3 1924 080 821 071 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tlie Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924080821071 
 
In Compliance with current 
 
 copyright law, Cornell University 
 
 Library produced this 
 
 replacement volume on paper 
 
 that meets the ANSI Standard 
 
 Z39.48-1992 to replace the 
 
 irreparably deteriorated original. 
 
 1998 
 
TliB Coliwfili Series of Clioice Fiction. 
 
 "Accident seems to have dubbed the * Cobweb Series,* annonnced by Estes & Lau- 
 
 riat. Tlie cov< ematic fitness, 
 
 and it is dow r Jack,' another 
 
 novel by Daut th will attract 
 
 readei-s from c y». W ^ *°^ * Vincta,* 
 by E. "Werner. 
 
 A brilliant nov 
 the Frcu' 
 
 "Tlic chan 
 mance lull of i 
 York Herald. 
 
 " It is a sph 
 
 "In our opi 
 late both ti'ansi 
 
 " The style 
 injr fancy, and 
 
 "It has all 
 England romai 
 
 " * Sidonie ' 
 
 " It ia one o 
 go out of fashi 
 
 " * Sidonie ' 
 and exciting. 
 North Amcrict 
 
 "Thelifc-p 
 characters are 
 Gbant WniTi 
 
 "The ti"ans 
 terpiece." — T. 
 
 "* Sidonie' 
 
 (Cornell Mniucrstty ffiibrarg 
 
 Jltfara. '^tva ^ark 
 
 FROM THE 
 
 BENNO LOEWY LIBRARY 
 
 COLLECTED BY 
 
 BENNO LOEWY 
 
 1854-1919 
 BEQUEATHED 1*^5 CORNELL UNIVERSITY 
 
 '\' 
 
 m crowned by 
 i\ which 
 
 Drd, it is a ro- 
 iglish." — New 
 
 tily congratu- 
 
 nty, its pleas- 
 
 Jity of a New 
 
 ton Coterier* 
 t of spring, or 
 
 !ry interesting 
 ' the stoiy." — 
 
 liration. The 
 " — Richard 
 
 final is a mas- 
 
 vel of uncom- 
 
 mon power, exceeding aeucacy, ana entire purity. — uharles jjudlet Wakner. 
 
 " ' Sidonie ' is unquestionably the novel of the season, if not of the era, in France. 
 Its pure tone and its intense passion make it a novelty in French literature." — Harper's 
 
 Magazine. ____^ 
 
 For Sale at all th.e Boolcetores and. Depots, and sent, posatpaid, 
 to any- part of the "Worldt on receipt of Frioe, by 
 
 301 Wasliington Street, Boston. 
 
t 
 
 
 Tlie Coliwfil] Series of Cliflice Fiction. 
 
 Cloth. Black, Red, and Gilt. $1.50 each vol. 
 
 ^irst Liove is Sest. 
 
 « GAIL HAMILTON'S New Departure. A bright, spicy novel. 
 
 " The conception is original, and is carried out with much wit and high-spirited good- 
 luimor." — NeiD York Ti-tbune. 
 
 '* The book is the best piece of amateur fiction that has appeared for a long time." — 
 Chicai/o Post. 
 
 " } ler pen is alternately a spear to pierce, and a straw to tickle." — Christian Union. 
 
 " It is out of the common line of novel- writing, free and easy, not to say * i-attling,' in 
 style." — Publishei-s' Weekly. ^ 
 
 J'ack. 
 
 By ALPHONSE DAUDET, author of "Sidonie,'* "The Nabob," &c 
 " * Jack ' is somewhat in Bret Ilarte's vein, though with less humor and more moral 
 foree than lie has displayed." — Christian Union. 
 
 ** It is in the same deep, moral vein of * Sidonie.' " — Springfield Republican. 
 
 Vinefa. 
 
 A Thnlling Novel of German and Polish Life, by the author of " Good Luck," "Broken Chains," &c. 
 " The Werner novels are all pure, and are written with a high moral purpose. They 
 do not contain a word that the most fastidious moralist might not approve." — Tribune. 
 
 Forbidden Fruit. 
 
 From the German of Hackl^nder, by Mrs. Kaufmann. 
 
 " This celebrated author is called the Dickens of Germany." — Publishers* Weekly. 
 
 The N^abob. 
 
 By ALPHONSE DAUDET, translated by Lucv H. Hooper. 
 
 " We shall watch with interest for the future the writings of Daudet. His career bids 
 fair to be as brilliant as that of any novelist of the country." — The Pittsburg Leader. 
 
 "The author is gifted with rare and remarkable qualifications — imagination, intelli- 
 gence, the power of creating chai-actci*, and above all with a purity, sweetness, and 
 sincerity of nature, that lend to his writings a chann exquisite, yet indefinable, like the 
 pei-fume of a flower." — Boston Courier. 
 
 The Little Grood-for-lffothing. 
 
 By ALPHONSE DAUDET. 
 
 ** Daudet has the true Frenchman's instinct for painting a portrait with an epithet and 
 indicating a state of mind with a phrase." — Appleton^s Journal. 
 
 " Daudet's power of creating and unfoldingf character is not matched by that of any 
 living ^vriter, and fuw novelists of any age or language have achieved greater triumphs 
 in this respect." — Boston Courier. 
 
 Sent) postpaid, on. receipt of Price, "by ESTES A, LAURIATp 
 W 301 "Washington Street, Boston. 
 
UNIPORM VOLUMES BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 
 Published at $1.50 each. 
 
 SIDONIE. 
 
 JACK. 
 
 THE NABOB. 
 
 THE LITTLE GOOD-FOR-NOTHING. 
 
 ROBERT HELM ON T. 
 
 TARTARIN OF TARASCON. 
 
 CHOICE STORIES. 
 
THE COBWEB SERIES OF CHOICE FICTION. 
 
 JACK. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF ALPHONSE DAUDET, 
 AUTHOR OF " SIDONIE," "ROBERT HELMONT," ETC. 
 
 MARY NEAL SHERWOOD, 
 
 TRANSLATOR OP *' SIDONIE." 
 
 FIRST AMERICAN EDITION, 
 
 FROM THE FORTIETH THOUSAND, FRENCH EDITION. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 ESTES AND LAURIAT, 
 
 301 Washington Street. 
 1S77. 
 
COPYRIGHT, 
 
 1877. 
 
 ESTES AND LaURIAT. 
 
 yC-l^'n< 
 
 
 
 Stereotyped at the Boston Stereotype Foundry, 
 Na 19 Spring Lane. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. TAGS 
 
 I. Vacrigard, 9 
 
 II. The School in tue Avenue Mohtaigne, . . 32 
 
 III. Madoit, S4 
 
 IV. The Keonion, 72 
 
 V. A Dinner with Ida, 87 
 
 VI. Amauky D'Argenton, 93 
 
 VII. Madod's Flight, lOS 
 
 ^ VIII. -Jack's Departore, 123 
 
 IX. Parva Domds, Magna Qoies, .... 140 
 
 X. The First Appearance op Belisaire, . . 155 
 
 XI. Cecile, ......... IGG 
 
 XII. Life is not a Romance, 177 
 
 XIII. Indeet 1S7 
 
 XIV. A Midnight Interview, 206 
 
 XV. Charlotte's" JoDRNET, 233 
 
 XVI. Clarisse, 242 
 
 XVII. In the Engine-Room 250 
 
 V 
 
VI 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CUAP. 
 
 XVIII. D'AncENTOn's Magazine, 
 
 XIX. The Convalescent, 
 
 XX. The Wedding-Paety, . 
 
 XXI. Effects op Poetry, 
 
 XXII. Cecile's Unhappy Besolte, 
 
 XXIII. A Melancholt Spectacle, 
 
 XXIV. Death in the Hospital, 
 
 rAQB 
 
 260 
 273 
 316 
 332 
 354 
 364 
 376 
 
JACK. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 TAURIGAED. 
 
 " With a h, sir ; with a h. The name is written 
 and pronounced as in English. The child's god- 
 father was English. A major-general in the Indian 
 army. Lord Pembroke. You know him, perhaps? 
 A man of distinction and of the highest connections. 
 But — j'ou understand — M. I'Abb^ 1 How delicious- 
 ly he danced I He died a frightful death at Singa- 
 pore some years since, in~a tiger-chase organized in 
 his honor by a rajah, one of his friends. These 
 rajahs, it seems, are absolute monarchs in their own 
 countrj'^, — and one especially is very celebrated. 
 What is his name ? Wait a moment. Ah 1 I have it. 
 Rana-Eamah." 
 
 " Pardon me, madame," interrupted the abb^, 
 smiling, in spite of himself, at the rapid flow of 
 words, and at the swift change of ideas. " After 
 Jack, what name ? " 
 
 With his elbow on his desk, and his head slightly 
 
 9 
 
10 JACK. 
 
 bent, the priest examined from out the corners of 
 eyes bright with ecclesiastical shrewdu«o3, the 
 young woman who sat before him, with her Jack 
 standing at her side. 
 
 The lady was faultlessly dressed in the fashion of 
 the day and the hour. It was December, 1858. 
 The richness of her furs, the lustrous folds of her 
 black costume, and the discreet originality of her 
 hat, all told the story of a woman who owns her car- 
 riage, and who steps from her carpets to her coup^ 
 without the vulgar contact of the streets. Her 
 head was small, wliich always lends height to a 
 woman. Her pretty face had all the bloom of 
 fresh fruit. Smiling and gay, additional vivacity was 
 imparted by large, clear eyes and brilliant teeth, 
 which were to be seen even when her face was in 
 repose. The mobility of her countenance was ex- 
 traordinary. Either this, or the lips half parted as 
 if about to speak, or the narrow brow, — some- 
 thing there was, at all events, that indicated an 
 absence of reflective powers, a lack of culture, and 
 possibly explained the blanks in the conversation of 
 this prettj' woman ; blanks that reminded one of 
 those little Japanese baskets fitting one into another, 
 the last of which is always empty. 
 
 As to the child, picture to yourself an emaciated 
 boy of seven or eight, who had evidently outgrown 
 his strength. He was dressed as English boys are 
 dressed, and as befitted his name spelled with a h. 
 His legs were bare, and he wore a Scotch cap and 
 a plaid. The costume was in accordance with his 
 years, but not with his long neck and slim figure. 
 
VA URIGARD. \ \ 
 
 He seemed embarrassed by it himself, for, awkward 
 and timid, he would occasionall}'' glance at his half- 
 frozen legs with a despairing expression, as if he 
 cursed within his soul -Lord Pembroke and the whole 
 Indian army. 
 
 Physically, he resembled his mother, with a look 
 of higher breeding, and with the transformation of a 
 pretty woman's face to that of an intelligent man. 
 There were the same eyes, but deeper in color and 
 in meaning ; the same brow, but wider ; the same 
 mouth, but the lips were firmly closed. 
 
 Over the woman's face, ideas and impressions 
 glided without leaving a furrow or a trace ; in fact 
 so hastily, that her eyes always seemed to retain a 
 certain astonishment at their flight. With the child, 
 on the contrary, one felt that impressions remained, 
 and his thoughtful air would have been almost pain- 
 ful, had it not been combined with a certain caress- 
 ing indolence of attitude that indicated a petted 
 child. 
 
 Now leaning against his moth'Sr, with one hand 
 in her muff, he listened to her words with adoring 
 attention, and occasionally looked at the priest and 
 at all the surroundings with timid curiosity. He had 
 promised not to crj', but a stifled sob shook him at 
 times from head to foot. Then his mother looked at 
 him, and seemed to say, " You know what you prom- 
 ised." Then the child choked back his tears and 
 sobs ; but it was easy to see that he was a prey to 
 that first agonj' of exile and abandonment Avhich the 
 first boarding-school inflicts on those children who 
 have lived only in their homes. 
 
12 JACK. 
 
 This examination of mother and child, made by the 
 priest in two or three minutes, would have satisfied 
 
 a superficial observer ; but Father , who had 
 
 been the director for twenty-five years of the aris- 
 tocratic institution of the Jesuits at Vaurigard, was 
 a man of the world, and knew too well the best 
 Parisian society, all its shades of manner and dia- 
 lect, not to understand that in the mother of his 
 new pupil he beheld a representative of an especial 
 class. 
 
 The self-possession with which she entered his 
 office, — self-possession too apparent not to be forced, 
 — her way of seating herself, her uneasy laugh, and 
 above all, the overwhelming flood of words with 
 which she sought to conceal a certain embarrass- 
 ment, all created in the mind of the priest a vague 
 distrust. Unhappily, in Paris the circles are so 
 mixed, the community of pleasures and similarity of 
 toilets have so narrowed the line of demarcation 
 between fashionable women of good and bad society, 
 that the most expwienced may at times be deceived, 
 and this is the reason tliat tho priest regarded this 
 woman with so much attention. The principal diffi- 
 culty in arriving at a decision arose from the uncon- 
 nected style of her conversation ; but the embar- 
 rassed air of the mother when he asked for tho 
 other name of the child, settled the question in his 
 mind. 
 
 She colored, hesitated. " True," she said ; " ex- 
 cuse me ; 1 have not yet presented myself. What 
 could I have been thinking of? " and drawing a 
 small, highly-perfumed case from her pocket, she 
 
VAURIGARD. 13 
 
 took from it a card, on which, in long letters, was 
 to be read the insignificant name — 
 
 Q/aa 06 -SSazancu. 
 
 Over the face of the priest flashed a singular 
 smile. 
 
 " Is this the child's name ? " he asked. 
 
 The question was almost an impertinence. The 
 lady understood him, and concealed her embarrass- 
 ment under an assumption of great dignity. 
 
 "Certainly, sir, certainly." 
 
 " Ah ! " said the priest, gravely. 
 
 It was he now who found it difficult to -express 
 what he wished to say. He rolled the card between 
 his fingers with a little movement of the lips natural 
 to a man who measures the weight and efiect of 
 the words he is about to speak. 
 
 Suddenly he arose from iiis chair, and approaching 
 one of the large windows that looked on a garden 
 planted with fine trees, and reddened by the wintry 
 sun, tapped lightly on the glass. A black silhouette 
 was drawn on the window, and a young priest 
 appeared immediately within the room. 
 
 "Duffieux," said the Superior, "take this child out 
 to walk with you. Show him our church and our 
 hot-houses ; he is tired of us, poor little man ! " 
 
 Jack supposed that he was sent out to walk so that 
 he might be spared the pain of saying good-bj'e to 
 his mother, and his terrified, despairing expression 
 so touched the kind priest that he hastily added, — 
 
 " Don't be frightened, Jack. Your mother is not 
 going away ; you will find her here." 
 
14 JACK. 
 
 The child still hesitated. 
 
 " Go, my dear," said Madame de Barancy, with a 
 queenly gesture. 
 
 Then he went without another word, as if he were 
 already conquered by life, and prepared for all its 
 evils. 
 
 When the door closed hehind him, there was a 
 moment of silence. The steps of the child and his 
 companion were heard on tlie frozen gravel, and 
 dying away, left no sound save the crackling of the 
 fire, the chirps of the sparrows on the eaves, the dis- 
 tant pianos, and an indistinct murmur of voices — the 
 hum of a great boarding-school. 
 
 " This child seems to love you, madame," said the 
 Superior, touched by Jack's submission. 
 
 "Why should he not love me?" answered Madame 
 de Barancy, somewhat melodramatically; "the poor 
 dear has but his mother in the world." 
 
 " Ah ! you are a widow ? " 
 
 "Alasl yes, sir. My husband died ten years 
 ago, the very year of our marriage, and under the 
 most painful circumstances. Ah 1 Monsieur I'Abbo, 
 romance-writers, who are at a loss to invent adven- 
 tures for their heroines, do not know that many an 
 apparently quiet life contains enough for ten novels. 
 My own story is the best proof of that. The Comte 
 de Barancy belonged, as his name will tell you, to 
 one of the oldest families in Touraine." 
 
 She made a fatal mistake here, for Father 
 
 was born at Amboise, and knew the nobility of the 
 entire province. So he at once consigned the Comte 
 de Barancy to the society of Major- General Pembroke 
 
VAURIGARD. 15 
 
 and the Rajah of Singapore. He did not let this 
 appear, however, and contented himself with replying 
 gently to the soi-disant comtesse, — 
 
 "Do you not think with me, madame, that there 
 would be some cruelty in sending away a child that 
 seems so warmly attached to you ? He is still very 
 young ; and do }'ou think his phj'sical health good 
 enough to support the grief of such a separation?" 
 
 "But you are mistaken, sir," she answered, 
 promptly. " Jack is a verj-^ robust child ; ho has 
 never been ill. He is a little pale, perhaps, but 
 that is owing to the air of Paris, to which he has 
 never been accuftomed." 
 
 Annoyed to fiud that she was not disposed to 
 comprehend him, the priest continued, — 
 
 " Besides, just now our dormitories are full; the 
 scholastic year is very far advanced ; we have even 
 been obliged to decline receiving new pupils until 
 the next term. You would be compelled to wait 
 until then, madame ; and even then — " 
 
 She understood him at last. 
 
 " So," she said, turning pale, " you refuse to 
 receive my son. Do you refuse also to tell me 
 why?" 
 
 " Madame," answered the priest, " I would have 
 given much if this explanation could have been 
 avoided. But since you force it upon me, I must 
 inform you that this institution, whose head I am, 
 exacts from the families who confide their children 
 to us the most unexceptionable conduct and the 
 strictest morality. In Paris there are many laical 
 institutions where j-our little Jack will receive every 
 
16 JACK. 
 
 care, but with us it would be impossible. I beg of 
 you," he added, with a gesture of indignant pro- 
 testation, " do not make me explain further. I have 
 no right to question you, no right to reproach you. 
 I regret the pain I am now giving, and believe 
 me when I say tliat my words are as painful to 
 myself as to you." 
 
 While the priest spoke, over the countenance of 
 Madame de Barancy flitted shadows of anger, grief, 
 and confusion. At first she tried to brave it out, 
 throwing her head back disdainfully; but the kind 
 words of the priest falling on her childish soul made 
 her burst suddenly into a passion of sobs and tears. 
 
 " She was so unhappy," she cried, " no one could 
 ever know all she had done for that child! Yes, 
 the poor little fellow had no name, no father, but 
 was that any reason why a crime should be made of 
 his misfortune, and that he should be made respon- 
 sible for the faults of his parents ? Ah 1 M. I'Abb^, 
 I beg of you — " 
 
 As she spoke she took the priest's hand. The 
 good father sought to disengage it with some little 
 embarrassment. 
 
 '' Be calm, dear madame," he cried, terrified by 
 these tears and outcries, for she wept, like the child 
 that she was, with vehement sobs, and with the 
 abandonment in fact of a somewhat coarse nature. 
 The poor man thought, " What could I do with her 
 if this lady should bo taken ill?" 
 
 But the words he used to calm her only excited 
 her more. 
 
 She wished to justify herself, to explain things, to 
 
VAURIGARD. 17 
 
 narrate the story of her life, and, willing or not, 
 the Superior found himself compelled to follow her 
 through an obscure recital, whose connecting thread 
 she broke at every step, without looking to see bow 
 she should ever get back again to the light. 
 
 The name of Barancy was not hers, but if she 
 should tell him her name, he would be astonished. 
 The honor of one cf the oldest families in Prance was 
 ' concerned, and she would rather die than speak. 
 
 The Superior hastened to assure her that he had 
 no intention of questioning her, but she would not 
 listen to him. She Avas started, and a wind-mill 
 under full sail would have been more easily arrested 
 than her torrent of words, of which probably not 
 one was true, for she contradicted herself perpet- 
 ually throughout her incoherent discourse, yet withal 
 there was something sincere, something touching 
 even in this love between mother and child. They 
 had always been together. He had been taught at 
 home by masters, and she wished now to separate 
 from him only because of his intelligence and his 
 eyes that saw things that were not intended for his 
 vision. 
 
 " The best thing to do, it seems to me," said the 
 priest, gravely, " would be to live such a life that 
 you need fear neither the scrutiny of your child nor 
 of any one else." 
 
 " That was my wish, sir," she answered. " As 
 Jack grew older, I wished to make his home all that 
 which it ought to be. Besides, before long, my 
 position will be assured. For some time I have 
 been thinking of marrying, but to do this it was 
 2 
 
18 JACK. 
 
 necessary to send my boy away for a time that he 
 might obtain the education worthy of the name 
 he ought to bear. I thought that nowhere could 
 he do as well as here, but at one blow you repulse 
 him and discourage his mother's good resolutions." 
 
