhave been, had he understood the dangers he incurred. But he couldnot find his Gri-gri. Mâdou could not talk much, his exhaustion was sogreat; and Jack fell asleep with his curiosity but partially satisfied. 

In the middle of the night he was awakened suddenly by a shout fromMâdou, who was singing and talking in his own language with frightfulvolubility. Delirium had begun. 

In the morning, Dr. Hirsch announced that Mâdou was very ill. "Abrain-fever!" he said, rubbing his hands in glee. 

This Dr. Hirsch was a terrible man. His head was stuffed full ofall sorts of Utopian ideas, of impracticable theories, and notionsabsolutely without method. His studies had been too desultory to amountto anything. He had mastered a few Latin phrases, and covered his realignorance by a smattering of the science of medicine as practised amongthe Indians and the Chinese. He even had a strong leaning toward themagic arts, and when a human life was intrusted to his care he took thatopportunity to try some experiments. Madame Moronval was inclined tocall in another physician, but the principal, less compassionate, andunwilling to incur the additional expense, determined to leave the casesolely in the hands of Dr. Hirsch. Wishing to have no interference, this singular physician pretended that the disease was contagious, andordered Madou's bed to be placed at the end of the garden in an oldhot-house. For a week he tried on his little victim every drug he hadever heard of, the child making no more resistance than a sick dog wouldhave done. When the doctor, armed with his bottles and his powders, entered the hot-house, the "children of the sun, " to whose minds aphysician was always more or less of a magician, gathered about the doorand listened, saying to each other in awed tones, "What is he goingto do now to Mâdou?" But the doctor locked the door, and peremptorilyordered the children from its vicinity, telling them that they would beill too, that Mâdou's illness was contagious; and this last idea addedadditional mystery to that corner of the garden. 

Jack, nevertheless, desired to see his friend so much that he alone ofall the boys would have gladly passed the threshold, had it not been tooclosely guarded. One day, however, he seized an occasion when the doctorhad gone in search of some forgotten drug, and crept softly into theimprovised infirmary. 

It was one of those half rustic buildings which are used as a shelterfor rakes and hoes, or even to house some tender plants. Close bythe side of Mâdou's iron bed, in the corner, was a pile of earthenflowerpots; a broken trellis, some panes of glass, and a bundle of driedroots, completed the dismal picture; and in the chimney, as if for theprotection of some fragile tropical plant, flickered a tiny fire. 

Mâdou was not asleep. His poor little thin face had still the sameexpression of absolute indifference. His black hands, tightly clenched, lay on the outside of the bedclothes. There was a look of a sick animalin his whole attitude, and in the manner in which he turned his facetoward the wall, as if an invisible road was open to his eyes throughthe white stones, and every chink in the wall had become a brilliantoutlook 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 Frenchlanguage. In his fever, all recollection of it had vanished. Instincthad effaced all that art had inculcated, and Mâdou understood andspoke nothing save his savage dialect. At this moment, another of "thechildren of the sun, " Said, encouraged by Jack's example, followed himinto 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 wingsof Death, which already fanned the brow of the sick boy. 

"Let us go, " said Jack, pale and troubled; and they hastily ran down thegarden-walk, leaving their comrade alone in the twilight. Night cameon. In that silent room, which the children had left, the fire crackledcheerfully, burning brightly, and illuminating every corner as if insearch of something that was hidden. The light flickered on the ceilingand was reflected on every small window-pane, glanced over the littlebed, and brought out the color of Mâdou's red sleeve, until tiredapparently of its fruitless search, discouraged and exhausted, andconvinced that its heat was useless, for no one was there to warm. Thefire gave one last expiring flicker, and then, like the poor littlehalf-frozen king, who had so loved it, sank into eternal rest. 

Poor Mâdou! The irony of destiny pursued him even after death, forMoronval hesitated whether the interment should be that of a royalprince or of a servant. On one side there were reasons of economy; onthe other, vanity and policy had a word to say. After much indecision, Moronval decided to strike a great blow, thinking that, perhaps, as hehad not profited much by the prince living, he might gain somethingfrom him dead. So a pompous funeral was arranged. All the daily paperspublished 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, andof its principal. The discipline of the establishment was commended;its hygienic regulations, the peculiar skill of its medicaladviser, --nothing had been forgotten, and the unanimity of the eulogiumswas something quite touching. 

One day in May, therefore, Paris, which, notwithstanding its innumerableoccupations and its feverish excitements, has always one eye open toall that goes on, --Paris saw on its principal boulevards a singularprocession. Four black boys walked by the side of a bier. Behind, ataller lad, a tone lighter in complexion, wearing a fez, --our friendSaid, --carried on a velvet cushion an order or two, some royal insigniafantastic in character. Then came Moronval, with Jack and the otherschoolboys. The professors followed with the habitués of the house, theliterary men whom we met at the soiree. How shabby were these last!How many worn-out coats and worn-out hearts were there! How manydisappointed hopes and unattainable ambitions! All these slowlymarched on, embarrassed by the full light of day to which they wereunaccustomed; and this melancholy escort precisely suited the littledeposed king. Were not all of these persons pretendents, too, to someimaginary kingdom to which they would never succeed? Where but in Pariscould such a funeral be seen? A king of Dahomey escorted to the grave bya 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 tothe very grave. Yes, to the grave; for when the coffin had been lowered, Moronval pronounced a discourse so insincere and hard that it wouldnot have warmed you, my poor Mâdou! Moronval spoke of the virtues andestimable qualities of the defunct, of the model sovereign he would oneday have made had he lived. To those who had been familiar with thatpitiful 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. Thedeath of his comrade had impressed him to an extraordinary degree, andthe lonely deathbed he had witnessed haunted him for days. Jack knew toothat now he must bear alone all Moronval's whims and caprices, for theother pupils all had some one who came occasionally to see them, andwho would report any brutalities of which they were the victims. Jack'smother never wrote to him nowadays, and no one at the Institute kneweven where she was. Ah! had he but been able to ascertain, how quicklywould the child have gone to her, and told her all his sorrows. Jackthought of all this as they returned from the cemetery. Labassandre andDr. 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 Jackknew of whom they were speaking. Could his mother be in Paris and yetnot have hastened to him? All the way back to the Institute he wasmeditating his escape. 

Moronval, surrounded by his professors and friends, walked at the headof the procession, and turned occasionally to look back upon them with arallying gesture. This gesture was repeated by Said to the little boys, whose legs were very weary with the distance they had walked. They wouldincrease 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 theEgyptian'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 anylook of haste. He affected, on the contrary, a lounging air. But as hedrew nearer the Boulevard Haussmann, a mad desire to run took possessionof him, and his little feet, in spite of himself, went faster andfaster. Would the house be closed? And if Labassandre were mistaken, andhis mother not in Paris, what would become of him? The alternative of areturn to the academy never occurred to him. Indeed, if he had thoughtof it, the remembrance of the heavy blows and heartfelt sobs that he hadheard all one afternoon would have filled him with terror. 

"She is there, " cried the child, in a transport of joy, as he saw allthe windows of the house open, and the door also as it was always whenhis mother was about going out. He hastened on, lest the carriage shouldtake her away before he could arrive. But as he entered the vestibule, he was struck by something extraordinary in its appearance. It was fullof people all busily talking. Furniture was being carried away: sofasand chairs, covered for a boudoir in such faint and delicate hues thatin the broad light of day they looked faded. A mirror, framed insilver, and ornamented with cupids, was leaning against one of the stonepillars; a jardinière without flowers, and curtains that bad been takendown and thrown over a chair, were near by. Several women richly dressedwere talking together of the merits of a crystal chandelier. 

Jack, in great astonishment, made his way through the crowd, and couldhardly recognize the well-known rooms, such was their disorder. Thevisitors 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 ortwo. 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 samedirection. The child was too little to see what attracted them, but heheard 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 roughmen. He wished to exclaim, "The bed is mine--my very own--I will not have it touched;" but acertain feeling of shame withheld him, and he went from room to roomlooking 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 sopitiful 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, MasterJack, we can talk better there. "

There was quite a party in the kitchen, --the old cook, Augustin, andseveral servants in the neighborhood. They were drinking champagnearound 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. Ashe was afraid that they would take him back to the Institute, Jacktook good care not to say that he had run away, and merely spoke of animaginary permission he had received to enable him to visit his mother. 

"She is not here, Master Jack, " said Constant, "and I really do not knowwhether I ought--" Then, interrupting herself, Constant exclaimed, "O! itis 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 farfrom here?" he asked. 

"Eight good leagues, " answered Augustin. 

But the cook disputed this point; and then followed an animateddiscussion as to the route to be taken to reach _Etiolles_. Jacklistened eagerly, for he had already decided to attempt the journeyalone 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. Thisand the name of the village were the two distinct ideas he had. Thedistance did not frighten him. "I can walk all night, " he said tohimself, "even if my legs are little. " Then he spoke aloud. "I must gonow, " he said, "I must go back to school. " One question, however, burnedon his lips. Was Argenton at Etiolles? Should he find this powerfulbarrier between his mother and himself? He dared not ask Constant, however. Without understanding the truth precisely, he yet felt verykeenly that this. Was not the best side of his mother's life, and heavoided all mention of it. 

The servants said "good-bye, " the coachman shook hands with him, andthen the boy found himself in the vestibule among a bustling crowd. Hedid not linger in this chaos, for the house had no longer any interestfor him, but hurried into the street, eager to start on the journey thatwould end by placing him with his mother. 

Bercy! Yes, Bercy was the name of the village the cook had mentionedas 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 byMoronval spurred him on. An inquisitive look from a policeman startledhim, a shadow on the wall, or a hurried step behind, made his heartbeat, and over and above the noise and confusion of the streets heseemed to hear the cry of "Stop him! Stop him!" At last he climbed overthe bank and began to run on the narrow path by the water's edge. Theday was coming to an end. The river was very high and yellow from recentrains, the water rolled heavily against the arches of the bridge, andthe wind curled it in little waves, the tops of which were just touchedby the level rays of the setting sun. Women passed him bearing basketsof wet linen, fishermen drew in their lines, and a whole river-sidepopulation, sailors and bargemen, with their rounded shoulders andwoollen hoods, hurried past him. With these there was still anotherclass, rough and ferocious of aspect, who were quite capable of pullingyou out of the Seine for fifteen francs, and of throwing you in againfor a hundred sous. Occasionally one of these men would turn to look atthis slender schoolboy who seemed in such a hurry. 

The appearance of the shore was continually changing. In one placeit was black, and long planks were laid to boats laden with charcoal. Farther on, similar boats were crowded with fruit, and a delicious odorof fresh orchards was wafted on the air. Suddenly there was a look of agreat harbor; steamboats were loading at the wharves; a few rods more, and a group of old trees bathed their distorted roots in a limpidstream, 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 verydarkest body of water. 

But still the child toiled on, and at last found himself on a longwharf, covered with warehouses and piled with merchandise. He hadreached Bercy, but it was night, and he was filled with terror lesthe should be stopped at the gate; but the little fugitive was hardlynoticed. He passed the barrier without hindrance, and soon found himselfin a long, narrow street, solitary and dimly lighted. While the childwas in the life and motion of the city, he was terrified only by onethought, and that was that Moronval would find him. Now he was stillafraid, but his fear was of another character--born of silence andsolitude. 

Yet the place where he now found himself was not the country. The streetwas bordered with houses on both sides, but as the child slowly toiledon, these buildings became farther and farther apart, and considerablylower in height. Although barely eight o'clock, this road was almostdeserted. Occasional pedestrians walked noiselessly over the dampground, while the dismal howling of a dog added to the cheerlessnessof the scene. Jack was troubled. Each step that he took led him furtherfrom Paris, its light and its noise. He reached the last wineshop. A broad circle of light barred the road, and seemed to the child thelimits of the inhabited world. 

After he had passed that shop, he must go on in the dark. Should he gointo the shop and ask his way? He looked in. The proprietor was seatedat his desk; around a small table sat two men and a woman, drinkingand talking. When Jack lifted the latch, they looked up; the three hadhideous faces--such faces as he had seen at the police stations the daythey 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 oflight from the open door, hearing behind him a volley of abuse. Thedarkness now seemed to the child a refuge, and he ran on quickly untilhe found himself in the open country. Before him stretched field afterfield; a few small, scattered houses, white cubes, alone varied themonotony of the scene. Below was Paris, known by its long line ofreddish vapor, like the reflection of a blacksmith's forge. The childstood still. It was the first time that he had ever been alone out ofdoors at night. He had neither eaten nor drank all day, and was nowsuffering from intense thirst. He was also beginning to understand whathe 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 ofthe road, and sleep there until daybreak. But as he went toward thespot he had selected, he heard heavy breathing, and saw that a man wasstretched out there, his rags making a confused mass of dark shadowagainst the white stones. 

Jack stood petrified, his heart in his mouth, unable to take a stepforward or back. At this instant the sleeping figure began to move, andto talk, still without waking. The child thought of the woman in thewine-shop, and feared that this creature was she, or some other equallyrepulsive. 

The shadows all about were now to his fancy peopled with these frightfulbeings. They climbed over the bank, they barred his further progress. Ifhe extended his hand to the right or the left, he felt certain thathe should touch them. A light and a voice aroused the child from thisstupor. An officer, accompanied by his orderly, bearing a lantern, suddenly appeared. 

"Good evening, gentlemen, " said the child, gently, breathless withemotion. 

The soldier who carried the lantern raised it in the direction of thevoice. 

"This is a bad hour to travel, my boy, " remarked the officer; "are yougoing far?"

"O, no, sir; not very far, " answered Jack, who did not care to tell thetruth. 

"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 ofthese two honest soldiers, to regulate his steps by theirs, and to seethe cheerful light from the lantern! From the soldier, too, he casuallylearned 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--itis not safe. " And with these parting words, the men turned up a narrowlane, swinging the lantern, leaving Jack alone at the entrance of theprincipal street in Charenton. The child wandered on until he foundhimself on the quay; he crossed a bridge which seemed to him to bethrown over an abyss, so profound were the depths below. He lingered fora moment, but rough voices singing and laughing so startled him that hetook to his heels and ran until he was out of breath, and was again inthe open fields. He turned and looked back; the red light of the greatcity was still reflected on the horizon. Afar off he heard the grindingof wheels. "Good!" said the child; "something is coming. " But nothingappeared. And the invisible wagon, whose wheels moved apparently withdifficulty, turned down some unseen lane. 

Jack toiled on slowly. Who was that man that stood waiting for him atthe turning of the road? One man! Nay, there were two or three. But theywere trees, --tall, slender poplars, --or a clump of elms--those lovelyold elms which grow to such majestic beauty in France; and Jack wasenvironed by the mysteries of nature, --nature in the springtime of theyear, when one can almost hear the grass grow, the buds expand, and theearth crackle as the tender herbage shoots forth. All these faint, vaguenoises bewildered little Jack, who began to sing a nursery rhyme withwhich his mother formerly rocked him to sleep. 

It was pitiful to hear the child, alone in the darkness, encouraginghimself by these reminiscences of his happy, petted infancy. Suddenlythe 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 breathfrom their nostrils; their tails switch violently, and the heat of theirbodies, and the odor of the stable, is almost stifling. Two boys andtwo dogs are in charge of these animals; the dogs bark, and the uncouthpeasants yell, until the noise is appalling. 

As they pass on, the child is absolutely stupefied by terror. Theseanimals have gone, but will there not be others? It begins to rain, andJack, in despair, fails on his knees, and wishes to die. The sound of acarriage, and the sight of two lamps like friendly eyes coming quicklytoward him, revives him suddenly. He calls aloud. 

The carriage stops. A head, with a travelling cap drawn closely downover the ears, bends forward to ascertain the whereabouts of the shrillcry. 

"I am very tired, " pleaded Jack; "would you be so kind as to let me comeinto your carriage?"

The man hesitated, but a woman's voice came to the child's assistance. "Ah, what a little fellow I Let him come in here. "

"Where are you going?" asked the traveller. 

The child hesitated. Like all fugitives, he wished to hide hisdestination. "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, betweena stout lady and gentleman, who both examined him curiously by the lightof the little lamp. 

Where was he going so late, and all alone, too? Jack would have likedto tell the truth, but he was in too great fear of being carried back tothe Institute. Then he invented a story to suit the occasion. His motherwas very ill in the country, where she was visiting. He had been told ofthis the night before, and he had at once started off on foot, becausehe had not patience to wait for the next day's train. 

"I understand, " said the lady. And the gentleman looked as if heunderstood also, but made many wise observations as to the imprudence ofrunning about the country alone, there were so many dangers. Then he wasasked in what house in Villeneuve his mother's friends resided. 

"At the end of the town, " answered Jack, promptly, --"the last house onthe right. "

It was lucky that his rising color was hidden by the darkness. Hiscross-examination, however, was by no means over. The husband and wifewere great talkers, and, like all great talkers, extremely curious, andcould not be content until they had learned the private affairs of allthose 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 theweek; but they were making money, and some day would live altogether atSoisy-sous-Etiolles. 

"Is that place far from Etiolles?" asked Jack, with a start. 

"O, no, close by, " answered the gentleman, giving a friendly cut withhis whip to his beast. 

What a fatality for Jack! Had he not told the falsehood, he could havegone on in this comfortable carriage, have rested his poor little wearylegs, 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 afalsehood; I am going to the same place that you are;" but he wasunwilling to incur the contempt and distrust of these good people; yet, when they told him that they had reached Villeneuve, the child could notrestrain 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 herwell. "

At the last house the carriage stopped. 

"Yes, this is it, " said Jack, sadly. The good people said a kindgood-bye. "How lucky you are to have finished your journey, " said thewoman; "we have four good leagues before us. "

Little Jack had the same, but durst not say so. He went toward thegarden-gate. "Good night, " said his new friends, "good night. "

He answered in a voice choked by tears, and the carriage turned towardthe right. Then the child, overwhelmed with vain regrets, ran after itwith all his speed; but his limbs, weakened instead of strengthenedby inadequate repose, refused all service. At the end of a few rods hecould go no further, but sank on the roadside with a burst of passionatetears, while the hospitable proprietors of the carriage rolledcomfortably on, without an idea of the despair they had left behindthem. 

He was cold, the earth was wet. No matter for that; he was too weary tothink or to feel. The wind blows violently, and soon the poor little boysleeps quietly. A frightful noise awakens him. Jack starts up and seessomething monstrous--a howling, snorting beast, with two fiery eyes thatsend forth a shower of sparks. The creature dashed past, leaving behindhim a train like a comet's tail. A grove of trees, quite unsuspected byJack, suddenly flashed out clearly; each leaf could have been counted. Not until this apparition was far away, and nothing of it was visiblesave 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 illand stiff in every limb. He had dreamed of Mâdou, --dreamed that they layside by side in the cemetery; he saw Mâdou's face, and shivered at thethought of the little icy fingers touching his own. To get away fromthis idea Jack resumed his weary journey. The damp earth had stiffenedin the cold night wind, and his own footfall sounded in his ears sounnaturally 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 boyplods on, with swimming head and burning feet. He dares not stop. Occasionally he meets a huge covered wagon, driver and horses soundasleep. 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 whosepraises are sung by the cheery crowing of the cocks, and the gurgles ofthe frogs in the pond. It is the dawn. And the child shares the anxietyof expectant nature, and breathlessly awaits the coming of the new-bornday. 

Suddenly, directly in front of him, in the direction in which lay thetown where his mother was, the clouds divide--are torn apart suddenly, as it were; a pale line of light is first seen; this line graduallybroadens, with a waving light like flames. Jack walks toward this lightwith a strength imparted by incipient delirium. 

Something tells him that his mother is waiting there for him, waiting towelcome him after this horrible night. The sky was now clear, and lookedlike a large blue eye, dewy with tears and full of sweetness. The roadno longer dismayed the child. Besides, it was a smooth highway, withoutditch or pavement, intended, it seemed, for the carriages of thewealthy. Superb residences, with grounds carefully kept, were on bothsides of this road. Between the white houses and the vineyards weregreen lawns that led down to the river, whose surface reflected thetender 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 totheir work. 

"No, he was not far from Etiolles; he had but to follow the roadstraight on through the wood. "

The wood was all astir now, resounding with the chirping of birds andthe rustling of squirrels. The refrain of the birds in the hedge ofwild roses was repeated from the topmost branches of the century-oldoak-trees; the branches shook and bent under the sudden rush of wingedcreatures; and while the last of the shadows faded away, and thenight-birds with silent, heavy flight hurried to their mysteriousshelters, a lark suddenly rises from the field with its wingswide-spread, and flies higher and higher until it is lost in the skyabove. 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 alittle stony path. The sunshine warms the little fellow, who stumblesover the pebbles, for he has no strength to lift his feet. At last hesees a steeple and a cluster of houses; one more effort, and he willreach them. But he is dizzy and falls; through his half-shut eyes hesees close at hand a little house covered with vines and roses. Over thedoor, between the wavering shadows of a lilac-tree already in flower, hesaw an inscription in gold letters:--

 PARVA DOMUS, MAGNA QUIES. 

How pretty the house was, bathed in the fresh morning light! All theblinds are still closed, although the dwellers in the cottages areawake, for he hears a woman's voice singing, --singing, too, his owncradle-song, in a fresh, gay voice. Was he dreaming? The blinds werethrown open, and a woman appeared in a white négligée, with her hairlightly 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 poorlittle worn and travel-stained lad. 

She screamed "Jack!" and in a moment more was beside him, warming him inher arms, caressing and soothing the little fellow, who sobbed out theanguish 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 goback to that school. Did they dare to strike you? Cheer up, dear. I tellyou that you shall never go there again, but shall always be with me. Iwill arrange a little room for you to-day, and you will see how nice itis to be in the country. We have cows and chickens, and that reminds methe poultry has not yet been fed. Lie down, dear, and rest a while. Iwill wake you at dinner-time, but first drink this soup. It is good, isit not? And to think that while I was calmly sleeping, you were alonein the cold and dark night. I must go. My chickens are calling me;" andwith a loving kiss Ida went off on tiptoe, happy and bright, brownedsomewhat by the sun, and dressed with rather a theatrical idea of theproprieties. Her country costume had a great deal of black velvet aboutit, and she wore a wide-brimmed Leghorn hat, trimmed with poppies andwheat. 

Jack could not sleep, but his bath and the soup prepared by MèreArchambauld, his mother's cook, had restored his strength to a verygreat 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 theleast gilding. Outside, the rustling of the leaves, the cooing of thepigeons 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 thebed, in a pretentious attitude, his hand on an open book. 

The child said to himself, "Where is he? Why have I not seenhim?" Finally, annoyed by the eyes of the picture, which seemed to pursuehim either with a question or a reproach, he rose and went down to hismother. 

She was busy in the farm-yard; her gloves reached above her elbows, andher dress, looped on one side, showed her wide striped skirt and highheels. 

Mère Archambauld laughed at her awkwardness. This woman was the wifeof an employé in the government forests, who attended to the culinarydepartment at Aulnettes, as the house was called where Jack's motherlived. 

"Heavens! how pretty your boy is!" said the old woman, delighted byJack'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, " saidhis mother, who quickly wearied of every occupation. She shook downher skirts, and took the child over this most original house, which wassituated a stone's throw from the village, and realized better thanmost poets' dreams those of D'Argenton. The house had been originally ashooting-box belonging to a distant château. A new tower had been added, and a weathercock, which last gave an aspect of intense respectabilityto the place. They visited the stable and the orchard, and finishedtheir examination by a visit to the tower. 

A winding staircase, lighted by a skylight of colored glass, led to alarge, round room containing four windows, and furnished by a circulardivan covered with some brilliant Eastern stuff. A couple of curiousold oaken chests, a Venetian mirror, some antique hangings, and a highcarved chair of the time of Henri II. , drawn up in front of an enormoustable covered with papers, composed the furniture of the apartment. Acharming landscape was visible from the windows, a valley and a river, afresh 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 ather son, --

"At present he is travelling. He will return in a few days, however. Ishall write to him that you are here; he will be very glad, for he isvery fond of you, and is the best of men, even if he does look a littlesevere sometimes. You must learn to love him, little Jack, or I shall bevery unhappy. "

As she spoke she looked at D'Argenton's picture hung at the end of thisroom, 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 theentrance-hall, and it was a most significant fact that there was noother portrait than his in the whole house. "You promise me, Jack, thatyou 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 inthat quaint old drawing-room. They heard Mère Archambauld rattling herdishes in the kitchen. Outside of the house there was not a sound. Jacksat and admired his mother. She thought him much grown and very largefor his age, and they laughed and kissed each other every few minutes. In the evening they had some visitors. Père Archambauld came for hiswife, as he always did, for they lived in the depths of the forest. Hetook a seat in the dining-room. 

"You will drink a glass of wine, Father Archambauld. Drink to the healthof my little boy. Is he not nice? Will you take him with you sometimesinto the forest?"

And as he drank his wine, this tawny giant, who was the terror ofthe poachers throughout the country, looked about the room with thatrestless glance acquired in his nightly watchings in the forest, andanswered timidly, --

"That I will, Madame d'Argenton. "

This name of D'Argenton, thus given to his mother, mystified our littlefriend. But as he had no very accurate idea of either the duties ordignities of life, he soon ceased to take any notice of his mother'snew title, and became absorbed in a rough game of play with the two dogsunder the table. The old couple had just gone, when a carriage was heardat 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 whosearrival I have heard. "

Jack looked inquisitively at the large, kindly face crowned by snowylocks. 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 throughmy servant, that he and you might require my services. "

What good people these all were, and bow thankful little Jack felt thathe had forever left that detestable school!

When the doctor left, the house was bolted and barred, and the motherand child went tranquilly to their bedroom. 

There, while Jack slept, Ida wrote to D'Argenton a long letter, tellinghim of her son's arrival, and seeking to arouse his sympathy for thelittle lonely fellow, whose gentle, regular breathing she heard at herside. She was more at her ease when two days later came a reply from herpoet. 

Although full of reproaches and of allusions to her maternal weakness, and to the undisciplined nature of her child, the letter was lessterrible than she had anticipated. In fact, D'Argenton concluded thatit was well to be relieved of the enormous expenses at the academy, andwhile disapproving of the escapade, he thought it no great misfortune, as the Institution was rapidly running down. "Had he not left it?" As tothe child's fixture, it should be his care, and when he returned a weeklater, 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 ofutter happiness. His mother belonged to him alone. He had the dogsand the goat, the forest and the rabbits, and yet he did not leave hismother 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, andwished to arrange the meeting in her own way. Consequently she refusedto permit him to go with her to the station in the little carriage. Shegave him several injunctions, painful to them both, as if they hadeach been guilty of some great fault, and to the boy inexpressiblymortifying. 

"You will remain at the end of the garden, " she said, "and do not comeuntil I call you. "

The child lingered an hour in expectation, and when he heard thegrinding of the wheels, ran down the garden walk, and concealed himselfbehind the gooseberry bushes. He heard D'Argenton speak. His tone washarder, sterner than ever. He heard his mother's sweet voice answergently, "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 wasleaning back in the tall armchair, his light hair gleaming against thedark wood. Ida stood by his side, and did not even hold out her hand tothe little fellow. The lecture he received was short and affectionateto a certain extent. "Jack, " he said, in conclusion, "life is not aromance; you must work in earnest. I am willing to believe in yourpenitence; and if you behave well, I will certainly love you, and wethree may live together happily. Now listen to what I propose. I am avery busy man. --I am, nevertheless, willing to devote two hours everyday 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 youunderstand 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 tofind words to express his sense of such generosity, ended by sayingnothing. Seeing the child's embarrassment, his mother gently pushed himinto 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 alsobecause he wished to obliterate all her past, and to wipe out even thename of Ida de Barancy. He loved her in his own fashion, and made of hera complete slave. She had no will, no opinion of her own, and D'Argentonhad grown tired of being perpetually agreed with. Now, at least, hewould have some one to contradict, to argue with, to tutor, and tobully; and it was in this spirit that he undertook Jack's education, for which he made all arrangements with that methodical solemnitycharacteristic of the man's smallest actions. 

The next morning, Jack saw, when he awoke, a large card fastened tothe wall, and on it, inscribed in the beautiful writing of the poet, acarefully 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 whoseshutters hardly permit the entrance of air enough to breathe, or lightto see with. Generally these rules are made only to be broken, butD'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 inhis studies. He was disturbed, too, by the personality of the poet, towhom he had a very strong aversion, and above all he was overwhelmed bythe new life he was leading. 

Suddenly transported from the mouldy lane, and from the academy, to thecountry, to the woods and the fields, he was at once excited and charmedby Nature. The truest way would have been to have laid aside all booksuntil the child himself demanded them. Often of a sunny day, when he satin the tower opposite his teacher, he was seized with a strong desireto leap out of the window, and rush into the fresh woods after the birdsthat had just flown away, or in search of the squirrel of which he hadcaught a glimpse. What a penance it was to write his copy, while thewild roses beckoned him to come and pluck them!

"This child is an idiot, " cried D'Argenton, when to all his questionsJack stammered some answer as far from what he should have said as ifhe had that moment fallen from the light cloud he had been steadilywatching. At the end of a month the poet announced that he relinquishedthe task, that it was a mere loss of precious time to himself, and of nouse to the boy, who neither could nor would learn anything. Inreality, he was by no means unwilling to abandon the iron rules he hadestablished, and which pressed with severity on himself as well as onthe child. Ida, or rather Charlotte, made no remonstrance. She preferredto 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 asher intellect, and she lived solely in the present, and any future, however brilliant, seemed to her too dearly purchased at the price ofpresent 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 hispresence in the house was often an annoyance, he absented himself forthe whole day with that absolute disregard of time natural to childrenand loungers. 

He had a great friend in the forester. As soon as he was dressed in themorning he started for Father Archambauld's, just as the old man's wife, before going to her Parisians, as she called her employers, served herhusband's breakfast in a fresh, clean room hung with a light green paperthat represented the same hunting-scene over and over again. 

When the forester had finished his meal, he and little Jack startedout on a long tramp. Father Archambauld showed the child the pheasants'nests, with their eggs like large pearls, built in the roots of thetrees; the haunts of the partridges, the frightened hares, and the youngkids. The hawthorn's white blossoms perfumed the air, and a variety ofwild flowers enamelled the turf. The forester's duty was to protect thebirds and their young broods from all injury, and to destroy the molesand snakes. He received a certain sum for the heads or tails of thesevermin, and every six months carried to Corbiel a bag of dry and dustyrelics. He would have been better pleased could he have taken also theheads of the poachers, with whom he was in constant conflict. He hadalso 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 atree, the growth of years, was a vastly different affair. He watchedthem so carefully that he knew all their maladies. One species offir was attacked by tiny worms, which come in some mysterious way bythousands. They select the strongest and handsomest specimens, and takepossession of them. The trees have only their resinous sap as a weaponof defence. This sap they pour over their enemies, and over their eggsdeposited in the crevices of the bark. Jack watched this unequal contestwith the greatest interest, and saw the slow dropping of these odoroustears. Sometimes the fir-tree won the victory, but too often it perishedand withered slowly, until at last the giant of the forest; whose loftytop had been the haunt of singing-birds, where bees had made their home, and which had sheltered a thousand different lives, stood white andghastly as if struck by lightning. 

During these walks through the woods, the forester and his companiontalked very little. They listened rather to the sweet and innumerablesounds about them. The sound of the wind varied with every tree that ittouched. Among the pines it moaned and sighed like the sea. Among thebirches and aspens, it rattled the leaves like castanets; while from theborders of the ponds, which were numerous in this part of the forest, came gentle rustlings from the long, slender, silken-coated reeds. Jacklearned to distinguish all these sounds and to love them. 

The little boy, however, had incurred the enmity of many of thepeasants, who saw him constantly with the forester, to whom they hadsworn eternal hatred. Cowardly and sulky, they touched their hatsrespectfully enough to Jack when they met him with Father Archambauld, but when he was alone, they shook their fists at him with horribleoaths. 

There was one old woman, brown as an Indian squaw, who haunted the verydreams of the child. On his way home at sunset, he always met her withher fagots on her back. She stood in the path and assailed him with hertongue; and sometimes, merely to frighten him, ran after him for a fewsteps. Poor little Jack often reached his mother's side breathless andterrified, 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 greatclock in the dining-room. "Hush, my dear, " said his mother; "He isup-stairs. He is at work!"

Jack sat down in a corner and watched the cat lying in the sun. Withthe awkwardness of a child who makes a noise merely because he knows heought not to do so, he knocked over something, or moved the table. 

"Hush, dear, " exclaimed Charlotte, in distress, while MotherArchambauld, laying the table, moved on the points of her bigfeet--moved as lightly as possible, so as not to disturb "her master whowas 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 thetitle of his book, but not another word. And yet he now had all thatformerly he had said would enable him to make a reputation, --leisure, sufficient means, freedom from interruption, a pleasant study, andcountry air. When he had had enough of the forest, he had but to turnhis chair, and from another window he obtained an admirable view of skyand 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 thecooing and fluttering of the pigeons on the roof above. 

"Now to work!" cried the poet. He opened his portfolio, and seized hispen, but not one line could he write. Think of it! To live in a pavilionof the time of Louis XV. , on the edge of a forest in that beautifulcountry about Etiolles, to which the memory of the Pompadour is attachedby knots of rose-colored ribbons and diamond buckles. To have aroundhim every essential for poetry, --a charming woman named in memory ofGoethe's heroine, a Henri II. Chair in which to write, a small whitegoat to follow him from place to place, and an antique clock to mark thehours and to connect the prosaic Present with the romance of the Past!All these were very imposing, but the brain was as sterile as whenD'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 expressionof profound absorption. "Come in, " he said, in reply to her knock, timidly repeated. She entered fresh and gay, her beautiful arms bared tothe elbows, and with so rustic an air that the rice-powder on her faceseemed 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 wayof drawling out the word poet that exasperated him. "How are you gettingon?" she continued. "Are you pleased?"

"Pleased? Can one ever be pleased or satisfied in this terribleprofession, 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 wasnot condemned, as I am, to absolute solitude--mental solitude, I mean. "

The poor woman listened in silence. From having so often listenedto similar complaints from D'Ar-genton, she had at last learned tounderstand the reproaches conveyed in his words. 

The poet's tone signified, "It is not you who can fill the blank aroundme. " In fact, he found her stupid, and was bored to death when alonewith her. 

Without really being conscious of it, the thing that had fascinated himin this woman was the frame in which she was set. He adored theluxury by which she was surrounded. Now that he had her all tohimself--transformed and rechristened her, she had lost half her charmin his eyes, and yet she was more lovely than ever. It was amusing towitness the air of business with which he opened each morning the threeor four journals to which he subscribed. He broke the seals as ifhe expected to find in their columns something of absorbing personalinterest; as, for example, a critique of his unwritten poem, or a resumeof the book that he meant some day to write. He read these journalswithout missing one word, and always found something to arouse hiscontempt or anger. Other people were so fortunate: their pieces wereplayed; and what pieces they were! Their books were printed; and suchbooks! As for himself, his ideas were stolen before he could write themdown. 

"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 lashedhimself into frenzy, his old antipathy to the child revived, and theheavy frowns with which he glanced toward the little fellow showed himvery clearly that his hatred was only smothered, and would burst forthon 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 hisusual 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 ofexpectation which often precedes a storm. 

Fatigued by the child's restlessness, the forester's wife looked out atthe weather, and said to Jack, --

"Come, Master Jack, it does not rain; and it would be very kind of youto go and get me a little grass for my rabbits. "

The child, enchanted at being of use, took a basket and went gayly offto search in a ditch for the food the rabbits liked. 

The white road stretched before him, the rising wind blew the dust inclouds, 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 hisshoulders an enormous basket piled with straw hats. He walked as if hewere footsore and weary. 

Have you ever thought how dismal the life of an itinerant salesmanmust be? He knows not where he will sleep at night, or even that he canobtain the shelter of a barn; for the average peasant always regards apedler, or any stranger, indeed, as an adventurer, and watches him withdistrustful eyes. 

"Hats! Hats to sell!" For whose ears did he intend this repetition ofhis monotonous cry? There was not a person in sight, nor a house. Was itfor the benefit of the birds, who, feeling the coming of the storm, hadtaken 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 muchcuriosity. His face was forbidding to a certain extent, but expressed somuch suffering in the heavy features, that Jack's kind heart was filledwith pity. At that moment a thunder-clap was heard; the man looked upat the skies anxiously, and then called to Jack to ask how far off thevillage 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 akind act. 

"You can come to our house, " he said, "and then your hats will notbe injured. " The pedler grasped eagerly at this permission, for hismerchandise was so delicate. The two hurried on as fast as possible; theman 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 areso big that I can never find anything large enough for them. O, if Ishould ever be rich, I would have a pair of shoes made to measure!"

They reached Aulnettes. The pedler deposited in the hall his scaffoldof hats, and stood there humbly enough. But Jack led him into thedining-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 loafand 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 oldwoman, grumbling. In fact, D'Argenton was something of a glutton, andthere were always some dainties in the pantry preserved for his especialenjoyment. 

"Never mind! bring it out!" said the child, delighted at playing thepart of host. 

The good woman obeyed reluctantly. The ped-ler's appetite was of themost formidable description, and while he supped he told his simplestory. His name was Bélisaire, and he was the eldest of a largefamily, and spent the summer wandering from town to town. --A violentthunder-clap shook the house, the rain fell in torrents, and the noisewas terrific. At that moment some one knocked. Jack turned pale. "Theyhave come!" he said with a gasp. 

It was D'Argenton who entered, accompanied by Charlotte. They were notto have returned until late, but seeing the approach of the storm, theyhad given up their plan. They were, however, wet to the skin, and thepoet was in a fearful rage with himself and every one else. "A fire inthe parlor, " he said, in a tone of command. 

But while they were taking off their wraps in the hall; D'Argentonperceived the formidable pile of hats. 

"What is that?" he asked. Ah! if Jack could but have sunk a hundred feetunder ground with his stranger guest and the littered table! The poetentered the room, looked about, and understood everything. The childstammered a word or two of apology, but the other did not listen. 

"Come here, Charlotte. Master Jack receives his friends to-day, itseems. "

"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 mostimposing gesture. "Go at once, " he said, violently; "how dare you comeinto this house?"

Bélisaire, to whom no manner of humiliation was new, offered no word ofremonstrance, but snatched up his basket, cast one look of distressat the tempest out-of-doors, and another of gratitude toward littleJack--who sighed as he heard the rain falling like hail on thePanamas, --and hurried down the garden walk. No sooner had the manreached the highway, than his melancholy voice resumed the cry, "Hats!Hats to sell!"

In the dining-room profound silence reigned; the servant was kindling afire, and Charlotte was shaking the poet's coat, while he sulkily strodeup and down the room. 

As he passed the table he caught sight of the ham on which the pedler'sknife had made sad havoc. D'Argenton turned pale. Remember that the hamwas sacred, like his wine, his mustard, and mineral water. "What! theham, too!" he exclaimed. 

Charlotte, utterly stupefied by such audacity, could only mechanicallyrepeat his words. 

"I said, madame, that they ought not to cut the ham, that such pork wastoo good for such a vagabond. But the little fellow does not know muchyet, he is so young. "

Jack by this time was quite alarmed at what he had done, and could onlybeg pardon in a troubled tone. 

"Pardon, indeed!" cried the poet, giving way, as it must be admittedhe 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. Youknow that nothing here is yours; for the bed you sleep on, for the foodyou 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 Charlottestopped the torrent of words. Mother Archambauld was still in the room, and listening with eagerness. The poet turned away suddenly, and rushedup stairs, banging the door after him. 

Jack remained, looking at his mother in consternation. She wrung herpretty hands, and again implored heaven to tell her what she had done tomerit 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'Argentonwas now taken with one of "his attacks, " a form of bilious fever. 

Charlotte petted and soothed him, and waited upon him by inches. Thesister-of-charity spirit, that lies in the depths of every womanlynature, made her love her poet the more because he was suffering. Howtenderly she protected his nerves! She laid a woollen cloth on the tableunder 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 hotflannels and her tisanes in readiness at all hours of the day and night. 

Sometimes the poor little woman was fearfully rebuffed and mortified bya fretful exclamation from the poet. "Do be quiet, Charlotte; you talktoo 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 issuffering, " she said, anxiously. 

"Nonsense, my dear; he only wants a little amusement. "

In fact, D'Argenton, who greeted the physician in the most languidtones, soon forgot to keep up the farce in the pleasure of seeing anew face, which made a pleasant break in his monotonous life, and afew moments later beheld him launched on some dazzling episode of hisParisian life. The doctor saw no reason to doubt the truth of thesenarrations told in such measured and careful phrases, and was alwayspleased with the appearance of the family, --the intellectual husband, the pretty gay wife, and the amusing child; and no intuition gave him ahint, as might have been the case with a more delicate organization, of the peculiarity and bitterness of the ties which bound the householdtogether. 

Often, therefore, on these bright midsummer days, the doctor's horsewas fastened to the palisades, while the old man drank the cool glasscarefully mixed for him by Charlotte herself, and as he drank, he toldof his wonderful adventures in India. Jack listened with eyes and earswide 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 amquite sure that your boy has discovered that I have a grandchild;" andthe old man talked of his little Cécile, who was two years younger thanJack. 

"Bring her to see us, doctor, " said Charlotte; "the two children wouldbe so happy together. "

"Thank you, dear madame; but her grandmother would never consent. Shenever trusts the child to any one; and she herself never goes anywheresince our great sorrow. "

This sorrow, of which the old doctor often spoke, was the loss of hisdaughter and his son-in-law within a year after their marriage. Somemystery surrounded this double catastrophe. Even Mother Archambauld, whoknew everything, contented herself with saying, "Yes, poor things! theyhave had a great deal of trouble. "

The only prescription given by the doctor was a verbal one, "Keep himamused, madame; keep him amused!"

How could poor Charlotte do this? They went off together in a littlecarriage; breakfast, books, and a butterfly-net accompanied them to theforest; but he was bored to death. They bought a boat, but a tête-à-têtein the middle of the Seine was worse than one on shore; and the littleboat 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 anItalian terrace: but even this did not amuse him. 

One day a man, who came to tune the pianoforte, extolled the merits ofan AEolian harp. D'Argenton immediately ordered one made on a giganticscale, and placed it on his roof. From that moment poor little Jack'slife was a burden to him. The melancholy wail of the instrument, likea soul in purgatory, pursued him in his dreams. To the child's greatrelief, the poet was equally disturbed, and the harp was ordered tothe 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, Charlottereluctantly decided to invite some of his old friends, but was repaidfor 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 ofhis old professors. The child felt an emotion of sick terror, for thesounds recalled the memory of so many wretched hours. He slipped quietlyinto the garden, there to await the dinner-bell. 

"Come, gentlemen, " said Charlotte, smilingly, as she appeared on theterrace, --her large white apron indicating that au a good housekeepershe by no means disdained on occasion to lay aside her lace ruffles andtake an active part. 

The professors promptly obeyed this summons to dinner, and greeted Jackas he took his seat with every appearance of cordiality. Two large doorsopened on the lawn, beyond which lay the forest. 

"You are a lucky fellow, " said Labassandre. "Tomorrow I shall be in thathot, 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'Argen-ton, cordially. "There isa 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 theopera-house!"

"Certainly not; and my patients are nearly all in the country at thisseason. "

The idea of Dr. Hirsch having any patients was very funny, and yet noone laughed. 

"Well, decide!" cried the poet, "In the first place, you would be doingme 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 Instituteand of Moron-val, and never wish to see either more. " Thereupon thedoctor launched forth in a philippic against the school which supportedhim. Moronval was a thorough humbug, he never paid anybody, and everyone 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 hisenergetic departure. 

At this moment Dr. Rivals was shown into the dining-room; he wasoverjoyed at finding so gay and talkative a circle. "You see, madame, Iwas right: our invalid only needed a little excitement. "

"There I differ from you!" cried Dr. Hirsch, fiercely, snuffing thebattle 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 otherbefore crossing their swords. The country physician concluded hisnew acquaintance to be some famous Parisian practitioner, full ofeccentricities and hobbies. D'Argenton's illness was the occasion of along discussion between the physicians. 

It was droll to see the poet's expression. He was inclined to takeoffence that Dr. Rivals should consider him a mere hypochondriac, andagain to be equally annoyed when Dr. Hirsch insisted upon his having ahundred 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 listenedimpatiently; "there are no such diseases, in the first place, and ifthere were, our friend has no such symptoms. "

This was too much for Dr. Hirsch, and the battle began in earnest. Theyhurled at each other titles of books in every language, names of everydrug known and unknown to the faculty. The scene was more laughable thanterrific, and was very much like one from "Molière. " Jack and his motherescaped to the piazza, Where Labassandre was already trying his voice. The winged inhabitants of the forest twittered in terror; the peacocksin the neighboring château answered by those alarmed cries with whichthey greet the approach of a thunder-shower; the neighboring peasantsstarted from their sleep, and old Mother Archambauld wondered what wasgoing on in the little house, where the moon shone so whitely on thelegend in gold characters over the door:

 PARVA DOMUS, MAGNA QUIES. 

CHAPTER XI. ~~CECILE. 

"Where are you going so early?" asked Dr. Hirsch, indolently, as hesaw Charlotte, gayly dressed, prayer-book in hand, come slowly down thestairs, followed by Jack, who was once more clad in the pet costume ofLord Pembroke. 

"To church, my dear sir. Has not D'Argenton told you that I have anespecial duty to perform there this morning? Come with us, will younot?"

It was Assumption Day, and Charlotte had been much flattered by beingasked to distribute the bread. She, with her child, took the seatsreserved for them on a bench close to the choir. The church was adornedwith flowers. The choir-boys were in surplices freshly ironed, and ona rustic table the loaves of bread were piled high. To complete thepicture, all the foresters, in their green costumes, with their knivesin their belts and their carbines in their hands, had come to join inthe Te Deum of this official fête. 

Ida de Barancy would have been certainly much astonished had some onetold her a year before, that she would one day assist at a religiousfestival in a village church, under the name of the VicomtesseD'Argenton, and that she would have all the consideration and prestigeof a married woman. This new rôle amused and interested her. Shecorrected Jack, turned the pages of her prayer-book, and shook out herrustling silk skirts in the most edifying fashion. 

When it was time for the offertory, the tall Swiss, armed with ahalberd, came for Jack, and bending low whispered in his mother's eara 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 theopposite side sitting next an old lady in black. The two children walkedslowly behind the majestic official, Cécile carrying a velvet bag muchtoo large for her little fingers, and Jack bearing an enormous waxcandle ornamented with floating ribbons and artificial flowers. Theywere both charming: he in his Scotch costume, and she simply dressed, with waves of soft brown hair parted on her childish brow, and her faceilluminated by large gray eyes. The breath of fresh flowers mingled withthe fumes of incense that hung in clouds throughout the church. Cécilepresented her bag with a gentle, imploring smile. Jack was very grave. The little fluttering hand in its thread glove, which he held in hisown, reminded him of a bird that he had once taken from its nest in theforest. Did he dream that the little girl would be his best friend, andthat, later, all that was most precious in life for him would come fromher?

"They would make a pretty pair, " said an old woman, as the childrenpassed her, and in a lower voice added, "Poor little soul, I hope shewill be more fortunate than her mother!"

Their duties over, Jack returned to his place, still under the influenceof the hand he had so lightly held. But additional pleasure was instore for him. As they left the church, Madame Rivals approached MadameD'Argenton and asked permission to take Jack home with her to breakfast. Charlotte colored high with gratification, straightened the boy'snecktie, and, kissing him, whispered, "Be a good child!"

From this day forth, when Jack was not at home he was at the olddoctor's, who lived in a house in no degree better than that of hisneighbors, and only distinguished from them by the words Night-Bell on abrass plate above a small button at the side of the door. The walls wereblack with age. Here and there, however, an observant eye could see thatsome attempts had been made to rejuvenate the mansion; but everything ofthat nature had been interrupted on the day of their great sorrow, andthe old people had never had the heart to go on with their improvementssince; an unfinished summer-house seemed to say, with a discouraged air, "What is the use?" The garden was in a complete state of neglect. Grassgrew over the walks, and weeds choked the fountain. The human beings inthe house had much the same air. From Madame Rivals, who, eight yearsafter her daughter's death, still wore the deepest of black, downto little Cécile, whose childish face had a precocious expression ofsorrow, and the old servant who for a quarter of a century had sharedthe griefs and sorrows of the family, --all seemed to live in anatmosphere of eternal regret. The doctor, who kept up a certainintercourse with the outer world, was the only one who was evercheerful. 

To Madame Rivals, Cécile was at once a blessing and a sorrow, for thechild was a perpetual reminder of the daughter she had lost. To thedoctor, on the contrary, it seemed that the little girl had taken hermother's place, and sometimes, when he was with her alone, he wouldgive way to a loud and merry laugh, which would be quickly silenced onmeeting 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 theapartment that had once been her mother's, and which was full of thesouvenirs of that short life. Madame Rivals alone ever entered thisroom, but little Cécile often stood on the threshold, awed and silent. The child had never been sent to school, and this isolation was verybad for her; she needed the association of other children. "Let us asklittle 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 isan artist, or a journalist rather, and they are privileged. The womanis not quite a lady, I admit, but she is well enough. I will answer fortheir respectability. "

Madame Rivals shook her head. She had but slight confidence in herhusband's insight into character, and sighed in an ostentatious way. 

Old Rivals colored guiltily, but returned in a moment to his originalidea. 

"The child will be ill if she has not some change. Besides, what harmcould possibly happen?"

The grandmother then consented, and Jack and Cécile became closecompanions. The old lady grew very fond of the little fellow. She sawthat he was neglected at home, that the buttons were off his coat, andthat 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'sinstinct is very delicate, --"Mamma teaches me. "

"I cannot understand, " said Madame Rivals to her husband, "how they canlet this child grow up in this way, idling his time from morning tillnight. "

"The child is not very clever, " answered the doctor, anxious to excusehis 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. Theyplayed together in the garden if the weather was fair, in the pharmacyif it was stormy. Madame Rivals was always there, and as there was noapothecary's store in Etiolles, put up simple prescriptions herself. She had done this for so many years, that she had attained considerableexperience, and was often consulted in her husband's absence. Thechildren 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 womangrown. 

The old physician delighted in taking the children with him when he wentabout the country to visit his patients. The carriage was large, thechildren small, so that the three were stowed in very comfortably, andmerrily jogged over the rough roads. Wherever they went they were warmlywelcomed, and while the doctor climbed the narrow stairs, the childrenroamed at will through the farm-yard and fields. 

Illness among these peasant homes assumes a very singular aspect. It isnever allowed to interfere with the routine and labors of daily life. The animals must be fed and housed for the night, and driven out topasture in the morning, whether the farmer be well or ill. If ill, thewife has no time to nurse him, or even to be anxious. After a hard day'stoil 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 veryrich, had he not been so generous. 

His professional visits over, the old man and the children started forhome. The Seine, misty and dark with the approach of evening, had yetoccasional bars of golden light crossing its surface. Slender trees, with their foliage heavily massed at the top, like palms, and the lowwhite houses along the brink, gave a vague suggestion of an Easternscene. "It is like Nazareth, " said little Cécile; and the two childrentold each other stories while the carriage rolled slowly homeward. 

Doctor Rivals soon discovered that Jack was by no means wanting inintelligence, and determined, with his natural kindness of heart, tohimself supply the great deficiencies in education by giving him anhour's instruction daily. Those of my readers who are in the habit ofenjoying a siesta after dinner, will appreciate the sacrifice made bythe old man, when I add that it was this precise time that he now freelygave to the little boy, who, in his turn, gratefully applied himselfwith his whole heart to his lessons. Cécile was almost always present, and was as pleased as Jack himself when her grandfather, examining thecopy-book, said, "Well done!" To his mother, Jack said nothing ofhis labors; he determined to prove to her at some future day that thediagnosis of the poet had been incorrect. This concealment was renderedvery easy, as the mother grew hourly more and more indifferent to herchild, and more completely absorbed in D'Argenton. The boy's comings andgoings were almost unnoticed. His seat at the table was often vacant, but no one asked where he had been. New guests filled the board, forD'Argenton kept open house; yet the poet was by no means generous in hishospitality, and when Charlotte would say to him, timidly, "I am out ofmoney, my friend, " he would reply by a wry face and the word, "Already?"But vanity was stronger than avarice, and the pleasure of patronizinghis old friends, the Bohemians, with whom he had formerly lived, carriedthe day. They all knew that he had a pleasant home, that the air wasgood and the table better; consequently, one would say to another, "Whowants to go to Etiolles to-night?" They came in droves. 

Poor Charlotte was in despair. "Madame Archambauld, are thereeggs?--is there any game? Company has come, and what shall we givethem?"

"Anything will suit, madame, I fancy, for they look half starved, " saidthe old woman, astonished at the unkempt, unshorn, and hungry aspect ofher master's friends. 

D'Argenton delighted in showing them over the house; and then theydispersed to the fields, to the river-side, and into the forest, ashappy and frolicsome as old horses turned out to grass. In the freshcountry, in the full sunlight, those rusty coats and worn faces seemedmore rusty and more worn than when seen in Paris; but they were happy, and D'Argenton radiant. No one ventured to dispute his eternal "Ithink, " and "I know. " Was he not the master of the house, and had he notthe key of the wine cellar?

Charlotte, too, was well pleased. It was to her inconsequent nature andBohemian instincts a renewal of the excitement of her old life. Shewas flattered and admired, and, while remaining true to her poet, waspleased to show him that she had not lost her power of charming. 

Months passed on. The little house was enveloped in the melancholy mistsof autumn; then winter snows whitened the roof, followed by the fiercewinds of March; and finally a new spring, with its lilacs and violets, gladdened the hearts of the inmates of the cottage. Nothing was changedthere. D'Argenton, perhaps, had two or three new symptoms, dignifiedby Doctor Hirsch with singular names. Charlotte was as totally withoutsalient characteristics, as pretty and sentimental, as she had alwaysbeen. Jack had grown and developed amazingly, and having studiedindustriously, knew quite as much as other boys of his age. 

"Send him to school now, " said Doctor Rivals to his mother, "and Ianswer for his making a figure. "

"Ah, doctor, how good you are!" cried Charlotte, a little ashamed, andfeeling the indirect reproach conveyed in the interest expressed by astranger, as contrasted with her own indifference. 

D'Argenton answered coldly that he would reflect upon the matter, thathe had grave objections to a school, &c. , and when alone with Charlotte, expressed his indignation at the doctor's interference, but from thattime took more interest in the movements of the boy. 

"Come here, sir, " said Labassandre, one day, to Jack. The child obeyedsomewhat anxiously. "Who made that net in the chestnut-tree at the footof the garden?"

"It was I, sir. "

Cécile had expressed a wish for a living squirrel, and Jack hadmanufactured 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 theothers. "The child has a positive genius for mechanics. "

In the evening there was a grand discussion. "Yes, madame/, " saidLabassandre, addressing Charlotte; "the man of the future, the comingman, 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 hornyhands, in twenty years he will lead the world. "

"He is right, " interrupted D'Argenton, and Doctor Hirsch noddedapprovingly. Singularly enough, Jack, who generally heard theconversation going on about him without heeding it, on this occasionfelt a keen interest, as if he had a presentiment of the future. 

Labassandre described his former life as a blacksmith at the villageforge. "You know, my friends, " he said, "whether I have been successful. You know that I have had plenty of applause, and of medals. You maybelieve me or not, as you please, but I assure you I would part withall sooner than with this;" and the man rolled up his shirt-sleeve anddisplayed an enormous arm tattooed in red and blue. Two blacksmith'shammers were crossed within a circle of oak-leaves; an inscription wasabove these emblems in small letters: _Work and Liberty_. Labassandreproceeded to deplore the unhappy hour when the manager of the opera atNantes had heard him sing. Had he been let alone, he would by this timehave been the proprietor of a large machine shop, with a provision laidup for his old age. 

"Yes, " said Charlotte, "but you were very strong, and I have heard yousay that the life was a hard one. "

"Precisely; but I am inclined to believe that the individual in questionis sufficiently robust. "

"I will answer for that, " said Dr. Hirsch. 

Charlotte made other objections. She hinted that some natures were morerefined than others--"that certain aristocratic instincts--"

Here D'Argenton interrupted her in a rage. "What nonsense! My friendsoccupy themselves in your behalf, and then you find fault, and utterabsurdities. "

Charlotte burst into tears. Jack ran away, for he felt a strong desireto fly at the throat of the tyrant who had spoken so roughly to hispretty mother. 

Nothing more was said for some days; but the child noticed a change inhis mother's manner toward him: she kissed him often, and kissed himwith that lingering tenderness we show to those we love and from whom weare about to part. Jack was the more troubled as he heard D'Argenton sayto Dr. Rivals, with a satirical smile, "We are all busy, sir, in yourpupil's interest. You will hear some news in a few days that willastonish you. "

The old man was delighted, and said to his wife, "You see, my dear, thatI did well to make them open their eyes. "

"Who knows? I distrust that man, and do not believe he intends any goodto the child. It is better sometimes that your enemy should sit withfolded 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 broughtLabassandre and a noisy band of friends, Jack, who was in the gardenbusy with his squirrel-net, heard his mother call him. Her voice camefrom the window of the poet's room. Something in its tone, or a certaininstinct so marked in some persons, told the child that the crisis hadcome, and he tremblingly ascended the stairs. On the Henri Deux chairD'Argenton sat, throned as it were, while Labassandre and Dr. Hirschstood on either side. Jack saw at once that there were the tribunal, thejudge, and the witnesses, while his mother sat a little apart at an openwindow. 

"Come here!" said the poet, sternly, and with such an assumption ofdignity that one was tempted to believe that the Henry Deux chair itselfhad spoken. "I have often told you that life is not a romance; you haveseen me crushed, worn and weary with my literary labors; your turnhas now come to enter the arena. You are a man, "--the child was buttwelve, --"you are a man now, and must prove yourself to be one. Fora year, --the year that I have been supposed to neglect you, --I havepermitted you to run free, and, thanks to my peculiar talents ofobservation, I have been able to decide on your path in life. I havewatched the development of your instincts, tastes, and habits, and, with your mother's consent, have taken a step of importance. " Jack wasfrightened, and turned to his mother for sympathy. Charlotte still satgazing from the window, shading her eyes from the sun. D'Argenton calledon Labassandre to produce the letter he had received. The singer pulledout 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 aposition 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 seena noisy crowd of men in dirty blouses leaving a shop at six o'clock inthe _Passage des Douze Maisons_. The idea of wearing a blouse wasthe first that struck him. He remembered his mother's tone ofcontempt, --"Those are workmen, those men in blouses!"--he remembered thecare 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 fromthe window, the Rivals, and above all his mother, whom he loved so muchand had found again after so much difficulty. 

Charlotte, at the open window, shivered from head to foot, and her handdashed away a tear. Was she watching in that western sky the fading awayof 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. ButD'Argenton, with a frown directed to the window, said, "You can leavethe room now, and be ready for your journey in a week. "

Jack ran down the stairs, and out into the village street, and didnot stop to take breath until he reached the house of Dr. Rivals, wholistened to his story with indignation. 

"It is preposterous!" he cried. "The very idea of making a mechanic ofyou is absurd. I will see your father at once. "

The persons who saw the two pass through the street--the doctorgesticulating, and little Jack without a hat--concluded that some onemust be ill at Aulnettes. This was not the case, however; for Dr. Rivalsheard 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. Youhave something to say, I suppose, in regard to Jack. These gentlemenknow all that I have done for him, my motives, and the peculiarcircumstances of the case. "

"But, my friend "--Charlotte said, timidly, fearing the explanation thatwas forthcoming. 

"Go on, doctor, " interrupted the poet, sternly. 

"Jack has just told me that you have apprenticed him to the Forge atIndret. 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 hisconstitution. It is his health, his very existence, with which you aretrifling. I assure you, madame, " he continued, turning toward Charlotte, "that your child could not endure such a life. I am speaking now simplyof his physique. Mentally and spiritually, he is equally unfitted forit. "

"You are mistaken, doctor, " interrupted D'Argen-ton; "I know the boybetter than you possibly can. He is only fit for manual labor, and nowthat I offer him the opportunity of earning his daily bread in thisway, of exercising the one talent he may have, he goes to you and makescomplaints of me. "

Jack tried to excuse himself. His friend bade him be silent, andcontinued, --

"He did not complain to me. He simply informed me of your decision. Itold him to come at once to his mother, and to you, and entreat you toreconsider your determination, and not degrade him in this way. "

"I deny the degradation, " shouted Labassandre. "Manual labor does notdegrade a man. The Saviour of the world was a carpenter. "

"That is true, " murmured Charlotte, before whose eyes at once floated avision of her boy as the infant Jesus in a procession on some feast-day. 

"Do not listen to such utter nonsense, dear ma-dame, " cried the doctor, exasperated out of all patience. "To make your boy a mechanic is toseparate from him forever. You might send him to the other end of theworld, and yet he would not be so far from you. You will see when it istoo late; the day will come that you will blush for him, when hewill appear before you, not as the loving, tender son, but humble andservile, as holding a social position far inferior to your own. "

Jack, who had not yet said a word, dismayed at this vivid picture of thefuture, 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? Butyou will eat, and sleep, and be clothed at my expense! No, sir; I havehad enough of you, and I never cared much for parasites. " Then, suddenlycooling down, he concluded in a lower tone by a command to the boy toretire to his bedroom. There the child heard a loud and angry discussiongoing on below, but the words were not to be understood. Suddenly thehall-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 thefirst time she seemed to have lost all consciousness of self, and hadlaid aside her rôle of the coquettish, pretty woman. The tears she hadshed had been those that age a mother's face, and leave ineffaceablemarks upon it. 