 Here the Superior arrested her with an exclamation 
 of astonishment. He hesitated a moment ; then 
 looking her straight in her eyes, said, — 
 
 " So be it, madame. I yield to your wishes. Little 
 Jack pleases me very much ; I consent to receive 
 him among our pupils." 
 
 " My dear sir!" 
 
 " But on two conditions." 
 
 " I am ready to accept all." 
 
 " The first is, that until the day that your position 
 is assured, the child shall spend his vacations under 
 this roof, and shall not return to yours." 
 
 " But he will die, my poor Jack, if he does not see 
 his mother 1 " 
 
 " Oh, j-ou can come here whenever you please ; 
 only — and this is my second condition — you will not 
 see him in the parlor, but always here in my private 
 room, where I shall take care that you are not 
 interfered with and that )vo one sees you." 
 
 She rose in indignation. 
 
 The idea that she could never enter the parlor, or 
 be present on the reception-days, when she could 
 astonish the other guests with the beauty of her 
 child, with the richness of her toilette, that she could 
 never say to her friends, " I met at the school, yes- 
 terday, Madame de C , or Madame de V ," 
 
 that she must meet Jack in secret, ail this revolted 
 her. 
 
VAURIGARD. 19 
 
 The astute priest had struck well. 
 
 " You are cruel with me, sir. You oblige me to 
 refuse the favor for which I have so earnestly en- 
 treated, but I must protect my dignity as woman 
 and mother. Your conditions are impossible. And 
 what would my child think — " 
 
 She stopped, for outside the glass she saw the 
 fair, curly head of the child, with eyes brightened 
 by the fresh air and by his anxiety. Upon a sign 
 from his mother, he entered quickly. 
 
 " Ah, mamma, how good you are ! I was afraid you 
 were gone ! " 
 
 She took his hand hastily. 
 
 " You will go with me," she answered ; " we are 
 not wanted here." 
 
 And she sailed out erect and haughty', leading the 
 boy, who was stupefied bj' this departure which so 
 strongly resembled a flight. She hardly acknowl- 
 edged the respectful salute of the good father, who 
 had also risen hastily from his chair ; but quickly as 
 she moved, it was not too quick for Jack to hear a 
 gentle voice murmur, " Poor child ! poor child ! " in 
 a tone of compassion that went to his heart. He 
 was pitied — and why? For a long time he pondered 
 over this. 
 
 The Superior was not mistaken. Madame la Cora- 
 tesse Ida de Barancj' was not a comtesso at all. 
 Her name was not Barancy, and possibly not even 
 Ida. Whence came she ? Who was she ? No one 
 could say. These complicated existences have for- 
 tunes so diverse, a past so long and so varied, that 
 one never knows the last shape they assume. One 
 
20 JACK. 
 
 might liken them to those revolving lighthouses that 
 have long intervals of shadow between their gleams 
 of fire. Of one thing only was there any certainty : 
 she was not a Parisian, but came from some pro- 
 vincial town whose accent she still retained. It 
 was said that at the Gymnase, one evening, two 
 Lyons merchants thought they recognized in her a 
 certain M<3lanie Favrot, who formerly kept an estab- 
 lishment of " gloves and perfumery ; " but these 
 merchants were mistaken. 
 
 Again, an officer in the Hussars insisted that he 
 had seen her eight years before at Orleans. He also 
 was mistaken. And we all know that resemblances 
 are often impertinences. 
 
 Madame de Barancy had however travelled much, 
 and made no concealment of the fact, but an absolute 
 sorcerer would have been needed to evolve any 
 facts from the contradictor}- accounts she gave of 
 her origin and her life. One day Ida was born in 
 the colonies, spoke of her mother, a charming creoIe, 
 of her plantation and her negroes. Another time she 
 had passed her childhood in a great chateau on 
 the Loire. She seemed utterly indifferent as to tho 
 ■ manner in which her hearers would piece together 
 these dislocated bits of her existence. 
 
 As may be imagined, in these fantastic recitals, 
 vanity reigned triumphant, the vanity of a chattering 
 paroquet. Rank and money, titles and riches, were 
 the texts of her discourse. Rich she certainly was. 
 She had a small hotel on tho Boulevard Haussmann ; 
 .she had liorses and carriages, gorgeous furniture in 
 most questionable taste, three or four servants, and 
 
VAURIGARD. 21 
 
 led a most indolent existence, trifling away her life 
 among women like herself, less confident in her bear- 
 ing, perhaps, than the}"^, from her provincial birth and 
 breeding. This, and a certain freshness, the result 
 of a childhood passed in the open air, all kept her 
 somewhat out of the current of Parisian life, where, 
 too, being so newly arrived, she had not yet found 
 her place. 
 
 Once each week, a man of middle age, and of distin- 
 guished appearance, came to see her. In speaking 
 of him, Ida always said " Monsieur " with an air of 
 such respect' that one would have supposed him 
 to be at the court of France in the days when the 
 brother of the king was so denominated. The child 
 spoke of him simply as " our friend." The servants 
 announced him as " M. le Comtc," but among them- 
 selves they called him " the old gentleman." 
 
 The old gentleman was very rich, for madame 
 spared nothing, and there was an enormous expendi- 
 ture going on constantly in the house. This was 
 managed by Mademoiselle Constant, Ida's waiting- 
 maid. It was this woman who gave her mistress the 
 addresses of the tradespeople, who guided her inex- 
 perience through the mazes of life in Paris ; for 
 Ida's pet dream and hope was to be taken for a 
 woman of irreproachable character, and of the highest 
 fashion. 
 
 Thus it will be seen into what state of mind the 
 
 reception of Father had thrown her, and in 
 
 what a rage she left his presence. An elegant 
 coup6 awaited her at the door of the Institution. 
 She threw herself into it with her child, retaining 
 
22 JACK. 
 
 only sufBcient self-command to say " home," in so 
 loud a voice that she was heard by a group of priests 
 who were talking together, and who quickly dis- 
 persed before this whirlwind of furs and curled hair. 
 In fact, as soon as the carriage-door was closed, the 
 unhappy woman sank into a corner, not in her usual 
 coquettish position, but ovei-whelmed and in tears, 
 stifling her sobs in the quilted cushions. 
 
 What a blow I The priest had refused to take her 
 child, and at the first glance had discovered the hu- 
 miliating truth that she believed to have thoroughly 
 disguised under the luxurious surroundings of a 
 woman of the world and of an irreproachable mother. 
 
 Her wounded pride recalled with renewed flushes 
 of shame the keen eyes of the good father. She 
 recalled all her falsehood, all her folly, and remem- 
 bered 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. Ho vaguely conceived 
 himself to be in fault, the dear little fellow, and yet 
 was secretly glad that he had not been left at the 
 school. 
 
 For a fortnight he had heard of it night and day ; 
 his mother had extorted a promise from him not to 
 weep ; his trunk was packed, and all was ready, and 
 the child's heart was full of trouble ; and now at the- 
 last moment he was reprieved. 
 
 If his mother had not been in so much trouble now, 
 he would have thanked her ; how happy would he 
 have been cuiled up at her side, under her furs, in 
 the little coupd in which they had had so many happy 
 
VAURIGARD. 23 
 
 hours togetlier — liours which were now to be re- 
 peated. And Jack thought of the afternoons in the 
 Bois, of the long drives through the gay city of 
 Paris — a city so new to both of them, and full of 
 excitement and interest. A monument, perhaps, or 
 even a mere street incident, delighted them. 
 
 '' Look, Jack — " 
 
 " Look, mamma — " 
 
 They were two children together, and together 
 they peered from the window, — the child's head 
 Avith its golden curls close to the mother's face 
 tightly veiled in black lace. 
 
 A despairing cry from Madame de Barancy aroused 
 the boy from all these sweet recollections. " Mon 
 dieu 1 " she cried, wringing her hands, " what have I 
 done to be so wretched ? " 
 
 -This exclamation naturally elicited no response, 
 and little Jack, not knowing what to say, or how to 
 console her, timidly caressed her hand, even at last 
 kissing it with the fervor of a lover. 
 
 She started and looked wildly at him. 
 
 " Ah ! cruel, cruel child, what harm you have done 
 me in this world 1 " 
 
 Jack turned pale. " I ? What have I done ? " 
 
 He loved but one person on the face of the earth, 
 his mother. He thought her absolutely perfect ; and 
 without knowing it, he had injured her in some mys- 
 terious way. The poor child was now overwhelmed 
 with despair also, but remained utterly silent, as if 
 the noisy demonstrations of his mother had shocked 
 him, and made him ashamed of any manifestations on 
 his own part He was seized with a sort of nervous 
 
24 JACK. 
 
 spasm. His mother took him in her arms. " No, 
 DO, dear child, I was only in just ; bo sensible, dear. 
 What ! must I rock my long-legged boy as if he were 
 a baby ? No, little Jack, j-ou never did mo any harm. 
 It is I who did wrong. Come, do not weep any more. 
 See, I am not crying." 
 
 And the strange creature, forgetful of her recent 
 grief, laughed gayly, that Jack too might laugh. It 
 was one of the privileges of this inconsequent na- 
 ture never to retain impressions for any length of 
 time. Singularly enough, too, the tears she had just 
 shed only seemed to add new freshness and bril- 
 liancy to her youthful beaut}'^, as a sudden shower 
 upon a dove's plumage seems to bring out new lustre 
 w-ithout penetrating below the surface. 
 
 "Where are we now?" said she, suddenly drop- 
 ping the window that was covered with mist. " At 
 the Madeleine. How quickly we have come I We 
 must stop somewhere ; at the pastrj'-cook's, I think. 
 Dry your eyes, little one, we will buy some me- 
 ringues." 
 
 They alighted at the fashionable confectioner's, 
 where there was a great crowd. Rich furs and 
 rustling silks crushed each other ; and women's faces 
 with veils half lifted were reflected in the surround- 
 ing mirrors which were set in gilt frames and cream- 
 colored panels ; glittering glass, and a variety of cakes 
 and dainties delighted the spectators. Madame de 
 Barancj' and her child were much looked at. This 
 charmed her, and this small success following upon 
 the mortification of the previous hour, gave her an 
 appetite. She called for a quantity of meringues 
 
VAURICARD. 25 
 
 and nougat, and finished \iy a glass of wine. Jack 
 followed her example, but with more moderation, Lis 
 great grief having filled his ej'es with unshed tears 
 and his heart with suppressed sighs. 
 
 When they left the shop the weather was so fine, 
 although cold, and the flower-market of the Made- 
 leine so fragrant with the sweet perfume of violets, 
 that Ida determined to dismiss the carriage and re- 
 turn on foot. Briskly, and yet with a certain slow- 
 ness of step, that indicated a woman accustomed to 
 admiration, she started on her walk, leading Jack by 
 the hand. , The fresh air, the gay streets and attrac- 
 tive shops, quite restored Ida's good-humor. Then 
 suddenly, by what connection of ideas I know not, 
 she remembered a masqued ball to which she was 
 going that night, preceded by a restaurant dinner. 
 
 " Mercy I I had forgotten. Hurry ! little Jack — 
 quick ! " She wanted flowers, a bouquet, a dozen 
 forgotten trifles : and the child, whose life had al- 
 ways been made up of just such trifles, and who felt 
 as much as his mother the subtile charm of these 
 elegances, followed her in high glee, delighted by 
 the idea of the fete that he was not to see. The 
 toilette of his mother always interested him, and he 
 fully appreciated the admiration her beauty excited 
 as they went through the streets and into the 
 various shops. 
 
 " Exquisite ! exquisite ! Yes, you may send it to 
 me — Boulevard Haussmann." 
 
 Madame de Barancy tossed down her card, and 
 went out, talking gayly to Jack of the beauty of her 
 purchases. Suddenly she assumed a graver air. "Ke- 
 
26 JACK. 
 
 member, Jack, what I say. Do not tell our good 
 friend that I went to this ball ; it is a great secret. 
 It is five o'clock. How Constant will scold 1 " 
 
 She was not mistaken. 
 
 Her maid, a tall, stout person of forty years, ugly 
 and masculine, rushed toward Ida as she entered 
 the house. 
 
 " The costume is here. There is no sense in being 
 so late. Madame will not be ready in season. No 
 one could make Iier toilette in such a little while." 
 
 " Don't scold. Constant. If you only knew what 
 had happened. Look ! " and she pointed to Jack. 
 
 The factotum seemed utterly out of patience. 
 " What 1 Master Jack back again 1 That is very 
 naughty, sir, after all j-ou promised. The police will 
 have to come and take you to school ; your mother 
 is too good." 
 
 " No, no, it was not he. The priest would not 
 have him. Do you understand ? They insulted me ! " 
 Whereupon she began to cry again, and to ask of 
 heaven why she was so unhappy. What with the 
 meringues and the nougat, the wine and the heat of 
 the room, she soon felt very ill. She was carried to 
 her bed ; salts and ether were hastily sought. Mad- 
 emoiselle Constant acquitted herself with the pro- 
 priety of a woman who is no stranger to such 
 scenes, went in and out of the room, opened and 
 shut wardrobes, with a certain self-possession that 
 seemed to say, " This will soon pass off." But she 
 did not perform her duties in silence. 
 
 " What folly it was to take this child to the Fathers ! 
 As if it was a place for him in Lis position I It would 
 
VAURIGARD. 27 
 
 not havo been done certainly, had I been consulted. 
 I would engage to find a place for this boy at very 
 short notice." 
 
 Jack, terrified at seeing his mother so ill, had seated 
 himself on the edge of the bed ; where, looking at 
 her anxiously, he in silence asked her pardon for the 
 sorrow he had caused her. 
 
 " There ! get away, Master Jack. Your mother is 
 all right. I must help her dress now." 
 
 " What 1 You do not mean. Constant, that I must 
 go to this ball. I have no heart to amuse myself." 
 
 " Pshaw 1 I know j'ou, madame. You have but 
 five minutes. Just look at this pretty costume, these 
 rose-colored stockiugs, and your little cap." 
 
 She shook out the skirts, displayed the trimming, 
 and jingled the little bells which adorned it, and Ida 
 ceased to resist. 
 
 While his mother was dressing, Jack went into the 
 boudoir, and remained alone in the dark. The little 
 room, perfumed and coquettish, was, it is true, par- 
 tially illuminated by the gas lamps on the boulevard. 
 Sadly enough the child leaned against the windows 
 and thought of the day that was just over. "By de- 
 grees, without knowing how, he felt himself to be 
 " the poor child " of whom the priest had spoken in 
 such compassionate tones. 
 
 It is so singular to hear one's self pitied when one 
 believes one's self to be happy. There are sorrows, 
 in fact, so well concealed, that those who have 
 caused them, and even sometimes their victims, do 
 not divine them. 
 
 The door opened — his mother was ready. 
 
28 JACK. 
 
 " Come in, Master Jack, and sec if this is not lovely." 
 
 Ah ! what a charming Folly ! Silver and pink, lus- 
 trous satin and delicate lace. What a lovely rustling 
 of spangles when she moved 1 
 
 The child looked on in admiration, while the 
 mother, light and airy, waving her Momus staflF, 
 smiled at Jack, and smiled at herself in the Psyche, 
 without at that time asking heaven why she was 
 so unhappy. Then Constant threw over her shoul- 
 ders a warm cloak, and accompanied her to the car- 
 riage, while Jack, leaning over the railing, watched 
 from stair to stair, moving almost as if she were danc- 
 ing the little pink slippers embroidered with silver, 
 that bore his mother to balls where children could 
 not go. As the last sound of the silver bells died 
 away, he turned towards the salon, disturbed and 
 anxious for the first time by the solitude in which he 
 ordinarily passed his evenings. 
 
 "When Madame de Barancy dined out. Master Jack 
 was confided to the tender mercies of Constant. 
 " She will dine with you," said Ida. 
 
 Two places were laid in the dining-room that 
 seemed so huge on such days. But very often Con- 
 stant, finding her dinner anything but cheerful, took 
 the child and joined her companions below, Avhere 
 they feasted gayly. The table-cloth was soiled, and 
 the conversation was not of the purest ; and very 
 often the conduct of the mistress of the house was 
 commented upon, in words to be sure that were 
 slightly veiled, so as not to frighten toe child. This 
 evening there was a grand discussion as to the re- 
 fusal of the Fathers to receive, the boy. The coach- 
 
VAURIGARD. 29 
 
 man declared that it was all for the best, — that the 
 priests would have made of the child " a hypocrite 
 and a Jesuit." 
 
 Constant protested against these words. She was 
 not a professor of religion, she said, but she would 
 not hear it spoken ill of. Then the discussion 
 changed to the great disappointment of Jack, who 
 listened with all his little ears, hoping to hear why 
 this priest, who appeared so good, was not willing to 
 receive him. 
 
 But for the moment Jack was of little conse- 
 quence ; each was absorbed in narrating his or her 
 religious convictions. 
 
 The coachman, who had been drinking, said that 
 liis God was the sun ; in fact, he, like the elephants, 
 adored the sun I Suddenly some oue asked how be 
 knew that elephants adored the sun. 
 
 " I saw it once in a photograph," said he, sternly. 
 Upon which Mademoiselle Constant vehemently ac- 
 cused him of impiety and atheism ; while the cook, 
 a stout Picardian with true peasant shrewdness, 
 told them to be quiet. 
 
 " Hush I " she said ; " you should never quarrel 
 over your religions." 
 
 And Jack — what was he doing all this time ? 
 
 At the end of the table, stupefied by the heat and 
 the interminable discussions of these brutes, he slept, 
 with his head on his arms, and his fair curls spread 
 over his velvet sleeves. In his unrestful slumber he 
 heard the hum of the servants' voices, and at last 
 he fancied that they were talking of him ; but tho 
 voices seemed to reach from afar off — through a 
 fog, as it were. 
 
30 JACK. 
 
 " Who is he, then? " asked the cook. 
 
 " I don't know," answered Constant ; " but ono 
 thing is certain, he can't remain here, and she 
 wishes me to find a school for him." 
 
 Between a yawn and a hiccough, the coachman 
 spoke, — 
 
 " I know a capital school, and one that will just 
 answer your purpose. It is called the Moronval 
 College — no, not college — but the Moronval Acad- 
 emy. But what of that? it is a college all the same. 
 I put my child there once, when I was ordered off 
 with the Egyptian army. The grocer gave me the 
 prospectus, and I think I have it still." 
 
 He looked in his portfolio, and from among the 
 tumbled and soiled papers he extracted one, dirtier 
 even than the others. 
 
 " Here it is ! " he cried, with an air of triumph. 
 
 He unfolded the prospectus and began to read, or 
 rather to spell with diflSculty : 
 
 " Gymnase Moronval — in the — in the — " 
 
 " Give it to me," said Mademoiselle Constant; and 
 taking it from him, she read it at one glance. 
 
 " Moronval Academy — situated in the finest quarter 
 of Paris — a family school — large garden — the num- 
 ber of pupils limited — course of instruction — par- 
 ticular attention paid to the correction of the accent 
 of foreigners — " 
 
 Mademoiselle Constant interrupted herself here 
 to breathe, and to exclaim, " This seems all right 
 enough 1 " 
 
 " I think so," said the cook. 
 
 The reading of the prospectus was resumed, but 
 Jack was soundly asleep, and heard no more. 
 
VAURIGARD. 31 
 
 He was dreaming. Yes, while his future was thus 
 under discussion around this kitchen-table, while his 
 mother was dancing as Folly in her rose-colored 
 skirts and silver bells, he was dreaming of the kind 
 priest, and of the tender voice that had murmured — 
 " Poor child 1 " 
 
 
32 JACK. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE SCHOOL IN THE AVENUE MONTAIGNE. 
 
 " 23 Avenue Montaigne, in the best quarter of 
 Paris," said the prospectus. And no one- can deny- 
 that the Avenue Montaigne is well situated in the 
 Champs Elysdes, but it has an incongruous unfinished 
 aspect, as of a road merely sketched and not com- 
 pleted. 
 
 By the side of the fine hotels with their plate- 
 glass -xvindows hung -with silken draperies, stand the 
 houses of workmen, -whence issue the noise of ham- 
 mers and grating of saws. One part of the Faubourg 
 seems also to bo relinquished to gardens after the 
 style of Mabille. 
 