"Listen to me, Jack, " she said, tenderly. "You have made me veryunhappy. You have been impertinent and ungrateful to your best friends. I know, my child, that you will be happy in your new life. I acknowledgethat at first I was troubled at the idea; but you heard what they said, did you not? À mechanic is very different nowadays from what it wasonce. And, besides, at your age you should rely on the judgment of thoseolder 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. "Isend you away, my darling! You know that if the matter rested withme, you should never leave me; but, my child, we must both of us bereasonable, and think a little of the future, which is dreary enough forus. " And then Charlotte hesitatingly continued, "You know, dear, you arevery 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 anabsolute romance: some day you shall learn your father's name. But nowall that is necessary for you to understand is, that we have not a pennyin the world, and are absolutely dependent on--D'Argenton. " This namethe poor woman uttered with shame and hesitation, accompanied, at thesame time, with a touching look of appeal to her son. "I cannot, " shecontinued, "ask him to do anything more for us; he has already done somuch. Besides, he is not rich. What am I to do between you both? Ah, ifI could only go in your place to Indret and earn my bread! And yetyou would refuse an opening that gives you a certainty of earning yourlivelihood, and of becoming your own master. "

By the sparkle in her boy's eyes the mother saw that these words hadstruck 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 tolook to you as my sole support. " Did she really believe her own words?Was it a presentiment, one of those momentary flashes of light thatilluminate the future's dark horizon? or had she simply talked foreffect?

At all events, she could have found no better way to conquer thisgenerous nature. The effect was instantaneous. The idea that his mothersome day would lean on him suddenly decided him to yield at once. Helooked her straight in the eyes. "Promise me that you will never beashamed of me when my hands are black, and that you will always loveme. "

She covered her boy with kisses, concealing in this way her trouble andremorse, for from this time henceforward the unhappy woman was a prey toremorse, and never thought of her child without an agonized contractionof the heart. 

But he, supposing that her embarrassment came from anxiety, and possiblyfrom 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 heopened the door; "I was very wrong in refusing your kindness. I acceptit with thanks. "

"I am happy to find that reflection has taught you wisdom. But nowexpress your gratitude to M. Labassandre: it is he to whom you areindebted. "

The child extended his hand, which was quickly ingulfed in the enormouspaw of the artist. 

This last week Jack spent in his former haunts he was more anxiousthan sad, and the responsibility he felt made itself seen in two littlewrinkles on his childish brow. He was determined not to go away withoutseeing Cécile. 

"But, my dear, after the scene here the other day, it would notbe suitable, " remonstrated his mother. But the night before Jack'sdeparture, D'Argenton, full of triumph at the success of his plans, consented that the boy should take leave of his friends. He went therein the evening. The house was dark, save a streak of light coming fromthe library--if library it could be called--a mere closet, crammed withbooks. The doctor was there, and exclaimed, as the door opened, "Iwas afraid they would not let you come to say good-bye, my boy! It waspartially my fault. I was too quick-tempered by far. My wife scolded mewell. She has gone away, you know, with Cécile, to pass a month in thePyrenees with my sister. The child was not well; I think I told her ofyour impending departure too abruptly. Ah, these children! we think theydo not feel, but we are mistaken, and they feel quite as deeply as weourselves. " He spoke to Jack as one man to another. In fact, every onetreated him in the same way at present. And yet the little fellow nowburst into a violent passion of tears at the thought of his littlefriend having gone away without his seeing her. 

"Do you know what I am doing now, my lad?" asked the old man. "Well, Iam selecting some books that you must read carefully. Employ in this wayevery leisure moment. Remember that books are our best friends. I do notthink you will understand this just yet, but one day you will do so, Iam sure. In the mean time, promise me to read them, "--the old man kissedthe boy twice, --"for Cécile and myself, " he said, kindly; and, as thedoor closed, the child heard him say, "Poor child, poor child!"

The words were the same as at the Jesuits' College; but by this timeJack had learned why they pitied him. The next morning they started, Labassandre in a most extraordinary costume, dressed, in fact, foran expedition across the Pampas, --high gaiters, a green velvet vest, a knapsack, and a knife in his girdle. The poet was at once solemn andhappy: 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 goodcare of him, M. Labassandre?"

"As of my best note, madame. "

Charlotte sobbed. The boy sought to hide his emotion, for the thought ofworking for his mother had given him courage and strength. At the endof the garden path he turned once more, that he might carry away in hismemory a last picture of the house, and the face of the woman who smiledthrough her tears. 

"Write often!" cried the mother. 

And the poet shouted, in stentorian tones, "Remember, Jack, life is nota romance!"

Life is not a romance; but was it not one for him? The selfishegotist! He stood on the threshold of his little home, with one hand onCharlotte's shoulder, the roses in bloom all about him, and he himselfin a pose pretentious enough for a photograph, and so radiant at havingwon the day, that he forgot his hatred, and waved a paternal adieu tothe 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 scenebeautiful, Jack?"

It was about four o'clock--a July evening; the waves glittered in thesunlight, and the air palpitated with heat. Large sails, that in thegolden atmosphere looked snowy white, passed by from time to time; theywere boats from Noirmoutiers, loaded to the brim with sparkling whitesalt. Peasants in their picturesque costumes were crowded in, and thecaps of the women were as white as the salt Other boats were laden withgrain. 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. À fresh breeze came from the sea, and made one long for the deep blue ofthe ocean. 

"And Indret--where is it?" asked Jack. 

"There, that island opposite. "

Through the silvery mists that enveloped the island, Jack saw dimlya row of poplar-trees, and some high chimneys from which poured out athick black smoke; at the same time he heard loud blows of hammers oniron, and a continual whistling and puffing, as if the island itself hadbeen 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 theriver-side a row of enormous furnaces, which were filled from the waterby coal barges. 

"There is Rondic!" cried the opera-singer, and from his stupendouschest sent forth a hurrah so formidable that it was heard above all theclatter of machinery. 

The boat stopped, and the brothers met with effusion. The two resembledeach other very much, though Rondic was older and not so stout. His facewas closely shaven, and he wore a sailor's hat that shaded a true Bretonpeasant 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 newapprentice?--he looks very small and not over-strong. "

"Strong as an ox, my dear; and warranted by all the physicians inParis!"

"So much the better, for it is a hard life here. But now hasten, for wemust present ourselves to the Director at once. "

They turned into a long avenue lined by fine trees. The avenueterminated 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 thelinen drying in the yards, an occasional cry of an infant, and a pot offlowers 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 flagwas dropped from the top of the staff, it meant that the doors of thefactory were closed. So much the worse for late comers; they were markedas absent, and at the third offence dismissed. They were now admitted bythe porter. There was a frightful tumult pervading the large hallswhich were crossed by tramways. Iron bars and rolls of copper were piledbetween old cannons brought there to be recast. Rondic pointed out allthe different branches of the establishment; he could not make himselfunderstood save by gestures, for the noise was deafening. 

Jack was able to see the interiors of the various workshops, the doorsbeing set widely open on account of the heat; he saw rapid movements ofarms 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 animpalpable black dust, a dust that was as sharp as needles and sparkledlike diamonds, --all this Jack felt; but the peculiar characteristicof the place was a certain jarring, something like the effort ofan enormous beast to shake off the chains that bound him in somesubterranean 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 upwith 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 andknapsack. Rondic made no remark, but seemed somewhat annoyed. 

They passed through the low postern; on either side of the hall weresmall and badly lighted rooms, where clerks were very busy writing. Inthe inner room, a man with a stern and haughty face sat writing under ahigh 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 havean absolute talent for mechanics. But, Rondic, he does not look verystrong. Is he delicate?"

"No, sir; on the contrary, I have been assured that he is remarkablyrobust. "

"Remarkably, " repeated Labassandre, coming forward, and, in reply tothe astonished glance of the Director, proceeded to say that he left themanufactory six years before to join the opera in Paris. 

"Ah, yes, I remember, " answered the Director, coldly enough, rising atthe 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 ofhim. Under you he must turn out well. "

The opera-singer, vexed at having produced no effect, went away somewhatcrestfallen. Rondic lingered and said a few words to his master, andthen the two men and the child descended the stairs together, each witha different impression. Jack thought of the words "he does not look verystrong, " while Labassandre digested his own mortification as he bestmight. "Has anything gone wrong?" he suddenly asked his brother, --"theDirector seems even more surly now than in my day. "

"No; he spoke to me of Chariot, our poor sister's son, who is giving usa great deal of trouble. "

"In what way?" asked the artist. 

"Since his mother's death he drinks and gambles, and has contracteddebts. He is a wonderful draughtsman, and has high wages, but spendsthem before he has them. He has promised us all to reform, but he breakshis promises as fast as he makes them. I have paid his debts for himseveral times, but I can never do it again. I have my own family, yousee, 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, butshe would not consent. Now we are trying to separate him from his badacquaintances here, and the Director has found a situation at Nantes;but I dare say the obstinate fellow will object. You will reason withhim 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 withall classes of people, some in mechanics' blouses, others wearing coats. Jack was struck with the contrast presented by a crowd like this to onein Paris, composed of similar classes. 

Labassandre was greeted with enthusiasm. The whisper went about thathe received a hundred thousand francs per year for merely singing. Histheatrical costume won universal admiration, and his bland smile shonefirst on one side and then on the other, as he nodded patronizingly tofirst one and then another of his old friends. 

At the door of Rondic's house stood a young woman talking to a youth twoor 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 talland slender, young and pretty, with a gentle face, white throat, and agraceful head which bent slightly forward as if bowed by its rich weightof hair. Unlike the Breton peasants, she wore no cap; her light dressand black apron were totally unlike the costume of a working woman. 

"Is she not pretty?" asked Rondic of his brother. "She has been giving alecture 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 herepresently. She is at work now at the château, for she has become afamous seamstress. "

"Indeed! Then she must have learned also to keep her temper well undercontrol, if she can work at the Director's, " said Labassandre, "for heis such an arrogant, haughty person--"

"You are very much mistaken, " interrupted Ron-die; "he is, on thecontrary, a most excellent man; strict, perhaps, but when a masterhas to manage two thousand operatives, he must be somewhat of adisciplinarian. Is not that so, Clarisse?" and the old man turned to hiswife, who, seemingly occupied with her dinner, paid no attention to him. À certain preoccupation was very evident. 

At this moment the youth, with whom Madame Rondic had been talkingat the door, came in and shook hands with his uncle Labassandre, whoreplied coldly to his greeting; thinking, possibly, of the remonstranceshe had promised to lavish upon him. Zénaïde quickly followed: a plumplittle girl, red and out of breath; not pretty, and square in face andfigure, she looked like her father. She wore a white cap, and her shortskirts, and small shawl pinned over her shoulders, increased her generalclumsiness. But her heavy eyebrows and square chin indicated an unusualamount of firmness and decision, offering the strongest possiblecontrast to the gentle, irresolute expression of her stepmother's sweetface. Without a moment's delay, not waiting to detach the enormousshears that hung at her side, or to disembarrass herself of the needlesand pins which glittered on her breast like a cuirass, the girl slippedinto a seat next to Jack. The presence of the strangers did notabash her in the least. Whatever she had to say she said, simply anddecidedly; but when she spoke to her cousin Chariot, it was in a vexedtone. 

He did not appear to notice this, but replied with jests which left morethan one scar. 

"And I wished them to marry each other, " said Father Rondic, in adespairing, complaining tone, as he heard them dispute. 

"And I made no objection, " said the young man with a laugh, as he lookedat 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 shouldhave drowned myself by this time!"

These words were said with so much unction that for a few moments thehandsome cousin was silent and discomfited. 

Clarisse was startled, and turned to her daughter-in-law with a timidlook of appeal. 

"Listen, Chariot, " said Rondic, anxious to change the conversation: "toprove to you that the Director is a good man. He has found a splendidplace at Guérigny for you. You will have a better salary there thanhere, and "--here Rondic hesitated, glanced at the irresponsive faceof the youth, then at his daughter and at his wife, as if at a loss tofinish his phrase. 

"And, it is better to go away, uncle, than to be dismissed!" answeredChariot, roughly. "But I do not agree with you. If the Director does notwant me, let him say so, --and I will then look out for myself!"

"He is right!" cried Labassandre, thumping loud applause on the table. Ahot discussion now arose; but Chariot was firm in his refusal. 

Zénaïde did not open her lips, but she never took her eyes from herstepmother, who was busy about the table. 

"And you, mamma, " said she at last, "is it not your opinion that Chariotshould go to Guérigny?"

"Certainly, certainly, " answered Madame Rondic, quickly, "I think heought to accept the offer. "

Chariot rose quickly from his chair. 

"Very well, " he said, moodily, "since every one wishes to get rid ofme here, it is easy for me to decide. I shall leave in a week; in themeantime I do not wish to hear any more about it. "

The men now adjourned to a table in the garden, neighbors came in, andto each as he entered Rondic offered a measure of wine; they smokedtheir pipes, and talked and laughed loudly and roughly. 

Jack listened to them sadly. "Must I become like these?" he said tohimself, with a thrill of horror. 

During the evening Rondic presented the lad to the foreman of theworkshops. Labescam, a heavy Cyclops, opened his eyes wide when he sawhis future apprentice, dressed like a gentleman, with such dainty whitehands. Jack was very delicate and girlish in his appearance. His curlswere cut, to be sure, but the short hair was in crisp waves, and theair of distinction characteristic of the boy, and which so irritatedD'Argenton, was more apparent in his present surroundings than in hisformer home. Labescam muttered that he looked like a sick chicken. 

"O, " said Rondic, "it is only the fatigue of his journey and theseclothes that give him that look;" and then turning to his wife, the goodman said, "You must find a blouse for the apprentice; and now send him to bed, heis 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 hada sofa, armchairs, and some large shells on the chimney-piece. 

One of the rooms above was nearly filled by a very large bed hung withdamask curtains trimmed with heavy ball fringe. In Zénaïde's room thebed was in the wall, in the old Breton style. A wardrobe of carved oakfilled one side of the room; a crucifix and holy images, hung overby rosaries of all kinds, made of ivory, shells, and American corn, completed the simple arrangements. In a corner, however, stood a screenwhich concealed the ladder that led to the loft where the apprentice wasto sleep. 

"This is my room, " said Zénaïde, "and you, my boy, will be up there justover 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 inthe roof was all there was. The dormitory at Moronval had preparedJack for strange sleeping-places; but there he had companionship in hismiseries: here he had no Mâdou, here he had nobody. The child lookedabout him. On the bed lay his costume for the next day; the largepantaloons of blue cloth and the blouse looked as if some person hadthrown himself down exhausted with fatigue. 

Jack said half aloud, "It is I lying there!" and while he stood, sadlyenough, he heard the confused noise of the men in the garden, and at thesame time an earnest discussion in the room below between Zénaïde andher 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, andseemed at times choked by tears. 

"And he is going!" she cried, with more passion than her ordinaryappearance 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 thesepeople, but the memory of his mother sustained him. He thought of heras 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 outinto the night, and weeping like himself, at a window below. 

In the morning, Father Rondic called him; he swallowed a tumbler of wineand 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 takenher child from his laborious task, for which he was so totally unfittedby nature and education. The regulations for, lack of punctualitywere very strict. The first offence was a fine, and the third absolutedismissal. Jack was generally at the door before the first sound of thebell; 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 awayby a sudden gust of wind just as he reached the forge. "Stop it!" criedthe child, running after it. Just as he reached it, an apprentice comingup 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, outof breath and angry, felt a strong desire to weep, for he knew that apositive hatred toward him was hidden under all this apparent jesting. In the meantime the bell was sounding its last strokes, and thechild was compelled to relinquish the useless pursuit. He was utterlywretched, for it was no small expense to buy a new cap; he must write tohis mother for money, and D'Argenton would read the letter. This wasbad enough; but the consciousness that he was disliked among hisfellow-workmen troubled him still more. 

Some persons need tenderness as plants need heat to sustain life. Jackwas one of these, and he asked himself sadly why no one loved him in hisnew abiding-place. Just as he arrived at the open door, he heardquick breathing behind him, a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, andturning, he saw a smiling, hideous face, while a rough hand extended themissing cap. 

Where had he seen that face? "I have it!" he cried at last; but at thatmoment there was no time to renew his acquaintance with the pedler, to whom, and to whose fragile stock of goods, he had given such timelyshelter on that showery summer's day. 

The child's spirits rose, he was less sad, less lonely. While his handswere busy with his monotonous toil, his mind was occupied with thoughtsof the past: he saw again the lovely country road near his mother'shouse; he heard the low rumbling of the doctor's gig, and felt the freshbreeze from the river, even there in the stifling atmosphere of themachine-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 hadrevived so many beautiful memories, in the child's sick heart faded anddied away, and he was again left alone. 

The boy was far from a favorite among the men; they teased, andplayed practical jokes upon him. Sunday was his only day of rest andrelaxation. Then, with one of Dr. Rivals' books, Jack sought a quietnook 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, therush, the magic, and the extent of the water before him. The distantchurch-bells rang out praises to the Lord, and all was rest and peace. Occasionally a vessel drifted past, and from afar came the laughter ofchildren at play. 

He read, but his studies were often too deep for him, and he would lifthis eyes from the pages, and listen dreamily to the soft lapping of thewater on the pebbles of the shore, while his thoughts wandered to hismother and his little friend. 

At last autumnal rains came, and then the child passed his Sundays atthe Rondics, who were all very kind to him, Zénaïde in particular. Theold man felt a certain contempt for Jack's physical delicacy, and saidthe boy stunted his growth by his devotion to books, but "he was a goodlittle fellow all the same!" In reality, old Rondic felt a greatrespect for Jack's attainments, his own being of the most superficialdescription. He could read and write, to be sure, but that was all; andsince he had married the second Madame Rondic, he had become painfullyconscious of his deficiencies. His wife was the daughter of asubordinate artillery officer, the belle and beauty of a small town. She was well brought up, --one of a numerous family, where each tookher share of toil and economy. She accepted Rondic, notwithstanding thedisparity of years and his lack of education, and entertained for herhusband the greatest possible affection. He adored his wife, and wouldmake any sacrifice for her happiness or her gratification. He thoughther prettier than any of the wives of his friends, --who were all, infact, stout Breton peasants, more occupied with their household caresthan with anything else. Clarisse had a certain air about her, anddressed and arranged her hair in a way that offered the greatestcontrast to the monastic aspect of the women of the country, who coveredtheir hair with thick folds of linen, and concealed their figures withthe clumsy fullness of their skirts. 

His house, too, was different from those about him. Behind the fullwhite curtains stood a pot of flowers, sweet basil or gillyflowers, and the furniture was carefully waxed and polished; and Rondic wasdelighted, when he returned home at night, to find so carefully arrangeda home, and a wife as neatly dressed as if it were Sunday. He neverasked himself why Clarisse, after the house was in order for the day, took her seat at the window with folded hands, instead of occupyingherself with needlework, like other women whose days were far too shortfor all their duties. 

He supposed, innocently enough, that his wife thought only of him whileadorning herself; but the whole village of Indret could have told himthat another occupied all her thoughts, and in this gossip the names ofMadame Rondic and Chariot were never separated. They said that the twohad known each other before Madame Rondic's marriage, and that if thenephew had wished he could have married the lady, instead of his uncle. 

But the young fellow had no such desire. He merely thought that Clarissewas charmingly pretty, and that it would be very nice to have her forhis aunt. But later, when they were thrown so much together, whileFather Rondic slept in the arm-chair and Zénaïde sewed at the château, these two natures were irresistibly attracted toward each other. But noone had a right to make any invidious remark; they had, besides, alwayswatching over them a pair of frightfully suspicious eyes, those ofZénaïde. She had a way of interrupting their interviews, of appearingsuddenly, when least expected; and, however fatigued she might be by herday'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 andclearsightedness of a woman!

The warfare between herself and Chariot was incessant, and the littleoutbursts served to conceal the real antipathy; but while Father Rondicsmiled contentedly, Clarisse turned pale as if at distant thunder. 

Zénaïde had triumphed: she had so managed at the château that theDirector had decided to send Chariot to Guérigny, to study a new modelof a machine there. Months would be necessary for him to perfect hiswork. Clarisse understood very well that Zénaïde was at the bottomof this movement, but she was not altogether displeased at Chariot'sdeparture; she flung herself on Zénaïde's stronger nature, and entreatedher protection. 

Jack had understood for some time that between these two women therewas a secret. He loved them both: Zénaïde won his respect and hisadmiration, while Madame Rondic, more elegant and more carefullydressed, 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. Theyhad not a feature alike, nor was there any similarity in the color oftheir hair. Nevertheless, they did resemble each other, but it wasa resemblance as vague and indefinite as would result from the sameperfume among the clothing, or of something more subtile still, whichonly 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, someenormous shells, vitrified sponges, and all those foreign curiositieswhich their vicinity to the sea seemed naturally to bring to them. Handmade lace trimmed the curtains, and a sofa and an arm-chair of plushmade up the furniture of the apartment. In the arm-chair Father Rondictook his seat to listen to the reading, while Clarisse sat in her usualplace at the window, idly looking out. Zénaïde profited by her one dayat home to mend the house-bold linen, disregarding the fact of the daybeing Sunday. Among the books given to Jack by Dr. Rivals was Dante's_Inferno_. The book fascinated the child, for it described a spectaclethat he had constantly before his eyes. Those half naked human forms, those flames, those deep ditches of molten metal, all seemed to him oneof 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 twowomen listened with fixed attention. It was the episode of Francesca daRimini. Clarisse bowed her head and shuddered. Zénaïde frowned until herheavy eyebrows met, and drove her needle through her work with mad zeal. 

Those grand sonorous lines filled the humble roof with music. Tearsstood 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 hercrime, but to boast of it!"

"It is true that she was guilty, " said Clarisse, "but she was also veryunhappy. "

"Unhappy! Don't say that, mamma; one would think that you pitied thisFrancesca. "

"And why should I not, my child? She loved him before her marriage, andshe was driven to espouse a man whom she did not love. "

"Love him or not makes but little difference. From the moment shemarried him she was bound to be faithful. The story says that he wasold, and that seems to me an additional reason for respecting him more, and for preventing other people from laughing at him. The old man didright to kill them, --it was only what they deserved!"

She spoke with great violence. Her affection as a daughter, her honor asa woman, influenced her words, and she judged and spoke with that cruelcandor that belongs to youth, and which judges life from the idealit has itself created, without comprehending in the least any of theterrible exigencies which may arise. 

Clarisse did not answer. She turned her face away, and was looking outof the window. Jack, with his eyes on his book, thought of what he hadbeen reading. Here, amid these humble surroundings, this immortal legendof guilty love had echoed "through the corridors of time, " and afterfour hundred years had awakened a response. Suddenly through the opencasement came a cry, "Hats! hats to sell!" Jack started to his feet andran into the street; but quick as he was, Clarisse had preceded him, andas 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, "Howhappens it, Master Jack, that you are here, and have left that prettyhouse?"

The boy hesitated, and the pedler seeing this, continued, --

"That was a famous ham, was it not? And that lovely lady, who had such agentle face, she was your mother, was she not?"

Jack was so happy at hearing her name mentioned that he would havelingered there at the corner of the street for an hour, but Bélisairesaid 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 wasvery 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 hadbeen talking of his parents. 

She uttered a sigh of relief. But that whole evening she was evenquieter than usual, and her head seemed bowed by more than the weight ofher blonde braids. 

CHAPTER XIV. ~~A MIDNIGHT INTERVIEW. 

"Chateau des Aulnettes. 

"I am not pleased with you, my child. M. Rondic has written to hisbrother a long letter, in which he says, that in the year that youhave been at Indret you have made no progress. He speaks kindly of you, nevertheless, but does not seem to think you adapted for your presentlife. We are all grieved to hear this, and feel that you are not doingall that you might do. M. Rondic also says that the air of the workshopsis not good for you, that you are pale and thin, and that at the leastexertion the perspiration rolls down your face. I cannot understandthis, and fear that you are imprudent, that you go out in the eveninguncovered, that you sleep with your windows open, and that you forget totie your scarf around your throat. This must not be; your health is ofthe first importance. 

"I admit that your present occupation is not as pleasant as running wildin 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 annoyancesto which this great poet is exposed. The low conspiracies that have beenformed against him are almost incredible. They are about to bring outa play at the Théâtre Français called '_La Fille de Faust_' It is notD'Argenton's play, because his is not written, but it is his idea, andhis title! We do not know whom to suspect, for he is surrounded withfaithful friends. Whoever the guilty party may be, our friend hasbeen most painfully affected, and has been seriously ill. Dr. Hirschfortunately was here, for Dr. Rivals still continues to sulk. Thatreminds me to tell you that we hear that you keep up your correspondencewith the doctor, of which M. D'Argenton entirely disapproves. It isnot wise, my child, to keep up any association with people above yourstation; it only leads to all sorts of chimerical aspirations. Yourfriendship for little Cécile M. D'Argenton regards also as a waste oftime. You must, therefore, relinquish it, as we think that youwould then enter with more interest into your present life. You willunderstand, 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 youplease. 

"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, tosay on paper what I would say to you were you here with me now. Do notbe 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 heright? I cannot say. I beg of you to be careful of your health; it mustbe damp where you are; and if you need anything, write to me under coverto the Archambaulds. Have you any more chocolate? For this, and for anyother little things you want, I lay aside from my personal expenses alittle 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 isnot very gay here, and I am not always happy. But then, as you know, mysad moments do not last long. I laugh and cry at the same time withoutknowing why. I have no reason to complain, either. He is nervous likeall artists, but I comprehend the real generosity and nobility of hisnature. Farewell! I finish my letter for Mère Archambauld to mail asshe goes home. We shall not keep the good woman long. M. D'Argentondistrusts her. He thinks she is paid by his enemies to steal his ideasand titles for books and plays! Good night, my dearest. "

Between the lines of this lengthy letter Jack saw two faces, --that ofD'Argenton, dictatorial and stern, --and his mother's, gentle and tender. How under subjection she was! How crushed was her expansive nature! Achild's imagination supplies his thoughts with illustrations. It seemedto Jack, as he read, that his Ida--she was always Ida to her boy--wasshut up in a tower, making signals of distress to him. 

Yes, he would work hard, he would make money, and take his mother awayfrom 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 Rondichousehold, and particularly to the relations existing between Clarisseand Chariot. 

Every one knew that the two met continually at a town half-waybetween Saint Nazarre and Indret. Here Clarisse went under pretence ofpurchasing provisions that could not be procured on the island. In thecontemptuous glances of the men who met her, in their familiar nods, sheread that her secret was known, and yet with blushes of shame dyeing thecheeks that all the fresh breezes from the Loire had no power tocool, she went on. Jack knew all this. No delicacy was observed in thediscussion of such subjects before the child. Things were called bytheir right names, and they laughed as they talked. Jack did not laugh, however. He pitied the husband so deluded and deceived. He pitied alsothe 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 askingpardon for some fault committed. He wanted to whisper to her, "Takecare--you are watched. " But to Char-lot he would have liked to say, "Goaway, and let this woman alone!"

He was also indignant in seeing his friend Bélisaire playing such a partin this mournful drama. The pedler carried all the letters that passedbetween the lovers. Many a time Jack had seen him drop one into MadameRondic's apron while she changed some money, and, disgusted with his oldally, 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 itso little, that one day, when he could not find Clarisse, he went to themachine-shop, and with an air of great mystery gave the letter to theapprentice. "It is for madame; give it to her secretly!"

Jack recognized the writing of Chariot. "No, " he said at once; "I willnot touch this letter, and I think you would do better to sell your hatsthan to meddle with such matters. "

Bélisaire looked at him with amazement. 

"You know very well, " said the boy, "what these letters are; and do youthink 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 carrythem, that is all. Be sure of one thing, and that is, if I were the sortof 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 theman, however honest, was without any delicacy of perception. "And I, too, " thought Jack, suddenly, "am of the people now. What right have Ito any such refinements?"

That Father Rondic knew nothing of all that was going on, was notastonishing. But Zênaïde, where was she? Of what was she thinking?

Zénaïde was on the spot, --more than usual, too, for she had not been atthe château for a month. Her eyes were also widely open, and were morekeen and vivacious than ever, for Zénaïde was about to be married to ahandsome young soldier attached to the customhouse at Nantes, and thegirl's dowry was seven thousand francs. Père Rondic thought this toomuch, but the soldier was firm. The old man had made no provision forClarisse. If he should die, what would become of her?

But his wife said, "You are yet young--we will be economical. Let thesoldier have Zénaïde and the seven thousand francs, for the girl loveshim!"

Zénaïde spent a great deal of time before her mirror. She did notdeceive herself. "I am ugly, and M. Maugin will not marry me for mybeauty, but let him marry me, and he shall love me later. "

And the girl gave a little nod, for she knew the unselfish devotion ofwhich she was capable, the tenderness and patience with which she wouldwatch over her husband. But all these new interests had so absorbed herthat Zénaïde had partially forgotten her suspicions; they returned toher at intervals, while she was sewing on her wedding-dress, but shedid not notice her mother's pallor nor uneasiness, nor did she feel theburning heat of those slender hands. She did not notice her long andfrequent disappearances, and she heard nothing of what was rumored inthe town. She saw and heard nothing but her own radiant happiness. Thebanns were published, the marriage-day fixed, and the little house wasfull of the joyous excitement that precedes a wedding. Zénaïde ran upand down stairs twenty times each day with the movements of a younghippopotamus. 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 hundredfrancs. 

"This money is your own, my Jack, " Charlotte wrote. "Buy with it a giftfor M'lle Rondic, and some clothes for yourself. I wish you to make agood appearance at the wedding, and I am afraid that your wardrobe is ina pitiable condition. Say nothing about it in your letters, nor of me tothe Rondics. They would thank me, which would be an annoyance, and bringme a reproof besides. "

For two days Jack carried this money with pride in his pocket. He wouldgo to Nantes and buy a new suit. What a delight it would be! and howkind his mother was! One thing troubled him: What could he purchasefor Zénaïde; he must first see what she had. 

So thinking one dark night, as he entered the house, he ran against someone 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 wasnot mistaken, that Bélisaire had been there. 

Clarisse was in the corridor, shivering with the cold, and so absorbedby the letter she was reading in the gleam of light from the half opendoor of the parlor, that she did not even look up as Jack went in. Theletter evidently contained some startling intelligence, and the boysuddenly remembered having that day heard that Chariot had lost a largesum of money in gambling with the crew of an English ship that had justarrived at Nantes from Calcutta. 

In the parlor Zénaïde and Maugin were alone. 

Père Rondic had gone to Chateaubriand and would not return until thenext day, which did not prevent her future husband from dining withthem. He sat in the large arm-chair, his feet comfortably extended. While Zénaïde, carefully dressed, and her hair arranged by herstepmother, laid the table, this calm and reasonable lover entertainedher by an estimate of the prices of the various grains, indigos, and oils that entered the port of Nantes. And such a wonderfulprestidigitateur is love that Zénaïde was moved to the depths of hersoul by these details, and listened to them as to music. 

Jack's entrance disturbed the lovers. "Ah, here is Jack I I had no ideait 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 tochoke down some terrible emotion. Zénaïde was blind to all this. Shehad lost her own appetite, and watched her soldier's plate, seemingdelighted at the rapidity with which the delicate morsels disappeared. 

Maugin talked well, and ate and drank with marvellous appetite; heweighed his words as carefully as he did the square bits into whichhe cut his bread; he held his wine-glass to the light, testing andscrutinizing it each time he drank. A dinner, with him, was evidentlya matter of importance as well as of time. This evening it seemed asif Clarisse could not endure it; she rose from the table, went to thewindow, listened to the rattling of the hail on the glass, and thenturning round, said, --

"What a night it is, M. Maugin I I wish you were safely at home. "

"I don't, then!" cried Zénaïde, so earnestly that they all laughed. Butthe 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. Atlast the soldier was in readiness; his hood was pulled over his eyes, ascarf wound about his throat, then Zénaïde said good night, and watchedher Esquimau-looking lover somewhat anxiously down the street. Whatperils might he not have to run in that thick darkness!

Her stepmother called her impatiently. The nervous excitement ofClarisse had momentarily increased. Jack had noticed this, and also thatshe 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, shestopped him, saying, --

"I have done it myself. Let us go up stairs. "

But Zénaïde had not finished talking of M. Maugin. "Do you like hismoustache, Jack?" she asked. 

"Will you go to bed?" asked Madame Rondic, pretending to laugh, buttrembling 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, butZénaïde's room was so crowded with her gifts and purchases, that itseemed to him a most auspicious occasion to pass them in review. Friendshad had them under examination, and they were still displayed on thecommode: some silver spoons, a prayer-book, gloves, and all abouttumbled bits of paper and the colored ribbon that had fastened thesegifts from the château; then came the more humble presents from thewives of the employés. Zénaïde showed them all with pride. The boyuttered exclamations of wonder. "But what shall I give her?" he said tohimself over and over again. 

"And my trousseau, Jack, you have not seen it! Wait, and I will show itto you. "

With a quaint old key she opened the carved wardrobe that had been inthe family for a hundred years; the two doors swung open, a deliciousviolet perfume filled the room, and Jack could see and admire the pilesof sheets spun by the first Madame Rondic, and the ruffled and flutedlinen piled in snowy masses. 

In fact, Jack had never seen such a display. His mother's wardrobe heldlaces and fine embroideries, not household articles. Then, lifting aheavy pile, she showed Jack a casket. "Guess what is in this, " Zénaïdesaid, with a laugh; "it contains my dowry, my dear little dowry, thatin a fortnight will belong to M. Maugin. Ah, when I think of it, I couldsing and dance with joy!"

And the girl held out her skirts with each hand, and executed anelephantine 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; "youknow he must be up early. "

A little ashamed, the future Madame Maugin shut her wardrobe, and saidgood night to Jack, who ascended his ladder; and five minutes later thelittle house, wrapped in snow and rocked by the wind, slept like itsneighbors in the silence of the night. 

There is no light in the parlor of the Rondic mansion save that whichcomes from the fitful gleam of the dying fire in the chimney. A womansat 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 hemight enter? Had she not adorned herself in the dress and ornaments thathe liked, to make herself beautiful in his eyes? What could it be thathe was asking her now to grant to him? How was it that she, usually soweak, 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 thousandfrancs I will pay the five thousand I have lost, and with the otherthousand 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 lendme 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 twodays 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 thewardrobe 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 verynight 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 wassilent. The young man was no longer the supplicating lover, he wasthe spoiled child of the house, imploring his aunt to save him fromdishonor. 

Through her tears she mechanically repeated the words, "It isimpossible. "

Suddenly he rose to his feet. 

"You will not? Very good. Only one thing remains then. Farewell! I willnot 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, ofshame, of falsehood, and of love--love that must be concealed with suchcare that I am never sure of finding it. I am ready. "

He drew back. "What folly!" he said, sullenly. "This is too much, " headded, 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 morestep in that direction, I will call for assistance!"

"Call, then! Let the world know that your nephew is your lover, and yourlover 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 thehouse. By the red light of the dying fire he appeared to her suddenlyin his true colors, just what he really was, unmasked by one of thoseviolent emotions which show the inner workings of the soul. 

She saw him with his keen eyes reddened by constant examination ofthe cards; she thought of all she had sacrificed for this man; sheremembered the care with which she had adorned herself for thisinterview. Suddenly she was overwhelmed by profound disgust for herselfand for him, and sank, half-fainting, on the couch; and while the thiefcrept up the familiar staircase, she buried her face in the pillowsto stifle her cries and sobs, and to prevent herself from seeing andhearing anything. 

The streets of Indret were as dark as at midnight, for it was not yetsix o'clock. Here and there a light from a baker's window or a wine-shopshone dimly through the thick fog. In one of these wineshops sat Chariotand 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 hewas the object flattered him immensely. That this man, who for eighteenmonths had never vouchsafed him any notice, should, meeting him bychance that morning in the streets, have invited him to the cabaret andtreated him, was a matter of surprise and congratulation to himself. Atfirst Jack was somewhat distrustful of such courtesy, for the other hadsuch a singular way of repeating his question, "Is there nothing new atthe Rondics? Really, nothing new?"

"I wonder, " thought the apprentice, "if he wishes me to carry hisletters, 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 himto 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 withenthusiasm, the boy thought himself justified in at once offering hisadvice. 

"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, andhe 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 hadpaid for the first and second wine they had drank, he considered itessential that he should now pay in his turn; so he drew a louis fromhis pocket, and tossed it on the table. 

"Hallo! a yellow boy!" said the barkeeper, unaccustomed to seeing suchin the possession of apprentices. Chariot started, but made no remark. 

"Had Jack been to the wardrobe also?" he said to himself. The boy wasdelighted at the sensation he had created. "And I have more of thesame kind, " he added, tapping his pocket. And then he whispered in hiscompanion'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 meuntil 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 haddrank made him giddy. It seemed to him that his head weighed a thousandpounds. This did not last long, however. "Hark!" he said; "the bell hasstopped, I think. " They turned back. Jack was terrified, for it was thefirst time that he had ever been late at the Works. But Chariot was indespair. "It is my fault, " he reiterated. He declared that he wouldsee the Director and explain matters, and was altogether so utterlymiserable, that Jack was obliged to console him by saying that it wasof 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 effectof his words on Chariot, that he enlarged on the noble nature of PèreRondic and of Clarisse. 

"O, had you seen her this morning, you would have pitied her. She was sopale 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 oneof sorrow. 

They reached the wharf. The boat was not there. A thick fog covered theriver from one shore to the other. 

"Let us go in here, " said Chariot It was a little wooden shed, intendedas a shelter for workmen while waiting in bad weather. Clarisse knewthis shed very well, and the old woman who sold brandy and coffee in thecorner 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 SaintNazarre. "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 hisamusement. When Jack was again alone he felt no desire to return tothe Works; he was in a state of unusual excitement. Even the heavy foghanging over the Loire interested him. Suddenly he said to himself, "Whydo I not go to Nantes and buy Zénaïde's gift to-day?" A few moments sawhim on the way; but as there was no train until noon, he must wait forsome time, and was compelled to pass that time in a room where therewere several of the old employés of the Works, who had been dischargedfor various misdemeanors. They received the lad civilly enough, andlistened attentively when he took up some remark that was made, anduttered some platitudes, stolen from D'Ar-genton, on the rights oflabor. 

"Listen!" they said to each other; "it is easy to see that the boy comesfrom Paris. "

Jack, excited by this applause and sympathy, talked fast and freely. Suddenly the room swam around--all grew dark. À fresh breeze restoredhim to consciousness. He was seated on the bank of the river, and asailor 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 anypoint; he embarked without remonstrance. He had a little money left, with which he could buy some little souvenir for Zénaïde, so that histrip to Nantes would not be thrown away absolutely. He breakfastedwith a poor enough appetite, and sat at the end of the boat, wrapped inthought. He dreamily recalled books that he had read--tales of strangeadventures on the sea; but why did a certain old volume of RobinsonCrusoe persistently come before him? He saw the rubbed and yellowedpage, the vignette of Robinson in his hammock surrounded by drunkensailors, and above it the inscription, "And in a night of debauch Iforgot all my good resolutions. "

He was brought back to real life by the songs of his companions, andby a pair of keen bright eyes that were fixed upon his own. Jack wasannoyed 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, "Lethim alone; he did not wish to take you on board; his wife settled thingsfor him; he thought you had more money than you ought to have!"

Jack was indignant at being treated like a thief. He exclaimed that hismoney 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 amgoing to buy a wedding present for Zénaïde. "

He talked on, but no one listened, for a grand dispute between the twomen was well under way as to the place where they should land. 

At last they entered the harbor of Nantes. Old houses, with carvedfronts and stone balconies, met his eyes, crowded as it were among theshipping at the wharves. Large vessels lay at anchor in the harbor, looking to the boy like captives who panted for liberty, sunshine, andspace. Then he thought of Mâdou, of his flight and concealment among thecargo in the hold. But this thought was gone in a moment, and he foundhimself on shore between his two companions, whom he soon loses andfinds again. They cross one bridge, and then another, and wander withneither end nor aim. They drink at intervals; night comes, and theboy accompanies the sailors to a low dance-house, still in the strangeexcitement in which he has been all day. Finally, he finds himself aloneon a bench, in a public square, in a state of exhaustion that is farfrom sleep. The profound solitude terrifies him, when suddenly he hearsthe well-known cry, --

"Hats! hats! Hats to sell!"

"Bélisaire!" called the boy. 

It was Bélisaire. Jack made a futile effort at explanation. The manscolded 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 hecannot resist, for he is still more than half asleep. He sleeps in thewagon 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 throwhimself on a straw pallet, shut out from all further disturbance by hugelocks 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 tremblingin every limb, the intense thirst and exhaustion, the shame andinexpressible anguish of the human being seeing himself reduced to thelevel of a beast, and so disgusted with his tarnished existence that hefeels incapable of beginning life again. 

It was still too dark to distinguish objects, but he knew that he wasnot in his little attic. He caught a glimpse of the coming dawn in thewhite light from two high windows. Where was he? In the corner he beganto see a confused mass of cords and pulleys. Suddenly he heard the samenoise 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 apprenticeswere occasionally put? And what had he done? He tried to recall theevents of the day before, and, confused as his mind still was, heremembered enough to cover him with shame. He groaned heavily. The groanwas answered by a sigh from the corner. He was not alone, then!

"Who is there?" asked Jack, uneasily; "is it Bélisaire?" he added. Butwhy 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 twocriminals?"

"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. Myhats are ruined, --and I, too, for that matter!" continued Bélisaire, dolefully. 

"But what have I done?" asked Jack, for he could not imagine that amongthe many follies of which he had been guilty there was one more gravethan another. 

"They say--But why do you make me tell you? You know well enough whatthey 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 therobbery, Jack was looked for, but was not to be found. Chariot hadvery well managed matters. All along the road there were traces ofthe robbery in the gold pieces displayed so liberally. Only one thingdisturbed the belief of the boy's guilt in the minds of the villagers:what could he have done with the six thousand francs? NeitherBélisaire's pocket nor his own displayed any indication that such a sumof money had been in their possession. 

Soon after daybreak the superintendent sent for the prisoners. They werecovered with mud, and were unwashed and unshorn; yet Jack had a certaingrace and refinement in spite of all this; but Bélisaire's naturallyugly countenance was so distorted by grief and anxiety, that, as the twoappeared, the spectators unanimously decided that this gentle-lookingchild was the mere instrument of the wretched being with whom he wasunfortunately connected. As Jack looked about he saw several faces whichseemed like those of some terrible nightmare, and his courage desertedhim. He recognized the sailors, and the proprietors of several of thewineshops, with many others of those whom he had seen on thatdisastrous yesterday. The child begged for a private interview with thesuperintendent, and was admitted to the office, where he found FatherRondic, whom Jack went forward at once to greet with extended hand. Theold man drew back sadly but resolutely. 

"Out of regard for your youth, Jack, " said the Director, "and fromrespect to your parents, and in consideration of your hitherto goodbehavior, I have begged that, instead of being carried to Nantes andplaced in prison, you shall remain here. I now tell you that it is foryou to decide what will be done. Tell me the truth. Tell Father Rondicand myself what you have done with the money, give him back what isleft, and--no, do not interrupt me, " continued the Director, with afrown. "Return the money, and I will then send you to your parents. "

Here Bélisaire attempted to speak. "Be quiet, fellow!" said thesuperintendent; "I cannot understand how you can have the audacity tospeak. We believe you to be in reality the guilty party, and that thischild has simply been your tool. "

Jack wished to protest against this condemnation of his friend; but oldRondic gave him no time. 

"You are quite right, sir, it is bad company that has led the ladastray. Everybody loved him in my house; we had every confidence in himuntil he met this miserable wretch. "

Bélisaire looked so heart-broken at this wholesale condemnation thatJack rushed boldly forward in his defence. "I assure you, air, that Imet Bélisaire late in the day. "

"Do you mean, " said the superintendent, "that you committed this robberyall alone?"

"I have done no wrong, sir. "

"Take care, my lad--you are going down hill with rapidity. Your guiltis very evident, and it is useless to deny it. You were alone with theRondic 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 onemoving in your attic; she spoke; naturally you made no reply. She knewthat it must be you, for there was no one else in the house. Then youmust remember that we know how much money you threw away yesterday. "

Jack was about to say, "My mother sent it to me, " when he rememberedthat she had forbidden him to mention this. So he hesitatingly murmuredthat he had been saving his money for some time. 

"What nonsense!" cried the Director. "Do you think you can make usbelieve that with your small wages you could have laid aside the amountyou squandered yesterday? Tell the truth, my lad, and repair the evilyou 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 tolay 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 thetemptation of the moment. But now that you have had time to reflect, youwill tell us the truth. Remember, Jack, that I am old, that time may notbe given me to replace this money. Ah, my good lad, speak!"

The poor man's lips trembled. It must have been a hardened criminal whocould have resisted such a touching appeal. Bélisaire was so moved thathe made ar series of the most extraordinary gestures. "Give him themoney, Jack, I beg of you!" he whispered. 

Alas I if the child had had the money, how gladly he would have placedit 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 enoughof this. Your heart must be of adamant to resist such an appeal as hasbeen made to you. I shall send you up-stairs again, and give you untilto-night to reflect. If you do not then make a full confession, I shallhand 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 ownshameful conduct had given ample reason for such a judgment, overwhelmedhim with sorrow. How could he prove his innocence? By showing hismother's letter. But if D'Argenton should know of it? No, he could notsacrifice his mother! What, then, should he do? And the boy lay on thestraw bed, turning over in his bewildered brain the difficulties of hisposition. Around him went on the business of life; he heard the workmencome and go. It was evening, and he would be sent to prison. Suddenly heheard 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 hereyes were red and inflamed, her hair was roughened and carelessly putup. The poor girl smiled at Jack. "I am ugly, am I not? I have no figurenor complexion. I have a big nose and small eyes; but two days ago I hada handsome dowry, and I cared but little if some of the malicious younggirls 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 Ishall not complain. Only, Jack, before he comes, I thought I would havea little talk with you. "

Jack had hidden his face, and was crying. Zénaïde felt a ray of hope atthis. 

"You will give me back my money, Jack, will you not?" she addedentreatingly. 

"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 therest is!"

"Listen to me, Zénaïde: this is horrible. Why should every one think meguilty?"

She went on as if he had not spoken. "Do you understand that withoutthis money I shall be miserable? In your mother's name I entreat youhere 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, triedto take her hand. Suddenly she started up. "You will be punished. No onewill 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 shefound with her father. She could not speak, for her tears choked her. 

"Be comforted, my child!" said the Director. "Your father tells me thatthe mother of this boy is married to a very rich man. We will write tothem. 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 andhard-working man with whom he lived. This sum represents the savings ofyears. I have not yet handed him over to the authorities, hoping that hemight be induced to restore at least a portion of this money. But I amafraid that it has all been squandered among drunken companions. If thatis the case, you should indemnify the Rondics for their loss. The amountis six thousand francs. I await your decision before taking any furthersteps. "

And he signed his name. 

"Poor things--it is terrible news for them!" said Père Rondic, who amidhis own sorrows could still think of those of others. 

Zénaïde looked up indignantly. "Why do you pity these people? If the boyhas taken my money, let them replace it. "

How pitiless is youth! The girl gave not one thought to the mother'sdespair when she should hear of her son's crime. Old Rondic, on thecontrary, said to himself, "She will die of shame!"

In due time this letter written by the superintendent reached itsdestination, 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 postmanreached Aulnettes. 

"Ah! a letter from Indret!" said D'Argenton, slowly opening hisnewspapers, --"and some verses by Hugo!"

Why did the poet watch this unopened letter as a dog watches a bone thathe does not wish himself, and is yet determined that no one else shalltouch? 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 hadbecome a secondary object in the mother's eyes. 

From the hour of Jack's departure, his mother's love for him hadincreased. She avoided speaking of him, however, lest she shouldirritate her poet He divined this, and his hatred and jealousy ofthe child increased. And when the early letters of Ron-die containedcomplaints 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 eyesflamed with malicious joy. "Ah! I knew it!" he cried, and he handed thesheet to Charlotte. 

What a terrible blow for her! Wounded in her maternal pride before thepoet, wounded, too, by his evident satisfaction, the poor woman wasstill more overwhelmed by the reproaches of her own conscience. "It ismy 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 themoney? She had nothing. The sale of her furniture had brought in somemillions of francs, but they had been quickly spent. The trifles ofjewelry she had would not bring half the necessary sum. She neverthought of appealing to D'Argenton. First, he hated the boy; and next, he was very miserly. Besides, he was far from rich. They lived withgreat economy in the winter, the better to keep up their hospitalityduring the summer. 

"I have always felt, " said D'Argenton, after leaving her time to finishthe letter, "that this boy was bad at heart!"

She made no reply; indeed she hardly heard what he said. She wasthinking that her child would go to prison if she could not obtain themoney. 

He continued, "What a disgrace this is to me!" The mother was stillsaying 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! Youknow better than any one else how enormous our expenses are here. It isenough that for two years I have supported that boy without paying forthe thefts he has committed. Six thousand francs! where shall I findthem?"

"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 aname, 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 thestairs. 

It was a most singular conversation--syllabic and disjointed--heaffecting great repugnance, she great brevity. "It was impossible totrust 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, andthen to Indret with the money!" and the foolish creature kissed hishands with tears. The truth was that he did not care for her to go toTours 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 hadrelinquished--the influence of her child, might decide her to cast asidethe heavy chains with which he had loaded her. In addition, he was byno means averse to this little journey, nor to playing his part in thedrama at Indret. 

He told Charlotte that he would never abandon her, that he was readyto share her sorrows as well as her joys; and, in short, convincedCharlotte 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 châteauxoverlooking the Loire. He was a widower without children, an excellentman, and a man of the world. In spite of her infidelity, he had none butthe kindest recollection of the light-hearted woman who for a time hadbrightened his solitude. He consequently replied to a little note sentby Charlotte that he was ready to receive her. 

D'Argenton and she took a carriage from the hotel, and as theyapproached 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 thecorner of the carriage, looking out at the fields where she had so oftenwandered with the boy, who was now wearing a workman's blouse. 

D'Argenton watched her from the corner of his eyes, gnawing hismoustache with fury. She was very pretty that morning, a little palefrom emotion and from a night of travel. D'Argenton was uneasyand restless; he began to regret having accompanied her, and feltembarrassed by the part he was playing. 

When he saw the château, with its grounds and fountains, its air ofwealth, he reproached himself for his own imprudence. "She will neverreturn to Aulnettes, " he thought. At the end of the avenue he stoppedthe carriage. "I will wait here, " he said, abruptly; and added, with asad smile, "Do not be long. "

Ten minutes later he saw Charlotte on the terrace with a tall andelegant-looking man. Then began for him a terrible anguish. What werethey saying? Should he ever see her again? And it was that detestableboy that had given him all this disturbance. The poet sat on the fallentrunk of a tree, watching feverishly the distant door. Before him wasoutspread a charming landscape--wooded hills, sloping vineyards, andmeadows overhung with willows; on one side a ruin of the time of LouisIX. , and on the other, one of those châteaux common enough on the shoresof 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 clothedin uniform, and seemed an organized body. He rose and sauntered towardthem. The laborers were only children, and their reddened eyes and palefaces told the story of their confinement to the poorer quarters of thetown. 

"Who are these children?" questioned the poet. 

"They belong to the penitentiary, " was the answer from the official whosuperintended them. 

D'Argenton asked question after question, saying that he was intimatelyconnected with a family whose only son had just plunged them into deepaffliction. 

"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'Argen-ton, with a shade ofregret 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 wouldglance over them, sir. "

D'Argenton took the papers and turned back toward the house. Thecarriage was coming down the avenue, and soon Charlotte, her colorheightened 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 hiscirculars with an air of affected interest. Charlotte, too, was silent, supposing his pride wounded; and finally he was obliged to say, "Yousucceeded, then?"

"Completely. It has always been his intention to give Jack, on hiscoming of age, a present of ten thousand francs. He has given it to menow. Six thousand will repay the money, and the other four thousand I amto 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 anhonest man from out of a thief. "

She started, for the harsh word recalled her to reality. We know that inthat poor little brain impressions are very transitory. 

"I am ready to do whatever you choose, " she said, "you have been so goodand generous!"

The poet was enchanted; he was still master, and he proceeded to readCharlotte a long lecture. Her maternal weakness was the cause of allthat had happened. The master-hand of a man was absolutely essential. She did not answer, being occupied with joy at the thought of her childnot being sent to prison. 

It was on Sunday morning that they reached Basse Indret. The poet wentat once to the superintendent's, while Charlotte remained alone at theinn, for hotel there was none at the village. The rain beating againstthe windows, and the loud talking in the house, gave her the first clearimpression she had received of the exile to which she had condemned herboy. However guilty he might be, he was still her child--her Jack. Sheremembered him as a little fellow, bright, intelligent, and sensitive, and the idea that he would presently appear before her as a thief and ina workman's blouse, seemed almost incredible. Ah! had she kept her childwith her, or had she sent him with other boys of his age to school, hewould have been kept from temptation. The old doctor was right, afterall. And Jack had lived with these people for two years! All theprejudices 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 thehands. To change the current of her thoughts, she took up the prospectusof which we have spoken--"_Maison Paternelle_. " The system adopted wasabsolute isolation. The mother's heart swelled with anguish, and sheclosed the book and went to the window, where she stood with her eyesfixed 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 wouldnot have relinquished the duty for any amount of money. He was fondof attitudes and scenes. He prepared in advance the terms in which heshould address the criminal. 

An old woman pointed out the house of the Rondics, but when he reachedit he hesitated. Must he not have made a mistake? From the wide openwindows came the sound of gay music, and heavy feet were heard keepingtime to it. "No, this cannot be it, " said D'Argenton, who naturallyexpected to find a desolate house. 

"Come, Zénaïde, it is your turn, " called some one. 

"Zenaïde"--why, that was Rondic's daughter! These people certainly didnot take this affair much to heart. All at once a crowd of white-cappedwomen passed the window, singing loudly. 

"Come, Brigadier I come, Jack!" said some one. 

Somewhat mystified, the poet pushed open the door, and amid the dust andcrowd he saw Jack, radiant with happiness, dancing with a stout girl, who smiled with her whole heart at a good-looking fellow in uniform. Ina 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'smother, the superintendent was in his office alone, when Madame Rondicentered, pale and agitated. Paying little attention to the coolness withwhich she was received, her conduct having for a long time habituatedher to the silent contempt of all who respected themselves, she refusedto sit down, and, standing erect, said slowly, attempting to conceal heremotion, --

"I have come to tell you that the apprentice is not guilty; that it isnot he who has stolen my stepdaughter's dowry. "

The Director started from his chair. "But, ma-dame, every proof isagainst him. "

"What proofs? The most important is that, my husband being away, Jackwas alone with us in the house. It is just this proof that I have cometo 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 almostinaudible reply was whispered, "No, it was not he who took it; I gave itto him!"

"Unhappy woman!"

"Yes, most unhappy. He said that he needed it for two days only, and Ibore for that time the sight of my husband's despair and of Zénaïde'stears, and the fear of seeing an innocent person condemned. Nothing camefrom Chariot. I wrote to him that if by the next day at eleven I heardnothing, 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 verysimple 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 whyyou should wish to die. But--"

"What shall be done, then, " she asked, plaintively; and all at onceshe became the Clarisse of old. Her unwonted courage and determinationfailed her. 

"First, we must know what has become of this money; he must have some ofit still. "

Clarisse shook her head. She knew too well how madly that gamblerplayed. 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 lastsou. 

The superintendent touched his bell. A gendarme entered:

"Go at once to Saint Nazarre, " said his chief; "say to Chariot that Irequire his presence here at once. You will wait for him. "

"Chariot is here, sir; I just saw him come out from Madame Rondic's; hecannot be far off. "

"That is all right. Go after him quickly. Do not tell him, however, thatMadame Rondic is here. "

The man hurried away. Neither the superintendent nor Clarisse spoke. Shestood leaning against the corner of the desk. The jar of the machinery, the wild whistling of the steam, made a fitting accompaniment to thetumult 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 lostits 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. Thiswoman has robbed her husband and her daughter for you. You promised toreturn 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 notfinding 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 somehesitation; "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 deathto her. 

"Write: 'It is I who, in a moment of insane folly, took six thousandfrancs from the wardrobe in the Rondic house. '"

Chariot internally rebelled at these words, but he was afraid thatClarisse would establish the facts in all their naked cruelty. 

The superintendent continued: "'I return the money; it burns me. Releasethe poor fellows who have been suspected, and entreat my uncle toforgive 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 anhonest 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, andtry to behave well. Remember, moreover, that if I hear of you in theneighborhood of Indret, you will be arrested at once. "

As Chariot left the room, he cast one glance at Clarisse. But the charmwas broken; she turned her head away resolutely, and when the doorclosed tried to express her gratitude to the superintendent. 

"Do not thank me, madame, " he said; "it is for your husband's sake thatI have acted, with the hope of sparing him the most horrible torturethat can overwhelm a man. "

"It is in my husband's name that I thank you. I am thinking of him, andof 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 thesuperintendent feared some catastrophe. He answered compassionately, "Keep up your courage, madame, and remember that your husband lovesyou. "

And Jack? Ah, he had his day of triumph! The superintendent ordereda placard to be put up in all the buildings, announcing the boy'sinnocence. He was fêted and caressed. One thing only was lacking, andthat was news of Bélisaire. 

When the prison-doors were thrown open, the pedler disappeared. Jack wasgreatly distressed at this, but nevertheless breakfasted merrily withZénaïde and her soldier, and had forgotten all his woes, when D'Argentonappeared, majestic and clothed in black. It was in vain that theyexplained the finding of the money, the innocence of Jack, and that asecond letter had been sent narrating all these facts; in vain did thesegood people treat Jack with familiar kindness: D'Argenton's manner didnot relax; he expressed in the choicest terms his regret that Jack hadgiven 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 wasconfused, for he remembered his journey to Nantes, and the stall inwhich Zénaïde's lover could testify to having seen him; he thereforelistened 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 thecake looked so nice, so fresh and crisp, that the poet--who was, as weknow, something of an epicure--made a breach in it quite as large asthat in the ham made by Béli-saire at Aulnettes. 

Jack had discovered one thing only from all D'Argenton's long words, --hehad learned that the poet had brought the money to rescue him fromdisgrace, and the child began to believe that he had done the man greatinjustice, and that his coldness was only on the surface. The boy, therefore, had never been so respectful. This, and the cordial receptionof 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 ofIndret!

"Shall I tell him that his mother is so near?" said D'Argenton, unwillingto 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 oncemore it was necessary to be provided with some reason; and this reasonJack 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 fromhis mother. He was not afraid of work, but he liked brain work betterthan manual labor. These words had hardly passed the boy's lips, when hesaw a change in his hearer. 

"You pain me, Jack, you pain me seriously; and your mother would bevery unhappy did she hear you utter such opinions. You have forgottenapparently that I have said to you a hundred times that this centurywas no time for Utopian dreams, for idle fancies;" and on this text hewandered on for more than an hour. And while these two walked on theside of the river, a lonely woman, tired of the solitude of her room inthe inn, came down to the other bank, to watch for the boat that was tobring her the little criminal, --the boy whom she had not seen for twoyears, and whom she dearly loved. But D'Argenton had determined to keepthem apart. It was wisest--Jack was too unsettled. Charlotte wouldbe reasonable enough to comprehend this, and would willingly make thesacrifice for her child's interest. 

And thus it came to pass that Jack and his mother, separated only by theriver, so near that they could have heard each other speak across itswaters, 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 suchswiftly-passing years? Two have passed since Zénaïde was married, andsince Jack's terrible adventure. He has worked conscientiously, andloathes the thought of a wineshop. The house is sad and desolate sinceZénaïde's marriage; Madame Rondic rarely goes out, and occupies heraccustomed seat at the window, the curtain of which, however, is neverlifted, for she expects no one now. Her days and nights are allalike monotonous and dreary. Father Rondic alone preserves his formerserenity. 

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 filledwith fogs and miasma. Jack has had a bad cough, and has passed someweeks in the infirmary. Occasionally a letter has come for him, tenderand loving when his mother wrote in secret, didactic and severe whenthe 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 nowcame on Sundays, with some of their pupils, to dine at Aulnettes. 

Moronval, Mâdou, and the academy seemed far enough away to Jack, whothought of himself in those old days as of a superior being, and couldsee little resemblance between his coarse skin and round shoulders, andthe dainty pink and white child whose face he dimly remembered. 

Thus were Dr. Rivals' words justified: "It is social distinctions thatcreate final and absolute separations. "

Jack thought often of the old doctor and of Cécile, and on the first ofJanuary each year had written them a long letter. But the two last hadremained unanswered. 

One thought alone sustained Jack in his sad life: his mother might needhim, and he must work hard for her sake. 

Unfortunately wages are in proportion to the value of the work, and notto the ambition of the workman, and Jack had no talent in the directionof his career. He was seventeen, his apprenticeship over, and yet hereceived but three francs per day. With these three francs he must payfor his room, his food, and his dress; that is, he must replace hiscoarse clothing as it was worn out; and what should he do if his motherwere to write and say, "I am coming to live with you "?

"Look here, " said Père Rondic, "your parents made a great mistake in notlistening to me. You have no business here; now how would you like tomake a voyage? The chief engineer of the 'Cydnus' wants an assistant. You can have six francs per day, be fed, lodged, and warmed. Shall Iwrite and say you will like the situation?"