 At the time of which I speak, and possibly now^ 
 from the avenue ran two or three narrow lanes whose 
 sordid aspect offered a strange contrast to the superb 
 buildings near them. One of these lanes opened at- 
 the number 23, and announced on a gilded si^n swing- 
 ing in the passage, that the Moronval Academy was 
 there situated. This sign, however, once passed, it 
 seemed to you that j^ou were taken back forty years, 
 and to the other end- of Paris. The black mud, the 
 stream in the centre of the lane, the reverberations 
 from the high walls, the drinking-shops built from 
 old planks, all seemed to belong to the past. From 
 ever}' nook and crannj'^, from stairs and balconies, 
 
SCHOOL IN THE A VENUE MONTAIGNE. 33 
 
 whence fluttered linen hung to dry, streamed forth 
 a crowd of children escorted by an arm}' of lean and 
 hungry cats. It was amazing to see that so small a 
 spot could accommodate such a number of persons. 
 English grooms in shabby liveries, worn-out jockeys, 
 and dilapidated body-servants, seemed there to con- 
 gregate. To these must be added the horde of work- 
 people who returned at sunset ; those who let chairs, 
 or tiny carriages drawn by goats ; dog-lanciers, beg- 
 gars of all sorts, dwarfs from the hippodrome and 
 their microscopic ponies. Picture all these to your- 
 self, and you will have some idea of this singular 
 spot — so near to the Champs Elysdes that the tops 
 of the green trees were to be seen, and the roar of 
 carriages was but faintly subdued. 
 
 It was in this place that the Moronval Academy 
 was situated. Two or three times during the day a 
 tall, thin mulatto made his appearance in the street. 
 He wore on his head a broad-brimmed Quaker hat 
 placed so far back that it resembled a halo ; long hair 
 swept over his shoulders, and he crossed the street 
 with a timid, terrified air, followed by a troop of 
 boys of every shade of complexion varying from a 
 coflee tint to bright copper, and thence to profound 
 black. These lads wore the coarse uniform of the 
 school, and had an unfed and uncared-for aspect. 
 
 The principal of the Moronval Academy himself 
 took his pupils — his children of the sun, as he called 
 them — out for their daily walks ; and the comings 
 and goings of this singular party gave the finishing 
 touch of oddity to the appearance of the Passage 
 des Douze Maisons. 
 3 
 
34 JACK. 
 
 Most assuredly, had Madame de Barancy herself 
 brought her child to the Academy, the sight of the 
 place would have terrified her, and she would never 
 have consented to leave her darling tliere. But her 
 visit to the Jesuits had been so unfortunate, her 
 reception so different from that which she had antici- 
 pated, that the poor creature, timid at heart' and 
 easilj' disconcerted, feared some new liumiliation, and 
 delegated to Madame Constant, her maid, the task 
 of placing Jack at the school chosen for him by her 
 servants. 
 
 It was one cold, gray morning that Ida's carriage 
 drew up in front of the gilt sign of the Moronval 
 Academy. The lane was deserted, but the wails aud 
 the signs all had a datup and greenish look, as if a 
 recent inundation had there left its traces. Constant 
 stepped forward bravely, leading the child by one 
 hand, and carrying an umbrella in the other. At 
 the twelfth house ^le halted. It was atT;he end of 
 the lane just where it closes, save for a narrow pas- 
 sage into La Rue Marboeuf, between two high walls 
 on which grated the dry branches of old shrubbery 
 and ancient trees. A certain cleanliness indicated 
 the vicinity of the aristocratic institution : and the 
 oyster-shells, old sardine-boxes, and empty bottles 
 were carefully swept away from the green door, that 
 was as solid and distrustful in aspect as if it led to 
 a prison or a convent. 
 
 The profound silence that reigned was suddenly 
 broken by a vigorous assault of the bell by Madame 
 Constant. Jack felt chilled to the heart by the sound 
 of this bell, and the sparrows on the one tieo in the 
 garden fluttered away in sudden fright. 
 
SCHOOL IN THE A VENUE MONTAIGNE. 35 
 
 No one opened the door, but a panel was pushed 
 away, and behind the heavy grating appeared a 
 black face, with protuberant lips and astonished e3-es. 
 
 " Is this the Moronval Academy ? " said Madame 
 de Barancy's imposing maid. 
 
 The woolly head now gave place to one of a differ- 
 ent type, — a Tartar, possibly, — with eyes like slits, 
 high cheekbones, and narrow, pointed head. Then a 
 Creole, with a pale yellow skin, was also inspired by 
 curiosity and peered out. But the door still remained 
 closed, and Madame Constant was losing her temper, 
 when a sharp voice cried from a distance, — 
 
 " Well 1 do you never m«an to open that door, 
 idiots?" 
 
 Then they all began to whisper ; keys were turned, 
 bolts were pushed back, oaths were muttered, kicks 
 were administered, and after many ineffectual strug- 
 gles the door was finally opened ; but Jack saw only 
 the retreating forms of the schoolboys, who ran off 
 in as much fright as did the sparrows just before. 
 
 In the doorway stood a tall, colored man, whose 
 large white cravat made his face look still more 
 black. M. Moronval begged Madame Constant to 
 walk in, offered her his arm, and conducted her 
 through a garden, large enough, but dismal with the 
 dried leaves and d6bris of winter storms. 
 
 Several scattered buildings occupied the place of 
 former flower-beds. The academ}'^, it seemed, con- 
 sisted of several old buildings altered by Moronval 
 to suit his own needs. 
 
 In one of the alleys they met a small negro with 
 a broom and a pail. He respectfully stood aside aa 
 
36 JACK. 
 
 they passed, and when M. Moronval said, in a low- 
 voice, " A fire in the drawing-room," the boy looked 
 as much startled as it' he had been told that the 
 drawing-room itself was burning. 
 
 The order was by no means an unnecessary one. 
 Nothing could have been colder than this great 
 room, whose waxed floor looked like a frozen, slip- 
 pery lake. The furniture itself had the same polar 
 aspect, enveloped in coverings not made for it. But 
 Madame Constant cared little for the nakpd walls 
 and the discomforts of the apartment ; she was 
 occupied with the impression she was making, and 
 the part she was playing, that of a lady of importance. 
 She was quite condescending, and felt sui-e that 
 children must be well off in this place, the rooms 
 vvere so spacious, — just as well, in fact, as if in the 
 country. 
 
 " Precisely," said Moronval, hesitatingly. 
 
 The black boy kindled the fire, and M. Moronval 
 looked for a chair for his distinguished visitor. 
 Then Madame Moronval, who had been summoned, 
 made her appearance. She was a small woman, 
 very small, with a long, pale fixce all forehead and 
 chin. She carried herself with great erectness, as 
 if reluctant to lose an inch of her height, and per- 
 haps to disguise a trifling deformity of the shoulders; 
 but she had a kind and womanly expression, and 
 drawing the child towards her, admired his long 
 curls and his eyes. 
 
 " Yes, his eyes are like his mother's," said Mo- 
 ronval, coolly, examining Madame Constant as he 
 spoke. 
 
SCHOOL IN THE AVENUE MONTAIGNE. 37 
 
 She made no attempt to disclaim the honor ; but 
 Jack cried out in indignation, " She is not my 
 mamma 1 She is my nurse ! " 
 
 ITpon which Madame Moronval repented of Jier 
 urbanity, and became more reserved. Fortunately 
 her husband saw matters in a different light, and 
 concluded that a servant trusted to the extent of 
 placing her master's children at school, must be a 
 person of some importance in the house. 
 
 Madame 'Constant soon convinced him of the cor- 
 rectness of this conclusion. She spoke loudly and 
 decidedly — stated that the choice of a school had 
 been left entirely to her own discretion, and each 
 time that she pronounced the name of her mistress, 
 it was with a patronizing air that drove poor Jack to 
 the verge of despair. 
 
 The terms of the school were spoken of: three 
 thousand francs per annum was named as the amount 
 asked ; and then Moronval launched forth on the 
 superior advantages of his institution ; it combined 
 cverj'thing needed for the development of both soul 
 and body. The pupils accompanied their masters 
 to the theatre and into the world. Instead of mak- 
 ing of the boys intrusted to his charge mere ma- 
 chines of Greek and Latin, he sought to develop in 
 them every good qualit}', to prepare them for their 
 duties in every position in life, and to surround them 
 with those family influences of which they had too 
 many of them been totally deprived. But their 
 mental instruction was by no means neglected ; quite 
 the contrary. The most eminent men, savans and 
 artists, did not shrink irom the philanthropic duty 
 
38 JACK. 
 
 of instructing the young in this remarkable institii 
 tion, and wero employed as professors of sciences, 
 history, music, and literature. The FrencJi language 
 was made a matter of especial importance, and the 
 pronunciation was taught by a new and infallible 
 method of which Madame Moronval was the author. 
 Besides all this, every week there was a public 
 lecture, to which friends and relatives of the pupils 
 were invited, and where thej' could thoroughly con- 
 vince themselves of the excellence of the system 
 pursued at the Moronval Academ3'. 
 
 This long tirade of the principal, Avho needed, 
 possibly, more than any one else the advantages of 
 lessons in pronunciation from his wife, was achieved 
 more quickly for the reason that, in Creole fashion, 
 he swallowed 'half his words, and left out many of 
 his consonants. 
 
 It mattered not, however, for Madame Constant 
 was positively dazzled. 
 
 The question of terms, of course, was nothing to 
 her, she said ; but it was necessary that the child 
 should receive an aristocratic and finished education. 
 
 " Unquestionably," said Madame Moronval, grow- 
 ing still more erect. 
 
 Here her husband added that he only received 
 into his establishment strangers of great distinction, 
 scions of great fiimilies, nobles, princes, and the like. 
 At that very time he had under his roof a child of 
 royal birth, — a son of the king of Dahomey. At 
 this the enthusiasm of Madamo Constant burst all 
 boundaries. 
 
 *' A king's son ! You hear. Master Jack — j'ou 
 will be educated with the son of a king 1 " 
 
SCHOOL IN THE AVENUE MONTAIGNE. 39 
 
 " Yes," resumed the instructor, gravely ; " I have 
 been intrusted by his Dahomian Majesty with the 
 education of his royal Highness, and I believe that 
 I shall be able to make of him a most remarkable 
 man." ' 
 
 What was the matter with the black bo}', who was 
 still at work at the fire, that he shook so convul- 
 sively, and made such a hideous noise with the 
 shovel and tongs? 
 
 M. Moronval continued. " I hope, and Madame 
 Moronval hopes, that the 3'oung king, when on the 
 throne of bis ancestors, will remember the good 
 advice and the noble examples afforded him by his 
 teachers in Paris, the happy years spent with them, 
 their indefatigable cares and assiduous efforts on his 
 behalf." 
 
 Here Jack was surprised to see the black boy 
 kneeling before the chimney, turn toward him, and 
 shake his Avoolly head violently, while his mouth 
 opened wide in silent but furious denial. 
 
 Did he wish to saj'' that his royal Highness would 
 never remember the good lessons received at the 
 academy, or did he mean that he would never forget 
 them? But what could this poor black boy know 
 about it? 
 
 Madame Constant announced, in pompous terms, 
 that she was willing to pay a quarter in advance. 
 Moronval waved his hand condescendingly, as if 
 to say, " There is no need of that." 
 
 But the old house told a far different tale, — the 
 shabby furniture, the dismantled walls, the worn 
 carpets, as well as the threadbare coat of Moronval 
 
40 7ACK. 
 
 himself, and the shiny scant robe of the little woman 
 with the long chin. 
 
 But that which proved the fact more than an3'thing 
 else was the eagerness with which the pair went 
 to find in another room the superb register in which 
 thej' inscribed the ages of the pupils, their names, 
 and the date of their entrance into the academy. 
 
 While these important facts were being written, 
 the black boy remained crouched in front of the fire, 
 which seemed quite useless while he absorbed all its 
 heat. The chimney, which at first had refused to 
 consume the least bit of wood, as stomachs after too 
 long fasting reject food, had now revived, and a 
 beautiful red flame was to be seen. The negro, 
 with his head on his hands, his eyes fixed as in a 
 trance, looked like a little black silhouette against 
 a scarlet background. His mouth opened in intense 
 delight, and his eyes were perfectly round. He 
 seemed to be drinking in the heat and the light with 
 the greatest avidity, while outside the snow had 
 begun to fall silently and slowly. 
 
 Jack was very sad, for he fancied that Moronval 
 had a wicked look, notwithstanding his honeyed 
 words. And, then, in this strange house the poor 
 child felt himself utterly lost and desolate, discarded 
 by his mother, and rendered, still more miserable by 
 the vague idea that these colored pupils, from every 
 corner of the globe, had brought with tliem an at- 
 mosphere of unhappiness and of restlessness. He 
 remembered, too, the Jesuits' coUege, so fresh and 
 sweet ; the fine trees, the green-houses, the whole 
 appearance of refinement, and the kind hand of the 
 Superior laid for a moment upon his head. 
 
SCHOOL IN THE AVENUE MONTAIGNE. 41 
 
 Ah 1 why had he not remained there ? And as this 
 occurred to him, he said to himself, that perhaps 
 they would not have him here either. Ho looked 
 toward the table. There by the big register the 
 husband and wife were busy whispering with Madame 
 Constant. They looked at him, and he caught a word 
 now and then. The little woman sighed, and twice 
 Jack heard her say, as did the priest, — " Poor 
 child ! " 
 
 She also pitied him. And why? What was he, 
 then, that they pitied him ? Jack asked himself. 
 
 This compassion that others felt for him weighed 
 sorely on his little heart. He could have wept with 
 shame, for in his childish mind he attributed this 
 disdainful compassion to some peculiarity of costume, 
 his bare legs, or his long curls. 
 
 But he thought of his mother's despair. Should 
 he meet with another refusal? Suddenly he saw 
 Constant draw her purse and hand to the prin- 
 cipal some notes and gold pieces. Yes, they were 
 going to keep him. He was delighted, poor child, 
 for he little knew that the great misfortune of his life 
 was now inaugurated there in that room. 
 
 At this moment a tremendous bass voice came up 
 from the garden below, singing the chorus of an old 
 song. The windows of the room had not recovered 
 from the shock, when a stout, short man, in a velvet 
 coat, close-cut hair, and heavy beard, burst into tho 
 room. 
 
 " Hallo I " he cried, in a tone of comic astonish- 
 ment, " a fire in the parlor ? What a luxury I " and 
 he diew a long breath. In fact, the new-comer 
 
42 JACK. 
 
 was in the habit of drawing long breaths at the end 
 of each sentence, a habit he had acquired in singing: 
 and these breaths were almost like the roaring of a 
 wild beast. Catching sight of the strangers and the 
 pile of money, he stopped short with the words on 
 his lips. Delight and surprise succeeded each 
 other on his countenance, whose muscles seemed 
 habituatea to all facial contortions. 
 
 Moronval turned gravely toward the waiting 
 woman. " M. Labassandre, of the Imperial Academy 
 of Music, our Professor of Music." Labassandre 
 bowed once, twice, three times, and then, by way of 
 restoring his self-possession, and putting matters at 
 once on a pleasant footing for all parties, adminis- 
 tered a kick to the black boj', who did not seem at 
 all astonished, but picked himself up and disap- 
 peared from the room. 
 
 The door again opened, and two persons entered. 
 One was very ugly — a mean face without a beard, 
 huge spectacles with convex glasses, and wearing 
 an overcoat buttoned to the chin, wliich bore all up 
 and down the front too visible indications of the 
 awkwardness of a near-sighted man. This 'Was Dr. 
 Hir^ch, Professor of Mathematics and of Natural 
 Sciences. He exhaled a strong odor of alkalies, and, 
 thanks to his chemical manipulations, his fingers 
 were everj' color of the rainbow. The last comer 
 was very different. Imagine a handsome man, 
 dressed with the greatest care, scrupulously gloved 
 and shod, his hair thrown back from a forehead 
 already unnaturally high, tie had a haughty, ag- 
 gressive air ; his heavy blonde moustache, much 
 
SCHOOL IN THE AVENUE MONTAIGNE. 43 
 
 twisted at the ends, and a large, pale face, gave Lim 
 the look of a sick soldier. 
 
 Moronval presented Lim as " our great poet, 
 Amaury d'Argenton, Professor of Literature." 
 
 He, too, looked as astonished, when lie cauglit 
 sight of the gold pieces, as did Dr. Hirsch and tlio 
 singer Labassandre. His cold eyes liad a gleam of 
 light, but it disappeared as he glanced from the 
 child to his nurse. 
 
 Then he approached the other professors stand- 
 ing in front of the fire, and, saluting them, listened 
 in silence. Madame Constant thought this Argenton 
 looked proud ; but upon Jack the man made a very 
 strong impression, and the child shrank from him 
 with terror and repugnance. 
 
 Jack felt that all these men might make him 
 wretched, but this one more than all others. In- 
 stinctively, on seeing him enter, the child felt him 
 to be his future enemy, and that cold, hard glance 
 meeting his own, froze him to the core of his heart. 
 HoAV many times, ill days to come, was he to en- 
 counter those pale, blue e^-es, with half-shut, heavy 
 lids, whose glances were cold as steel ! The eyes 
 have been called the windows of the soul, but 
 D'Argenton's eyes were windows so closely barred 
 and locked, that one had no reason to suppose that 
 thei'e was a soul behind them. 
 
 The conversation finished between Moronval and 
 Constant, the principal approached his new pupil, 
 and giving him a little friendly tap on the cheek, he 
 said, " Come, come, my young friend, you must look 
 brighter than this." 
 
44 JACK. 
 
 And in fact, Jack, as tho moment drew near that 
 ho must say farewell to his mother's maid, felt his 
 eyes swimming in tears. Not that he had any great 
 affection for this woman, but she was a part of his 
 home, she saw his mother daily, and the separation 
 was final when she was gone. 
 
 " Constant," he whispered, catching her dress, - 
 " you will tell mamma to come and see me." 
 
 " Certainly. She will come, of course. But don't 
 cry." 
 
 The child was sorely tempted to burst into tears ; 
 but it seemed to him that all these strange eyes were 
 fixed upon him, and that the Professor of Literature 
 examined him with especial severity : and he con- 
 trolled himself. 
 
 The snow fell heavily. Moronval proposed to send 
 for a carriage, but the maid said that Augustin and 
 the coupd were waiting at the end of the lane. 
 
 " A coup(5 1 '' said the principal to himself, in as- 
 tonished admiration. 
 
 " Speaking of Augustin," said she : " he charged 
 me with a commission. Have you a pupil named 
 Said ? " 
 
 " To be sure — certainly — a delightful person," 
 said Moronval. 
 
 " And a superb voice. You must hear him," inter- 
 rupted Labassandre, opening the door and calling 
 Said in a voice of thunder. 
 
 A frightful howl was heard in reply, followed by 
 the appearance of the delightful person. 
 
 An awkward schoolboy appeared, whose tunic, 
 like all tunics, and, indeed, like all the clothing of 
 
SCHOOL IN THE AVENUE MONTAIGNE. 45 
 
 boys of a certain age, was too short and too tight for 
 him ; drawn in, in the fashion of a caftan, it told 
 the story at once of an Egyptian in European cloth- 
 ing. His features were regular and delicate enough, 
 but the yellow skin was stretched so tightly over 
 the bones and muscles that tho eyes seemed to close 
 " of themselves whenever the mouth opened, and vicQ 
 versa. 
 
 This miserable young man, whose skin was so 
 scanty, inspired you with a strong desire to relieve 
 his sufferings by cutting a slit somewhere. He at 
 once remembered Augustin, who had been his par- 
 ents' coachman, and who had given him all his cigar- 
 stumps. 
 
 " What shall I say to him from you ? " asked Con- 
 stant, in her most amiable tone. 
 
 " Nothing," answered Said, promptl)^ 
 
 " And your parents, how are they ? Have j-ou 
 had any news from them lately ? " 
 
 " No."" 
 
 " Have they returned to Egypt, as they thought 
 of doing?" 
 
 " Don't know : they never write." 
 
 It was evident that this pupil of the Moronval 
 Academy had not been educated in the art of con- 
 versation, and Jack listened with many misgivings. 
 
 The indifferent fashion with which this youth 
 spoke of his parents, added to what M. Moronval 
 had previously said of the family influences of which 
 most of his pupils had been deprived since infancy, 
 impressed him unfavorably. 
 
 It seemed to the child that he was to live among 
 
46 JACK. 
 
 orphans or cast-off children, and would bo himself as 
 much cast off as if ho had como from Timbuctoo or 
 Otaheite. 
 
 Again he caught the dres^of his mother's servant. 
 " Tell her to come and see me," ho whispered ; " 0, 
 tell her to come." 
 
 And when the door closed behind her, he under- 
 stood that one chapter in his life was finished; that 
 his existence as a spoiled child, as a petted baby, 
 had vanished into the past, and those dear and happy 
 days would never again return. 
 
 While he stood silently weeping, with his face 
 pressed against a window that led into the garden, 
 a hand was extended over his shoulder containing 
 something black. 
 
 It was Sa'id, who, as a consolation, offered him the 
 stump of a cigar. 
 
 " Take this : I have a trunk full," said the inter- 
 esting young man, shutting his eyes eo as to be able 
 to speak. 
 
 Jack, smiling through his tears, made a sign that 
 he did not dare to accept this singular gift ; and 
 Sa'id, whose eloquence was very limited, stood silent- 
 ■ly planted by his side until M. Moronval returned. 
 
 He had escorted Madame Constant to her car- 
 riage, and came back inspired with respectful indul- 
 gence for the grief of his new pupil. 
 
 The coachman, Augustin, had such fine furs, the 
 coupd was so well appointed, that the little fellow, 
 Jack, profited bj'' the magnilicence of the equipage. 
 
 " That is well," he said, benevolently, to the 
 Egyptian. " Play together ; but go to the other 
 
SCHOOL IN THE AVENUE MONTAIGNE. 47 
 
 room, where it is warmer than here. I shall permit 
 the boys to have a holiday in honor of the new 
 pupil." 
 
 Poor little fellow ! lie was soon surrounded by 
 a noisy crowd, who questioned him without mercy. 
 With his blonde curls, his plaid suit, and bare legs, 
 he sat motionless and timid, wondering at the frantic 
 gesticulations of these little boys of foreign birth, 
 and among them all, looked much like an elegant 
 little Parisian shut up in the great monkey cage in 
 the Jardin des Plantes. 
 
 This was the idea that occurred to Moronval, but 
 he was aroused from his silent hilarity by the noise 
 of a discussion too animated to be altogether amiable. 
 He heard the puffs and sighs of Labassandre and the 
 solemn little voice of madame. Easily divining the 
 bone of contention, he hastened to the assistance of his 
 wife, whom he found heroically defending the money 
 paid by Madame Constant against the demands of 
 the professors, whose salaries were greatly in arrear. 
 
 Evariste Moronval, lawyer, politician, and litt(5ra- 
 teur, had been sent from Pointe-a-Petre in 1848 as 
 secretary to a deputy from Guadaloupe. At that 
 time he was just twenty-five, energetic and ambi- 
 tious, with considerable abilitj' and cultivation. Be- 
 ing poor, however, he accepted a dependent position 
 which insured his expenses paid to Paris, that mar- 
 vellous city, the heat of whose lurid flames extends 
 so far over the world that it attracts even the moths 
 from the colonies. 
 
 On landing, he left his deputy in the lui'ch, easily 
 made a few acquaintances, and attempted a political 
 
48 JACK. 
 
 career, in which path he had obtained a certain success 
 in Guadaloupe ; but he had not taken into account 
 his horrible colonial accent, of which, notwithstand- 
 ing every effort, he was never able to rid hinnself. 
 The first time he spoke in public, the shouts of 
 laughter that greeted him proved conclusively that 
 he could never make a name for himself in Paris as 
 a public speaker. He then resolved to write, but he 
 was clever enough to understand that it was far 
 easier to win a reputation at Pointe-a-Petre than in 
 Paris. Haughty and tenacious, and spoiled by small 
 successes, he passed from journal to journal, without 
 being retained for any length of time on the staff of 
 any one. Then began those hard experiences of life 
 which either crush a man to the earth or harden him 
 to iron. He joined the army of the ten thousand 
 men who live by their wits in Paris, who rise each 
 morning dizzy with hunger and ambitious dreams, 
 make their breakfast from off a penny-roll, black the 
 seams of their coats with ink, whiten their shirt- 
 collars with billiard-chalk, and warm themselves in 
 the churches and libraries. 
 
 He became familiar with all these degradations 
 and miseries, — to credit refused at the low eating- 
 house, to the non-admittance to his garret at eleven 
 o'clock at night, and to the scanty bit of candle, and 
 to shoes in holes. 
 
 He was one of those professors of — it matters not 
 what, who write articles for the encyclopaedias at a 
 half centime a line, a history of the Middle Ages in 
 two volumes, at twenty-five francs per volume, com- 
 pile catalogues, and copy plays for the theatres. 
 
SCHOOL IN THE AVENUE MONTAIGNE. 49 
 
 He was dismissed from one institution, where he 
 taught English, for having struck one of the pupils 
 in his passionate, Creole fashion. 
 
 After three years of this miserable existence, when 
 he had eaten an incalculable number of raw arti- 
 chokes and radishes, when he had lost his illusions 
 and ruined his stomach, chance sent him to give 
 lessons in a young ladies' school kept by three sisters. 
 The two eldest were over forty ; the third was thirty, 
 — small, sentimental, and pretentious. She saw little 
 prospect of marriage, when Moronval offered himself 
 and was accepted. 
 
 Once married, they lived some time in the house 
 with the elder sisters ; both made themselves useful 
 in giving lessons. But Moronval had retained many 
 of his bachelor habits, which were far from agree- 
 able in that peaceful and well-ordered boarding- 
 school. Besides, the Creole treated his pupils too 
 much as he might have done his slaves at work on 
 the sugar-cane plantation. 
 
 The elder sisters, Avho adored Madame Moronval, 
 were nevertheless obliged to separate from her, and 
 paid her as an indemnification a satisfactory sum. 
 What should be done with this money? Moronval 
 wished to start a journal, or a review ; but to make 
 money was his first wish. Finally, a brilliant idea 
 came to him one day. 
 
 He knew that children were sent from all parts of 
 the world to finish their education in Paris. They 
 came from Persia, from Japan, Hindostan, and Guinea, 
 confided to the care of ship-captains, or to merchants. 
 Such people being generally well provided with 
 4 
 
50 JACK. 
 
 money, and having but little experience in getting 
 rid of it, Moronval decided that there was an easy 
 mine to work. Besides, the wonderful system of 
 Madame Moronval could be applied in perfection to 
 the correction of foreign accents, to defective pronun- 
 ciation. The Professor immediatel}' caused adver- 
 tisements to be inserted in the colonial journals, 
 where were soon to bo seen the most amazing adver- 
 tisements in several languages. 
 
 During the first j'ear, the nephew of the Iman of 
 Zanzibar, and two superb blacks from the coast 
 of Guinea, appeared upon the scene. It was not 
 until they arrived that Moronval bestirred himself to 
 find a local habitation and a name. Finally, in order 
 to combine economy with the exigencies of his new 
 position, he hired the buildings we have just visited 
 in this hideous Passage des Douze Maisons, and 
 displa^'ed in the avenue the gorgeous sign we have 
 mentioned. 
 
 The owner of the property induced Moronval to' 
 believe that certain improvements would soon be 
 made, in fact, that an appropriation was ordered for 
 a new boulevard on one side of the building. This 
 conviction induced Moronval to forget all the incon- 
 veniences, the dampness of the dormitory, the cold 
 of certain rooms, the heat of others. Tliis Avas 
 nothing: the appropriation bill was ready for the 
 signature, and things would bo all right soon. 
 
 But Moronval was forced to endure that long 
 period of Avaiting, only too well known to Parisians 
 in the last twenty years ; and this wore heavily 
 upon liim, costing him more thought and more 
 
SCHOOL IN THE AVENUE MONTAIGNE. 51 
 
 anxiety tiian did the improvement or welfare of bis 
 pupils. He soon discovered that he had been hugely 
 duped, and this discoveiy bad the worst effect on 
 the passionate, weak nature of the Creole. His dis- 
 couragement degenerated into absolute incapacity 
 and indolence. The pupils had no supervision what- 
 ever. Provided they went to bed early, so that the}' 
 used the least possible fire and light, he was satis- 
 fied. Their day was cut up into class hours, to bo 
 sure, but these were interfered with b}' cverj' caprice 
 of the principal, who sent the pupils hither and 
 thither on his personal service. 
 
 And Moronval called about him all his former ac- 
 quaintances, — a physician without a diploma, a poet 
 who never published, an opera singer without an 
 engagement, — all of whom were in a state of con- 
 stant indignation against the world which refused to 
 recognize their rare merits. 
 
 Have you noticed how such people by a system 
 of mutual attraction seem to herd together, support- 
 ing each other as it were by their mutual complaints 1 
 Inspired, in fact, hy a thorough contempt for each 
 other, they pretend to an admiring sympathy. 
 
 Imagine the lessons given, the instruction im- 
 parted by such teachers, the greater part of whose 
 time was passed in discussions over their pipes, the 
 smoke from which soon became so thick that they 
 could neither see nor hear. They talked loudly, 
 contradicted each other with vehemence in a vocab- 
 ulary of their own, where art, science, and litei'aturo 
 were picked into fragments as precious studs might 
 be under the application of violent acids. 
 
52 JACK. 
 
 And tho " children of the sun," wliat became of 
 them amid all this ? Madame Moronval alone, Avho 
 preserved the good traditions of ber former home 
 and school, made an}'^ attempts to perform the 
 duties they had undertaken, but the kitchen, her 
 needle, and the care of the great establishment 
 absorbed a great part of her time. 
 
 As it was necessary that they should go out, their 
 uniforms Avere kept in order, for the pupils were 
 proud of their braided tunics, and of the chevrons 
 reaching to the elbow. In the Moronval Academy, 
 as in certain armies of South America, all were 
 sergeants. It was a trifling compensation for the 
 miseries of exile and for the harsh treatment of 
 surly masters. Moronval was quite pleasant the first 
 days of each new quarter, when his exchequer was 
 full; he had even then been known to smile; but the 
 rest of tho time ho avenged himself on these black 
 skins for the negro blood in his own veins. 
 
 His violence accomplished that which his indo- 
 lence had begun. Very soon he began to lose 
 his pupils; of the fifteen that were there at one 
 time there remained but eight. 
 
 " Number of pupils limited," said the prospectus, 
 and there was a certain amount of melancholy truth 
 in the announcement. A dismal silence seemed to 
 settle down on tho great establishment, which was 
 even threatened with a seizure of the furniture, when 
 Jack appeared upon the scene. It of course was no 
 very great sum, this quarter in advance, but Moronval 
 understood certain prospective advantages, and even 
 
SCHOOL IN THE AVENUE MONTAIGNE. 53 
 
 had a very clear perception of Ida's true nature, 
 having cross-examined Constant with very good 
 results. This da}', therefore, witnessed a certain 
 armed neutrality between masters and pupils. A 
 good dinner in honor of the new arrival was served, 
 all the professors were present, and " the children 
 of the sun " even had a drop of wine, which start- 
 ling event had not happened to them for a long 
 time. 
 
54 JACK. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MADOtJ. 
 
 If the Moronval Academy still exists, I desire to 
 stigmatize it now and forever as the most unhealthy 
 spot I ever knew. Its dampness makes it most 
 objectionable for children. 
 
 Imagine a long building all rez-de-cliaussee, with- 
 out windows, and lighted only from above. About 
 the room hung an indescribable odor of collodion 
 and ether, as if it had once been used by a pho- 
 tographer. The garden was shut in by high walls 
 covered with ivy which dripped with moisture. The 
 dormitory stood against a superb hotel; and on one 
 side was a stable, always noisy with the oaths of 
 grooms, the trampling of horses' feet, and the rattling 
 of pumps. From one end of the year to the other 
 the place was always damp, the only difference being 
 that, according to the different seasons of the yeaa-, 
 the dampness was eitlier very cold or very wann. 
 In summer it was filled with moisture like a bath- 
 room. In addition, a crowd of winged creatures, who 
 lived among the old ivy on the walls, attracted by 
 the brightness of the glass in the low roof,' intro- 
 duced themselves into the dormitory through the 
 smallest crevice, and struck their wings against 
 the glass, humming loudly, and finally falling on the 
 beds in clouds. 
 
MADOU. 55 
 
 Tho winter's liumidity was worse still ; the cold 
 crept into the dormitory through the uneven floors 
 and the thin walls, but after two hours of shivering 
 the pupils might succeed in getting warm if they 
 drew their knees up to their chins and kept the bed- 
 clothes well over their heads. The paternal eye of 
 Moronval saw at once the propriety of utilizing this 
 otherwise unemployed building. 
 
 " This shall be the dormitory," he said. 
 
 "May it not be somewhat damp? " Madame Moron- 
 val ventured to ask. 
 
 " What of that?" he answered, sternly. 
 
 In reality there was but room for ten beds ; but 
 twenty were placed there, with a lavatory at the end, 
 a wretched bit of carpet near tho dooi', and all was 
 in readiness. 
 
 Why not? After all, a dormitory is only a place to 
 sleep in, and children should be able to sleep any- 
 where, in spite of heat or cold, of bad air and 
 of creeping things, in spite of the noise of pumps 
 and of horses. They catch rheumatism, ophthalmia, 
 and bronchitis, to be sure, but they sleep all the 
 same the calm sweet sleep of .children worn out by 
 out-door exercise and play, and undisturbed by anx- 
 ieties for the morrow.. This is the popular belief in 
 regard to children, but too many of us know that 
 the truth is quite different. For example, the first 
 night little Jack could not close his eyes. He had 
 never slept in a strange house, and the change was 
 great from his own little room at home, dimly lighted 
 by a night-lamp, and littered witli his favorite plaj-- 
 things, to the strange and comfortless place where 
 he now found himself. 
 
56 JACK. 
 
 As soon as the pupils were in bed, a black servant 
 took away the light, and Jack remained wide awake. 
 
 A pale moon, reflected from the snow that covered 
 a portion of the skylight, filled the room with a bluish 
 light. He looked at the beds, standing close together 
 foot to foot the length of the room, most of them un- 
 occupied, their coverings rolled up in a bundle at one 
 end. Seven or eight were animated by an occasional 
 snore, by a hollow cough, or a stifled exclamation. 
 
 The new-comer had the best place, a little shel- 
 tered from the wind of the door. Nevertheless, ho 
 was far from warm, and the cold kept him from sleep 
 as much as the novelty of his surroundings. He 
 went over and over again in his memory every 
 trifling detail of the day's events. He saw Moron- 
 val's bulky white cravat, the enormous spectacles of 
 Dr. Hirsch — his soiled and spotted overcoat; but 
 above all he recalled the cold and haughty e^-es of 
 " his enem}'," as he already in his innermost heart 
 called D'Argeuton. 
 
 This thought struck such terror to his soul that 
 involuntarily he looked to his mother for protection 
 and defence. 
 
 Where was she at that moment? A dozen differ- 
 ent clocks at that instant struck eleven. She was 
 probably at some ball or theatre. She would soon 
 come in, all Avrapped in iurs and laces. When 
 she came, it mattered not how late, she always 
 opened Jack's door and bent over his bed to kiss 
 him. Even in his sleep ho was generally conscious 
 of her presence, and smilingly opened his cj'es to 
 admire her toilette. And now he shuddered as ho 
 
MADOU. 57 
 
 tliought of the change ; and yet it was not altogether 
 painful, for the chevrons of his uniform delighted 
 him, and he was happy in concealing his long legs in 
 the skirt of his tunic. He had made two or three 
 new acquaintances, — a thing very agreeable to most 
 children ; he had found his fellow-pupils odd enough, 
 but their oddities interested him. They had snow- 
 balled each other in the garden, which, to a child 
 who had been living in the warm boudoir of a pretty 
 woman, was a. very novel amusement. 
 
 One thing puzzled Jack : he had not 3'et seen his 
 royal Highness. Where was the little king of Da- 
 homej', of whom M. Moronval had spoken so warmly? 
 Was he in the Infirmary ? Ah ! if he could only see 
 him, talk with him, and make him his friend. He 
 repeated to himself the names of the " eight children 
 of the sun," but there was no prince among them. 
 Then he thought he would ask the boy Said. 
 
 " Is not his royal Highness in the school at pres- 
 ent?" he asked. 
 
 The young man looked at him with wide-opened 
 eyes, in astonished silence. Jack's question re- 
 mained unanswered, and the child's thoughts ran 
 on as he lay in his bed, listening to occasional gusts 
 of music that rang through the house from the lungs 
 of Labassandre, and to the perpetual sound of the 
 pumps in the stable. 
 
 Moronval's guests were gone, with a final bang of 
 the large gate, and all was silent. Suddenly the 
 dormitory door was thrown open, and the small black 
 servant entered, with a lantern in his hand. 
 
 He shook off the snow that lay thick on his black 
 
r>8 JACK. 
 
 Jiead, and crept between the two rows of beds, with 
 his head drawn down between his shoulders, and his 
 teeth chattering. 
 
 Jack looked at the grotesque shadows on the wall, 
 which exaggerated all the peculiarities of the black 
 boy — the protruding mouth, the enormous ears, and 
 retreating forehead. 
 
 The boy hung his lantern at the end of the dormi- 
 tory and stood there warming his hands, which were 
 covered with chilblgiins. His face, though dirty, was 
 so honest and kindly, that Jack's heart Avarmed 
 toward him. As he stood there the negro looked 
 out into the garden. " Ah ! the snow 1 the snow 1 " 
 ho murmured sadly. 
 
 His way of speaking, and the sweet voice, touched 
 little Jack, who looked at the boy with lively pity 
 and curiosity. The negro saw it, and said, half to 
 himself, "Ah! the new pupil! Why don't you go 
 to sleep, little boy ? " 
 
 " I cannot," said Jack, sighing. 
 
 " It is good to sigh if j'ou are sorrj'," said the 
 negro, sententiously. "If the poor world could not 
 sigh, the poor world Avould stifle ! " 
 
 As he spoke, he threw a blanket on the bed next 
 to Jack. 
 
 " Do you sleep there ? " asked the child, astonished 
 that a servant should occupy a bed in the dormitory 
 of the pupils. " But there arc no sheets ! " 
 
 " Sheets are not good for me, my skin is too black." 
 The negro laughed gently as he said these words, 
 and prepared to glide into bed, half clothed as he 
 was, when suddenly he stopped, drew from his breast 
 an ivory smelling-bottle, and kissed it devoutly. 
 
MADOU. ftO 
 
 " What a funn}' medal ! " cried Jack. 
 
 " It is not a medal," answered the negro ; " it is 
 my Gri-gri." 
 
 But Jack had no idea what a Gri-gri was, and the 
 other explained that it was an amulet — something 
 to bring him good luck. His Aunt Kdrika had given 
 it to him when he left his native land, — the aunt " 
 who had brought him up, and to whom he hoped to 
 return at some future da}'. 
 
 " As I shall to my mamma," said little Barancy ; 
 and both children were silent, each thinking of the 
 one he loved most on earth. 
 
 Jack returned to the charge in a few minutes. 
 " And your country — is it a pretty place ? Is it far 
 off? and what is its name ? " 
 
 " Dahomey," answered the negro. 
 
 Jack started up in bed. 
 
 " What ! Do you know him ? Did you come to 
 this country with him ? " 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Why, his royal Highness, — you know him, — the 
 little king of Dahomey." 
 
 " I am lie," said the negro, quietly. 
 
 The other looked at him in amazement. A king 1 
 this servant, whom he had seen at work all day 
 making fires, sweeping the corridors, waiting on the 
 table, and rinsing glasses 1 
 
 The negro spoke the truth, nevertheless. The 
 expression of his face grew very sad, and his eyes 
 were fixed as if he were looking into the past, or 
 toward some dear, lost land. Was it the magical 
 word of king that led Jack to examina this black boy, 
 
60 JACK. 
 
 seated on the edge of his bed, his white shirt open, 
 while on his dark breast shone the ivory amulet, 
 with new interest? 
 
 " How did all this happen ? " asked the child, 
 timidly. 
 
 The black boy turned quickly to extinguish the 
 lantern. " M. Moronval not like it if Madou lets it 
 burn." Then he pulled his couch close to that 
 of Jack. 
 