The idea of the double pay, the love of travel that Mâdou's wild taleshad awakened in his childish nature, combined to render Jack highlypleased at the proposed change. He left Indret one July morning, justfour years after his arrival. What a superb day it was! The air becamemore fresh as the little steamer he was on approached the ocean. Jackhad never seen the sea. The fresh salt breeze inspired him withrestless longing. Saint Nazarre lay before him, --the harbor crowded withshipping. They landed at the dock, and there learned that the Cydnus, ofthe _Compagnie Transatlantique_, would sail at three o'clock that day, and was already lying outside, --this being, in fact, the only way tohave the crew all on board at the moment of departure. 

Jack and his companion--for Father Rondic had insisted on seeing him onboard his ship--had no time to see anything of the town, which had allthe vivacity of a market-day. 

The wharf was piled with vegetables, with baskets of fruit, and withfowls which, tied together, were wildly struggling for liberty. Near their merchandise stood the Breton peasants waiting quietly forpurchasers. 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. Sailorswere hurrying to and fro, and Rondic learned from one of them that thechief engineer of the Cydnus was in a very bad humor because he had nothis full number of stokers on board. 

"We must hasten, " said Rondic; and they hailed a boat, and rapidlythreaded their way through the harbor. The enormous transatlanticsteamers lay at their wharves as if asleep; the decks of two largeEnglish ships just arrived from Calcutta were covered with sailors, allhard at work. They passed between these motionless masses, where thewater was as dark as a canal running through the midst of a city underhigh walls; then they saw the Cydnus lying, with her steam on. A wirylittle man, in his shirt-sleeves, with three stripes on his cap, hailedJack and Rondic as their boat came alongside the steamer. 

His words were inaudible through the din and tumult, but his gestureswere eloquent enough. This was Blanchet, the chief engineer. 

"You have come, then, have you?" he shouted. "I was afraid you meantto leave me in the lurch. "

"It was my fault, " said Rondic; "I wished to accompany the lad, and Icould not get away yesterday. "

"On board with you, quick!" returned the engineer; "he must get into hisplace at once. "

They descended first one ladder, then another, and another. Jack, whohad never been on board a large steamer, was stupefied at the sizeand the depth of this one. They descended to an abyss where the eyesaccustomed to the light of day could distinguish absolutely nothing. Theheat was stifling, and a final ladder led to the engine-room, where theheavy atmosphere, charged with a smell of oil, was almost insupportable. Great activity reigned in this room; a general examination was beingmade of the machinery, which glittered with cleanliness. Jack looked oncuriously at the enormous structure, knowing that it would soon be hisduty to watch it day and night. 

At the end of the engine-room was a long passage. "That is where thecoal is kept, " said the engineer, carelessly; "and on the other side thestokers sleep. "

Jack shuddered. The dormitory at the academy, the garret-room at theRondics, were palaces in comparison. 

The engineer pushed open a small door. Imagine a long cave, reddenedby 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 wasgone. 

Jack was soon set to work; his task was to carry the cinders from thefurnace to the deck, and there throw them into the sea. It was very hardwork: the baskets were heavy, the ladders narrow, and the changefrom the pure air above to the stifling atmosphere below absolutelysuffocating. 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 cornerhalf fainting. One of the stokers, seeing his condition, brought him alarge 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 effortof will than by muscular force, he ascended the ladder. 

From the deck an animated spectacle was to be seen. The little steamerran to and fro from the wharf to the ship, laden with passengers whocame hurriedly on board. The passengers were representatives of allnations. Some were gay, and others were weeping, but in the faces ofall was to be read an anxiety or a hope; for these displacements, thesemovings, are almost invariably the result of some great disturbance, andare, in general, the last quiver of the shock that throws you from onecontinent to the other. 

This same feverish element pervaded everything, even the vessel thatstrained at its anchor. It animated the curious crowd on the jettywho had come, some of them, to catch a last look of some dear face. Itanimated the fishing-boats, whose sails were spread for a night of toil. 

Jack, with his empty basket at his feet, stood looking down at thepassengers, --those belonging to the cabins comfortably established, those of the steerage seated on their slender luggage. Where were theygoing? What wild fancy took them away? What cold and stern realityawaited them on their landing? One couple interested him especially:it was a mother and a child who recalled to him the memory of Ida andlittle Jack. The lady was young and in black, with a heavy wrap thrownabout her, a Mexican sarape with wide stripes. She had a certain air ofindependence characteristic of the wives of military or naval officers, who, from the frequent absence of their husbands, are thrown on theirown resources. The child, dressed in the English fashion, looked as ifhe might have belonged to Lord Pembroke. When they passed Jack they bothturned aside, and the long silk skirts were lifted that they might nottouch his blackened garments. It was an almost imperceptible movement, but Jack understood it. A rough oath and a slap on the shoulderinterrupted his sad thoughts. 

"What the deuce are you up here for, sir? Go down to your post!" Itwas 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 theship: she had started. 

"Stand there!" said the head stoker. 

Jack took his place before one of those gaping mouths; it was his dutyto fill it, and to rake it, and to keep the fire clear. This was notsuch an easy matter, as, being unaccustomed to the sea, the pitchingof the vessel came near throwing him into the flames. He neverthelesstoiled 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 othersdid, 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 manwho had previously offered it to him. 

"Here it is, comrade; I knew very well that you would want it beforelong. "

He swallowed an enormous draught; it was almost pure alcohol, but he wasso cold that it seemed like water. After a moment a comfortable warmthspread over his whole system, and then began a burning sensation in hisstomach. To extinguish this fire he drank again. Fire within, and firewithout, --flame upon flame, --was this the way that he was to live infuture?

Then began a life of toil, hardship, and drunkenness that lasted threeyears:--three years whose seasons were all alike in that heated roomdown 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 theclimes they visited, the hotter was his chamber of torment. When he hademptied his cinders, broken his coal, and filled his furnaces, he sleptthe sleep of exhaustion and intoxication; for a stoker must drink if helives. In the darkness of his life there was but one bright spot, hismother. She was like the Madonna in a chapel where all the lights areextinguished save the one that burns before her shrine. Now that he hadbecome 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 heras we love those for whom we suffer. Even in his most despairing momentshe remembered the end for which he toiled, and a mechanical instinctmade him carefully preserve almost every sou of his wages. 

Meanwhile, distance and time weakened the intercourse between mother andson. Jack's letters became more and more rare. Those of Charlotte werefrequent, but they spoke of things so foreign to his new life, thathe read them only to hear their music, the far off echo of a livingtenderness. 

Letters from Etiolles told him of D'Argenton; later, some from Parisspoke of their having again taken up their residence there, and of thepoet having founded a Review, in consequence of the solicitations offriends. This would be a way of bringing his works prominently beforethe public, as well as to increase his income. At Havana Jack found alarge package addressed to him. It was the first number of the magazine. The stoker mechanically turned its leaves, leaving on them the traces ofhis blackened fingers; and suddenly, as he saw the well-known names ofD'Argenton, Moronval, and Hirsch on the smooth pages, he was seizedwith wild rage and indignation, and he cried aloud, as he shook his fistimpatiently 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, andbetter able to support the fatigues of his daily labor; he seemed hardlyto recognize any difference between bis days when the ship tossed andgroaned, and his nights when he slept a drunken sleep, disturbed only byan 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 adream? His comrades called him, shook him. "Jack, Jack!" they cried; hestaggered out, half naked. The engine-room was already half under water, the compass broken, the fires extinguished. The men ran against eachother in the darkness. "What is it?" they cried. 

An American ship had run them down. The men struggled up the narrowladder; at the head stood the chief engineer with a revolver in hishand. 

"The first man that attempts to pass me I will shoot! Go to yourfurnaces! Land is not far off; we shall reach it yet if my orders areobeyed. " Each one turned, with rage and despair in his heart. Theycharged the furnaces with wet coal, and volumes of gas and smoke pouredout; while the water still ascending, in spite of the constant work atthe pumps, was as cold as ice. The pumps refuse to work, the furnaceswill not burn. The stokers are in water up to their shoulders before thevoice of the chief engineer is heard: "Save yourselves, my men, if youcan!"

CHAPTER XVIII. ~~D'ARGENTON'S MAGAZINE. 

In a narrow street, quiet and orderly, in one of those houses belongingto the last century, D'Argen-ton had established himself as editor ofthe new magazine; while Jack, our friend Jack, was its proprietor. Do not smile: this was really the case; his money had been used toestablish it Charlotte had some little scruple at first in so employingthese funds, which she wished to preserve intact for the boy on hisattaining his majority; but she yielded to the poet's persuasions. 

"Come, my dear, listen! Figures are figures, you' know. Can there be abetter 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, andthe receipts had been nothing, while the expenses were enormous. Besidesthe offices of the magazine, D'Argenton had hired in the same house alarge apartment, from which he had a superb view. The city, the Seine, Nôtre Dame, numberless spires and domes, were all spread before hiseyes. He saw the carriages pass over the bridges, and the boats glidethrough the arches. "Here I can live and breathe, " he said to himself. "It was impossible for me to accomplish anything in that dull littlehole of Aulnettes! How could one work in such a lethargic atmosphere?"

Charlotte was still young and gay; she managed the house and thekitchen, which was no small matter with the number of persons who dailyassembled around her table. The poet, too, had recently acquired thehabit of dictating instead of writing, and as Charlotte wrote a gracefulEnglish hand, he employed her as secretary. Every evening, when theywere alone, he walked up and down the large room and dictated for anhour. In the silent old house, his solemn voice, and another sweeter andfresher, awakened singular echoes. "Our author is composing, " said theconcierge with respect. 

Let us look in upon the D'Argenton ménage. We find them installed in acharming little room, filled with the aroma of green tea and of Havanacigars. Charlotte is preparing her writing-table, arranging her pens, and straightening the ream of thick paper. D'Argenton is in excellentvein; 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 differentlydisposed: a cloud is on her face, which is pale and anxious; butnotwithstanding 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 evidentdetermination not to question her, he continued, --

"In a valley among the Pyrenees, those Pyrenees so rich in legendarylore--"

He repeated these words several times, then turning to Charlotte, hesaid, "Have you written this?"

She made an effort to repeat the words, but stopped, her voice strangledwith sobs. In vain did she try to restrain herself, her tears flowed intorrents. 

"What on earth is the matter?" said D'Argenton. "Is it this news ofthe Cydnus? It is a mere flying report, I am sure, and I attach noimportance to it. Dr. Hirsch was to call at the office of the Companyto-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 somethingof all these?

"Where were we?" he continued, when she was calmer. "You have made melose the thread. Read me all you have written. "

Charlotte wiped her tears away. 

"In a valley among the Pyrenees, those Pyrenees so rich in legendarylore--"

"Go on. "

"It is all, " she answered. 

The poet was very much surprised; it seemed to him that he had dictatedmuch more. The terrible advantage thought has over expression bewilderedhim. All that he dreamed, all that was in embryo within his brain, hefancied was already in form and on the page, and he was aghast at thedisproportion between the dream and the reality. His delusion was likethat of Don Quixote, --he believed himself in the Empyrean, and took thevapors from the kitchen for the breath of heaven, and, seated on hiswooden horse, felt all the shock of an imaginary fall.. Had he been insuch a state of mental exaltation merely to produce those two lines?Were these the only result of that frantic rubbing of his dishevelledhair, 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 awayand the places are filled. Do you not know how small a thing disturbsliterary composition? I ought to live in a tower a thousand feet aboveall the futilities of life, instead of being surrounded by caprices, disorder, and childishness. " As he speaks he strikes a furious blow uponthe table, and poor Charlotte, with the tears pouring from her eyes, gathers up the pens and papers that have flown about the room in wildconfusion. 

The arrival of Dr. Hirsch ends this deplorable scene, and after a whiletranquillity is restored. The doctor is not alone; Labassandre comeswith 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 thephysician'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 doctorcontrived to convey to D'Argenton that the Cydnus had gone to thebottom», --"a collision at sea--every soul was lost. "

D'Argenton's face never changed, and it would have been difficult toform 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 poorwoman, who usually detained her poet in the house lest the high-bornladies of the Faubourg St. Germain should entrap him, is this eveningdelighted to see him leave her, that she may weep in peace--that she mayyield to all the wild terror and mournful presentiments that assail her. This is why even the presence of the servant annoys her, and she sendsher to her attic. 

"Madame wishes to be alone! Is not madame afraid? The noise of the windis 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 ofher tyrant saying, "What are you thinking about?" Ever since she hadread in the Journal the brief words, "There is no intelligence of theCydnus, " the image of her child had pursued her. Her nights had beensleepless, and she listened to the wind with singular terror. It seemedto blow from all quarters, rattling the windows and wailing through thechimneys. But whether it whispered or shrieked, it spoke to her, andsaid what it always says to the mothers and wives of sailors, who turnpale as they listen. The wind comes from afar, but it comes quickly andhas met with many adventures. With one gust it has torn away the sailsof a vessel, set fire to a quiet home, and carried death and destructionon its wings. This it is that gives to its voice such melancholyintonations. 

This night it was dreary enough: it rattles the windows and whistlesunder the doors; it wishes to come in, for it bears a message to thispoor mother, and it sounds like an appeal or a warning. The tickingof the clock, the distant noise of a locomotive, all take the sameplaintive tone and beseeching accent. Charlotte knows only too wellwhat the wind wishes to tell her. It is a story of a ship rolling on thebroad ocean, without sails or rudder--of a maddened crowd on the deck, of cries and shrieks, curses and prayers. Her hallucination is so strongthat she even hears from the ship a beseeching cry of "Mamma!" Shestarts to her feet; she bears it again. To escape it, she walks aboutthe room, opens the door and looks down the corridor. She sees nothing, but she hears a sigh, and, raising her lamp higher, discovers a darkshadow 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 sheapproached him, with the aid of a pair of crutches. And this is whatshe 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 themand all that they do absolutely ridiculous. When D'Argenton returnedthat night, he came with the determination to disclose the fatal news toCharlotte, and to have the whole affair concluded. The manner in whichhe 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 cameto 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. Hehas been saved as by a miracle. He has just come from Rio Janeiro, wherehe spent two months in a hospital. "

D'Argenton forced a smile, which Charlotte endeavored to believe was oneof satisfaction. It must be acknowledged that he behaved very well, andsaid 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 Charlottewas resumed, changed only by the presence of the poor lame fellow, whoselegs were badly burned by the explosion of a boiler, and had not yethealed. He was clothed in a jacket of blue cloth. His light moustache, the color of ripe wheat, was struggling into sight through the thickcoating 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 towitness, 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 atthis figure, which offered so strange a contrast to the quiet, luxurioussurroundings, she hastened to say, "It is my son, he has been very ill, "in the same way that the mothers of deformed children quickly mentionthe relationship, lest they should surprise a smile or a compassionatelook. But if she was pained in seeing her darling in this state, andblushed at the vulgarity of his manners or his awkwardness at the table, she was still more mortified at the tone of contempt with which herhusband's friends spoke of her son. 

Jack saw little difference in the habitués of the house, save that theywere older, had less hair and fewer teeth; in every other respect theywere the same. They had attained no higher social position, and werestill without visible means of support. 

They met every day to discuss the prospects of the Review, and twiceeach week they all dined at D'Argenton's table. Moronval generallybrought with him his two last pupils. One was a young Japanese princeof an indefinite age, and who, robbed of his floating robes, seemed verysmall and slender. With his little cane and hat, he looked like a figureof yellow clay fallen from an étagère upon the Parisian sidewalk. Theother, with narrow slits of eyes and a black beard, recalled certainvague remembrances to Jack, who at last recognized his old friend Saidwho 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 themanners and customs of fashionable society. All these persons treatedJack with a certain air of condescension. He remained Master Jack to butone person--that was that most amiable of women, Madame Moronval, whowore the same silk dress that he had seen her in years before. He caredlittle whether he was called "Master Jack, " or "My boy, "--his two monthsin the hospital, his three years of alcoholic indulgence, the atmosphereof the engine-room, and the final tempestuous conclusion, had caused himsuch profound exhaustion, such a desire for quiet, that he sat with hispipe 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 thesociety 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 thantalk himself. Her voice made a delicious murmur in his ears like that ofthe first bees on a warm spring day. 

Once, when they were alone, he said to Charlotte, very slowly, "When Iwas 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 lifethat 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 allbefore; the cabins, and the narrow ladders, impressed me as familiar; itseemed 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 fromAlgiers. 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 suddencuriosity; and yet she could not refuse to answer these questions. 

"He was called by one of the grandest names in France, my child--bya name that you and I would bear to-day if a sudden and terriblecatastrophe had not prevented him from repairing his fault. Ah, wewere very young when we met! I must tell you that at that time I had aperfect passion for the chase. I remember a little Arabian horse calledSoliman--"

She was gone, at full speed, mounted on this horse, and Jack made noeffort to interrupt her--he knew that it was useless. But when shestopped to take breath, he profited by this brief halt to return to hisfixed idea. 

"What was my father's name?" he repeated. 

How astonished those clear eyes looked! She had totally forgotten ofwhom they had been speaking. She answered quickly, --"He was calledthe Marquis de l'Epau. " Jack certainly had but little of his mother'srespect for high birth, its rights and its prerogatives, for he receivedwith the greatest tranquillity the intelligence of his illustriousdescent. What mattered it to him that his father was a marquis, andbore a distinguished name? This did not prevent his son from earning hisbread as a stoker on the Cydnus. 

"Look here, Charlotte, " said D'Argenton impatiently, one day, "somethingmust be done! A decided step must be taken with this boy. He cannotremain here forever without doing anything. He is quite well again; heeats like an ox. He coughs a little still, to be sure, but Dr. Hirschsays that is nothing, --that he will always cough. He must decide onsomething. If the life in the engine-room of a steamer is too severe forhim, let him try a railroad. "

Charlotte ventured to say, timidly, "If you could see how he loses hisbreath when he climbs the stairs, and how thin he is, you would stillfeel that he is far from well. Can you not employ him on some of theoffice work?"

"I will speak to Moronval, " was the reply. 

The result of this was, that Jack for some days did everything in theoffice except sweep the rooms. With his usual imperturbability, Jackfulfilled these various duties, enduring the contemptuous remarks ofMoronval with the same indifference that he opposed to D'Argenton's coldcontempt. Moronval had a certain fixed salary on the magazine; it wassmall, to be sure, but he added to it by supplementary labors, for whichhe was paid certain sums on account. The subscription books lay open onthe desk, expenses went on, but no receipts came in. In fact, there wasbut 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. NeitherJack nor any one else realized this; but D'Argenton knew it and feltit hourly, and soon hated more strongly than ever the youth upon whosemoney he was living. 

At the end of a week it was announced that Jack was useless in theoffice. 

"But, my dear, " said Charlotte, "he does all he can!"

"And what is that? He is lazy and indifferent; he knows not how to sitnor how to stand, and he falls asleep over his plate at dinner; andsince this great, shambling fellow has appeared here, you have grown tenyears older, my love. Besides, he drinks, I assure you that he drinks. "

Charlotte bowed her head and wept; she knew that her son drank, butwhose fault was it? Had they not thrown him into the gulf?

"I have an idea, Charlotte! Suppose we send him to Etiolles for changeof air. We will give him a little money, and it will be a good thing forhim. "

She thanked him enthusiastically, and it was decided that she would gothe next day to install her son at Aulnettes. 

They arrived there on one of those soft autumnal mornings which have allthe beauty of summer without its excessive heat. There was not a breathin the air; the birds sang loudly, the fallen leaves rustled gently, anda perfume of rich maturity of ripened grain and fruit filled the air. The paths through the woods were still green and fresh; Jack recognizedthem all, and, seeing them, regained a portion of his lost youth. Natureherself seemed to welcome him with open arms, and he was soothed andcomforted. Charlotte left her son early the next morning, and the littlehouse, 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 thebelief that my Jack was a thief!"

"But, Dr. Rivals--"

"And that if I had not happened to ask for a glass of milk at theArchambaulds, I should have continued to think so!"

It was, on feet, at the forester's cottage that Jack and his old friendhad met. 

For ten days the youth had been living in solitude at Aulnettes. Eachday he had become more like the Jack of his childhood. The only personswith whom he held any communication were the old forester and his wife, who had served Charlotte faithfully for so long a time. She watched overhis health, purchased his provisions, and often cooked his dinner overher own fire, while he sat and smoked at the door. These people neverasked a question, but when they saw his thin figure and heard hisconstant cough, they shook their heads. 

The interview between Dr. Rivals and Jack was at first embarrassingto both, but after a little conversation, and as soon as the doctorunderstood the truth, the awkwardness passed away. 

"And now, " said the old gentleman, gayly, "I hope we shall see youoften. You have been sent out to grass, apparently, like an old horse, but you need more than that. You require great care, my boy, greatcare, --particularly in the coming season. Etiolles is not Nice, youunderstand. Our house is changed, for my poor wife died four yearsago, --died of absolute grief. My granddaughter does her best to take herplace; she keeps my books and makes up my prescriptions. How glad shewill 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 feelingof restraint. It is too cold for you to be out late to-night; this fogis not good for you; but I shall expect you at breakfast to-morrow. Nowin 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. Itseemed to him that he had just come home from one of those long driveswith 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 driedgrape-vines, for life in the engine-room had made him very chilly. As ofold, when he returned from his country excursions with the doctor, theremembrance of his kindness and affection rendered him impervious to theslights he received at home, so now did the prospect of seeing Cécilepeople his solitude with dear phantoms and happy visions, that remainedwith 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 thereply of the little servant who had replaced the faithful old woman hehad known. Jack turned to the office; he knocked hurriedly, impatient tobehold 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 charmingapparition on the threshold, in her blue dress and clustering blondehair, was not the sun itself. How intimidated he would have been hadnot the little hand slipped into his own recalled so many sweetrecollections of their common child-hood!

"Life has been very hard for you, my grandfather tells me, " she said. "Ihave had much sorrow, too. Dear grandmamma is dead; she loved you, andoften spoke of you. "

He sat opposite to her, looking at her. She was tall and graceful; asshe stood leaning against the corner of an old bookcase, she bent herhead slightly to talk to her friend, and reminded him of a bird. 

Jack remembered that his mother was beautiful also; but in Cécilethere was something indefinable--an aroma of some divine spring-time, something fresh and pure, to which Charlotte's mannerisms and gracesbore little resemblance. 

Suddenly, while he sat in this ecstasy before her, he caught sight ofhis own hand. It seemed enormous to him; it was black and hardened, andthe nails were broken and deformed, --irretrievably injured by contactwith fire and iron. He was ashamed, but could not conceal them evenby putting them in his pocket. But he saw himself now with the eyes ofothers, dressed in shabby clothes and an old vest of D'Argenton's, thatwas too small for him and too short in the sleeves. In addition to thisphysical awkwardness, poor Jack was overwhelmed by the memory of all thedisgraceful scenes through which he had passed. The drunken orgies, thehours of beastly intoxication, all returned to his recollection, and itseemed to him that Cécile knew them, too. The slight cloud that hung onher fair young brow, the compassion he read in her eyes, all told himthat she understood his shame and humiliation. He wished to run away andshut himself into a room at Aulnettes, and never leave it again. 

Fortunately, some one came into the office, and Cécile, busy at herscales, writing the labels as her grandmother had done, gave Jack timeto recover his equanimity. 

How good and patient she was! These poor peasant women were very stupidand wearisome with their long explanations. She encouraged them withher sympathy, cheered them with her words of counsel, and reproved themgently for their mistakes. 

She was busy at this moment with an old acquaintance of Jack's, --thevery woman who had taken so much pleasure in terrifying him when he waslittle. Bowed, as nearly all the peasantry are by their daily labor, burned by the sun, and powdered by the dust, old Salé yet retained alittle life in her sharp eyes. She spoke of her good man, who had beensick for months, --who could not work, and yet had to eat. She said twoor three things calculated to disconcert a young girl, and looked Céciledirectly in the face with malicious delight. Two or three times Jackfelt a strong inclination to put the wretch out of the door; but herestrained himself when he saw the cold dignity with which Cécilelistened. 

The old woman finally finished her discourse, and, as she passed Jackgoing 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, Ifancy, though there was a time when everybody thought that was what thedoctor desired;" and, chuckling, she left the room. 

Jack turned pale. The old woman had finally struck the blow that, somany years ago, she had threatened him with. But Jack was not theonly one who was disturbed. A fair face, bent low over a big book, wasscarlet with annoyance. 

"Come, Catherine, bring the soup. " It was the doctor who spoke. "And youtwo, 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 ofhis bad habits would show themselves; and his hands--what could hedo with them? With one he must hold his fork, but with the other? Thewhiteness of the linen made it look appallingly black. Cécile saw hisdiscomfort, and understanding that her watchfulness increased it, hardlyglanced again in his direction. 

Catherine took away the dessert, and put before the young girl hotwater, sugar, and a bottle of old brandy. It was she who since hergrandmother's death had mixed the doctor's grog. And the good manhad not gained by the change; for she, as the doctor observed in amelancholy 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 anengine-room for three years? Don't you know--ignorant little puss thatyou are--that that is the only way the poor fellows can live? On boarda vessel where I was, one fellow drank a bottle of pure spirit at adraught. 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 hewithdrew his glass, --for which effort of self-denial he was rewarded byone of those eloquent looks of gratitude which some women can give, andwhich are only understood by those whom they address. 

"Upon my word, a conversion!" said the doctor, laughing. But Jack wasconverted only after the fashion of savages, who consent to believe inGod only to please the missionaries. The peasants of Etiolles, at workin the fields, who saw Jack on his way home that night, might have hadevery reason to suppose that he was crazy or intoxicated. He was talkingto himself, and gesticulating wildly. "Yes, " he exclaimed, "M. D'Argenton was right: I am a mere artisan and must live and die withmy equals; it is useless for me to try and rise above them. " It was avery long time since the young man had felt any such energy. Newthoughts 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 thathad he been differently educated, he might have ventured to ask her tobecome 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 fagotof wood. The old woman looked at him with a wicked smile, that in hispresent mood exasperated him to such a degree that his look of anger soterrified the old creature that she dropped her fagot and ran into thewood. 

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 glassdoors that led to the garden, through which the soft mist of a superbautumnal night was visible, he thought of his childhood, and of the lastyears 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 lifethat this thought had weighed upon him, for Jack had not lived amongvery scrupulous people. He had never heard his father's name mentioned, and therefore rarely thought of him, being as unable to measure theextent of his loss as a deaf mute is unable to realize the blessing ofthe senses he lacks. 

But now the question of his birth occupied him to the exclusion of allothers. 

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 amarquis? Was he certainly dead? Had not his mother said this merely toavoid the disclosure of a mortifying desertion? And if this father werestill alive, would he not be willing to give his name to his son? Thepoor fellow was ignorant of the fact that a true woman's heart is moremoved by compassion than by all the vain distinctions of the world. 

"I will write to my mother, " he thought. But the questions he wishedto ask were so delicate and complicated, that he resolved to see her atonce, and have one of those earnest conversations where eyes do the workof words, and where silence is as eloquent as speech. Unfortunately hehad 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 didtry it the next day; and if it seemed to him less long and less lonelythan it did before, it was far more sad. 

Jack saw the spot where he had slept, the little gate at VilleneuveSaint-George's, where he had been dropped by the kind couple from theircarriage, the pile of stones where the recumbent form of a man had soterrified him, and he sighed to think that if the Jack of his youthcould suddenly rise from the dust of the highway, he would be moreafraid 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 thepresent time, he recalled the glow of the sunset on that May eveningwhen his mother appeared to him, like the archangel Michael, wrapped inglory, 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 withso 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 havesupposed that any tie could exist between them. 

Jack extended his hand to D'Argenton, who gave one finger in return, andasked 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 wasoccupied, and you were compelled to leave it. "

"No, " said Jack, somewhat disconcerted; "no one has even called to lookat 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 yourlegs 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 pridewas now so wounded that he would have returned to Aulnettes withoutseeing his mother, had he not wished to speak to her most seriously. He entered the salon; it was in disorder: chairs and benches were beingbrought in, for a great fête was in progress of arrangement, whichwas the reason that D'Argenton was so out of temper on seeingJack. Charlotte did not appear pleased, but stopped in some of herpreparations. 

"Is it you, my dear Jack. You come for money, too, I fancy. I forgot itutterly, --that is, I begged Dr. Hirsch to hand it to you. He is goingto Aulnettes in two or three days to make some very curious experimentswith perfumes. He has made an extraordinary discovery. "

They were talking in the centre of the room; a half dozen workmen weregoing 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; andto-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 notconvenient?"

She went with him into a veranda covered with striped cotton, furnishedwith a sofa and jardinière, but rather dismal-looking with the rainpattering on the zinc roof. 

Jack said to himself, "I had better have written, " and did not know whatto say first. 

"Well?" said Charlotte, leaning her chin on her hand in that gracefulattitude 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 headthat 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 didnot utter them, the expression of her face, in which were to be readamazement and fear, spoke for her. 

"It is too sad for us, my child, to discuss. But still, painful asit is to me, I understand your feelings, and am ready to gratify you. Besides, " she added, solemnly, "I have always intended, when you weretwenty, to reveal to you the secret of your birth. "

It was time now for him to look astonished. Had she forgotten that threemonths previous she had made this disclosure. Nevertheless, he utteredno protest, he wished to compare her story of to-day with an oldernarration. How well he knew her!

"Is it true that my father was noble?" he asked, suddenly. 

"Indeed he was, my child. "

"À 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 afalsehood now, or on the previous occasion? Was he a De Bulac or aL'Epau?

"You are looking ill, child, " said Charlotte, interrupting herself inthe midst of a long romance she was telling, "your hands are like ice. "

"Never mind, I shall get warm with exercise, " answered Jack, withdifficulty. 

"Are you going so soon? Well, it is best that you should get back beforeit is late. " She kissed him tenderly, tied a handkerchief around histhroat, and slipped some money into his pocket. She fancied that hissilence and sadness came from seeing all the preparations for a fête inwhich he was to have no share, and when her maid summoned her for thewaiting 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 motherall the time. He was sad at heart, but not by reason of this fête fromwhich he was excluded, but at the thought of all the happiness in lifefrom which he had been always shut out. He thought of the children whocould love and respect their parents, who had a name, a fireside, and afamily. He remembered, too, that his unhappy fate would prevent him fromasking any woman to share his life. He was wretched without realizingthat to regret these joys was in fact to be worthy of them, and that itwas only the fall perception of the sad truths of his destiny that wouldimpart the strength to cope with them. 

Wrapped in these dismal meditations, he had reached the Lyons station, aspot 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 oneword _Consolation_, as if drunkenness and forgetfulness were the solerefuge for the wretched. Jack, feeling that darkness had settled down onhis life as absolutely as it had on this cold autumnal night, uttered anexclamation of despair. 

"They are right; what is there left to do but to drink?" and enteringone of those miserable drink-ing-shops, Jack called for a double measureof 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 theshop abruptly, leaving his glass untouched and the money on the counter. 

How Jack had a sharp illness of some weeks' duration after this longwalk; 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 Jackseated in a comfortable arm-chair, reading at the window of the doctor'soffice. 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 withwatching the movements of the dear presence that pervaded the simplehome. She sewed and kept her grandfather's accounts. 

"I am sure, " she said, looking up from her book, "that the dear manforgets 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 allhis eyes. If Cécile said, "My friend, " it seemed to Jack that noother person had ever so called him; and when she said farewell, orgood-night, his heart contracted as if he were never to see her again. Her slightest words were full of meaning, and her simple, unaffectedways were a delight to the youth. In his state of convalescence he wasmore susceptible to these influences than he would ordinarily have been. 

O, the delicious days he spent in that blessed home! The office, alarge, deserted room, with white curtains at the windows opening on avillage street, communicated to him its healthful calm. The roomwas filled with the odors of plants culled in the splendor of theirflowering, and he drank it in with delight. 

In the scent of the balsam he heard the rushing of the clear brooks inthe forest, and the woods were green and shady, when he caught the odorof the herbs gathered from the foot of the tall oaks. 

With returning strength Jack tried to read; he turned over the oldvolumes, and found those in which he had studied so long before, andwhich he could now far better comprehend. The doctor was out nearly allday, and the two young people remained alone. This would have horrifiedmany a prudent mother, and, of course, had Madame Rivals been living, itwould not have been permitted; but the doctor was a child himself, andthen, who knows? he may have had his own plans. 

Meanwhile D'Argenton, informed of Jack's removal to the Rivals, saw fitto take great offence. "It is not at all proper, " wrote Charlotte, "thatyou should remain there. People will think us unwilling to give you thecare you need? You place us in a false position. "

This letter failing to produce any effect, the poet wrote himself:--"Isent Hirsch to cure you, but you preferred a country idiot to thescience of our friend! As you call yourself better, I give you now twodays to return to Aulnettes. If you are not there at the expirationof that time, I shall consider that you have been guilty of flagrantdisobedience, and from that moment all is over between us. "

As Jack did not move, Charlotte appeared on the scene. She came withmuch dignity, and with a crowd of phrases that she had learned by heartfrom her poet. M. Rivals received her at the door, and, not in the leastintimidated 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 passedthrough a great crisis. Fortunately he is at an age when constitutionscan be reformed, and I trust that his will resist the rough trials towhich it has been exposed. Hirsch would have killed him with his muskand 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 ofrenewing the battle of life; but if you let that impostor Hirschget hold of him again, I shall think that you wish to get rid of himforever. "

"Ah! M. Rivals, what a thing to say! What have I done to deserve such aninsult?" and Charlotte burst into tears. The doctor soothed her witha few kind words, and then let her go alone into the office to see herson. She found him changed and improved much, as if he had thrown offsome outer husk, but exhausted and weakened by the transformation. Heturned 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 sotenderly?"

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 certainlycaused him a relapse. Charlotte was evidently uncomfortable; she lookedtired and troubled. 

"We have a large entertainment every month, and every fortnight areading, and all the confusion gives me a headache. Then the Japaneseprince at the Moronval Academy has written a poem, M. D'Argenton hastranslated it into French, and we are both of us learning the Japanesetongue. I find it very difficult, and have come to the conclusion thatliterature 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 isdead. Do you remember him?"

At this moment Cécile came in and was received by Charlotte with themost flattering exclamations and much warmth of manner. She talked ofD'Argenton and of their friend at Tours, which annoyed Jack intensely, for he would have wished neither person to have been mentioned inCécile's pure presence, and over and over again he stopped the carelessbabble of his mother who had no such scruples. They urged MadameD'Argenton to remain to dinner, but she had already lingered too long, and was uneasily occupied in inventing a series of excuses for herdelay, which should be in readiness when she encountered her poet'sfrowning face. 

"Above all, Jack, if you write to me, be sure that you put on yourletter '_to be called for_, ' for M. D'Argenton is much vexed with youjust now. So do not be astonished if I scold you a little in my nextletter, for he is always there when I write. He even dictates mysentences sometimes; but don't mind, dear, you will understand. "

She acknowledged her slavery with naïveté, and Jack was consoled for thetyranny by which she was oppressed by seeing her go away in excellentspirits, and with her shawl wrapped so gracefully around her, and hertravelling-bag carried as lightly as she carried all the burdens oflife. 

Have you ever seen those water-lilies, whose long stems arise from thedepths of the river, finding their way through all obstacles until theyexpand on the surface, opening their magnificent white cups, and fillingthe air with their delicate perfume? Thus grew and flowered the love ofthese two young hearts. With Cécile, the divine flower had grown in alimpid soul, where the most careless eyes could have discerned it. With Jack, its roots had been tangled and deformed, but when the stemsreached the regions of air and light, they straightened themselves, andneeded but little more to burst into flower. 

"If you wish, " said M. Rivals, one evening, "we will go to-morrow to thevintage at Coudray; the farmer will send his wagon; you two can go inthat in the morning, and I will join you at dinner. "

They accepted the proposition with delight. They started on a brightmorning at the end of October. À soft haze hung over the landscape, retreating before them, as it seemed; upon the mown fields and on thebundles of golden grain, upon the slender plants, the last remains ofthe summer's brightness, long silken threads floated like particles ofgray fog. The river ran on one side of the highway, bordered by hugetrees. The freshness of the air heightened the spirits of the two youngtravellers, who sat on the rough seat with their feet in the straw, andholding on with both hands to the side of the wagon. One of the farmer'sdaughters drove a young ass, who, harassed by the wasps, which arevery numerous at the time when the air is full of the aroma of ripeningfruits, impatiently shook his long ears. 

They went on and on until they reached a hill-side, where they saw acrowd at work. Jack and Cécile each snatched a wicker basket and joinedthe others. What a pretty sight it was! The rustic landscape seenbetween the vine-draped arches, the narrow stream, winding andpicturesque, full of green islands, a little cascade and its white foam, and above all, the fog showing through a golden mist, and a fresh breezethat suggested long evenings and bright fires. 

This charming day was very short, at least so Jack found it. He did notleave Cécile's side for a minute. She wore a broad-brimmed hat and askirt of flowered cambric. He filled her basket with the finest of thegrapes, exquisite in their purple bloom, delicate as the dust on thewings of a butterfly. They examined the fruit together; and when Jackraised his eyes, he admired on the cheeks of the young girl the samefaint, powdery bloom. Her hair, blown in the wind in a soft halo aboveher brow, added to this effect. He had never seen a face so changed andbrightened as hers. Exercise and the excitement of her pretty toil, the gayety of the vineyard, the laughs and shouts of the laborers, hadabsolutely transformed M. Rivals' quiet housekeeper. She became a childonce more, ran down the slopes, lifted her basket on her shoulder, watched her burden carefully, and walked with that rhythmical step whichJack remembered to have seen in the Breton women as they bore on theirheads their full water-jugs. There came a time in the day when these twoyoung persons, overwhelmed by fatigue, took their seats at the entranceof a little grove where the dry leaves rustled under their feet. 

And then? Ah, well, they said nothing. They let the night descend softlyon the most beautiful dream of their lives; and when the swift autumnaltwilight brought out in the darkness the bright windows of the simplehomes scattered about, the wind freshened, and Cécile insisted onfastening around Jack's throat the scarf she had brought, the warmth andsoftness of the fabric, the consciousness of being cared for, was like acaress to the lover. 

He took her hand, and her fingers lingered in his for a moment; that wasall. When they returned to the farm the doctor had just arrived; theyheard his cheery voice in the courtyard. The chill of the early autumnalevenings has a charm that both Cécile and Jack felt as they entered thelarge room filled with the light from the fire. At supper innumerabledusty bottles were produced, but Jack manifested profound indifferenceto their charms. The doctor, on the contrary, fully appreciated them, sofully that his granddaughter quietly left her seat, ordered the carriageto be harnessed, and wrapped herself in her cloak. Dr. Rivals seeingher in readiness, rose without remonstrance, leaving on the table hishalf-filled glass. 

The three drove home, as in the olden days, through the quiet countryroads; the cabriolet, which had increased in size as had its occupants, groaned a little on its well-used springs. This noise took nothing fromthe charm of the drive, which the stars, so numberless in autumn, seemedto 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 touchedhim. 

Alas! why must there be a to-morrow to such delicious days? Jack knewnow that he loved Cécile, but he realized also that this love would beto 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, althoughhe had thrown aside much of the roughness of his habits and appearance, he still felt himself unworthy of the lovely fairy who had transformedhim. 

The mere idea that the girl should know that he adored her wasdistasteful to him. Besides, as his bodily health returned, he began togrow ashamed of his hours of inaction in "the office. " What would shethink of him should he continue to remain there? Cost what it would, hemust go. 

One morning he entered M. Rivals' house to thank him for all hiskindness, and to inform him of his decision. 

"You are right, " said the old man; "you are well now bodily andmentally, and you can soon find some employment. "

There was a long silence, and Jack was disturbed by the singularattention with which M. Rivals regarded him. "You have something to sayto me, " said the doctor, abruptly. 

Jack colored and hesitated. 

"I thought, " continued the doctor, "that when a youth was in love with agirl who had no other relation than an old grandfather, the proper thingwas 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 withoutany 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 along story. "

They were in the doctor's library. Through the open window they saw asuperb autumnal landscape, long country roads bordered with leaflesstrees; 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 thismelancholy spot. "Nearly in the centre is a large white stone, on whichis the one word Madeleine. 

"There lies my daughter, Cécile's mother. She wished to be placed apartfrom us all, and desired that only her Christian name should be put uponher tomb, saying that she was not worthy to bear the name of her fatherand mother. Dear child, she was so proud! She had done nothing to meritthis 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 hurryon account of an accident that had happened at a hunt in the Forêt deSénart. A gentleman had been shot in the leg. I found the wounded man onthe state-bed at the Archambaulds. He was a handsome fellow, with lighthair and eyes, those northern eyes that have something of the coldglitter of ice. He bore with admirable courage the extraction of theballs, and, the operation over, thanked me in excellent French, thoughwith a foreign accent. As he could not be moved without danger, Icontinued to attend him at the forester's; I learned that he was aRussian of high rank, --'the Comte Nadine, ' his companions called him. 

"Although the wound was dangerous, Nadine, thanks to his youth and goodconstitution, as well as to the care of Mother Archambauld, wassoon able to leave his bed, but as he could not walk at all, I tookcompassion on his loneliness, and often carried him in my cabriolet hometo my own house to dine. Sometimes, when the weather was bad, he spentthe night with us. I must acknowledge to you that I adored the man. He had great stores of information, had been everywhere, and seeneverything. To my wife he gave the pharmaceutic recipes of his own land, to my daughter he taught the melodies of the Ukraine. We were positivelyenchanted with him all of us, and when I turned my face homeward on arainy evening, I thought with pleasure that I should find so congenial aperson at my fireside. My wife resisted somewhat the general enthusiasm, but as it was rather her habit to cultivate a certain distrust as abalance to my recklessness, I paid little attention. Meanwhile ourinvalid was quite well enough to return to Paris, but he did not go, andI did not ask either myself or him why he lingered. 

"One day my wife said, 'M. Nadine must explain why he comes so often tothe house; people are beginning to gossip about Madeleine and himself. '

"'What nonsense!' I exclaimed. I had the absurd notion that the countlingered 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 theroom, I should have seen her change color and bend assiduously over herembroidery all the while he was there. But there are no eyes so blindas those which will not see; and I chose to be blind. Finally, whenMadeleine acknowledged to her mother that they loved each other, I wentto find the comte to force an explanation. 

"He loved my daughter, he said, and asked me for her hand, although hewished me to understand the obstacles that would be thrown in the way byhis 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 Icould give Madeleine, would secure their comfort. 

"A great disproportion of fortune would have terrified me, while thevery moderation of his resources attracted me. And then his air oflordly decision, his promptness in arranging everything, was singularlyattractive. In short, he was installed in the house as my futureson-in-law, without my asking too curiously by what door he entered. Irealized that there was something a little irregular in the affair, butmy daughter was very happy; and when her mother said, 'We must know morebefore we give up our daughter, ' I laughed at her, I was so certainthat all was right. One day I spoke of him to M. Viéville, one of thehuntsmen. 

"'Indeed, I know nothing of the Comte Nadine, ' he said; 'he strikes meas an excellent fellow. I know that he bears a celebrated name, and thathe is well educated. But if I had a daughter involved, I should wishto know more than this. I should write, if I were you, to the Russianembassy; they can tell you everything there. '

"You suppose, of course, that I went to the embassy. That is just what Idid not do; I was too careless, too blindly confident, too busy. I havenever been able in my whole life to do what I wished, for I have neverhad any time; my whole existence has been too short for the half ofwhat I have wished to do. Tormented by my wife on the subject of thisadditional information, I finished by lying, 'Yes, yes, I went there;everything is satisfactory. ' Since then I remember the singular air ofthe comte each time he thought I was going to Paris; but at that timeI saw nothing; I was absorbed in the plans that my children were makingfor their future happiness. They were to live with us three months inthe year, and to spend the rest of the time in St. Petersburg, whereNadine was offered a government situation. My poor wife ended in sharingmy joy and satisfaction. 

"The end of the winter passed in correspondence. The count's papers werelong in coming, his parents utterly refused their consent. At lastthe papers came--a package of hieroglyphics impossible todecipher, --certificates of birth, baptism, &c. That which particularlyamused 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 Pariswith great pomp, but Nadine reflected that it was not wise to bravethe paternal authority on this point, so the ceremony took place atEtiolles, in the little church where to this very day are to be seen therecords of an irreparable falsehood. How happy I was that morning as Ientered the church with my daughter trembling on my arm, feeling thatshe owed all her happiness to me!

"Then, after mass, breakfast at the house, and the departure of thebridal 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 ourside was dreary enough. I had business which took me out-of-doors; butthe poor mother was alone the greater part of the time, and her heartwas devoured by her regrets. Such is the destiny of women; all theirsorrows and their griefs come from within, and are interwoven with theirdaily lives and employments. 

"The letters that we soon began to receive from Pisa, and Florence, wereradiant with happiness. I began to build a little house by the sideof our own; we chose the furniture and the wall papers. 'They arehere--they are there, ' we said; and at last we expected the finalletters we should receive before they returned. 

"One evening I came in late; my wife had gone to her room; I suppedalone; when suddenly I heard a step in the garden. The door opened, mydaughter appeared; but she was no longer the fair young girl whom I hadparted 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 fromhead 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 atme, 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 Jewby the name of Roesh, a miserable adventurer. He was married at Riga, married at St. Petersburg. All his papers were false, manufactured byhimself. His resources he owed to his skill in counterfeiting billson the Russian bank. At Turin he had been arrested on an order ofextradition. Think of my little girl alone in this foreign town, separated violently from her husband, learning abruptly that he was aforger and a bigamist, --for he made a full confession of his crimes. Shehad but one thought, that of seeking refuge with us. Her brain was sobewildered, that, as she told us afterwards, when she was asked whereshe was going, she simply answered 'To mamma. ' She left Turin hastily, without her luggage, and at last she was safe with us, and weeping forthe first time since the catastrophe. 

"I said, 'Restrain yourself, my love, you will awaken your mother!' butmy tears fell as fast as her own. The next day my wife learned all; shedid not reproach me. 'I knew, ' she said, 'from the beginning that therewas some misfortune in this marriage. ' And, in fact, she had certainpresentiments of evil from the hour that the man came under our roof. What is the diagnosis of a physician compared to the warning andconfidences whispered by destiny into the ear of certain women? In theneighborhood the arrival of my child was quickly known. 'Your travellershave returned, ' they said. They asked few questions, for they readilysaw 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 foundmyself met with compassionate glances that were harder to bear thananything else. My daughter had not confided to me that a child wouldbe 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 withfeelings of shame, for the least allusion to the man who had deceivedher made her turn pale. But my wife, who saw things with clearer visionthan my own, said, 'You are mistaken: she loves him still. '

"Yes, she loved, and strong as was her contempt and distrust, her lovewas stronger still. It was this that killed her, for she died soon afterCécile's birth. We found under her pillow a letter, worn in all itsfolds, the only one she had ever received from Nadine, written beforetheir marriage. She had read it often, but she died without oncepronouncing the name that I am sure trembled all the time on her lips. 

"You are astonished that in a tranquil village like this a complicateddrama could have been enacted, such as would seem possible only in thecrowded cities of London and Paris. When fate thus attacks, by chance asit were, a little corner so sheltered by hedges and trees, I am remindedof those spent balls which during a battle kill a laborer at work inthe fields, or a child returning from school. I think if we had not hadlittle Cécile, my wife would have died with her daughter. Her life fromthat hour was one long silence, full of regrets and self-reproach. 

"But it was necessary to bring up this child, and to keep her inignorance of the circumstances of her birth. This was a matter ofdifficulty; it is true that we were relieved of her father, who died afew months after his condemnation. Unfortunately, several persons knewthe whole story; and we wished to preserve Cécile from all the gossipshe would hear if she associated with other children. You saw howsolitary her life was. Thanks to this precaution, she to-day knowsnothing of the tempest that surrounded her birth; for not one of thekind people about us would utter one word which would give her reasonto suspect that there was any mystery. My wife, however, was always indread 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 herfather some of his vices? I acknowledge to you, Jack, that for yearsI dreaded seeing her father's characteristics in Cécile; I dreaded thediscovery of deceit and falsehood; but what joy it has been to me tofind that the child is the perfected image of her mother! She has thesame tender and half-sad smile, the same candid eyes, and lips that cansay No. 

"Meanwhile the future alarmed me: my granddaughter must some day learnthe 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 aprotector? Her destiny must be united with a fate as exceptional as herown. Such a one could hardly be found in our village, and in Paris weknew no one. It was about the time when these anxieties occupied ourminds that your mother came to this place. She was supposed to bethe wife of D'Argenton, but the forester's wife told me the realcircumstances. I said to myself instantly, 'This boy ought to beCécile's husband;' and from that time I attended to your education. 

"I looked forward to the time that you, a man grown, would come tome and ask her hand. This was the reason, of course, that I was soindignant 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 workswith his head as well as his hands, he may still be worthy of the wifeI wish to give him. The letters that we received from you were allthat they should be, and I ventured to indulge the hope I have named. Suddenly came the intelligence of the robbery. Ah, my friend, howterrified I was! how I bemoaned the weakness of your mother, and thetyranny of the monster who had driven you to evil courses! I respected, nevertheless, the tender affection that existed toward you in the heartof my little girl, I had not the courage to undeceive her. We talked ofyou constantly until the day when I told her that I had seen you at theforester's. If you could have seen the light in her eyes, and how busyshe was all day! a sign with her always of some excitement, as if herheart beating too quickly needed something, either a pen or a needle, toregulate its movements. 

"Now, Jack, you love my child. I have watched you for two months, and Iam satisfied that the future is in your own hands. I wish you to studymedicine and take my place at Etiolles. I first thought of keeping youhere, but I concluded that it would take four years to complete yourstudies, and that your residence with us for that length of time wouldnot be advisable. In Paris you can study in the evening, and work allday, and come to us on Sundays. I will examine your week's work andadvise you, and Cécile will encourage you. Velpeau and others have donethis, and you can do the same. Will you try? Cécile is the reward. "

Jack was utterly overwhelmed, and could only heartily shake the hand ofthe 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 atrip-hammer, and a voice choked with emotion. Cécile was writing in theoffice. 

"Cécile, " he said, as he entered the room, "I am going away. " She rosefrom her seat, very pale. "I am going to work, " he continued. "Yourgrandfather has given me permission to tell you that I love you, andthat I hope to win you as my wife. "

He spoke in so low a voice that any other person than Cécile would havefailed to understand him. But she understood him very well. And in thisroom, lighted by the level rays of the setting sun, the young girl stoodlistening 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 lifewould be no holiday, that they would be racked by separations and longyears of waiting. 

"Jack, " she said, after he had explained all his plans, "I will wait foryou, not only four years, but forever. "

Jack went to Paris in search of employment, found it in the house ofEyssendeck, at six francs a day; then tried to procure lodgings nottoo far removed from the manufactory. He was happy, full of hope andcourage, impatient to begin his double work as mechanic and student. Thecrowd pushed against him, and he did not feel them; nor was he consciousof the cold of this December night; nor did he hear the young apprenticegirls, as they passed him, say to each other, "What a handsome man!" Thegreat 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 towork!" Suddenly he stumbled against a great square basket filled withfur 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 andbetter clothed. Jack was delighted to see him, and entered at once; butBélisaire was too deeply absorbed in the examination of a pair of shoesthat the cobbler was showing him, to look up. These shoes were not forhimself, but for a tiny child of four or five years of age, pale andthin, with a head much too large for his body. Bélisaire was talking tothe child. 

"And they are nice and thick, my dear, and will keep those poor littlefeet 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 thenight before. 

"How are you, Bélisaire? Is this your child?"

"O, no; it belongs to Madame Weber, " said the pedler, with a sigh; andwhen he had ascertained that the little thing was well fitted, Bélisairedrew from his pocket a long purse of red wool, and took out some silverpieces that he placed in the cobbler's hand with that air of importanceassumed by working people when they pay away money. 

"Where are you going, comrade?" said the pedler to Jack, as they stoodon the pavement, in a tone so expressive that it seemed to say, If youtake this side, I shall go the other. 

Jack, who felt this without being able to understand it, said, "I hardlyknow where I am going. I am a journeyman at Eyssendeck's, and I want tofind a room not too far away. "

"At Eyssendeck's?" said the pedler. "It is not easy to get in there; onemust bring the best of recommendations. "

The expression of his eyes enlightened Jack. Bélisaire believedhim guilty of the robbery, --so true it is that accusations, howeverunfounded and however explained away, yet leave spots and tarnishes. When Bélisaire saw the letters of the superintendent at Indret, andheard 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 suggestsomething 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, whosenew shoes clattered on the sidewalk famously--were soon hurrying alongthe streets. Bélisaire informed Jack that his sister was now a widow, and that he had gone into business with her. Occasionally, in the fulltide 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 tolift into his arms Madame Weber's little boy, who had begun to weepdespairingly. 

"Poor little fellow!" said Bélisaire, "he is not in the habit ofwalking. He rarely goes out, and it is merely that I may take him outwith me sometimes that I have had him measured for these new shoes. Hismother is away from home at work all day; she is a good, hard-workingwoman, and has to leave her child to the care of a neighbor. Here weare!"

They entered one of those large houses whose numerous windows are likenarrow slits in the walls. The doors open on the long corridors, whichserve as ante-rooms, where the poor people place their stoves and theirboxes. At this hour they were at dinner. Jack, as he passed, looked inat 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 womanand children watching for the father, who was at the wine-shop round thecorner. 

The pedler's room was at the top of the house, and he seemed very proudof it. "I am going to show you how well I am established, but you mustwait until I have taken this child to its mother. " He looked under thedoor 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 theevening meal. He lighted a candle and fastened the child into a highchair at the table, gave it a spoon and a saucepan to play with, andthen 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 newshoes. " He smiled as he opened his room--a long attic divided in two. Apile of hats told his business, and the bare walls his poverty. 

Bélisaire lighted his lamp and arranged his dinner, which consisted ofa fine salad of potatoes and salt herring. He took from a closet twoplates, bread and wine, and placed them on a little table. "Now, " hesaid, with an air of triumph, "all is ready, though it is not muchlike that famous ham you gave me in the country. " The potato salad wasexcellent, however, and Jack did justice to it. Bélisaire was delightedwith the appetite of his guest, and did his duty as host with greatdelight, rising every two or three minutes to see if the water wasboiling for the coffee. 

"You have a taste for housekeeping, Bélisaire, " said Jack, "and havethings 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 toJack's gay laugh. "Madame Weber is a good woman, and you will see hersoon. We are not rich enough to start alone in housekeeping, but if wecould 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, anymore than for us. Where there is enough for two there is always enoughfor three, you know! The difficulty is to find some one who is orderlyand 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 foryou. "

"No, Bélisaire, nothing would be too simple. I wish to be veryeconomical, 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 fouryears 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 begana melancholy wail. "I am coming, " cried the woman from the end of thecorridor, to console the little one. 

"Listen, " said Bélisaire. The door opened; an exclamation, followed by alaugh, was heard, and presently Madame Weber, with her child on her arm, entered Bélisaire's room. She was a tall, good-looking woman, of aboutthirty, and she laughed as she showed him the little one's feet, butthere was a tear in her eye as she said, "You are the person who hasdone 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 waspresented to her as their future associate. I must acknowledge thatshe received him with a certain reserve, but when she had examined theaspirant for this distinction, and learned that the two men had knowneach other for ten years, and that she had before her the hero of thestory of the ham that she had heard so many times, her face lost itsexpression of distrust, and she held out her hand to Jack. 

"This time Bélisaire is right. He has brought me a half dozen of hiscomrades who were not worth the cord to hang them with. He is veryinnocent, because he is so good. "

Then came a discussion as to arrangements. It was decided that until themarriage he should share Bélisaire's room and buy himself a bed; theywould share the expenses, and Jack would pay his proportion everySaturday. After the marriage, they would establish themselves morecommodiously, and nearer the Eyssendeck Works. This establishmentrecalled to him Indret on a smaller scale. Owing to lack of space, therewere 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 placeascended. When he leaned over the railing of the gallery, he behelda constant whirl of human arms, and a regular and monotonous beat ofmachinery. 

The heat was intense, worse than at Indret, because there was lessventilation; but Jack bore up bravely under it, for his inner lifesupported him through all the trials of the day. His companions sawintuitively that he lived apart from them, indifferent to their pettyquarrels and rivalries. Jack shared neither their pleasures nor theirhatreds. He never listened to their sullen complaints, nor the mutteredthunder of this great Faubourg, concealed like a Ghetto in thismagnificent city. He paid no attention to the socialistic theories, thenatural growth in the minds of those who live poor and suffering so nearthe 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, theylooked upon him much as a Prince Rodolphe, --for they had all read "TheMysteries of Paris, "--and admired his tall, slender figure and hiscareful dress. But the poor girls threw away their smiles, for he passedtheir corner of the establishment with scarcely a glance. This cornerwas never without its excitement and drama, for most of the workwomenhad a lover among the men, and this led to all sorts of jealousies andscenes. 

Jack went to and fro from the manufactory alone. He was in haste toreach his lodgings, to throw aside his workman's blouse, and to buryhimself in his books. Surrounded with these, many of them those hehad used at school, he commenced the labors of the evening, and wasastonished to find with what facility he regained all that he thoughthe had forever lost. Sometimes, however, he encountered an unexpecteddifficulty, and it was touching to see the young man, whose hands weredistorted and clumsy from handling heavy weights, sometimes throw asidehis pen in despair. At his side Bélisaire sat sewing the straw ofhis summer hats, in respectful silence, the stupefaction of a savageassistant at a magician's incantations. He frowned when Jack frowned, grew impatient, and when his comrade came to the end of some difficultpassage, nodded his head with an air of triumph. The noise of thepedler's big needle passing through the stiff straw, the student's penscratching upon the paper, the gigantic dictionaries hastily taken upand 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 otherlamps, and other shadows courageously prolonging their labors into themiddle 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 hadbeen decided that they should not marry until spring, the winter to thepoor being always a season of anxiety and privation. Jack, as he wrote, thought, "How happy they are. " His own happiness came on Sundays. Neverdid any coquette take such pains with her toilette as did Jack on thosedays, for he was determined that nothing about him should remind Cécileof his daily toil; well might he have been taken for Prince Rodolphe hadhe been seen as he started off. 

Delicious day! without hours or minutes--a day of uninterruptedfelicity. The whole house greeted him warmly, a bright fire burned inthe salon, flowers bloomed at the windows, and Cécile and the doctormade him feel how dear he was to them both. After they had dined, M. Rivals examined the work of the week, corrected everything, andexplained all that had puzzled the youth. 

Then came a walk through the woods, if the day was fair, and theyoften passed the chalet where Dr. Hirsch still came to pursue certainexperiments. So black was the smoke that poured from the chimneys, thatone would have fancied that the man was burning all the drugs in theworld. "Don't you smell the poison?" said M. Rivals, indignantly. Butthe young people passed the house in silence; they instinctively feltthat there were no kindly sentiments within those walls toward them, and, in fact, feared that the fanatic Dr. Hirsch was sent there asa spy. But what had they to fear, after all? Was not all intercoursebetween D'Argenton and Charlotte's son forever ended? For three monthsthey had not met. Since Jack had been engaged to Cécile, and under-stoodthe dignity and purity of love, he had hated D'Argenton, making himresponsible for the fault of his weak mother, whose chains were rivetedmore closely by the violence and tyranny under which a nobler naturewould have revolted. Charlotte, who feared scenes and explanations, hadrelinquished all hope of reconciliation between these two men. She nevermentioned 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 womanelegant in appearance and still young. They circulated all sorts ofgossip in regard to the mysterious visitor, which finally reached Jack'sears, who begged his mother not to expose herself to such remarks. Theythen 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 idlesentimentality as from a passion for honors and ceremonies. In theserare and brief interviews Charlotte talked all the time, as was herhabit, but with a worn, sad air. She said, however, that she was happyand at peace, and that she had every confidence in M. D'Argenton'sbrilliant future. But one day, as mother and son were leaving thechurch-door, she said to him, with some embarrassment, "Jack, can youlet me have a little money for a few days? I have made some mistake inmy accounts, and have not money enough to carry me to the end of themonth, 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 thewhole amount in his mother's hand. Then, in the bright sunshine he sawwhat the obscurity of the church had concealed: traces of tears and alook of despair on the face that was generally so smiling and fresh. Intense compassion filled his heart. "You are unhappy, " he said; "cometo me, I shall-be so glad to have you. "

She started. "No, it is impossible, " she said, in a low voice; "he hasso many trials just now;" and she hurried away as if to escape sometemptation. 

CHAPTER XX. ~~THE WEDDING-PARTY. 

It was a summer morning. The pedler and his comrade were up beforedaybreak. One was sweeping and dusting, with as little noise aspossible, careful not to disturb his companion, who was established atthe open window. The sky was the cloudless one of June, pale blue witha faint tinge of rose still lingering in the east, that could be seenbetween the chimneys. In front of Jack was a zinc roof, which, whenthe sun was in mid-heaven, became a terrible mirror. At this moment itreflected faintly the tints of the sky, so that the tall chimneys lookedlike the masts of a vessel floating on a glittering sea. Below washeard the noise from the poultry owned by the various inhabitants of theFaubourg. Suddenly a cry was heard: "Madame Jacob! Madame Mathieu! Hereis your bread. "

It was four o'clock. The labors of the day had begun. The woman whosedaily business it was to supply that quarter with bread from the baker'shad 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 voicearoused the sleepers; doors opened and shut; childish voices utteredcries of joy, and little bare feet pattered to meet the good woman, andreturned hugging a loaf as big as themselves, with that peculiar gesturethat you see in the poor people who come out of the bake-shops, and which shows the thoughtful observer what that hard-earned breadsignifies to them. 