 " You are not sleepy," he said ; " and I never wish 
 to sleep if I can talk of Dahomey. Listen ! " 
 
 And in the darkness, where the whites only of his 
 eyes could be seen, the little negro began his dismal 
 tale. 
 
 He was called Madou, — the name of his father, 
 an illustrious warrior, one of the most powerful sov- 
 ereigns in the land of gold and ivory : to whom 
 France, Holland, and England sent presents and 
 envoys. His father had cannon, and soldiers, troops 
 of elephants with trappings for war, musicians and 
 priests, four regiments of Amazons, and two hundred 
 wives. His palace was immense, and ornamented 
 by- spears on which hung human heads after a battle 
 or a sacrifice. Madou was born in this palace. His 
 Aunt K^rika, general-in-chief of the Amazons, took 
 him with her in all her expeditions. How beautiful 
 she was, this K(jrika 1 tall and large as a man, — 
 in a blue tunic ; her naked arms and legs loaded with 
 bracelets and anklets; her bow slung over her shoul- 
 der, and the tail of a horse streaming below her 
 waist. Upon her head, in her woolly locks, she wore 
 
MADOU. 61. 
 
 two small antelope horns joining in a half-moon ; as 
 if these black warriors had preserved among them- 
 selves the tradition of Diana the white huntress 1 
 And what an eye she had, what deftness of hand ! 
 Why, she could cut off the head of an Ashantee at a 
 single blow. But, however terrible K(5rika might 
 have been on the battlefield, to her nephew Madou 
 she was alwaj's very gentle, bestowing on him gifts 
 of all kinds : necklaces of coral and of amber, and 
 all the shells he desired, — shells being the money in 
 that part of the world. She even gave him a small 
 but gorgeous musket, presented to herself by the 
 Queen of England, and which Kcrika found too light 
 for her own use. Madou always carried it when ho 
 went to the forests to hunt with his aunt. 
 
 There the trees were so close together, and the 
 foliage so thick, that the sun never penetrated to 
 these green temples. Then Madou described with 
 enthusiasm the flowers and the fruits, the butter- 
 flies, and birds with wonderful plumage, and Jack 
 listened in delight and astonishment. There were 
 serpents, too, but they were harmless ; and black 
 monkeys leaped from tree to tree ; and large mys- 
 terious lakes, that had never reflected the skies in 
 their brown depths, lay here and there in the forests. 
 
 At this, Jack uttered an exclamation, " 0, how 
 beautiful it must be ! " 
 
 "Yes, very beautiful," said the black boj'', who 
 undoubtedly exaggerated a little, and saw his dear 
 native land through th(3 prism of absence, of childish 
 recollections, and with the enthusiasm of his southern 
 nature ; but encouraged by his comrade's sympathy, 
 Madou continued his story. 
 
62 JACK. 
 
 At night tlio forests were very different ; hunting- 
 parties bivouacked in the jungles, building huge fires 
 to drive away wild beasts, who were heard in the 
 distance roaring horribly. The birds were aroused; 
 and the bats, silent and blacit as shadoAvs, attracted 
 by the fire-light, hovered over and about it until 
 daybreak, when they assembled on some gigantic 
 tree, motionless, and pressed against each other, 
 looking like some singular leaves, dry and dead. 
 
 In this open-air life the little prince grew strong 
 and manly,— could wield a sabre and carry a gun 
 at an ago when children are usually tied to their 
 mother's apron-string. The king was proud of his 
 son, the heir to his throne. But, alas ! it seemed 
 that it was not enough, even for a negro prince, to 
 know how to shoot an elephant through the eye ; he 
 must also learn to read books and writing, for, said 
 the wise king to his son, " White man always has paper 
 in his pocket to cheat black man with." Of course 
 some European might have been found in Dahomey 
 Avho could instruct the prince, — for French and 
 English flags floated over the ships in the harbors. 
 Cut the king had himself been sent by his father to 
 a town c::lled Marseilles, very far at the end of the 
 world ; and he wished his son to receive a similar 
 education. 
 
 How unhappy the little prince was in leaving 
 Kerika ; he looked at his sabre, hung his gun against 
 the wall, and set sail with M. Eonfils, a clerk in a 
 mercantile house, who sent him home every year 
 with the gold dust stolen from the poor negroes. 
 
 Madou, however, was resigned; he wished to bo a 
 
MADOU. 63 
 
 great king some day, to command the troop of Ama- 
 zons, to be the proprietor of these fields of corn and 
 wheat, and of the palace filled with jars of palm-oil 
 and with treasures of gold and ivory. To own these 
 riches he must deserve them, and be capable of de- 
 fending them when necessary, — and Madou early 
 learned that it is hard to be a king ; for when one 
 has more pleasures than the rest of the world, one 
 has also greater responsibilities. - 
 
 His departure was the occasion, of great public 
 fetes,' of sacrifices to the fetish and to the divinities 
 of the sea. All the temples were thrown open for 
 these solemnities, the prayers of the nation were 
 offered there, and at the last moment, when the ship 
 set sail, fifteen prisoners of war were executed on 
 the shore, and the executioner threw their heads 
 into a great copper basin. 
 
 " Good gracious ! '' gasped Jack, pulling the bed- 
 clothes over his head. 
 
 It is certainly not very agreeable to hear such 
 stories told by the actors in them ; and Jack was 
 very glad that he was in the Moronval Academ}"- 
 rather than in that terrible land of Dahomey. 
 
 M§,dou seeing the effect he had produced, dwelt 
 no longer on the ceremonies preceding his departure, 
 but proceeded to describe his arrival and life at Mar- 
 seilles. 
 
 He told of the college there, of the high walls and 
 the benches in the court-yard, where the pupils cut 
 their names ; of the solemn professor, who sternly 
 said, if a whisper was heard, " Not so much noise, if 
 you please ! " The close air of the recitation-rooms. 
 
64 JACK. 
 
 the monotonous scratching of jjens, the lessons re- 
 peated over and over again, were all new and very 
 trying to Madou. 11 is one idea was to get into the 
 sun ; but the walls were so high, the court-j'^ard so 
 narrow, that he could never find enough to bask in. 
 Nothing amused or interested him. He was never 
 allowed to go out as were the other pupils, and for a 
 very good reason. At first he had induced M. Eon- 
 fils to take him to the wharves, where he often saw 
 merchandise from his own country, and sometimes 
 went into ecstasies at some well-known mark. 
 
 The steamers puffing and blowing, and the great 
 ships setting their sails, all spoke to him of departure 
 and deliverance. 
 
 Madou dreamed of these ships all through school- 
 hours, — one had brought him to that cold gray laud, 
 another would take him away. And possessed by 
 this fixed idea, he paid no attention to his A B C's, 
 for his eyes saw nothing save the blue of the sea 
 and the blue of the skj-^ above. The result of this 
 was, that one fine day he escaped from the college 
 and hid himself on one of the vessels of M. Bonfils , 
 lie was found in time, but escaped again, and the 
 second time was not discovered until the ship was 
 in the middle of the Gulf of L3'^ons. Any other child 
 would have been kept on board ; but when Madou's 
 name was known, the captain took his royal Highness 
 back to Marseilles, relying on a reward. 
 
 After that, the boy became more and more un- 
 happy, for ho was kept a very close prisoner. Not- 
 withstanding all this, he escaped once more ; and this 
 time, on being discovered, made no resistance, but 
 
MAVOU. C6 
 
 obeyed so gently, and with such a sad smile, that no 
 one had the heart to punish him. At last the prin- 
 cipal of the institution declined the responsibility 
 of so determined a pupil. Should he send the little 
 prince back to Dahomey? M. Bonfils dared not per- 
 mit this, fearing thereby to lose the good graces of 
 tiie king. In the midst of these perplexities Moron- 
 val's advertisement appeared, and the prince was li 
 once dispatched to 23 Avenue Montaigne, — " the 
 most beautiful situation in Paris," — where he was 
 received, as you may well believe, with open arms. 
 This heir of a far-off kingdom was a godsend to the 
 academy. He was constantly on exhibition ; M. 
 Moronval showed him at theatres and concerts, and 
 aU)ng the boulevards, reminding one of those per- 
 ambulating advertisements that are to be seen in all 
 large cities. 
 
 He appeared in society, such society at least as 
 admitted M. Moronval, who entered a room with all 
 the gravity of F^ndlon conducting the Duke of 
 Burgundy. The two were announced as " His Eoyal 
 Highness the Prince of Dahomey, and M. Moronval, 
 his tutor." 
 
 For a month the newspapers were full of anecdotes 
 of MEdou ; an attach;? of a London paper was sent 
 to interview him, and they had a long and serious 
 talk as to the course the young prince should pursue 
 Avhen called to the throne of his ancestors. The 
 English journal published an account of the curious 
 dialogue, and the vague replies certainly left much to 
 be desired. 
 
 At 'first all the expenses of the academy were dis- 
 5 
 
G6 JACK. 
 
 charged by this solitary pupil, Monsieur Bonfils pay- 
 ing the bill that was presented to him without a 
 word of dispute. Madou's education, however, made 
 but little progress. He still continued among the 
 A B C's, and Madame Moronval's charming method 
 made no impression upon him. His defective pro- 
 nunciation was still retained, and his half-childish 
 way of speaking was not changed. But he was gay 
 and happy. All the other children were compelled 
 to yield to him a certain deference. At first this 
 was a difficult matter, as his intense blackness seemed 
 to indicate to these other children of the sun that ho 
 was a slave. 
 
 And how amiable the professors were to this 
 bullet-headed bo}', who, in spite of his natural ami- 
 ability, so sturdily refused to profit by their instruc- 
 tions ! Every one of the teachers had his own pri- 
 vate idea of what could be done in the future under 
 the patronage of this embryo king. It was the 
 refrain of all their conversations. As soon as 
 Madou Avas crowned, they would all go to Dahomey. 
 Lubassandre intended to develop the musical taste 
 of Dahomej', and saw himself the director of a con- 
 servatory, and at the head of the Royal Chapel. 
 
 Madame Moronval meant to apply her method to 
 class upon class of crisp black heads. But Dr. 
 Hirsch saw innumerable beds in a hospital, upon 
 the inmates of which he could experiment without 
 fear of any interference from the police. The first 
 few weeks, therefore, of his sojourn at Paris seemed 
 to Madou very sweet. If only the sun would shine 
 out brightly', if the fine rain would cease to I'all, or 
 
MADOU. 67 
 
 the thick fog clear away ; if, in short, the boy could 
 once have been thoroughly warm, he would have 
 been content ; and if Kdrika, with her gun and her 
 bow, her arms covered with clanking bracelets, could 
 occasionally have appeared in the Passage des Douze 
 Maisons, he would have been very happy. 
 
 But Destiny altered all this. M. Bonfils arrived 
 suddenly one day, bringing most disastrous news of 
 Dahomey. The king was dethroned, taken prisoner 
 by the Ashantees, who meant to found a new Ay- 
 Dasty. The royal troops and the regiment of Ama- 
 zons had all been conquered and dispersed. K^rika 
 alone was saved, and she dispatched M. Bonfils to 
 Madou to tell him to remain in France, and to take 
 good care of bis Gri-gri, for it was written in the 
 great book that if MS,dou did not lose that amulet, 
 he would come into his kingdom. The poor little 
 king was in great trouble. Moronval, who placed 
 no faith in the gri-gri, presented his bill — and 
 such a bill! — to M. Bonfils, who paid it, but in- 
 formed the principal that in future, if he con- 
 sented to keep Madou, he must not rely upon any 
 present compensation, but upon the gratitude of the 
 king as soon as the fortunes and chances of war 
 should restore him to his throne. Would the princi- 
 pal oblige M. Bonfils by at once signifying his inten- 
 tions ? Moronval promptly and nobly said, " I will 
 keep the child." Observe that it was no longer 
 " his Royal Highness." And the boy at once became 
 like all the other scholars, and was scolded and pun- 
 ished as they were, — more, in fact, for the professors 
 were out of temper with him, feeling apparently, 
 
68 JACK. 
 
 that they had been deluded by false pretences. The 
 child could understand little of this, and tried in vain 
 all the gentle ways that had seemed to win so much 
 affection before. It was worse still the next quarter, 
 when Moronval, receiving no money, realized that ^ 
 MMou was a burden to him. He dismissed the ser- 
 vant, and installed Madou in his place, not without \ 
 scene with the young prince. The first time a broom 
 was placed in his hands and its use explained to him, 
 Madou obstinately refused. ^But M. Moronval had an 
 irresistible argument ready, and after a heavy caning 
 the boy gave up. Besides, he preferred to sweep 
 rather than to learn to read. The prince, therefore, 
 scrubbed and swept with singular energy, and the 
 salon of the Moronvals was scrupulously clean ; but 
 Moronval's heart was not softened. In vain did the 
 little fellow work ; in vain did ho seek to obtain a 
 kindly word from his master; in vain did he hover 
 about him with all the touching humility of a sub- 
 missive hound : he rarely obtained any other rec- 
 ompense than a blow. 
 
 The boy was in despair. The skies grew grayer 
 and grayer, the rain seemed to fall more persistently, 
 and the snow was colder than ever. 
 
 K<3rika ! Aunt Kdrika ! so haughty and so 
 tender, where are you ? Come and see what they 
 are doing with your little king ! How he is treated, 
 how scantily he is fed, how ragged are his clothes, 
 and how cold he is ! He has but one suit now, and 
 that a livery — a red coat and striped vest ! Now, 
 when ho goes out with his master, he does not walk 
 at his side — he follows him. 
 
MADOU. 61) 
 
 Madou's honesty and ingenuity had, however, so 
 won the confidence of Madame Moronval, tliat she 
 sent him to market. Behold, therefore, this last 
 descendant of the powerful Tocodonon, the founder 
 of the Dahomian dynastj', staggering daily from the 
 market under the weight of a huge basket, half 
 fed and half clothed, cold to the very heart ; for noth- 
 ing warms him now, neither violent exercise, nor 
 blows, nor the shame of having become a servant ; 
 nor even his hatred of " the father with a stick," as 
 he called Moronval. 
 
 And yet that hatred was something prodigious ; 
 and Madou confided to Jack his projects of vengeance. 
 
 " When Madou goes home to Dahomey, he will 
 write a little letter to the father with the stick ; he 
 will tell him to come to Dahome}', and he will cut off 
 his head into the copper basin, and afterwards will 
 cover a big drum with his skin, and I will then 
 march against the Ashantees, — Bourn ! boum ! 
 boum ! " 
 
 Jack could just see in the shadow the gleam of the 
 negro's white eyes, and heard the raps upon the foot- 
 board of the bed, that imitated the drum, and was 
 frightened. He fancied that he heard the whizzing 
 of the sabres, and the heavy thud of the falling 
 heads ; he pulled the blanket over his head, and held 
 bis breath. 
 
 Madou, who was excited by his own story, wished 
 to talk on, but he thought his solitary auditor asleep. 
 But when Jack drew a long breath, Madou said 
 gently, " Shall we talk some more, sir ? ' 
 
 " Yes," answered Jack ; " only don't let us say auj-- 
 
70 JACK. 
 
 more about that drum, nor the copper basin." The 
 negro laughed silently. "Very well, sir; Madou 
 won't talk — you must talk now. What is your 
 name ? " 
 
 "Jack, with a h. Mamma thinks a great deal 
 about that — " 
 
 " Is your mamma very rich ? " 
 
 " Rich 1 I guess she is," said Jack, by no means 
 unwilling to dazzle Madou in his turn. We have 
 a carriage, a beautiful house on the boulevard, 
 horses, servants, and all. And then you will see, 
 when mamma comes here, how beautiful she is. 
 Everybody in tho street turns to look at her, 
 she has such beautiful dresses and such jewels. 
 We used to live at Tours; it was a pretty place. 
 We walked in the Rue Roj'ale, where. we bought 
 nice cakes, and where we met plenty of officers in 
 uniform. The gentlemen were all good to me. I 
 had Papa Leon, and Papa Charles, — not real papas, 
 you know, because my own father died when I 
 was a little fellow. When wo first went to Paris I 
 did not like it ; I missed the trees and the country ; 
 but mamma petted me so much, and was so good to 
 me, that I was soon happy again. I was dressed like 
 the little English boys, and my hair was curled, and 
 every day wo went to the Bois. At last my mamma's 
 old friend said that I ought to learn something; so 
 mamma took me to the Jesuit College — " 
 
 Hero Jack stopped suddenly. To say that tho 
 Fathers would not receive him, wounded liis self-love 
 sorely. Notwithstanding the ignorance and inno- 
 cence of his age, he felt that there was something 
 
MADOU. 71 
 
 humiliating to his mother in this avowal, as well as 
 to himself; and then this recital, on which ho had so 
 heedlessly entered, carried him back to the only 
 serious trouble of his life. Wh}' had they not been 
 willing to receive him ? why did his mother weep ? 
 and why did the Superior pity him ? 
 
 " Say, then, little master," asked the negro sud- 
 denly, " what is a cocotte ? " 
 
 " A cocotte ?" asked Jack in astonishment. " I don't 
 know. Is it a chicken ? " 
 
 " I heard the father with a stick say to Madame 
 MoroDval that your mother was a cocotte." 
 
 "What an idea! You misunderstood — " and at 
 the thought of his mother being a hen, with feathers, 
 wings, and claws, the boy began to laugh ; and MS- 
 dou, without knowing why, followed his example. 
 
 This gayety soon obliterated the painful impres- 
 sions of their previous conversation, and the two 
 little, lonely fellows, after having confided to each 
 other all their sorrows, fell asleep with smiles on 
 their lips. 
 
72 JACK. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE REUNION. 
 
 Children are like grown people, — the experi- 
 ences of others are never of any use to them. 
 
 Jack had been terrified by Madou's story, but he 
 thought of it only as a frightful tale, or a bloody 
 battle seen at the theatre. The first months were 
 so bapp3' at the academy, every one was so kind, 
 that he forgot that MS,dou for a time had been equally 
 happy. 
 
 At table he occupied the next seat to Moronval, 
 drank his wine, shared his dessei-t ; while the other 
 children, as soon as the cakes and fruit appeared, 
 rose abruptly from the table. Opposite Jack sat 
 Dr. Hirsch, whose finances, to judge from his appear- 
 ance, were in a most deplorable condition. He en- 
 livened the repast by all sorts of scientific jokes, 
 by descriptions of surgical operations, by accounts 
 of infectious diseases, and, in fact, kept his hearers 
 au courant with all the ailments of the day; and, 
 if he heard of a case of leprosy, of elephantiasis, 
 or of the plague, in any quai-ter of the globe, he 
 would nod his iiead with delight, and say, " It will be 
 here before long — before long ! " 
 
 As a neighbor at the table he was not altogether 
 satisfactory : first, his near-sightedness made him 
 very awkward ; and, next, he had a way of dropping 
 
THE REUNION. 73 
 
 into your plate, or glass, a pinch of powder, or a few 
 drops from a vial in his pocket. The contents of this 
 vial were never the same, for the doctor made new 
 scientific discoveries each week, but in general bicar- 
 bonate, alkalies, and arsenic (in infinitesimal doses 
 fortunately) made the base of these medicaments. 
 Jack submitted to these preventives, and did not 
 venture to sa}' that he thought they tasted very 
 badly. Occasionally the other professors were in- 
 vited, and everybody drank the health of the little 
 De Barancy, every one was enthusiastic over his 
 sweetness and cleverness. The singing teacher, 
 Labassandre, at the least joke made by the child, 
 threw himself back in his chair with a loud laugh, 
 pounded the table with his fist, and wiped his eyes 
 with a corner of his napkin. 
 
 Even D'Argenton, the handsome D'Argenton, re- 
 laxed, a pale smile crossed his big moustache, and 
 his cold blue eyes were turned on the child with 
 haughty approval. Jack was delighted. Ho did not 
 understand, nor did he wish to understand, the signs 
 made to him by Madou, as he waited upon the table, 
 with a napkin in one hand and a plate in the other. 
 Madou knew better than any one else the real value 
 of these exaggerated praises and the vanity of human 
 greatness. 
 
 He too had occupied the seat of honor, had drunk 
 of his master's wine, flavored by the powder from the 
 doctor's bottle ; and the tunic, with its silver chev- 
 rons, was it not too large for Jack only because it had 
 been made for Madou ? The story of the little negro 
 should have been a warning to the small De Bai-anoy 
 
74 JACK. 
 
 against the sin of pride, for the installation of both 
 boys in the Moronval Academy bad been precisely 
 of the same character. 
 