All the world is now astir; windows are thrown open, even those wherethe lamps have burned the greater part of the night. At one sits asad-faced woman, at a sewing-machine, aided by a little girl, who handsher the several pieces of her work. At another a young girl, with hairalready neatly braided, is carefully cutting a slice of bread for herslender breakfast, watching that no crumb shall fall on the floor sheswept at daybreak. Further on is a window shaded by a large red curtainto keep off the reflection from the zinc roof. All these rooms openon the other side into a dark and ugly house of enormous size. But thestudent heeds nothing but his work. One sound only depresses him attimes, 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 tobe who can go to the country on a day like this!" To whom does the poorwoman utter these words, day after day? To the whole world, to herself, or only to the canary, whose cage, covered with fresh leaves, she hangson 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 hisfirst waking thoughts turn toward a tranquil village street, toward alittle green door, Jack has just reached this point in his reverie whena 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-potin his hand, impatiently throws it open, and Charlotte rushes in. Bélisaire, stupefied at this inundation of flounces, feathers, andlaces, bows again and again, while Jack's mother, who does not recognizehim, 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 sacrificedeverything, --my life and that of my child, --has beaten me cruelly. Thismorning, when he came in after two days' absence, I ventured to makesome observation; I thought I had a right to speak. He flew into afrightful passion, and--"

The end of her sentence was lost in a torrent of tears and in convulsivesobs. Bélisaire had retired at her first words, and discreetly closedthe 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 themarks 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 herblue-veined temples. Without any attempt at controlling her emotion, shespeaks without restraint, pouring forth all her wrongs. 

"How I have suffered, Jack! He passes his life now at the cafés and indissipation. 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 withthe bread you ate under his roof, and yet--yes, I will tell you what Inever meant you to know--I had ten thousand francs of yours that weregiven to me for you exclusively. Well, D'Argenton put them into hisReview; I know that he meant to pay you large interest, but the tenthousand francs have been swallowed up with all the others, and when Iasked him if he did not intend to account to you for them, do you knowwhat 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 hedoes not ask you to pay the difference; is not that very generous?" andCharlotte laughed sarcastically. "I tell you I have borne everything, "she continued, --"the rages he has fallen into on your account, andthe mean way in which he has talked with his friends of the affair atIndret; as if your innocence had never been fully established!

"And then to leave me in ignorance of his where-abouts, to spend histime with some countess in the Faubourg St. Germaine, --for those womenare all crazy about him, --and then to receive my reproaches with suchdisdain, and finally to strike me! Me, Ida de Barancy! This was toomuch. 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 thatyou will see me; I am going to my child. ' And then I came away. "

Jack had listened in silence to these revelations, growing paler andpaler, and so filled with shame for the woman who narrated them that hecould 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 waslacking to complete my happiness, and that was your presence. Now takecare! I shall never allow you to leave me. "

"Leave you! No, Jack; we will always live together--we two. You knowI told you that the day would come when I should need you. It has comenow. "

Under her son's caresses she became tranquillized. There came anoccasional 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 andtenderness. I feel now that I can breathe freely. Your room is bare andsmall, but it seems to me like Paradise itself. "

This brief summary of the apartment regarded by Bélisaire as somagnificent, disturbed Jack somewhat as to the future; but he had notime now for discussions; he had but half an hour before he must leave, and he must decide at once on something definite. He must consultBélisaire, whom he heard patiently pacing the corridor, and whowould have waited until nightfall without once knocking to see if theinterview 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 bepostponed, for Jack will not be one of our little ménage!"

But he concealed his disappointment, and exerted himself to suggestsome plan that would relieve his friend of present embarrassment. Itwas decided finally that he should relinquish the room to Jack and hismother and find for himself a closet to sleep in, depositing his stockof hats and his furniture with Madame Weber. 

Jack presented his friend to Bélisaire, who remembered very well thefair lady at Aulnettes, and at once placed himself for the day at theservice of Ida de Barancy; for "Charlotte" was no more heard of. A bedmust be purchased, a couple of chairs, and a dressing-bureau. Jack tookfrom the drawer where he kept his savings three or four gold pieceswhich he gave his mother. 

"You know, " he said, "that if marketing is disagreeable to you, goodMadame Weber will attend to the dinners. "

"Not at all; Bélisaire will simply tell me where to go. I intend to doeverything for you; you will see the nice little dinner I shall haveready for you when you come back to-night. "

She had laid aside her shawl, rolled up her sleeves, and was all readyto begin her work. Jack, delighted to see her so energetic, embraced herwith 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 andhopeless future of his mother had troubled him for some time, and marredhis joys and his hopes. To what depth of degradation would D'Argentoncompel her to sink! To what end was she destined! Now all was changed. Ida, tenderly protected by his filial love, would become worthy of herwhom she would some day call "my daughter. "

It seemed to Jack, moreover, that this event in some way diminishedthe distance between Cécile and himself, and he smiled to himself ashe thought of it. But after his work, as he drew near his home, he wasseized by a panic. Should he find his mother there? He knew with whatpromptitude Ida gave wings to her fancies and caprices, and he fearedlest 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 thehouse he heard a fresh, clear voice singing like a lark. Jack stood onthe threshold in mute amazement. Thoroughly freshened and cleaned, withBélisaire's goods gone, and with the addition of a pretty bed and daintydressing-bureau, the room looked like a different place. There wereflowers 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 anembroidered skirt and loose sack, a little cap mounted on the top of herpuffs, 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 themto dine with us. "

"But what will you do for dishes?"

"You will see. I have bought a few, and our neighbors on the other sidehave 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 sellthem fifteen cents less than anywhere else. It was so far, however, thatI had to take a carriage to return. "

This was thoroughly characteristic. A carriage at two francs to savefifteen cents! She evidently knew where the best things were to befound. 

The bread came from the Vienna bakery, and the coffee and dessert fromthe _Palais Royale_. Jack listened with a sinking heart. She saw thatsomething 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 showedhim a long green book; "in this I mean to keep my accounts. I will showmy entries to you after dinner. "

Bélisaire and Madame Weber with her child now entered the room. It wastruly delicious to see the airs of condescension with which Ida receivedthem; but her manner was withal so kind that they were soon entirely attheir ease. 

Bélisaire was somewhat out of spirits, for he saw that his marriage mustbe indefinitely postponed, as he had lost his "comrade. " Ah, one maywell compare the events of this world to the see-saws arranged bychildren, which lifts one of the players, while the other at the sametime feels all the hardness of the earth below. Jack mounted toward thelight, while his companion descended toward the implacable reality. Tobegin with, the person called Bélisaire--who should in reality have beennamed Resignation, Devotion, or Patience--was now obliged to relinquishhis 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 tosee 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. Untilthen he had never confided them to her, fearing that she would informD'Argenton, whom he utterly distrusted, and he feared that in some wayhis happiness would be compromised. But now that his mother belonged tohim alone, he could speak to her of Cécile and of his supreme joy. Jacktalked with enthusiasm of his love, but soon saw that his mother did notunderstand him. She had a certain amount of sentiment, but love had notthe same signification for her that it had for him. She listened to himwith the same interest that she would have felt in the third act atthe _Gymnase_, when the _Ingenue_ in a white dress, with rose-coloredribbons, listened to the declaration of a lover with frizzed hair. Shewas pleased with the spectacle as presented by her son, and said twoor three times, "How nice! how very nice! It makes me think of Paul andVirginia!"

Fortunately, lovers, when speaking of their passion, listen to theechoes 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, Bélisairecame 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'sdisappointment, was equally well pleased. This pleasure, however, didnot last; for, on seeing "the comrade, " he received a most unpleasantimpression. The man was tall and powerfully built, but the expression ofhis face was far from agreeable. 

The great day arrived at last. Among the middle classes, a day isgenerally given to the civil marriage, another to the wedding at thechurch; but the people to whom time is money cannot afford this. So theygenerally take Saturday for the two ceremonies. 

Bélisaire's wedding, therefore, occurred on that day, and was really oneof the most imposing of the many processions they met on their way tothe municipality. Although the white dress of the bride was missing, Madame Weber, in her quality of widow, wore a dress of brilliant blueof 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 thathis new daughter-in-law endeavored to soothe by rubbing his back withconsiderable violence. These repeated frictions somewhat disturbed thedignity of the wedding procession. 

Bélisaire came next, giving his arm to his sister, whose nose was ashooked as her father's. Bélisaire himself looked almost handsome; he ledby one hand Madame Weber's little child. Then came a crowd of relativesand friends, and finally Jack, Madame de Barancy being unwilling to domore than honor the wedding-dinner with her presence. This repast was totake place at Vincennes. 

When the train that brought the party reached the restaurant, the roomengaged by Bélisaire was still occupied. This gave them time to lookat the lake and to amuse themselves with examining the crowd ofmerrymakers. They were dancing and singing, playing blind-man's-buff andinnumerable other games; under the trees a girl was mending the flouncesof a bride's dress. O, those white dresses! With what joy those girlslet them drag over the lawn, imagining themselves for that one occasionwomen of fashion. It is precisely this illusion that the people seek intheir hours of amusement: a pretence of riches, a momentary semblance ofthe envied and happy of this earth. 

Bélisaire's party were too hungry to be gay, and they hailed with joythe announcement that dinner was ready at last. The table was laid inone of those large rooms whose walls were frescoed in faded colors, andwhose size was apparently increased by innumerable mirrors. At eachend of the table was a huge bouquet of artificial orange blossoms, acentrepiece of pink and white sugar, and ornaments of the same, whichhad officiated at many a wedding-dinner in the previous six months. Theytook their seats in solemn silence, though Madame do Barancy had not yetarrived. 

The guests were somewhat intimidated by the black-coated waiters, whodisdainfully looked at these poor people who were dining at a dollar perhead, a sum which each one of the guests thought of with respect, andenvied Belisaire who could afford such an extravagant entertainment. The waiters were, however, filled with profound contempt, which theyexpressed by winks at each other, invisible however to the guests. 

Belisaire had just at his side one of these gentlemen, who filled himwith holy horror; another, opposite behind his wife's chair, watched himso disagreeably that the good man scarcely dared lift his eyes fromthe _carte_, --on which, among familiar words like ducks, chickens, and beans, appeared the well-known names of generals, towns, andbattles--Marengo, Richelieu, and so on. Bélisaire, like the others, wasstupefied, the more so when two plates of soup were presented withthe question, "Bisque, or Purée de Crécy?" Or two bottles: "Xeres, orPacaset, sir?"

They answered at hazard as one does in some of those society games whereyou are requested to select one of two flowers. In fact, the answer wasof little consequence since both plates contained the same tastelessmixture. There was so much ceremony that the dinner threatened to bevery dull, and interminable as well, from the indecision of the guestsas to the dishes they should accept. It was Madame Weber's clear headand 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 aftera 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 opportunitynowadays 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 awineglass, the manner in which she signed to one of the waiters tobring her the carte, overwhelmed the assembly with admiration. It wasdelightful to see her order about those imposing waiters. One of themshe had recognized, the one who terrified Bélisaire so much. "You arehere then, now!" she said carelessly; and shook her bracelets, andkissed her hand to her son, asked for a footstool, some ice, andeau-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 askpermission to change places with Madame Bélisaire; I am quite sure thather husband will not complain. "

This was done with much grace and consideration. The little Weberuttered a shout of indignation on seeing his mother rise from her chair, and all this noise and confusion soon changed the previous stiffness andrestraint into laughs and gayety. The waiters went round and round thetable executing marvellous feats, serving twenty persons from one duckso 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--preparedat one end of the table with salt, pepper, and butter; and suchbutter!--were mixed by a waiter who smiled maliciously as he stirred thefell combination. 

At last the champagne came. With the exception of Ida, not one personthere knew anything more of this wine than the name; and champagnesignified to them riches, gay dinners, and gorgeous festivals. Theytalked about it in a low voice, waited and watched for it. Finally, atdessert, a waiter appeared with a silver-capped bottle that he proceededto open. Ida, who never lost an opportunity of making a sensation andassuming an attitude, put her pretty hands over her ears, but the corkcame out like any other cork; the waiter, holding the bottle high, wentaround the table very quickly. The bottle was inexhaustible; each personhad some froth and a few drops at the bottom of the glass, which hedrank with respect, and even believed that there was still more in thebottle. It did not matter: the magic of the word champagne had producedits effect, and there is so much French gayety in the least particle ofits froth that an astonishing animation at once pervaded the assembly. Adance was proposed; but music costs so much!

"Ah! if we only had a piano, " said Ida de Barancy, with a sigh, at thesame time moving her fingers on the table as if she knew how to play. Bélisaire disappeared for a few moments, but soon returned with avillage musician, who was ready to play until morning. Jack and hismother at first felt out of their element in the noisy romp that ensued, but Ida finally organized a cotillon, and the rustling of her silkskirts and the jangling of her bracelets filled the souls of the youngerwomen with admiration and jealousy. Meanwhile the night wore on, thelittle Weber was asleep wrapped in a shawl on a sofa in the corner. Jackhad made many signs to Ida, who pretended not to understand, carriedaway as she was by the pleasure and happiness about her. Jack was likean 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 thathour, and indeed no omnibus; fortunately a fiacre was passing, whichthey hailed. But the newly married pair decided to return on footthrough the Bois de Vincennes. The fresh morning air was deliciousafter the heat of the restaurant; the child slept sweetly on Bélisaire'sshoulder, and did not even awake when he was placed in his bed. MadameBélisaire threw aside her wedding-dress, assumed a plainer one, and atonce entered on the duties of the day. 

CHAPTER XXI. ~~EFFECTS OF POETRY. 

The first visit of Madame de Barancy at Etoilles gave Jack greatpleasure and also great anxiety. He was proud of his mother, but he knewher, nevertheless, to be weak and rash. He feared Cécile's calm judgmentand intuitive perceptions, keen and quick as they sometimes are in theyoung. The first few moments tranquillized him a little. The emphatictone in which Ida addressed Cécile as "my daughter" was all well enough, but when under the influence of a good breakfast Madame de Barancydropped her serious air and began some of her extravagant stories, Jackfelt all his apprehensions revive. She kept her auditors on the _quivive_. Some one spoke of relatives that M. Rivals had in the Pyrenees. 

"Ah, yes, the Pyrenees!" she sighed. "Gavarni, the Mer de Glace, and allthat. 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 amost 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 insistedon my drinking punch. I refused. Then the wretch got very angry, andopened the window, took me just at the waist, and held me above thewater in the lightning and rain. "

Jack tried to cut in two these dangerous recitals, but they came to lifeagain, like those reptiles which, however mutilated, still retain lifeand animation. 

The climax of his uneasiness was reached, however, when, just as hislessons were to begin, he heard his mother propose to Cécile to go downinto the garden. What would she say when he was not there? He watchedthem from the window; Cécile's slender figure and quiet movements werethose of a well-born, well-bred woman, while Ida, still handsome, butloud in her style and costume, affected the manners of a young girl. Forthe first time Jack felt his lessons to be very long, and only breathedfreely again when they were all together walking in the woods. Buton this day his mother's presence disturbed the harmony. She had nocomprehension of love, and saw it only as something utterly ridiculous. But the worst of all was the sudden respect she entertained for _lesconvenances_. She recalled the young people, bade them "not to wanderaway so far, but to keep in sight, " and then she looked at the doctor ina significant way. Jack saw more than once that his mother grated onthe old doctor's nerves; but the forest was so lovely, Cécile soaffectionate, and the few words they ex-changed were so mingled with thesweet clatter of birds and the humming of bees, that by degrees the poorboy forgot his terrible companion. But Ida wished to make a sensation, so they stopped at the forester's. Mère Àrchambauld was delighted to seeher old mistress, paid her many compliments, but asked not a question inregard to D'Argenton, her keen personal sense telling her that shehad best not. But the sight of this good creature, for a long time sointimately connected with their life at Aul-nettes, was too much forIda. Without waiting for the lunch so carefully prepared by MotherArchambauld, she rose suddenly from her chair, as suddenly as if inanswer to a summons unheard by the others, and went swiftly through theforest paths to her old home at Aulnettes. 

The tower was more enshrouded than ever in its green foliage, and theblinds were closely drawn. Ida stood in lonely silence, listening to thetale told with silent eloquence by these gray stones. Then she brokea branch from the clematis that threw its sprays over the wall, andinhaled 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 muchburied here!"

Indeed the house, in its melancholy silence and with the Latininscription over the door, resembled a tomb. She dried her eyes, but forthat evening her gayety was gone. In vain did Cécile, who had been toldthat Madame D'Argenton was separated from her husband, try with minorcares to efface the painful impression of the day; in vain did Jack seekto interest her in all his projects for the future. 

"You see, my child, " she said, on her way home, "that it is not best forme to come here with you. I have suffered too much, and the wound is toorecent. "

Her voice trembled, and it was easy to see that, after all thehumiliations to which she had been subjected by this man, she yet lovedhim. 

For many Sundays after, Jack came alone to Etiolles, and relinquishedwhat 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 todine with his mother. He took the afternoon train, and passed fromthe tranquillity of the country to the animation of a Sunday in theFaubourg. The sidewalks were covered by little tables, where familiessat drinking their coffee, and crowds were standing, with their noses inthe air, watching an enormous yellow balloon that had just been releasedfrom its moorings. 

In remoter streets, people sat on the steps of the doors, and in thecourtyard of the large, silent house the concierge was chatting with hisneighbors, who had taken chairs out to breathe air a little fresher thanthey could obtain in their confined quarters within. 

Sometimes, in Jack's absence, Ida, tired of her loneliness, went toa little reading-room kept by a certain Madame Lévèque. The shop wasfilled with mouldy books, was literally obstructed by magazines andillustrated papers, which she let for a sou a day. 

Here lived a dirty, pretentious old woman, who spent her time in makinga certain kind of antiquated trimming of narrow, colored ribbons. 

It seems that Madame Lévèque had known better days, and that under thefirst empire her father was a man of considerable importance. "I am thegodchild of the Duc de Dantzic, " she said to Ida, with emphasis. She wasone of the relics of past days, such as one finds occasionally in thesecluded corners of old Paris. Like the dusty contents of her shop, hergilt-edged books torn and incomplete, her conversation glittered withstories of past splendors. That enchanting reign, of which she had seenbut the conclusion, had dazzled her eyes, and the mere tone in which shepronounced the titles of that time evoked the memory of epaulettes andgold lace. And her anecdotes of Josephine, and of the ladies of thecourt! One especial tale Madame Lévèque was never tired of telling: itwas of the fire at the Austrian embassy, the night of the famous ballgiven by the Princess of Schwartzenberg. All her subsequent years hadbeen lighted by those flames, and by that light she saw a procession ofgorgeous marshals, tall ladies in very low dresses, with heads dressed_à la Titus or à la Grecque_, and the emperor, in his green coat andwhite trousers, carrying in his arms across the garden the faintingMadame de Schwartzenberg. 

Ida, with her passion for rank, delighted in the society of thishalf-crazed old creature, and while the two women sat in the darkshop, with the names of dukes and marquises gliding lightly from theirtongues, a workman would come in to buy a paper for a sou, or somewoman, impatient for the conclusion of some serial romance, would comein to ask if the magazine had not yet arrived, and cheerfully pay thetwo cents that would deprive her, if she were old, of her snuff, and, ifshe were young, of her radishes for breakfast. 

Occasionally Madame Lévèque passed a Sunday with friends, and then Idahad no other amusement than that which she derived from turning over apile of books taken at hazard from Madame Lévèque's shelves. These bookswere soiled and tumbled, with spots of grease and crumbs of bread uponthem, showing that they had been read while eating. She sat reading bythe window, --reading until her head swam. She read to escape thinking. Singularly out of place in this house, the incessant toil that she sawgoing on about her depressed her, instead of, as with her son, excitingher to more strenuous exertions. 

The pale, sad woman who sat at her machine day after day, the other withher sing-song repetition of the words, "How happy people ought to be whocan go to the country in such weather!" exasperated her almost beyondendurance. The transparent blue of the sky, the soft summer air, madeall these miseries seem blacker and less endurable; in the same way thatthe repose of Sunday, disturbed only by church-bells and the twitter ofthe sparrows on the roofs, weighed painfully on her spirits. She thoughtof her early life, of her drives and walks, of the gay parties in thecountry, and above all of the more recent years at Etiolles. She thoughtof 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 lefthim, 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 sheendeavored to welcome with a smile. But he read the whole story inthe disorder of the room and in the careless toilet. Nothing was inreadiness for dinner. 

"I have done nothing, " she said, sadly. "The weather is so warm, and Iam discouraged. "

"Why discouraged, dear mother? Are you not with me? You want somelittle amusement, I fancy. Let us dine out to-day, " he continued, with atender, pitying smile. But Ida wished to make a toilet; to take outfrom her wardrobe some one of her pretty costumes of other days, toocoquettish, too conspicuous for her present circumstances. To dress asmodestly as possible, and walk through these poor streets, afforded herno amusement. In spite of her care to avoid anything noticeable in hercostume, Jack always detected some eccentricity, --in the length of herskirts, which required a carriage, or in the cut of her corsage, or thetrimming of her hat. Jack and his mother then went to dine at Bagnoletor Romainville, and dined drearily enough. They attempted some littleconversation, but they found it almost impossible. Their lives had beenso different that they really now had little in common. While Ida wasdisgusted with the coarse table-cloth spotted by wine, and polished, with a disgusted face, her plate and glass with her napkin, Jack hardlyperceived this negligence of service, but was astonished at his mother'signorance and indifference upon many other points. 

She had certain phrases caught from D'Argenton, a peremptory tone indiscussion, a didactic "I think so; I believe; I know. " She generallybegan and finished her arguments with some disdainful gesture thatsignified, "I am very good to take the trouble to talk to you. " Thanksto that miracle of assimilation by which, at the end of some years, husband and wife resemble each other, Jack was terrified to see anoccasional look of D'Argenton on his mother's face. On her lips wasoften to be detected the sarcastic smile that had been the bugbear ofhis boy-hood, and which he always dreaded to see in D'Argenton. Never had a sculptor found in his clay more docile material than thepretentious poet had discovered in this poor woman. 

After dinner, one of their favorite walks on these long summer eveningswas the Square des Buttes-Chaumont, a melancholy-looking spot on the oldheights of Montfauçon. The grottos and bridges, the precipices and pinegroves, seemed to add to the general dreariness. But there was somethingartificial and romantic in the place that pleased Ida by its resemblanceto 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 theruined wall, with the scores of others that were already there. Whenthey were tired with walking, they took their seats at the summit of thehill, to enjoy the superb view that was spread out before them. Paris, softened and veiled by dust and smoke, lay at their feet. The heightsaround 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 thepeople. In the winding alleys and under the groups of trees youngpeople were singing and dancing, while on the hillside, sitting amidthe yellowed grass, and on the dried red earth, families were gatheredtogether like flocks of sheep. 

Ida saw all this with weary, contemptuous eyes, and her very attitudesaid, "How inexpressibly tiresome it is!" Jack felt helpless before thispersistent melancholy. He thought he might make the acquaintance of someone of these honest, simple families, and perhaps in their society hismother 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 thatwonderful patience which only grandfathers are possessed of. 

"I certainly know that man, " said Jack to his mother; "it is--it must beM. Rondic. "

Rondic it was, but so aged and grown so thin, that it was a wonderthat his former apprentice had recognized him. The girl with him was aminiature of Zénaïde, while the boy looked like Maugin. 

The good old man showed great pleasure in meeting Jack, but his smilewas sad, and then Jack saw that he wore crape on his hat. The youthdared not ask a question until, as they turned a corner, Zénaïde boredown upon them like a ship under full sail. She had changed her plaitedskirt and ruffled cap for a Parisian dress and bonnet, and looked largerthan ever. She had the arm of her husband, who was now attached to oneof the custom-houses, and who was in uniform. Zénaïde adored M. Mauginand was absurdly proud of him, while he looked very happy in being soworshipped. 

Jack presented his mother to all these good people; then, as theydivided into two groups, he said in a low voice to Zenaïde, "What hashappened? 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, whoknew her so well, may be quite sure that it was by no accident that sheperished. She died because she could never see Chariot again. Ah, whatwicked men there are in this world!"

Jack glanced at his mother, and was quite ready to agree with hiscompanion. 

"Poor father! we thought that he could not survive the shock, " resumedZénaïde; "but then he never suspected the truth. When M. Maugin got hisposition in Paris, we made him come with us, and we live all togetherin the Eue 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 Jackapproached her. He suspected that she had been talking of D'Argenton, asindeed she had, praising his genius and recounting his successes, which, had she confined herself to the truth, would not have taken long. Theyseparated, 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 sowell at Indret, the sponges and corals; he recognized the big wardrobeas an old friend. The rooms were exquisitely clean, and presented aperfect picture of a Breton interior transplanted to Paris. But he soonsaw that his mother was bored by Zénaïde, who was too energetic andpositive to suit her, and that there, as everywhere else, she washaunted by the same melancholy and the same disgust which she expressedin the brief phrase, "It smells of the work-shop. "

The house, the room she lived in, the bread she ate, all seemedimpregnated with one smell, one especial flavor. If she opened thewindow, she perceived it even more strongly; if she went out, eachbreath 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 thesame baleful odor, which she fancied clung even to herself--the odor oftoil--and filled her with immense sadness. 

One evening, Jack found his mother in a state of extraordinaryexcitement; her eyes were bright and complexion animated. "D'Argentonhas written to me!" she cried, as he entered the room; "yes, my dear, hehas actually dared to write to me. For four months he did not vouchsafea syllable. He writes me now that he is about to return to Paris, andthat, if I need him, he is at my disposal. "

"You do not need him, I think, " said Jack, quietly, though he was inreality 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 notyet know me. I have, thank Heaven, more pride than that. I have justfinished his letter, and have torn it into a thousand bits. I am curiousto 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 hasbeen for two months at--what is the name of the place?" and she calmlydrew 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 eveningshe was busy, and seemed to have regained the courage and animationof 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'smind. "It is not I whom she kisses, " he said, shrewdly; and hissuspicions were confirmed by a trifle that proved how completely thepast had taken possession of the poor woman's mind. She never ceasedhumming the words of a little song of D'Argenton's, which the poet wasin the habit of singing himself at the piano in the twilight. Over andover again she sang the refrain, and the words revived in Jack's mindonly sad and shameful memories. Ah, if he had dared, what words he wouldhave said to the woman before him! But she was his mother; he lovedher, and wished by his own respect to teach her to respect herself. Hetherefore kept strict guard over his lips. This first warning of comingdanger, however, awoke in him all the jealous foreboding of a man whowas about to be betrayed. He studied her way of saying good-bye to himwhen he left in the morning, and he analyzed her smile of greeting onhis return. He could not watch her himself, nor could he confide to anyother person the distrust with which she inspired him. He knew how oftena woman surrounds the man whom she deceives in an atmosphere of tenderattentions, --the manifestations of hidden remorse. Once, on his wayhome, 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 wasanswered he saw that some plot was already organized against him. The Sunday after on his return from Etiolles he found his mother socompletely 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 notIda 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 atonce prompt and unskilful in falsehood. Annoyed by his earnest gaze, sherose 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 forthe first time in the engine-room of the Cydnus; only it was thinnerand smaller. Jack would not have opened it if the following title on theouter page had not met his eyes:--

 THE PARTING. 

 A POEM. 

 By the Vicomte Amacry d'Abgentoh. 

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, thename of Charlotte occurred several times. Jack flung down the magazinewith 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 awhile she stooped, carelessly. 

"You do not intend to keep those verses, do you? They are simplyabsurd. "

"But I do not think them so. "

"He simply beats his wings and crows, mother dear; his words touch nohuman heart. "

"Be more just, Jack, "--her voice trembled, --"heaven knows that I knowM. D'Argenton better than any one, his faults and the defects of hisnature, because I have suffered from them. The man I give up to you; asto the poet, it is a different thing. In the opinion of every one, thepeculiarity of M. D'Argenton's genius is the sympathetic quality of hisverses. Musset had it irksome degree; and I think that the beginningof this poem, 'The Parting, ' is very touching: the young woman who goesaway 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 beable, I hope, to recognize the fact that he stands at the head of thepoets of France. More than one person who speaks of him with contemptto-day, will yet be proud of having known him and of having sat at histable!" And as she finished she left the room with great dignity. Jacktook his seat at his desk, but his heart was not in his work. He feltthat "the enemy, " as in his childish days he had called the vicomte, was gradually making his approaches. In fact Amaury d'Argenton was asunhappy apart from Charlotte as she was herself. Victim and executioner, indispensable to each other, he felt profoundly the emptiness of dividedlives. From the first hour of their separation the poet had adopteda dramatic and Byronic tone as of a broken heart. He was seen in therestaurants at night, surrounded by a group of flatterers who talkedof 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 indissipation. When he said, "Waiter! bring me some pure absinthe, " it wasthat some one at the next table might whisper, "He is killing himself byinches--all for a woman!"

D'Argenton succeeded simply in disordering his stomach and injuring hisconstitution. His "attacks" were more frequent, and Charlotte's absencewas extremely inconvenient. What other woman would ever have endured hisperpetual 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 wasenvironed 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 wouldburn, and currents of air whistled under all the doors; and in thedepths of his selfish nature D'Argenton sincerely regretted hiscompanion, and became seriously unhappy. Then he decided to take ajourney, but that did him no good, to judge from the melancholy tone ofhis letters to his friends. 

One idea tormented him, that the woman whom he so regretted was happyaway from him, and in the society of her son. Moronval said, "Write apoem about it, " and D'Argenton went to work. Unfortunately, instead ofbeing calmed by this composition, he was more excited than ever, andthe separation became more and more intolerable. As soon as the Reviewappeared, Hirsch and Labassandre were bidden to carry a copy at once tothe 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 atCharlotte's door at an hour that he knew Jack must be away. D'Argentonwas very pale, and the beating of his heart choked him. One of thegreatest mysteries in human nature is that such persons have a heart, and that that heart is capable of beating. It was not love that movedhim, but he saw a certain romance in the affair, the carriage stationedat the corner as for an elopement, and above all the hope of gratifyinghis hatred of Jack. He pictured to himself the disappointment of theyouth on his return to find that the bird had flown. He meant to appearsuddenly before Charlotte, to throw himself at her feet, and, giving herno time to think, to carry her away with him at once. She must be verymuch changed since he last saw her if she could resist him. He enteredher room without knocking, saying in a low voice, "It is I. "

There was no Charlotte; but instead, Jack stood before him. Jack, onaccount of the occurrence of his mother's birthday, had a holiday, andwas at work with his books. Ida was asleep on her bed in the alcove. Thetwo men looked at each other in silence. This time the poet had not theadvantage. In the first place, he was not at home; next, how couldhe treat as an inferior this tall, proud-looking fellow, in whoseintelligent 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 bythe shoulder and wheeled him back into the corridor. The poet with somedifficulty preserved his footing. 

"Jack, " he said, endeavoring to be dignified, --"there has been amisunderstanding 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 betweenus, 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 absolutehatred toward you. Besides, why should we not hate each other like thebitterest of foes? By what other name should I call you? Who and whatare you? Believe me that if ever in my life I have thought of youwithout anger, it has never been without a blush of shame. "

"It is true, Jack, that our position toward each other has been entirelyfalse. 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, avery serious and positive matter. In proof of which, permit me to saythat every instant of my time is occupied, and that I cannot lose oneof them in useless discussions. For ten years my mother has been yourslave. All that I suffered in this time my pride will never let youknow. My mother now belongs to me, and I mean to keep her. What do youwant of her? Her hair is gray, and your treatment of her has made greatwrinkles on her forehead. She is no longer a pretty woman, but she is mymother!"

They looked each other straight in the face as they stood in thatnarrow, squalid corridor. It was a fitting frame for a scene sohumiliating. 

"You strangely mistake the sense of my words, " said the poet, deadlypale. "I know that your resources must be very moderate; I come, as anold 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 wasforced to endure, has now become odious to me. "

The attitude of the young man was so determined and so insulting, hislooks so thoroughly carried out his words, that the poet dared notadd one word, and descended the stairs, where his careful costume wasstrangely out of place. When Jack heard his last footfall, he returnedto his room: on the threshold stood Ida, strangely white, her eyesswollen with tears and sleep. 

"I was there, " she said in a low voice; "I heard everything, even that Iwas old and had wrinkles. "

He approached her, took her hands, and looked into the depths of hereyes. 

"He is not far away. Shall I call him?"

She disengaged her hands, threw her arms around his neck, and with oneof those sudden impulses that prevented her from being utterly unworthy, exclaimed, "You are right, Jack; I am your mother, and only yourmother!"

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 happenedin such an unexpected manner that I have not yet recovered from theblow. Alas! she of whom I must complain is my mother. It would be moredignified to keep silence, but I cannot. I knew in my childhood a negrolad who said, 'If the world could not sigh, the world would stifle!' Inever fully understood this until to-day, for it seems to me that if Ido not write you this letter, that I could not live. I could not waituntil Sunday because I could not speak before Cécile. I told you ofthe explanation that man and I had, did I not? Well, from that time mymother was so very sad, and seemed so worn out by the scene she had gonethrough, that I resolved to change our residence. I understood that abattle 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 anddevices. Our street and house displeased her. I wanted something gayerand more airy. I hired then at Charonne Rue de Silas three rooms newlypapered. I furnished these rooms with great care. All the money I hadsaved--pardon me these details--I devoted to this purpose. Bélisaireaided me in moving, while Zénaïde was in the same street, and I countedon her in many ways. All these arrangements were made secretly, andI hoped a great surprise and pleasure was in store for my mother. Theplace was as quiet as a village street, the trees were well grown andgreen, and I fancied that she would, when established there, have lessto regret in the country-life she had so much enjoyed. 

"Yesterday evening everything was in readiness. Belisaire was to tellher that I was waiting for her at the Rondics, and then he was to takeher to our new home. I was there waiting; white curtains hung at all thewindows, and great bunches of roses were on the chimney. I had made alittle fire, for the evening was cool, and it gave a home look to theroom. In the midst of my contentment I had a sudden presentiment. It waslike an electric spark. 'She will not come. ' In vain did I callmyself an idiot, in vain did I arrange and rearrange her chair and herfootstool. I knew that she would never come. More than once in my life Ihave had these intuitions. One might believe that Fate, before strikingher 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 verybrief, merely stating that M. D'Argenton was very ill, and that sheregarded it as her duty to watch at his side. As soon as he was well shewould 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 rememberthose 'attacks' he talked of at Etiolles, and which so soon disappearedafter a good dinner. It is one of those which he now has. But my motherwas only too glad of an excuse, and allowed herself to be deceived. Butto return to my story. Behold me alone in this little home, amid allthe wasted efforts, time and money! Was it not cruel? I could not remainthere; I returned to my old room. The house seemed to me as sad as afuneral-chamber. I permitted the fire to die out, and the roses witherand fall on the marble hearth below with a gentle rustle. I took therooms for two years, and I shall keep them with something of the samesuperstition with which one preserves for a long time the cage fromwhich some favorite bird has flown. If my mother returns we will gothere 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 isterrible indeed. But of what am I thinking; I have her word and herpromise, and Cécile always tells the truth. "

CHAPTER XXII. ~~CÉCILE UNHAPPY RESOLVE. 

Fob a long time Jack had faith that his mother would return. In themorning, in the evening, in the silence of midday, he fancied that heheard the rustling of her dress, her light step on the threshold. Whenhe went to the Rondics he glanced at the little house, hoping to see thewindows 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 youwill. " Not a word in reply. The desertion was final and absolute. 

Jack was in great grief. When our mothers do us harm, it wounds andgrieves us, and seems like a direct cruelty from the hand of God. ButCécile was the magician to cure him; she knew just the words to use, and her delicate tenderness defied the rough trials of destiny. A greatresource to him at this time was hard work, which is one's best defenceagainst sorrow and regrets. While his mother had been with him, she, without knowing it, had often prevented him from working. Her indecisionhad 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 yearwas 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 toBélisaire, the little attic positively glowed and palpitated withhappiness. Madame Bélisaire was suddenly filled with a desire to learn, and her husband must teach her to read. But while M. Rivals was pleasedat Jack's progress with his books, he was discontented with the state ofhis health; the old cough had come back, his eyes were feverish and hishands hot. 

"I do not like this, " said the good man; "you work too hard; you muststop; you have plenty of time: Cécile does not mean to run away. "

Never had the girl been more loving and tender; she seemed to feelthat she mast take his mother's place as well as her own; and it wasprecisely this sweetness that induced Jack to make greater exertionseach day. His bodily frame was in the same condition as that of theFakirs of India--urged to such a point of feverish excitement that painbecomes 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 hiswriting-table he suddenly felt lightness throughout all his being--astrange clearness of perception and an extraordinary excitement of allhis intellectual faculties; but this was accompanied with great physicalexhaustion. 

His work went like lightning, and all the difficulties of his taskdisappeared. He would have gone on thus to the end of his labor, had henot received a painful shock. À 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 finelinen for the next day. The suddenness of this departure, the brevityof the despatch, and even the printed characters instead of his friend'swell-known writing, affected him most painfully. He expected a letterfrom Cécile or the doctor to explain the mystery, but nothing came, andfor a week he was a prey to suspense and anxiety. The truth was: neitherCécile nor the doctor had left home, but that M. Rivals wished for timeto prepare the youth for an unexpected blow--for a decision of Cécile'sso extraordinary that he hoped his granddaughter would be induced toreconsider it. One evening, on coming into the house, he had foundCécile in a state of singular agitation; her lips were pale but firmlyclosed. He tried to make her smile at the dinner-table, but in vain; andsuddenly, 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 afirm voice she repeated, "I do not wish him to come on Sunday, or everagain. "

"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 wasmistaken. "

"Good heavens, child, are you quite mad? You have had some childishmisunderstanding. "

"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 anyother person?"

She colored. "No; but I do not wish to marry;" and to all that M. Rivalssaid she would make no other reply. 

He asked her what would be said, what would be thought by their littleworld. "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 herhand. 

"My child, " he said, "think well before you decide a question of suchimportance. "

"No, " she answered; "the sooner he knows my decision the better for usboth. I know that I am going to pain him deeply, but the longer we delaythe worse it will be, and I cannot see him again until he knows thetruth; I am incapable of such treachery. "

"Then you mean to give the boy his dismissal, " said the doctor, in arage. "Good heavens! what strange creatures women are!"

She looked at him with such an expression of despair that he stoppedshort. 

"No, no, little girl, I am not angry with you. It is my fault more thanyours. You were too young to know your own mind. I am an old fool, andshall 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 Cécilewould have come to her senses before the week was over. 

The next Saturday, when Dr. Rivals said to his granddaughter, "He willcome 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 hisfears, for he, though for forty years accustomed to the sight of humansuffering, 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 shewill 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 shouldfall. They were at the foot of the garden. It was a fresh, brightNovember morning; hoar-frost lay on the lawn, a faint haze hung over thedistant hills and reminded him of that day at Coudray, the vintage, and their first whisper of love. The doctor laid a paternal hand on hisshoulder. "Jack, " he whispered, "do not be unhappy. She is very youngand will perhaps change her mind. It is a mere caprice. "

"No, doctor, Cécile never has caprices. That would be horrible--todrive a knife into a man's heart merely from caprice! I am sure she hasreflected for a long time before she came to this decision. She knewthat her love was my life, and that in tearing it up my life would alsoperish. If she has done this, then it is because she knew well that itwas her duty so to do. I ought to have expected it; I should have knownthat so great a happiness could not be for me. "

He staggered to his feet. His friend took his hand. "Forgive me, mybrave boy; I hoped to make you both happy. "

"Do not reproach yourself. Tell her that I accept her decision. Lastyear, " he continued, "I began the only happy season of my life. I wasborn on that day, and to-day I die. But these few happy months I owe toyou 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 oncelooking back. Had he turned he would have seen, half hidden by thecurtain of a window in the second story, a face as pale and agitated ashis own. The girl extended her slender arms, and tears rained down hercheeks. The following days were sad enough. The little house that hadfor months been bright and gay, resumed its ancient mournful aspect. Thedoctor, much troubled, noticed that his granddaughter spent much of hertime in her mother's former room. Where Madeleine had formerly wept, herchild 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, whywas she so sad? If she did love him, why had she refused him? The oldman was sure that there was some mystery, something that he ought toknow; 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 husbandof old Salé, who had met with an accident. These people lived nearAul-nettes, in a miserable little hole, and on a straw bed in thecorner lay the sick man. When Dr. Rivals entered the place he was nearlysuffocated by the odor of burning herbs. 

"What have you been doing here, Mother Salé?" he said. The old womanhesitated, and wished to tell a falsehood; he gave her no time, however. "So Hirsch is here again, is he?" he continued. "Open the doors andwindows, you will be suffocated. "

While M. Rivals bent over the sick man, he half opened his eyes. "Tellhim, wife, tell him, " he muttered. 

The old woman paid no attention, and the man began again: "Tell him, Isay, tell him. "

The doctor looked at Mother Salé, who turned a deep scarlet. "I am sureI am very sorry if I said anything to hurt the feelings of such a goodyoung lady, " she muttered. 

"What young lady? Of whom do you speak?" asked the doctor, turninghastily around. 

"Well, sir, I will tell you the truth. The mad doctor gave me twentyfrancs 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 thetwenty francs, sir. In the first place, I knew nothing about it until hetold 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 thelong night he watched there, and when all was over he returned in hasteto 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 tothe office, still he found no one. But the door of Madeleine's old roomstood open, and there among the relics of the dear dead, prostrate onthe _Prie-Dieu_, was Cécile asleep, in an attitude that told of a nightof 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 painsto hide from you! And strangers and enemies told you, my poor littledarling, 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 myconscience compelled me to have no secrets from my husband. There wasbut 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 wouldmarry me in spite of my shameful history; but I would never consent tosuch a sacrifice. A man does not marry a girl who has no father--who hasno 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 youwith a thorough knowledge of your history. I told it all to him, and ifyou had had more confidence in me, you would have avoided this trial tous all. "

"And he was willing to marry me!"

"Child! he loves you. Besides, your destinies are similar. He has nofather, and his mother has never been married. The only differencebetween 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 herthe long martyrdom of the youth she loved. He told her of his exile fromhis 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 tothink that she had caused Jack, already so unhappy, so much needlesssorrow. "O, how he has suffered!" she sobbed. "Have you heard anythingfrom 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 bringhim home with us. "

An hour or two later, M. Rivals and his granddaughter were on theirway to Paris. Just after they left, a man stopped before the house. Helooked at the little door. "This is the place, " he said, and herang. The servant opened the door, but seeing before her one of thosedangerous ped-lers that wander through the country, she attempted toclose 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 bepermitted to die without any help?"

CHAPTER XXIII. ~~A MELANCHOLY SPECTACLE. 

That evening there was a great literary entertainment at the editors ofthe Review; a fête had been arranged to celebrate Charlotte's return, atwhich it was proposed that D'Argenton should read his new poem. 

But was there not something rather ridiculous in deploring the absenceof a person who was then present? And how could he describe thesufferings of a deserted lover, he who was supposed at the moment to beat the summit of bliss, by reason of the return of the beloved object?Never had the apartments been so luxuriously arranged; flowers werethere in profusion. The toilet of Charlotte was in exquisite taste, white with clusters of violets, and all the surroundings breathed anatmosphere of riches. Yet nothing could have been more deceptive. The Review was in a dying condition; the numbers appearing at longerintervals, and growing small by degrees and beautifully less. D'Argentonhad swallowed up in it the half of his fortune, and now wished to sellit. It was this unfortunate situation, added to an attack skilfullymanaged, that had induced the foolish Charlotte to return to him. He hadonly to assume before her the air of a great man crushed by unmeritedmisfortune, for her to reply that she would serve him always. 

D'Argenton was foolish and conceited, but he understood the nature ofthis woman in a most wonderful degree. She thought him handsomer andmore fascinating than he was twelve years before, when she saw him forthe first time, under the chandeliers of the Moronval salon. Many of thesame persons were there also: Labassandre in bottle-green velvet, withthe high boots of Faust; and Dr. Hirsch with his coat-sleeves spotted byvarious chemicals; and Moronval in a black coat very white in the seams, and a white cravat very black in the folds; several "children of thesun, "--the everlasting Japanese prince, and the Egyptian from the banksof the Nile. What a strange set of people they were! They might havebeen a band of pilgrims on the march toward some unknown Mecca, whosegolden lamps retreat before them. During the twelve years that we haveknown them, many have fallen from the ranks, but others have risen totake their places; nothing discourages them, neither cold nor heat, nor even hunger. They hurry on, but they never arrive. Among themD'Argenton, better clothed and better fed, resembled a rich Hadji withhis harem, his pipes, and his riches; on this evening he was especiallyradiant, for he had triumphed. 

During the reading of the poem Charlotte sat in an attitude of feignedindifference, blushing occasionally at veiled allusions to herself. Near her was Madame Moronval, who, small as she was, seemed quite tallbecause of the extraordinary height of her forehead and the length ofher chin. The poem went on and on, the fire crackled on the hearth, andthe wind rattled against the glass doors of the balcony, as it did on acertain night of which Charlotte apparently had but little remembrance. Suddenly, during a most pathetic passage, the door opened suddenly; theservant 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 hesaid he would wait for you, and he seated himself on the stairs. "

"I will see him, " said Charlotte, much moved; for she guessed at thepurport of the message. 

But D'Argenton objected, and turning toward Labassandre, he said, "Willyou have the goodness to see who this intruder is?" and the poet turnedback to the table to resume his reading. But the door opened again wideenough to admit the head and arm of Labassandre, who beckoned earnestly. 

"What is it?" said D'Argenton, impatiently, when he reached theante-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 tohim. 

"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 beenin his bed, and very, very ill. "

"What is his disease?"

"Something on the lungs, and the doctors say that he cannot live; so Ithought 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 trysomething else. "

"Sir?" said the pedler, interrogatively, for he did not comprehend thesesarcastic words. 

But D'Argenton had left the room, and Bélisaire stood in silentamazement, having caught a glimpse of the lighted salon and its crowd ofpeople. 

"It is nothing, only a mistake, " said the poet on his entrance; andwhile he majestically resumed his reading, the pedler hurried homethrough the dark streets, through the sharp hail and fierce wind, eagerto reach Jack, who lay in a high fever, on the narrow iron bed in theattic-room. 

He had been taken ill on his return from Etiolles; he lay there, almostwithout speaking, a victim to fever and a severe cold, so serious, thatthe physicians warned his friends that they had everything to fear. Bélisaire wished to summon M. Rivals, but to this Jack refused toconsent. This was the only energy he had shown since his illness, andthe only time he had spoken voluntarily, save when he told his friend totake his watch, and a ring he owned, and sell them. 

All Jack's savings had been absorbed in furnishing the rooms atCharonne, and the Bélisaire household was equally impoverished throughtheir recent marriage. But it mattered very little; the pedler and hiswife were capable of every sacrifice for their friend; they carriedto the Mont de Piété the greater part of their furniture, piece bypiece--for medicines were so dear. They were advised to send Jack to thehospital. "He would be better off; and, besides, he would then cost younothing, " was the argument employed. The good people were now at the endof their resources, and decided to inform Charlotte of her son's danger. 

"Bring her back with you, " said Madame Bélisaire to her husband. "To seehis mother would be such a comfort to the lad. He never speaks of herbecause he is so proud. "

But Bélisaire did not bring her. He returned in a very unhappy frameof mind, from the reception he had received. His wife, with her childasleep on her lap, talked in à low voice to a neighbor, in front of apoor 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 horriblecough that choked him. One would never have recognized this unfurnished, dismal room as the bright attic where cheerful voices had resounded sucha short time before. There was no sign of books or studies. A pot oftisane was simmering on the hearth, filling the air with that peculiarodor 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'smother. 

"But had you no blood in your veins? You should have entered by forceand 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 beenarrested, " said the poor man, in a distressed tone. 

"But what are we going to do?" resumed Madame Bélisaire. "This poor boymust 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'mafraid he heard you. "

"What of that? He is not your brother, nor your son; and it would bebetter for you in every respect. "

"But he is my friend, " answered Bélisaire, proudly; and in his tone wasso much honest devotion that his wife's eyes filled with tears. 

The neighbors shrugged their shoulders and went away. After theirdeparture, the room looked less cold and less bare. 

Jack had heard all that was said. In spite of his weakness he sleptlittle, 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 veryold woman, could have spoken, it would have said that in those pitifuleyes but one expression could have been seen, that of utter andoverwhelming despair. He never complained, however; he even tried, attimes, to smile at his stout nurse, when she brought him histisanes. The long and solitary days passed away in this inaction andhelplessness. Why was he not strong in health and body like the peopleabout him, and yet for whom did he wish to labor? His mother had lefthim, Cécile had deserted him. The faces of these two women haunted himday and night. When Charlotte's gay and indifferent smile faded away, the delicate features of Cécile appeared before him, veiled in themystery of her strange refusal; and the youth lay there incapable of aword or a gesture, while his pulses beat with accelerated force, and hishollow cough shook him from head to foot. 

The day after this conversation at Jack's bedside, Madame Bélisairewas 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 askedwith severity. 

"I am going to the hospital, my kind friend; it is impossible for me tostay 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 toMadame Bélisaire, and descended the stairs with one sad look of farewellat the humble home which had been illuminated by so many fair dreams andhopes. How long the walk was! They stopped occasionally, but dared notlinger long, for the air was sharp. Under the lowering December skiesthe sick youth looked worse even than when he lay in his bed. His hairwas wet with perspiration, the hurrying crowds made him dizzy andfaint. Paris is like a huge battlefield where mere existence demands astruggle; and Jack seemed like a wounded soldier borne from the field bya comrade. 

It was still early when they reached the hospital. Early as it was, however, they found the huge waiting-room filled with persons. Anenormous stove made the air of the room almost intolerable, with itssmell of hot iron. When Jack entered, assisted by Bélisaire/all eyeswere turned upon him. They were awaiting the arrival of the physician, who would give, or refuse, a card of admittance. Each one was describinghis symptoms to some indifferent hearer, and endeavoring to show thathe was more ill than any one else. Jack listened to these dismalconversations, seated between a stout man who coughed violently, and aslender young girl whose thin shawl was so tightly drawn over her headthat only her wild and affrighted eyes were to be seen. Then the dooropened, and a small, wiry man appeared; it was the physician. A profoundsilence followed all along the benches. The doctor warmed his hands atthe stove, while he cast a scrutinizing glance about the room. Then hebegan his rounds, followed by a boy carrying the cards of admission tothe different hospitals. What joy for the poor wretches when they werepronounced sick enough to receive a ticket. What disappointment, whatentreaties from those who were told that they must struggle on yet alittle longer! The examination was brief, and if it seemed somewhatbrutal at times, it must be remembered that the number of applicants wasvery large, and that the poor creatures loved to linger over the recitalof their woes. 

Finally the physician reached the stout man next to Jack. "And what isthe 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 toomuch 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 hisage and how long he had been ill. Jack answered with much difficulty, and while he spoke, Bélisaire stood behind him with a face full ofanxiety. 

"Stand up, my man, " and the doctor applied his ear to the damp clothingof the invalid. "Did you walk here?"

"Yes, sir. "

"It is most extraordinary that you were able to do so, in the statein which you are; but you must not try it again;" and he handed him aticket and passed on to continue his inspection. 

Of all the thousand rapid and confused impressions that one receivesin the streets of Paris, do you remember any one more painful thanthe sight of one of those litters, sheltered from the sun's rays bya striped cover, and borne by two men, one behind and the other infront, --the form of a human being vaguely defined under the linensheets? Women cross themselves when these litters pass them, as they dowhen a crow flies over their heads. 

Sometimes, a mother, a daughter, or a sister, walks at the side of thesick man, their eyes swimming in tears at this last indignity to whichthe poor are subjected. Jack thus lay, consoled by the sound of thefamiliar tread of his faithful Bélisaire, who occasionally took his handto 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. Fiveor six phantoms in cotton nightcaps looked up from a game of dominosto inspect him, and two or three more started from the stove as iffrightened. 

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 ofthe matron, who came forward, and in a soft voice, the tones of whichseemed half lost among the folds of her veil, said:

"Poor fellow, how sick he looks! he must go to bed at once. We have nobed yet, but the one at the end there will soon be empty. While we arewaiting, we will put him on a couch. "

This couch was placed close to the bed "that would soon be empty, " fromwhence were heard long sighs, dreary enough in themselves, but made athousand times more melancholy by the utter indifference with which theywere heard by the others in the room. The man was dying, but Jackwas himself too ill to notice this. He hardly heard Bélisaire's "_aurevoir_" nor the rattling of dishes as the soup was distributed, nora 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 vaindid he attempt to follow the words that fell rapidly from her lips. Theconcluding sentence reached him, however. 

"Protect, O God, my friends and my enemies, all prisoners andtravellers, the sick and the dying. "

Jack slept a feverish sleep, and his dreams were a confused mixtureof prisoners rattling their chains, and of travellers wandering overendless roads. He was one of these travellers: he was on a highway, likethat of Etiolles; Cécile and his mother were before him refusing to waituntil he could reach them; this he was prevented from doing by a row ofenormous machines, the pistons of which were moving with dizzy haste, and from whose chimneys were pouring out dark volumes of smoke. Jackdetermined to pass between them; he is seized by their iron arms, tornand mangled, and scalded with the hot steam; but he got through and tookrefuge in the Foret de Sénart, amid the freshness of which Jack becameonce more a child and was on his way to the forester's; but there at thecross-road stood mother Salé; he turned to run, and ran for miles, withthe old woman close behind him; he heard her nearer and nearer, he felther hot breath on his shoulder; she seized him at last, and with all herweight crushed in his chest. Jack awoke with a start; he recognizedthe large room, the beds in a line, and heard the sighs and coughs. Hedreamed 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 nursesran, and lifted Something, placed it in the next bed, and drew thecurtains 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 thecurtains of the next bed, --they hung in such straight and motionlessfolds to the very ground. 

"Well, my boy, you had a pretty bad time last night. The poor fellow inthe next bed had convulsions and fell over on you. I suppose you wereterribly 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 coatand a white apron. His beard was fair and his eyes bright. He feels thesick 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 hehad perceived the previous day. The students surrounded the bed, and thedoctor explained to them various symptoms that he observed. They wereat once interesting and alarming, he said; and Jack listened with somecuriosity to the words "inspiration, " "expiration, " "phthisis, " &c. , andat last understood that his was looked upon as a most critical case, --socritical that, after the physician had left the room, the good sisterapproached, and with gentle discretion asked if his family were inParis, and if he could send to them. 

His family! Who were they? À man and a woman who were already there atthe foot of the bed. They belonged to the lower classes; but he had noother friends than these, no other relatives. 

"And how are we to-day?" said Bélisaire, cheerily, though he kept histears back with difficulty. Madame Bélisaire lays on the table two fineoranges she has brought, and then, after a kind remark or two, sits insilence. 

Jack does not speak; his eyes are wide open and fixed. Of what is hethinking?

"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, heforgets 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 inutter contempt "the fine lady, " as she calls Jack's mother, that shedetests the man with the moustache, and that she will make a scene, andperhaps--who knows but the police may be called in?

"No, " she said, "that is all nonsense;" but finally yielded to thepersuasions of her husband, and allowed him to go in her stead. 

"I will bring her this time, never fear!" he said, with an air ofconfidence. 

"Where are you going?" asked the concierge, stopping him at the foot ofthe 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 tothe country, and will not return for some time. "

In the country, in all this cold and snow! It seemed impossible. Invain did he insist, in vain did he say that the lady's son was veryill--dying in the hospital. The concierge held to his statement, andwould not permit Bélisaire to go one step further. 

The poor man retreated to the street again. Suddenly a brilliant ideastruck him. Jack had never told him any of the particulars of what hadtaken place between the Rivals and himself; he had merely stated thefact that the marriage was broken off. But at Indret and in Paris he hadoften spoken of the goodness and charity of the kind doctor. If he couldonly be induced to come to Jack's bedside, so that the poor boy couldhave some familiar face about him! Without further hesitation he startedfor 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 notwhat to think of this prolonged absence, nor how to calm the agitationinto which the sick youth was thrown by the expectation of seeing hismother. His excitement was unfortunately increased by the crowd thatalways appeared on Sundays at the hospital. Each moment some one of thedoors was thrown open, and each time Jack expected to see his mother. The visitors were clean and neatly dressed who gathered about thepatients they had come to see, telling them family news and encouragingthem. Sometimes the voices were choked with tears, though the eyes weredry, Jack heard a constant murmur of voices, and the perfume of orangesfilled the room. But what a disappointment it was, after being lifted bythe aid of a little stick hung by cords, when he saw that his mother hadnot come! He fell back more exhausted, more despairing than ever. 

With him, as with all others who are on the threshold of death, theslender thread of life that remained to him was too fragile to attachitself to the robust years of his manhood, and took him beyond them intothe far away days when he was little Jack, the velvet-clad darling ofIda de Barancy. 

The crowd still came, women and little children, who stood in displeasedsurprise at their father's emaciation and at his nightcap, and utteredexclamations of delight at the sight of the beautifully dressed altar. But Jack's mother did not appear. Madame Bélisaire knows not what tosay. She has hinted that M. D'Argenton may be ill, or that his mother isdriving in the Bois, and now she spreads a colored handkerchief on herknees and pares an orange. 

"She will not come!" said Jack. These very words he had spoken in thatlittle home at Charonne which he had prepared with so much tendercare. But his voice was now weaker, and had even a little anger in itsaccents. "She will not come!" he repeated; and the poor boy closedhis eyes, but not in sleep. He thought of Cécile. The sister heard hissighs, and said to Madame Bélisaire, whose large face was shining withtears, --

"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 troubledthat 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 ahospital 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 herlittle child; "I am going for your mother. "

Jack understood what she said, understood that she had gone, but stillcontinued 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 mymiserable life has come from her! My heart is one huge wound, from thegashes she has cut in it. When he pretended to be ill, she went tohim on wings, and would never again leave him; and I am dying, and sherefuses 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, andthe sister bent over him in gentle pity, while the brief winter's dayended in a yellow twilight and occasional gusts of snow. 

Charlotte and D'Argenton descended from their carriage. They had justreturned from a fashionable concert, and were carefully dressed invelvet 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, andhad shown herself, too, to be as pretty as she was ten years before. Thecomplexion was heightened by the sharp wintry air, and the soft wrapsin which she was enveloped added to her beauty as does the satin andquilted lining of a casket enhance the brilliancy of the gems within. Âwoman of the people stood on the sidewalk, and rushed forward on seeingher. 

"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 thegentleman 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 youwish to see him you must hurry. "

"Come on, Charlotte, come on! It is a frightful lie. It is some traplaid ready for you;" and the poet drew Charlotte to the stairs. 

"Madame, your son is dying! Ah, God, is it possible that a mother canhave a heart like this!"

Charlotte turned toward her. "Show me where he is, " she said; and thetwo women hurried through the streets, leaving D'Argenton in a state ofrage, convinced that it was a mere device of his enemies. 

Just as Madame Bélisaire left the hospital, two persons hurried in, --ayoung 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 reasonof her tears and her watchings; and the hand that held his was theslender one that had already brought the youth such happiness, and yetdid its part in bringing him where we now see him; for fate is oftencruel enough to strike you through your dearest and best. The sick youthopens his weary eyes to see that he is not dreaming. Cécile is reallythere; 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 bitternessand 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 wordlove had a most extraordinary sweetness, as if some wandering bird hadtaken 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 heartiestvoice. "Have no fear, my boy, we will pull you through. You do not looklike the same person you were when we came. "

This was true enough. He was transfigured with happiness. He pressedCécile's hand to his cheek, and whispered an occasional word oftenderness. 

"All that was lacking to me in life, you have given me, dear. You havebeen friend and sister, wife and mother. "

But his excitement soon gave place to exhaustion, his feverish colorto frightful pallor. The ravages made by disease were only too plainlyvisible. Cécile looked at her grandfather in fright; the room was fullof shadows, and it seemed to her that she recognized a Presence moresombre, more mysterious than Night. 

Suddenly Jack half lifted himself: "I hear her, " he whispered; "she iscoming!"

But the watchers at his side heard only the wintry wind in thecorridors, the steps of the retreating crowd in the court below, andthe distant noises in the street. He listened a moment, said a fewunintelligible words, then his head fell back and his eyes closed. But he was right. Two women were running up the stairs. They had beenallowed to enter, though the hour for the admittance of visitors hadlong since passed. But it was one of those occasions where rules may bebroken and set aside. 

When they arrived at the outer door, Charlotte stopped. "I cannot goon, " she said, "I am frightened. "

"Come on, " the other answered, roughly; "you must. Ah, to such women asyou, God should never give children!"

And she pushed Charlotte toward the staircase. The large room, theshaded lamps, the kneeling forms, the mother saw at one glance; andfarther on, at the end of the apartment, were two men bending over abed, 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 wasJack indeed, with arms stiffly falling at his side, and eyes fixed onvacancy. 

The doctor bent over him. "Jack, my friend; it is your mother, she ishere!"

And she, unhappy woman, stretched out her arms toward him. "Jack, it isI! I am here!"

Not a movement. 

The mother cried in a tone of horror, "Dead?"

"No, " said old Rivals; "no, --_Delivered_. "

 THE END.