 'Jhe holiday instituted in honor of Jack was in- 
 kensibly prolonged into weeks. Lessons wore few 
 and far between, except from Madame Moronval, 
 whc snatched every opportunity of testing her 
 method. 
 
 As to Moronval himself, he professed a great 
 weakness for his new pupil. He had made inquiries 
 in regard to the little hotel on the Boulevard Hauss- 
 mann, and had fully acquainted himself with the 
 resources of the lady there. When, therefore, 
 Madame de Barancy came to see Jack, which was 
 very often, she met with a warm reception, and had 
 an attentive audience for all the vain and foolish 
 stories she saw fit to tell. At first Madame Moronval 
 wished to preserve a certain dignified coolness 
 toward such a person, but her husband soon changed 
 that idea, and she saw herself obliged to lay aside 
 her womanly scruples in favor of her interests. 
 
 " Jack ! Jack 1 here comes your mother," some 
 one would cry as the door opened, and Ida would 
 sail in beautifully dressed, with packages of cakes 
 and bonbons in her hands and her muff. It was a 
 festival for every one ; thej'^ all shared the delicacies, 
 and Madame de Barancy ungloved her hand, the one 
 on which were the most rings, and condescended to 
 take a portion. The poor creature was so generous, 
 and money slipped so easily through her fingers, 
 that she generally brought witii her cakes all sorts 
 of presents, playthings, &c., which she distributed 
 
THE REUNION. 75 
 
 as the fancy struck her. It is eas}' to imagine 
 the enthusiastic praises lavished upon this incon- 
 siderate, reckless generosity. Moronval alone had 
 a smile of pity and of envy at seeing money so 
 wasted, which should have gone to the assistance of 
 some brave, generous soul like himself, for example. 
 This was his fixed idea. And as he sat looking at 
 Ida and gnawing his finger-nails, he had an alscnt, 
 anxious air like that of a man who comes to ask 
 a loan, and has his petition on the end of his lips. 
 Moronval's dream for some time had been to estab- 
 lish a Review consecrated to colonial interests, in 
 this way hoping to satisfy his political aspirations 
 by recalling himself regularly to his compatriots ; 
 and, finally, who knows he might be elected deputy. 
 But, as a commencement, the journal seemed indis- 
 jiensable, and he had a vague notion that the mother 
 'of his new pupil might be induced to defray the 
 expenses of this Review, but he did not wish to 
 move too rapidly lest he should frighten the lady 
 away ; he intended to prepare the way gently. Un- 
 fortunatelj', Madame de Barancy, on account of her 
 very fickleness of nature, was difficult to reacli. 
 She would continually change the conversation just 
 at the important point, because she found it very 
 uninteresting. 
 
 " If she could be inspired with an idea of writ- 
 ing ! " said Moronval to himself, and immediately 
 insinuated to her that betvireen Madame de S^vign^ 
 and George Sand there was a vacant niche to fill; but 
 he might as well have attempted to carry on a con- 
 versation with a bird that was fluttering about hia 
 head. 
 
7G JACK. 
 
 " I ain not strong-minded nor literarj'," said Ida, 
 with a half yawn, one day when lie had been speaking 
 with feverish impatience for a long time. 
 
 Moronval finally concluded that a creature so 
 inconsequent must be dazzled, not led. 
 
 One da}'^, when Ida was holding audience in the 
 parlor, telling wonderful tales of her various ac- 
 quaintances to whose often plebeian names she added 
 the de as she pleased, Madame Moronval said, 
 timidly, — 
 
 " M. Moronval would like to ask you something, 
 but he dares not." 
 
 " 0, tell me, tell me I " said the silly little woman, 
 with a sincere wish to oblige. 
 
 The principal was sorely tempted to ask her at 
 once for funds for the Review, but being himself 
 very distrustful, he thought it wiser to act with 
 great prudence ; so he contented himself with asking 
 Madame de Barancy to be present at one of their 
 literary reunions on the following Saturday. For- 
 merly these little fStes took place every week, but 
 since Madou's fall they had been verj' infrequent. 
 It was in vSin that Moronval had extinguished a 
 candle with every guest that left, in vain had he 
 dried the tea-leaves from the teapot in the sun on the 
 window-sill, and served it again the following week, 
 the expense still was too great. But now he deter- 
 mined to hazard another attempt in that direction. 
 Madame de Barancy accepted the invitation with 
 eagerness. The idea of making her appearance in 
 the salon as a married woman of position was very 
 attractive to her, for it was one round of the 
 
THE REUNION. 77 
 
 ladder conquered, on which she hoped to ascend 
 from her irregular and unsatisfactory life. 
 
 This was a most splendid fete at which she as- 
 sisted. In the memory of all beholders no such 
 entertainment had taken place. Two colored lan- 
 terns hung on the acacias at the entrance, the ves- 
 tibule was lighted, and at least thirty candies were 
 burning in the salon, the floor of which Madou had 
 so waxed and rubbed for the occasion that it was as 
 brilliant and as dangerous as ice. The negro boy 
 had surpassed himself; and here let me say that 
 Moronval was in a great state of perplexity as to the 
 part that the prince should take at the soir<:;e. 
 
 Should he be withdrawn from his domestic duties 
 and restored for one daj'^only to his title and ancient 
 splendor? This idea was very tempting; but, then, 
 who would hand the plates and announce the guests ? 
 Who could replace him ? No one of the other 
 scholars, for each had some one in Paris who might 
 not be pleased with this system of education ; and 
 finally it was decided that the soiree must be de- 
 prived of the presence and prestige of his roj'al 
 Highness. At eight o'clock, " the children of the 
 sun " took their seats on the benches, and among 
 them the blonde head of little De Barancy glittered" 
 like a star on the dark background. 
 
 Moronval had issued numerous invitations among 
 the artistic and literary world — the one at least 
 which he frequented — and the representatives of 
 art, literature, and architecture appeared in large 
 delegations. They arrived in squads, cold and shiv- 
 ering, coming from the depths of Montjparnasse on 
 
78 JACK. 
 
 the tops of omnibuses, ill dressed and poor, un- 
 known, but full of genius, drawn from their obscurity 
 by the longing to be seen, to sing or to recite 
 something, to prove to themselves that they were 
 still alive. Then, after this breath of pure air, this 
 glimpse of the heavens above, comforted by a sem- 
 blance of glory and success, they returned to their 
 squalid apartments, having gained a little strength 
 to vegetate. There were philosophers wiser than 
 Leibnitz ; there were painters longing for fame, but 
 whose pictures looked as if an earthquake had shaken 
 everything from its perpendicular ; musicians — in- 
 ventors of new instruments ; savans in the style of 
 Dr. Hirsch, whose brains contained a little of every- 
 thing, but where nothing could be found by reason of 
 the disorder and the dust. It was sad to see them ; 
 and if their insatiate pretensions, as obtrusive as their 
 bushy heads, their offensive pride and pompous man- 
 ners, had not given one an inclination to laugh, their 
 half-starved air and the feverish glitter of eyes that 
 had wept over so many lost illusions and disap- 
 pointed hopes, would have awakened profound com- 
 passion in the hearts of lookers-on. 
 
 Besides these there were others, who, finding art 
 too hard a taskmistress and too niggardly in her 
 rewards, sought other employment. For example, 
 a lyric poet kept an intelligence office, a sculptor 
 was an agent for a wine merchant, and a "riolin- 
 ist 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 bravo, 
 
THE REUNION. 79 
 
 worn faces the stamp of the penalty they paid for the 
 companionship of men of genius. Proud of being al- 
 lowed to accompany their husbands, they smiled upon 
 them with an air of gratified maternal vanity. Then 
 there were the habituds of the house, the three pro- 
 fessors : Labassandro in gala costume, exercising his 
 lungs at intervals by tremendous inspirations ; and 
 D'Argenton, the handsome D'Argenton, curled and 
 pomaded, woaring light gloves, and his manners a 
 charming mixture of authority, geniality, and con- 
 descension. 
 
 Standing near the door of the salon, Moronval 
 received every one, shaking hands with all, but 
 growing very anxious as the hour grew later and 
 the countess did not appear ; for Ida de Barancy 
 Avas called the countess under that roof Every one 
 was uncomfortable. Little Madame de Moronval 
 went from group to group, saying, with an amiable 
 air, " We will wait a few, moments, the countess 
 has not yet arrived ! " 
 
 The piano was open, the pupils were rapged 
 against the wall; a small green table, on which stood 
 a glass of cau-sucre and a reading-lamp, was in 
 readiness. M. Moronval, imposing in his white vest; 
 Madame, red and oppressed by all the worry of the 
 evening; and M^dou, shivering in the wind from the 
 door, — all are waiting for the countess. Meanwhile, 
 as she came not, D'Argenton consented to recite a 
 poem that all his assistants knew, for they had heard 
 it a dozen times before. Standing in front of the 
 chimney, with his hair thrown back from his wide 
 forehead, the poet declaimed, in a coarse, vulgar 
 voice, what he called liis poem. 
 
80 JACK. 
 
 His friends were not sparing in their praises. 
 
 " MagniGcent ! " said one. " Sublime ! " exclaimed 
 another ; and the most amazing criticism came from 
 3'et another, — " Goethe with a heart ? " 
 
 Here Ida entered. The poet did not see her, for 
 his eyes were lifted to the ceiling. But ^e saw 
 him, poor Avoman ; and from that moment her heart 
 was gone. She had never seen him, save in the 
 street wearing his hat : now she beheld him in the 
 mellow light which softened still more his pale face, 
 wearing a dress-coat and evening gloves, reciting a 
 love poem, and, believing in love as he did in God, 
 he produced an extraordinary effect upon her. 
 
 He was the hero of her dreams, and corresponded 
 with all the foolish sentimental ideas that lie hidden 
 very often in the hearts of such women. 
 
 From that very moment she was his, and he took 
 exclusive possession of lier heart. She paid no at- 
 tention to her little Jack, who made frantic signs to 
 her as he threw her kiss after kiss ; nor had she 
 eyes for Moronval, who bowed to the ground ; nor 
 for the curious glances that examined her from head 
 to foot, as she stood before them in her black velvet 
 dress and her little white opera hat, trimmed with 
 black roses and ornamented with tulle strings which 
 wrapped about her like a scarf. Years after she 
 recalled the profound impression of that evening, 
 and saw as in a dream her poet as she saw him first 
 in that salon, which seemed to her, seen through the 
 vista of years, immense and superb. The future 
 might heap misery upon her ; her past could hu- 
 miliate and wound her, crush her life, and something 
 
THE REUNION. 81 
 
 more precious than life itself; but the recollection 
 of that brief moment of ecstas}' could never be 
 efifaced. 
 
 " You see, madame," said Moronval, with his most 
 insinuating smile, " that we made a beginning before 
 your arrival. M. le Vicomte Amaury d'Argenton 
 was reciting his magnificent poem." 
 
 " Vicomte ! " He was noble, then 1 
 
 She turned toward him, timid and blushing as a 
 young girl. 
 
 " Continue, sir, I beg of you," she said. 
 
 But D'Argenton did not care to do so. The arrival 
 of the countess had injured the eifect of his poem 
 — destroyed its point ; and such things are not easily 
 pardoned. He bowed, and answered with cold haugh- 
 tiness that he had finished. Then he turned away 
 without troubling himself more about her. The poor 
 woman felt a strange pang at her heart. She had 
 displeased him, and the very thouglit was unendur- 
 able. It needed all little Jack's tender caresses and 
 outspoken joy — all his delight at the admiration 
 expressed for her, the attentions of everybody, the 
 idea that she was queen of the fete — to efface the 
 sorrow she felt, and which she showed by a silence 
 of at least five minutes, which silence for a nature like 
 hers was something as extraordinary as restful. The 
 disturbance of her entrance being at last over, every 
 one seated himself to await the next recitation. 
 
 Mademoiselle Constant, who had accompanied her 
 
 mistress, took her seat majestically on the front 
 
 bench next the pupils. Jack swung himself on the 
 
 arm of Lis mother's chair, between her and M. 
 
 6 
 
82 JACK. 
 
 Moronval, who smoothed the lad's hair in the most 
 paternal way. 
 
 The assemblage was really quite imposing, and 
 Madame Moronval took dignified possession of the 
 little table and the shaded lamp, and proceeded to 
 read an ethnographic composition of her husband's 
 on the Mongolian races. It was long and tedious — 
 one of those lucubrations that are delivered before 
 certain scientific societies, and succeed in lulling the 
 members to sleep. Madame Moronval took this op- 
 portunity of demonstrating the peculiarities of her 
 method, which had the merit — if merit it were — of 
 holding the attention as in a vice, and the words and 
 syllables seemed to reverberate through your own 
 brain. To sec Madame Moronval open her mouth to 
 sound her o's, to hear the r's rattle in her throat, was 
 more edifying than agreeable. The mouths of the 
 eight children opposite mechanically followed each 
 one of her gestures, producing a most extraordinary 
 efi'ect ; one absolutely fascinating to Mademoiselle 
 Constant. 
 
 But the countess saw notliing of all this ; she had 
 eyes but for her poet leaning against the door of the 
 drawing-room, with arms folded and eyes moodily 
 cast down. In vain did Ida seek to attract his atten- 
 tion ; ho glanced occasionally about the salon, but 
 her arm-cliair might as well have been vacant ; ho 
 did not appear to see her, and the poor woman was 
 rendered so utterly miserable by this neglect and 
 indifiference, that she forgot to congratulate Moronval 
 on the brilliant success of his essa}', which con- 
 cluded amid great applause and universal relief. 
 
THE REUNION. 83 
 
 Then followed another brief poem by Argenton, to 
 which Ida listened breathlessly. 
 
 " Ah, how beautiful ! " she cried ; " how beauti- 
 ful 1 " and she turned to Moronval, who sat with a 
 forced smile on his lips. " Present me to M. d' Ar- 
 genton, if 3'ou please." 
 
 She spoke to the poet in a low voice and with great 
 courtesy. He, however, bowed very coldly, appar- 
 ently careless of her implied admiration. 
 
 " How happy you are," she said, " in the posses- 
 sion of such a talent ! " 
 
 Then she asked where she could obtain his poems. 
 
 " Thej"^ are not to be procured, madame," answered 
 D 'Argenton, gravely. 
 
 Without knowing it, she had again wounded his 
 sensitive pride, and he turned away without vouch- 
 safing another sjdlable. 
 
 But Moronval profited by this opening. "Think 
 of it ! " he said ; " think that such verses as those 
 cannot find a publisher ! That such genius as that 
 is buried in obscurity ! If we only could publish a 
 magazine ! " 
 
 " And why can you not ? " asked Ida, quickly. 
 
 " Because we have not the funds." 
 
 " But they can easily be procured. Such talent 
 should not be allowed to languish 1 " 
 
 She spoke with great earnestness ; and Moronval 
 saw at once that he had played his cards well, and 
 proceeded to take advantage of the lady's weakness 
 by talking to her of D'Argenton, whom he painted in 
 glowing colors. 
 
 He spoke of him as Lara, or Manifred, a proud 
 
84 JACK. 
 
 and independent nature, one which could not be con- 
 quered by the hjirdships of iiis lot. 
 
 Here Ida interrupted him to ask if the poet was 
 not of noblo birth. 
 
 " Most assuredly, madame. Ho is a viscount, and 
 descended from one of the noblest families in Au- 
 vergne. His father was ruined by the dishonesty of 
 an agent." 
 
 This was his text, which he proceeded to en- 
 large upon, and illustrate by many romantic inci- 
 dents. Ida drank in the whole story; and while 
 theso two were absorbed in earnest conversation, 
 Jack grew jealous, and made various efforts to at- 
 tract his mother's attention. " Jack, do be quiet ! " 
 and "Jack, you are insufferable!" finall}' sent him 
 off, with tearful eyes and swollen lips, to sulk in the 
 corner of the salon. Meanwhile the literary enter- 
 tainments of the evening went on, and finally Labas- 
 sandre, after numerous entreaties, was induced to 
 sing. His voice was so powerful, and so pervaded 
 the house, that Madou, who was in the kitchen pre- 
 paring tea, replied by a frightful war-cry. The poor 
 fellow worshipped noise of all kinds and at all times. 
 
 Moronval and the comtesse continued their con- 
 versation ; and D'Argenton, who by this time under- 
 stood that he was the subject, stood in front of them, 
 apparently absorbed in conversation with one of the 
 professors. He appeared to be out of temper — and 
 Avith whom ? With the ^vhole world ; for he was one 
 of that very large class who are at war against so- 
 ciety, and against the manners and customs of their 
 day. 
 
THE REUNION. 85 
 
 At this very moment he was declaiming violently, 
 " You have all the vices of the last century, and 
 none of its amenities. Honor is a mere name. Love 
 is a farce. You have accomplished nothing intellec- 
 tually." 
 
 " Pardon me, sir," interrupted his hearer. But 
 the other went on more vehemently and more ag- 
 gressively. He wished, he said, that all France 
 could hear what he thought. The nation was abased, 
 crushed beyond all hope of recuperation. As for 
 himself, he had determined to emigrate to America. 
 
 All this time the poet was vaguely conscious of 
 the admiring gaze that was bent upon him. He ex- 
 perienced something of the same sensation that one 
 has in the fields in the early evening, when tUe moon 
 suddenly rises behind you and compels you Im turn 
 toward its silent presence. The ej'es of this woman 
 magnetized him in the same way. The words she 
 caught in regard to leaving France struck a chill to 
 her heart. A funereal gloom settled over the room. 
 Additional dismay overwhelmed her as D'Argenton 
 wound up with a vigorous tirade against French 
 'women,: — their lightness and coquetry, the insin- 
 cerity of their smiles, and the venality of their love. 
 
 The poet no longer conversed ; he declaimed, lean- 
 ing a'gainst the chimney, and careless who heard either 
 his voice or his words. 
 
 Poor Ida, intensely absorbed as she was in him, 
 could not realize that he was indifferent, and fancied 
 that his invectives were addressed to herself. 
 
 " He knows who I am," she said, and bowed her 
 head in shame. 
 
86 JACK. 
 
 Moronval said aloud, " What a genius !" and in a 
 lower voice to himself, " What a boaster ! " But Ida 
 needed nothing more ; her heart was gone. Had 
 Dr. Hirsch, who was always so interested in patho- 
 logical singularities, been then at leisure, he might 
 have made a curious study of this case of instanta- 
 neous combustion. 
 
 An hour before, Madame Moronval had dispatched 
 Jack to bed, with two or three of the younger chil- 
 dren ; the others were gaping in silent wretchedness, 
 stupefied by all they saw and heard. The Chinese 
 lanterns swung in the wind each side of the garden- 
 gate ; the lane was unlighted, and not even a police- 
 man enlivened its muddy sidewalk ; but the disputa- 
 tive little group that left the Moronval Academy 
 cared little for the gloom, the cold, or the dampness. 
 
 When they reached the avenue they found that 
 the hour for the omnibus had passed. They accept- 
 ed this as they did the other disagreeables of life — 
 in the same brave spirit. 
 
 Art is a great magician. It creates a sunshine 
 from which its devotees, as well as the poor and the 
 ugly, the sick and the sorry, can each borrow a little, 
 and with it gain a grace to suffer, and a calm se- 
 renity that may well be envied. 
 
A DINNER WITH IDA. 87 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A DINNER WITH IDA. 
 
 The next day the Moronvals received from Madame 
 de Barancy an invitation for the following Monday ; 
 at the bottom of the note was a postscript, expressing 
 the pleasure she should have in receiving also M. 
 d'Argenton. 
 
 " I shall not go," said the poet, dryly, when Moron- 
 val handed hira the coquettish perfumed note. Then 
 the principal grew very angry, as he saw his plans 
 frustrated. " Why would not D'Argenton accept the 
 invitation? " 
 
 " Because," was the answer, " I never visit such 
 women." 
 
 " You make a great mistake," said Moronval ; 
 " Madame de Barancy is not the kind of person j'ou 
 imagine. Besides, to serve a friend, you should lay 
 aside your scruples. You see that I need the coun- 
 tess, that she is disposed to look favorably on my 
 Colonial Review, and you should do all that lies in 
 your power to favor my views. Come, now, think 
 better of it." 
 
 D'Argenton, after being properly entreated, fin- 
 ished by accepting the invitation. 
 
 On the following Monday, therefore, Moronval and 
 his wife left the academy under the supervision of 
 
88 JACK. 
 
 Dr. Uirsch, and presented themselves in the Boule- 
 vard ITaussmann, where the poet was to join them. 
 
 Dinner was at seven ; D'Argenton did not arrive 
 until half an hour past the time. Ida was in a state 
 of great anxiety. " Do you think he will come ? " she 
 asked ; " perhaps he is ill. He looks very delicate." 
 
 At last he appeared with the air of a conquering 
 hero, making some indifferent excuse for his lack 
 of punctuality. His manner, however, was less 
 disdainful than usual, for the hotel had impressed 
 him. Its luxury, the flowers, and thick carpets ; 
 the little boudoir with its bouquets of white lilacs ; 
 the commonplace salon, like a dentist's waiting-room, 
 a blue ceiling and gilded mouldings, the ebony fur- 
 niture, cushioned with gold color, and the balcony 
 exposed to the dust of the boulevard, — all charmed 
 the attache of the Moronval Academy, and gave him 
 a favorable impression of wealth and high life. 
 
 The table equipage, the imposing effect produced 
 by Augustin, in short, all the luxurious details of the 
 house, appealed to his senses, and D'Argenton, without 
 flattering the countess as openlj' as did Moronval, j'et 
 succeeded in doing so in a more subtile manner, by 
 thawing under her influence to a very marked extent. 
 
 He was an interminable talker, and submitted with 
 a very bad grace to any interruption. He was arbitra- 
 ry and egotistical, and rang the changes on the /and 
 the my for a whole evening, without allowing any 
 one else to speak. 
 
 Unhappil}', to be a good listener is a quality far 
 above natures like that of the countess ; and the 
 dinner was characterized by some unfortunate inci- 
 
A DINNER WITH IDA. 89 
 
 dents. D'Argenton was particularly fond of repeat- 
 ing the replies he had made to the various editors 
 and theatrical managers who had declined his articles, 
 and refused to print his prose or his verse. His mots 
 on these occasions had been clever and caustic ; but 
 with Madame de Barancy he was never able to 
 reach that point, preceded as it must necessarily be 
 :With lengthy explanations. At the critical moment 
 Ida would invariably interrupt him, — always, to be 
 sure, with some thought for his comfort. 
 
 " A little more of this ice, M. d'Argenton, I beg 
 of J'OU." 
 
 " Not any, madame," the poet would answer with 
 a frown, and continue, " Then I said to him — " 
 
 " I am afraid you do not like it," urged the lady. 
 
 " It is excellent, madame, — and I said these cruel 
 words — " 
 
 Another interruption from Ida ; who, later, when 
 she saw her poet in a fit of the sulks, wondered what 
 she had done to displease him. Two or three times 
 .during dinner she was quite ready to weep, but did 
 her best to hide her feelings by urging all the deli- 
 cacies of her table upon M. and Madame Moronval. 
 Dinner over, and the guests established in the well 
 warmed and lighted salon, the principal fancied he 
 saw his way clear, and said suddenly, in a half in- 
 different tone, to the countess, — 
 
 " I have thought much of our little matter of busi- 
 ness. It will cost less tlian I fancied." 
 
 " Indeed I " she answered absently. 
 
 " If, madame, you would accord to me a few mo- 
 ments of your attention — " 
 
90 JACK. 
 
 But inadame was occupied in looking at her poet 
 who was waliiing up and down the salon silent and 
 preoccupied. 
 
 " Of what can he be thinking? " she said to herself". 
 
 Of his digestion only, dear reader. Suffering 
 somewhat from dyspepsia, and always anxious in re- 
 gard to his health, he never failed, on leaving the 
 table, to walk for half an hour, no matter where ho 
 might chance to be. 
 
 Ida watched him silently. For the first time in 
 her life she loved, really and passionately, and felt 
 her heart beat as it had never beat before. Foolish 
 and ignorant, while at the same time credulous and 
 romantic ; very near that fatal age — thirty years — 
 which is almost certain to create in woman a great 
 transformation ; she now, aided by the memory of 
 every romance she had ever read, created for her- 
 self an ideal who resembled D'Argenton. The ex- 
 pression of her face so changed in looking at him, 
 her laughing eyes assumed so tender an expression, 
 that her passion soon ceased to be a mystery to 
 any one. 
 
 Moronval, who looked on, shrugged his shoulders, 
 with a glance at his wife. " She is simply crazy," 
 he said to himself. 
 
 She certainly was crazed in a degree ; and, after 
 dinner, she tormented herself to find some way of 
 returning to the good graces of D'Argenton, and, as 
 ho approached her in his walk, she said, — 
 
 '• If M. d'Argenton wished to bo very amiable, he 
 would recite to us that beautiful poem which created 
 such a sensation the other evening. I have thought 
 
A DINNER WITH IDA. 91 
 
 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 pood God above.' " 
 
 " As I believe in God above," said the poet, mak- 
 ing as horrible a grimace as if his finger had been 
 caught in a vice. 
 
 The countess, who had but a vague idea of pros- 
 ody, understood simply that she had again incurred 
 the displeasure of D'Argenton. The fact is that he 
 had begun to affect her in a manner quite beyond 
 her own control, and which, in its unreasoning ter- 
 ror, was somewhat like the timid worship offered b}"^ 
 the Japanese to their hideous idols. 
 
 Under the influence of his presence she was more 
 foolish by far than nature had made her ; her piquancy 
 forsook her, and the versatility that rendered her so 
 charmingly absurd was quite gone. But D'Argenton 
 relented, and suspended his hj'gienic exercise lor a 
 moment. 
 
 " I shall be most happy to recite anything, madame, 
 at your command ; but what ? " 
 
 Here Moronval interposed. " Recite the ' Credo,' 
 my dear fellow," he said. 
 
 " Very well, then ;. I am satisfied to obey you." 
 
 The poem commenced gently enough with the 
 
 words, — 
 
 " Madame, your toilette is charming." 
 
 Then irony deepened to bitterness, bitterness to 
 fury, and concluded in these terrific words : 
 
 " Good Lord, deliver me from this woman so terrible, 
 Who drains from my heart its life-blood." 
 
92 JACK. 
 
 As if these extraordinary words had aroused in 
 his memory most painful recollections, D'Argenton 
 relapsed into silence, and said not another word the 
 whole evening. Poor Ida was also thoughtful, haunted 
 by vague fears of the noble ladies who had so 
 warped the gentle spirit of her poet, so drained his 
 heart that there was not a drop left for her. 
 
 " You know, my dear fellow," said Moronval, as 
 they strolled through the empty boulevards, arm-in- 
 arm, that night, little Madame Moronval pattering on 
 in front of them, — "you know if I can succeed in 
 the establishment of my Review, that I shall make 
 you editor-in-chief 1 " 
 
 Moronval threw the half of his cargo overboard in 
 order to save his ship, for he saw that unless the 
 poet was enlisted, the countess would take no in- 
 terest in the scheme. DArgenton made no reply, 
 for he was absorbed in thoughts of Ida. 
 
 No man can play the part of a lyric poet, a martyr 
 to love, without being conscious of, and touched by, 
 that silent adoration which appeals to his vanity, both 
 as a man of letters and a man of the world. Since 
 he had seen Ida in her luxurious home, about which 
 there was the same suspicion of vulgarity that clung 
 about herself, the rigidity of his, principles had amaz- 
 ingly softened. 
 
AMAURV VARGENTON. _ 93 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 AMAUEY D'ARGENTON. 
 
 Amaurt d'Aegenton belonged to one of those 
 ancient provincial families whose castles resembled 
 great farms. Impoverished for the three last gener- 
 ations, they had finally sold their property, and come 
 to Paris to seek their fortunes ; with little change 
 for the better, however ; and for the last thirty years 
 they had dropped the De, which Amaury ven- 
 tured to resume on adopting his literary career. He 
 meant to make it famous, and even was audacious 
 enough to announce this intention aloud. 
 
 The childhood of the poet had been one of gloom 
 and privation ; surrounded by anxieties and by tears, 
 by sordid cares, and that constant lack of moncj' 
 which imbitters the lives of so many of us, he had 
 never laughed nor played like other children. A 
 scholarship that was obtained for him enabled him 
 to complete his studies, and his only recreation was 
 obtained through the kindness of an aunt who resided 
 in the Marais, and who gave him gloves and other 
 trifles, which the poet very early in life learned to 
 regard as essentials. 
 
 Such a childhood ripens early into bitter maturity. 
 Infinite prosperity is needed to efface such early im- 
 
94 - JACK. 
 
 pressions, and we often see men wlio liave attained 
 to high honors, who are rich and powerful, and yet 
 who have never conquered the timidity born of their 
 early deprivations. D'Argenton's bitterness was not 
 without reason: at twenty-five he had succeeded in 
 nothing ; he had published a volume at his own ex- 
 pense, and had lived on bread and water in conse- 
 quence for at least six months. He was industrious 
 as well as ambitious ; but something more than these 
 qualities are essential to a poet, whose imagination 
 and genius must be endowed with wings. These 
 D'Argenton had not; he felt merely that vague un- 
 easiness which indicates a missing limb, but that was 
 all, and he lost both time and trouble in ineifectual 
 efforts ; his aunt aided him by a small allowance, but 
 his life bore not the shadow of a resemblance to the 
 picture drawn by Ida. In fact, D'Argenton had 
 never been entangled in any serious love affair ; his 
 nature was cold and prudent, and yet he had been 
 beloved by more than one woman. To D'Argenton, 
 however, their society had always seemed a waste 
 of time. Ida de Barancy wjxs the first who had made 
 upon him any real impression. Of this fact Ida had 
 no idea, and whenever she met the poet on her very 
 frequent visits to Jack, it was always with the same 
 deprecating air and timid voice. The poet, whilo 
 adopting an air of utter indifference, cultivated the 
 affection and society of little Jack, whom he induced 
 to talk freely of his mother. 
 
 Jack being extremely flattered, gladly gave every 
 information in his power, and talked freely of the 
 kind friend who was so good to mamma. The men- 
 
AMAURY D'ARGENTON. 95 
 
 tion of this person cost the poet a strange pang. 
 " He is so kind," babbled Jack, " he comes to see us 
 every day ; or, if he does not come, he sends us great 
 baskets of fruit, and playthings for me." 
 
 " And is your mother very fond of him, too ? " con- 
 tinued D'Argenton, without looking up from his 
 writing. 
 
 " Yes, indeed, sir," answered the little fellow, inno- 
 cently. 
 
 But are we quite sure that he spoke so innocently. 
 The minds of children are not alwa3's so transparent 
 as we believe ; and it is difficult to say when they 
 understand matters that go on about them, and when 
 they do not. That mysterious growth that is con- 
 stantly going on within them, has unexpected seasons 
 of bursting into flower, and they suddenly mass 
 together the disconnected fragments of information 
 they have acquired and intuitive!}' attain the result. 
 
 Had Jack, therefore, no perception of the hidden 
 rage that filled the heart of his professor when 
 he questioned him in regard to their kind friend? 
 Jack did not like D'Argenton ; in addition to his first 
 dislike, he was now actuated by strong jealousy. His 
 mother was too much occupied by this man. When 
 he passed the day with her, she in her turn plied him 
 with questions, and asked if his teacher never spoke 
 to him of her. 
 
 " Never," said Jack, calmly. And yet that very 
 day D'Argenton had desired him to present his com- 
 pliments to the countess, with a copy of' his poems ; 
 but Jack at first forgot the volume, and finally lost 
 it, as much from cunning as from heedlessness. 
 
96 JACK. 
 
 Thus, whilo these two dissimilar natures were at- 
 tracted toward each other, the child stood between 
 them suspicious and defiant, as if he already foresaw 
 what the future would bring about. 
 
 Every two weeks Jack dined with his mother, 
 sometimes alone with her, sometimes with their 
 friend. They went to the theatre in the evening, or 
 to a concert, and Jack was sent back to school with 
 his pockets full of dainties, in which the other children 
 shared. 
 
 One evening, as he entered his mother's house, he 
 saw the dining-table laid for three, and a gorgeous 
 display of flowers and crystal. His mother met 
 him, exquisitely dressed, wearing in her hair sprays 
 of white lilacs, like those that filled the vases. The 
 blazing fire alone lighted the salon, into which she 
 gayly drew the boy, as she said, " Guess who is 
 here ! " 
 
 " 0, I know very Avell I " exclaimed Jack in de- 
 light ; " it is our good friend." 
 
 But it was D'Argenton, who sat in full evening 
 dress on the sofa, near the fire. The enemy was in 
 Jack's own seat, and the child was so overwhelmed 
 by his disappointment that he with difficulty re- 
 strained his tears. There was a moment of restraint 
 and discomfort felt by all three. Just then the door 
 was thrown open, and dinner announced by Augustin. 
 The dinner was long and tedious to little Jack. Have 
 you ever felt so entirely out of place that you would 
 have gladly disappeared from off the face of the 
 globe, painfully conscious, withal, that had you so 
 vanished, no one would have missed you? When 
 
AMAURY D'ARGENTON. 97 
 
 Jack spoke, no one listened ; his questions were un- 
 heard and his wants unheeded. The conversation 
 between his mother and D'Argenton was incompre- 
 hensible to him, although he saw that his mother 
 blushed more than once, and hastily raised her glass 
 to her lips as if to conceal her rising color. Where 
 were those gay little dinners when Jack sat close at 
 his mother's side and reigned an absolute king at the 
 table ? This recollection came to the boy's mind 
 just as Madame de Barancy offered a superb pear to 
 D'Argenton. 
 
 " That came from our friend at Tours," said Jack, 
 maliciously. 
 
 D'Argenton, who was about to peel the fruit, 
 dropped it upon his plate with a shrug of the 
 shoulders. What an angry glance Ida threw upon 
 her child 1 She had never looked at him in that way 
 before. Jack did not venture to speak again, and 
 the evening to him was but a dreary continuation 
 of the repast. 
 
 Ida and the poet talked in low voices, and in that 
 confidential tone that indicates great intimacy. He 
 told her of his sad childhood and of his early home. 
 He^-described the ruined towers and the long corri- 
 dors where the wind raged and howled. He then 
 depicted his early struggles in the great city, the 
 constant obstacles thrown in the way of the develop- 
 ment of his genius, of his jealous rivals and literary 
 enemies, and of the terrible epigrams which he had 
 hurled upon them. 
 
 " Then I uttered these stinging words." This 
 time she did not interrupt him, but listened with a 
 
98 JACK. 
 
 smile, and her absorption was so great that when he 
 ceased speaking she still listened, although nothing 
 was to be heard in the salon save the ticking of the 
 clock and the rustling of the leaves of the album 
 that Jack, half asleep, was turning over. Suddenly 
 she rose with a start. 
 
 " Come, Jack, my love ; call Constant to take you 
 back to schooL It is quite time." 
 
 " 0, mamma ! " said the child, sadly ; but he 
 dared not say that he generally remained .much 
 later. He did not wish to be troublesome to his 
 mother, nor to meet again such an expression in her 
 ordinaril}' serene and laughing eyes, as had so 
 startled him at the dinner-table. 
 
 She rewarded him for his self-control by a most 
 loving embrace. 
 
 " Good night, my child ! " said D'Argenton, and ho 
 drew the child toward him as if to embrace him, but 
 suddenly, with a movement of repulsion, turned aside 
 as he had done at dinner from the fruit. 
 
 " I cannot 1 I cannot 1 " he murmured, throwing 
 himself back in his arm-chair and passing his hand- 
 kerchief over his forehead. 
 
 Jack turned to his mother in amazement. 
 
 " Go, dear Jack. Take him away, Constant." And 
 while Madame de Barancy sought to conciliate her 
 poet, the child returned with a heavy heart to his 
 school ; and in the cold dormitory, as he thought of 
 the professor installed in his mother's chimney-cor- 
 ner, said to himself, " He is very comfortable there. 
 I wonder how long ho means to stay ! " 
 
 In D'Argcntou's exclamation and in his repugnance 
 
AMAURY D'ARGENTON. 99 
 
 to Jack, there was certainly some acting, but there 
 was also real feeling. He was very jealous of the 
 child, who represented to him Ida's past, not that the 
 poet was profoundly in love with the countess. He, 
 on the contrary, loved himself in her, and, Narcissus- 
 like, worshipped his own image which he saw reflect- 
 ed in her clear eyes. But D'Argenton would have 
 preferred to be the first to disturb those depths. 
 
 But these regrets were useless, though Ida shared 
 them. " Why did I not know him earlier?" she said 
 to herself over and over again. 
 
 " She ought to understand by this time," said 
 D'Argenton, sulkily, " that I do not wish to see 
 that boy." 
 
 But even for her poet's sake Ida could not keep 
 her child away from her entirely. She did not, how- 
 ever, go so often to the academy, nor summon Jack 
 from school, as she had done, and this change was by 
 no means the smallest of the sacrifices she was called 
 upon to make. 
 
 As to the hotel she occupied, her carriage, and the 
 luxury in which she lived, she was ready to abandon 
 them all at a word from D'Argenton. 
 
 " You will see," she said, " how I can aid you. I 
 can work, and, besides, I shall not be completely pen- 
 niless." 
 
 But D'Argenton hesitated. He was, notwithstand- 
 ing his apparent enthusiasm and recklessness, ex- 
 tremely methodical and clear-headed. 
 
 " No, wo will wait a while. I shall be rich some 
 day, and then — " 
 
 He alluded to his old aunt, who now made him an 
 
100 JACK. 
 
 allowance and whose heir he would unquestionably 
 be. "The good old lady was very old," he added. 
 And the two, Ida and D'Argenton, made a great 
 many plans for tlie days that were to come. They 
 would livo in the country, but not so far away from 
 Paris that they would be deprived of its advantages. 
 They would have a little cottage, over the door of 
 which should be inscribed this legend : Parva domus, 
 magna quies. There ho could work, write a book — 
 a novel, and later, a volume of poems. The titles 
 of both were in readiness, but that was all. 
 
 Then the publishers would make him offers ; he 
 would bo famous, perhaps a member of the Academy 
 — though, to be sure, that institution was mildewed, 
 moth-eaten, and ready to fall. 
 
 " That is nothing ! " said Ida ; " you must be a 
 member ! " and she saw herself already in a corner 
 on a reception-day, modestly and quietly dressed, as 
 befitted the wife of a man of letters. While they 
 waited, however, they regaled themselves on the 
 pears sent by " the kind friend, who was certainly 
 the best and least suspicious of men." 
 
 D'Argenton found these pears, with their satiny 
 skins, very delicious ; but he ate them with so many 
 expressions of discontent, and with so many little 
 cutting remarks to Ida, that she spent much of her 
 time in tears. 
 
 "Weeks and months passed on in this way without 
 any other change in their lives than that which nat- 
 urally grew out of an increasing estrangement be- 
 tween Moronval and his professor of literature. The 
 'principal, daily expecting a decision from Ida on the 
 
AMA UR Y -D 'ARGENTON. \ 1 
 
 Bubjoct of the Review, suspected D'Argenton of in- 
 fluencing her against the project, and this belief he 
 ended by expressing to the poet. 
 
 One morning, J^ck, who now went out but rarely, 
 looked out of the windows with longing eyes. The 
 spring sunshine was so bright, the sky so blue, that 
 he longed for liberty and out-door life. 
 
 The leaf-buds of the lilacs were swelling, and the 
 flower-beds in the garden were gently upheaved, as 
 if with the movements of invisible life. 
 
 From the lane without came the sounds of children 
 at play, and of singing-birds, all revelling in the sun- 
 shine. It was one of those days when every window 
 is thrown open to let in the light and air, and to 
 drive away all wintry shadows, all that blackness 
 imparted by the length of the nights and the smoke 
 of the fires. 
 
 While Jack was longing for wings, the door-bell 
 rang, and his mother entered in great haste and 
 much agitated, although dressed with great care. 
 She came for him to breakfast with her in the Bois, 
 and would not bring him back until night. He must 
 ask Moronval's permission first ; but as Ida brought 
 the quarterly payment, you may imagine that per- 
 mission was easily granted. 
 
 " How jolly 1 " cried Jack ; " how jolly ! " and 
 while his mother casually informed Moronval that 
 M. d'Argenton had told her the evening previous 
 that he was summoned to Auvergne, to his aunt who 
 was d3'ing, the boy ran to change his dress. On his 
 way he met Madou, who, sad and lonely, was busy 
 with his pails and brooms, and had not had time to 
 
102 JACK. 
 
 find out that the air was soft and the sunshine warm. 
 On seeing him, Jack had a bright idea. 
 
 " 0, mamma, if we could take Madou ! " 
 
 This permission was a little (JjfScult to procure, 
 so multifarious were the duties of the prince ; but 
 Jack was so persistent that kind Madame Moronval 
 agreed for that day to assume the black boy's place. 
 
 " Madou I MMou ! " cried the child, rushing toward 
 him. " Quick, dress yourself and come out in the car- 
 riage with us ; we are going to breakfast in the 
 Bois ! " 
 
 There was a moment of confusion. Madou stood 
 still in amazement, while Madame Moronval borrowed 
 a tunic that would be suitable for him in this emer- 
 gency.- Little Jack danced with joy, while Madame 
 de Barancy, excited like a canary by the noise, chat- 
 tered on to Moronval, giving him details in regard 
 to the illness of D'Argenton's aunt. 
 
 At last they started. Jack and his mother seated 
 side by side in the victoria, and Madou on the box 
 with Augustin. The progress would hardly be 
 regarded as a royal one, but Madou was satisfied. 
 The drive itself was charming, the Avenue de I'lm- 
 peratrice was filled with people driving, riding, and 
 walking. Children of all ages enlivened the scene. 
 Babies, in their long white skirts, gazing about with 
 the sweet solemnity of infancy, and older children 
 fancifully dressed, with their tutors or nurses, 
 crowded the pavements. Jack, in an ecstasy of 
 delight, kissed his mother, and pulled MSdou by the 
 sleeve. 
 
 " Are you happy, M^dou ? " 
 
AMAURV D'ARGENTON. 103 
 
 " Yes, sir, very happy," was the answer. They 
 reached the Bois, in places quite green and fresh 
 already. There were some spots where the tops of 
 the trees were in leaf, but the foliage was so minute 
 that it looked like smoke. The holly, whose crisp, 
 stiff leaves had been covered witli snow half the 
 winter, jostled the timid and distrustful lilacs whose 
 leaf-buds were only beginning to swell. The car- 
 riage drew up at the restaurant, and while the 
 breakfast ordered by Madame de Barancy was in 
 course of preparation, she and the children took a 
 walk to the lake. At this early hour there wero 
 few of those superb equipages to be seen that ap- 
 peared later in the day. The lake was lovely, with 
 white swans dotting it here and there, and now and 
 then a gentle ripple shook its surface, and miniature 
 waves dashed against the fringe of old willows on 
 one side. 
 
 What a walk ! And what a breakfast served at 
 the open windows ! The children attacked it with 
 the vigor of schoolboys. They laughed incessantly 
 from the beginning to the end of the repast. 
 
 When breakfast was over, Ida proposed that they 
 should visit the Jardin d'Acdimation. 
 
 " That is a splendid idea," said Jack, " for Madou 
 has never been there, and won't he be amused ! " 
 
 They drove through La Grande AUee in the al- 
 most deserted garden, which to the children was 
 full of interest. They were fascinated by the ani- 
 mals, who, as they passed, looked at them with sleepy 
 or inquisitive eyes, or smelled with pink nostrils at 
 the fresh bread they had brought from the restaurant 
 
104 JACK. ^ 
 
 Madou, wlio iit first had made a pretence of interest 
 only to gratify Jack, now became absorbed in what 
 he saw. He did not need to examine the blue ticket 
 over the little inclosures to recognize certain animals 
 from his own land. With mingled pain and pleasure 
 he looked at the kangaroos, and seemed to suflfer in 
 seeing them in the limited space which they covered 
 in three leaps. 
 
 He stood in silence before the light grating where 
 the antelopes were inclosed. The birds, too, awak- 
 ened his compassion. The ostriches and cassowaries 
 looked mournful enough in the shade of their soli- 
 tary exotic ; but the parrots and smaller birds in a 
 long cage, without even a green leaf or twig, were 
 absolutely pitiful, and Madou thought of the Acad- 
 emj' Moronval and of himself. The plumage of the 
 birds was dull and torn ; they told a tale of past 
 battles, of dismal flutterings against the bars of their 
 prison-house. Even the rose-colored flamingoes and 
 the long-billed ibex, who seem associated with the 
 Nile and the desert and the immovable sphinx, all 
 assumed a thoroughly commonplace aspect among 
 the white peacocks and the little Chinese ducks that 
 paddled at ease in their miniature pond. 
 
 By degrees the garden filled up with people, and 
 there suddenly appeared at the end of the avenue 
 so strange and fantastic a spectacle that Madou 
 stood still in silent ecstasy. Ho saw the heads of 
 two elephants, who were slowly approaching, waving 
 their trunks slowly, and bearing on their broad backs 
 a crowd of women with light umbrellas, of children 
 with straw hats and colored ribbons. Following the 
 
A MAURY D'ARGENTON. 105 
 
 elephant came a giraffe carrj'ing his small and haugh- 
 ty head very high. This singular caravan wound 
 through the circuitous road, with many nervous 
 laughs and terrified cries. 
 
 Under the glowing sunlight every tint of color 
 was thrown out in relief upon the thick and rugged 
 skin of the elephants, who extended their trunks 
 either toward the tops of the trees or to the pockets 
 of the spectators, shaking their long ears when 
 gently touched by some child, or by the umbrella 
 of some laugliing girl on their backs. 
 
 " What is the matter, Madou ; you tremble. Are 
 you ill ?" asked Jack. Madou was absolutely faint 
 with emotion, but when he learned that he too could 
 mount the clumsy animals, his grave face became 
 almost tragic in expression. Jack i-efused to accom 
 pany him, and remained with his mother, whom ho 
 considered too grave for this fete-day. He liked to 
 walk close at her side, or linger behind her in the 
 dust of her long silken skirts, which she disdained 
 to lift. They seated themselves, and watched the 
 little black boy climb on the back of the elephant. 
 Once there, the child seemed in his native place. 
 He was no longer an exile, nor the awkward school- 
 boy, nor the little servant, humiliated by his menial 
 duties and by his master's tyranny. He seemed 
 imbued with new life, and his eyes sparkled with 
 energy and determination. Happy little king! Two 
 or three times he Avent around the garden. " Again! 
 again ! " he cried, and over the little bridge, between 
 the inclosures of the kangaroos and other animals, 
 he went to and fro, excited almost to madness by 
 
306 JACK. 
 
 the heavy loug strides of the elephant. K(5rika, 
 Dahomey, war-like scenes, and the hunt, all returned 
 to his memory. He spoke to the elephant in his 
 native tongue, and as he heard the sweet African 
 voice, the huge creature shut his eyes with delight 
 aud trumpeted his pleasure. The zebras neighed, 
 and the antelopes started in terror, while from the 
 great cage of tropical birds, where the sun shono 
 most fully, came warblings and flutterings of wings, 
 discordant screams, and an enraged chatter, all the 
 tumult, in short, on a small scale, of a primeval forest 
 in the tropics. 
 
 But it was growing late. Midou must awaken, 
 from this beautiful dream. Besides, as soon as the 
 sun dropped behind the horizon, the wind rose keen 
 and cold, as so often happens in the' early spring. 
 This wintry chill aifected the spirits of the children, 
 and they grew strangely quiet and sad. Madame 
 do Barancy for a wonder was also very silent. She 
 had something she wished to sa}', and she pi-obably 
 found some difSculty rn selecting her words, for she 
 left them unsaid until the last moment. Then 
 she took Jack's hand in hers. " Listen, child, I have 
 some bad news to tell you ! " 
 
 Ho understood at once that some great misfortune 
 was impending, and he turned his supplicating eyes 
 toward his mother. She continued in a low, quick 
 \oicc, — 
 
 " I am going away, my son, on a long journey ; I 
 am obliged to leave you behind, but I Avill write to 
 you. Do not cry, dear, for it hurts me ; I shall not 
 bo gone long, and we shall soon see each other 
 
AMAURY D'ARGENTON. 107 
 
 again. Yes, very soon, I promise you." And slie 
 threw out mysterious hints of a fortune to come, and 
 money affairs, and other things that were not at all 
 interesting to the child, who in reality paid littlo 
 attention to her words, for he was weeping silently 
 but chokingly. The gay streets seemed no longer 
 the Paris of the morning, the sunshine was gone, 
 the flowers on the corner-stands were faded, and all 
 was very dreary, for he saw through eyes dim with 
 tears, and the child was about to lose his mother. 
 
108 JACK. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 MADOO'S FLIGHT. 
 
 Some time after this a letter arrived at the acad- 
 emy from D'Argenton. 
 
 The poet wrote to announce that the death of a 
 relative had so changed the position of his private 
 affairs that he must offer his resignation as Professor 
 of Literature. In a somewhat abrupt postscript he 
 added that Madame de Barancy was obliged to leave 
 Paris for an indefinite time, and that she confided 
 her little Jack to M. Moronval's paternal care. In 
 case of illness or accident to the child, a letter 
 could be forwarded to the mother under cover to 
 D'Argenton. 
 
 " The paternal care of Moronval ! " Had the poet 
 laugiied aloud as he penned these words ? Did he 
 not know perfectly well the child's fate at the acad- 
 emy as soon as it was understood that his mother 
 had loft Paris, and that nothing moi-e was to be ex- 
 pected irom her ? 
 
 The arrival of this letter threw Moronval into a 
 terrible fit of rage, which rage shook the equilibrium 
 of the academy as a violent tornado might have done 
 in the tropics. 
 
 The countess gone ! and gone too, apparently, with 
 that brainless fellow, who had neither wit nor imagi- 
 
MADOU'S FLIGHT. 109 
 
 nation. Was it not shameful that a woman of her 
 years — for sho was by no means in her earliest 
 youth — should be so heartless as to leave her child 
 alone in Paris, among strangers. 
 
 But even while he pitied Jack, Moronval said to 
 himself, " Wait a while, young man, and I will show 
 you how paternally I shall manage you." 
 
 But if he was enraged when he thought of tho 
 Review, his cherished project, he was more indig- 
 nant that D'Argenton and Ida should have made use 
 of him and his house to advance their own plans. 
 Ho hurried off to the Boulevard Ilaussmann to learn 
 all ho could; but the mystery was no nearer elucida- 
 tion. Constant was expecting a letter from her mis- 
 tress, and knew onl}"^ that she had broken entirely 
 with all past relations; that the house was to be 
 given up, and the furniture sold. 
 
 " All ! sir," said Constant, mournfully, " it was an 
 unfortunate day for us when we set foot in your old 
 barracks ! " 
 
 The preceptor returned home convinced that at 
 the termination of the next quarter Jack would be 
 withdrawn from the school. Deciding, therefore, that 
 the child was no longer a mine of wealth, he deter- 
 mined to put an end to all the indulgences witli 
 which he had been treated. Poor Jack after this day 
 sat at the table no longer as an equal, but as the butt 
 for all the teachers. No more dainties, no more wine 
 for him. There were constant allusions made to 
 D'Argenton : he was selfish and vain, a man totally 
 without genius; as to his noble birth, it was more 
 than doubtful; the chateau in the mountains, of 
 which he discoursed so fluently, existed only in his 
 
110 JACK. 
 
 imagination. These fierce attacks on the man whom 
 he detested, amused the child ; but something pre- 
 vented him from joining in the servile applause of 
 the other children, who eagerly laughed at each one 
 of Moronval's witticisms. The fact was, that Jack 
 dreaded the veiled allusions to his mother with which 
 these remarks invariably terminated. He, to be 
 Bure, rarely caught their full meaning, but he saw 
 by the contemptuous laughter that they were far 
 from kindly. Madame Moronval would sometimes 
 interrupt the conversation by a friendly word to 
 Jack, or by sending him on some trifling errand. 
 During his absence, she administered a reproof to 
 her husband and his friends. 
 
 " Pshaw ! " said Labassandre, " he does not under- 
 stand." Perhaps he did not full}', but he compre- 
 hended enough to make his heart very sore. 
 
 He had known for a long time that he had a father 
 whose name was not the same as his own, that his 
 mother had no husband ; and, one day, when one of 
 the schoolboys made some taunting allusion, he flew 
 at him in a rage. The boy was nearly choked; his 
 cries summoned Moronval to the scene, and Jack for 
 the first time was severely flogged. 
 
 From that day the charm was broken, and Jack's 
 daily life did not greatly differ from that of Madou, 
 who was at this time very unhappy. The pleasant 
 weather, and the day at the Jardin d^ Acclimation, 
 had given him a terrible fit of homesickness. His 
 melancholy at first took the form of a sullen revolt 
 against his exacting masters. Suddenly ail this was 
 changed, the boy's eyes grew bright, and ho seemed 
 
MADOU'S FLIGHT. HI 
 
 to go about the house and the garden as if in a 
 dream. 
 
 One night the black boy was undressing, and Jack 
 heard him singing to himself in a language that was 
 strange. 
 
 " What are you singing, Madou ? " 
 
 " I am not singing, sir ; I'm talking negro talk ! " 
 and Madou confided to his friend his intention of 
 running away from school. He had thought of it 
 for some time, and was only waiting for pleasant 
 weather ; and now he meant to go to Dahomey, and 
 find Kdrika. If J ack would go with him, they would 
 go to Marseilles on foot, and then go on board some 
 vessel. Nothing could happen to them, for he had 
 his amulet all safe. Jack made many objections. 
 Dahomey had no charms for him. He thought of the 
 copper basin, and the terrible heads, with an emotion 
 of sick horror ; and, besides, how could he go so far 
 from his mother? 
 
 " Good," said Madou ; " you can remain here, and 
 I will go alone." 
 
 "And when?" 
 
 " To-morrow," answered the negro, resolutely 
 closing his eyes as if he knew that he would need 
 all the strength that sleep could give him. 
 
 The next morning, when Jack passed through the 
 large recitation-room, he saw Madou busily scrubbing 
 the floor, and concluded that he had relinqiiished his 
 project. 
 
 The classes were busy for an hour or two, when 
 Moronval appeared. " Where is Madou ? " he asked 
 abruptly. " He has gone to market," answered 
 
112 JACK. 
 
 madame. Jack, however, said to himself that Mar 
 dou would not return. 
 
 In a little while Moron val came back and asked the 
 same question. His wife answered, uneasily, that she 
 could not understand the boy's prolonged absence. 
 
 Dinner-time came, but no Madou, no vegetables, 
 and no meat. 
 
 '• Something must have happened," said Madame 
 Moronval, more indulgent than her impatient hus- 
 band, who paced up and down the corridor with his 
 rod in his hand, while the hungry schoolboys were 
 quite ready to devour each other. Finally, Madame 
 Moronval sallied forth herself to buy some provisions ; 
 and on her return, burdened with packages, she was 
 greeted by an enthusiastic shout from the children, 
 who, when the fierceness of their hunger abated, 
 ventured on surmises as to Madou's whereabouts. 
 Moronval shrewdly suspected the truth. "How much 
 money did he have ? " he asked. 
 
 " Fifteen francs," was his wife's timid answer. 
 
 " Fifteen francs 1 Then it is certain he has run 
 away ! " 
 
 " But where has he gone ? " asked the doctor ; " he 
 could hardly reach Dahomey with tliat amount." 
 
 Moronval scowled fiercely, and went to report to 
 the police, for it was very essential to him that 
 the child should be found, or, at all events, prevented 
 from reaching Marseilles. Moronval was in whole- 
 some fear of ilonsieur Bonfils. " The world is so 
 wicked, you know," he said to his wife ; " the boy 
 might make some complaints which would injure 
 the school." Consequently, in making his report at 
 
M AVOWS FLIGHT. 113 
 
 the police ofEco, ho stated that Mtidou had carried 
 away a large sum. " But," he added, assuming an air 
 of indifference, " the money part of the matter is of 
 very little importance, compared to the dangers that 
 the poor child runs — this dethroned king without 
 country or people ; " and Moronval dashed away a tear. 
 
 " We will find him, my good sir," said the official, 
 " have no anxiety." 
 
 But Moronval was anxious, nevertheless, and so 
 agitated, that, instead of awaiting quietlj- at home the 
 result of the investigations, as he had been advised 
 to do, he started out himself, with all the children to 
 join in the search. 
 
 They went to each one of the gates, interrogated 
 the custom-house officers, and gave them a descrip- 
 tion of Madou. Then the party repaired to the 
 police court, for Moronval had the singular idea that 
 in this way his pupils might learn something of Pa- 
 risian life. The children, fortunately, were too young 
 to understand all they saw, but they carried away 
 with them a most sinister impression. Jack espe- 
 cially, who was the most intelligent of the boys, re- 
 turned to the academy with a heavy heart, shocked 
 at the glimpse he had caught 'of this under-current 
 of life. Over and over again he said to himself, 
 " Where can Madou be ? " 
 
 Then the child consoled himself with the thought 
 that the, negro was far on the road to Marseilles ; 
 which road little Jack pictured to himself as running 
 straight as an arrow, with the sea at its termination, 
 and the vessel lying ready to sail. Only one thing 
 disturbed him in regard to Madou's journey : the 
 8 
 
114 JACK. 
 
 weather, that had been so fine the day of his de- 
 parture, had suddenly changed; and now the rain 
 fell in torrents, — hail too, and even snow; and the 
 wind blew around their frail dwelling, causing the 
 poor little children of the sun to shiver in their sleep, 
 and dream of a rocking ship and a heavy sea. Curled 
 up under his blankets one night, listening to the 
 howling of the fierce wind, Jack thought of his 
 friend, imagined him half frozen lying under a tree, 
 his thin clotliing thoroughly wet. But the reality 
 was worse than this. 
 
 " He is found ! " cried Moronval, rushing into the 
 dining-room, one morning. " He is found ; I have 
 just been notified by the police. Give mo my hat 
 and my cane ! " 
 
 He was in a state of great excitement. As much 
 from the desire to flatter the master, as from the love 
 of noise that characterizes boys, the children hailed 
 tliis news with a wild hurrah. Jack did not speak, 
 but sighed as he said to himself, " Poor Midou 1 " 
 
 Madou had been, in fact, at the station-house since 
 the evening before. It was there, amid criminals of 
 all grades, that the presumptive heir of the kingdom 
 of Dahomey was found by his excellent tutor. 
 
 "Ah, my unfortunate child ! have I found you at 
 last?" 
 
 The worthy Moronval could say no more ; and, ou 
 seeing him throw his long arms eagerly about the 
 neck of the little black boy, the inspector of police 
 could not help thinking : " At last I have seen 
 oae teacher who loves his pupils ! " Madou, how- 
 ever, displayed the utmost indifference. His face 
 
MADOU'S FLIGHT. 115 
 
 was positively without expression; not a ray of 
 shame or of apprehension was visible. His eyes 
 were wide open, but ho seemed to see nothing; his 
 face was pale — and the pallor of a negro is some- 
 thing appalling. He was covered with mud from 
 head to foot, and looked like some amphibious animal 
 who, after swimming in the water, had rolled in the 
 mud on the shore. No hat, and no shoes. What haii 
 happened to him ? He alone could have told you, 
 and he would not speak. The policeman said, that, 
 making his rounds the evening before, he had found 
 the boy hidden in a lime-kiln, that he was half- 
 starved, and stupefied by the excessive heat. Why 
 had he lingered in Paris ? 
 
 This question Moronval did not ask ; nor, indeed, 
 did he speak one word to MS.dou during their long 
 drive to the academy. The boy was so worn out 
 and crushed that he sank into a corner, while Mo- 
 ronval glanced at him occasionally with an expression 
 of rage that at any other time would have terrified 
 him. 
 
 Moronval's glance was like a keen rapier, with a 
 flash like lightning, crossing a poor little broken 
 blade, shivered and rusty. 
 
 When Jack saw the pitiful black face, the rags 
 and the dirt, he could hardly recognize the little 
 king. Madou, as ho passed, said good morning in 
 so mournful a tone that Jack's eyes filled with tears. 
 The children saw nothing more of the black boj' that 
 day. Recitations went on in their usual routine, 
 and at intervals the sound of a lash was heard, and 
 heavj' gi'oans from Moronval's private sti]dy. Madame 
 
116 JACK. 
 
 Moronval turned pale, and the book she held trem- 
 bled. Even when all was again silent, Jack fancied 
 tliat he still heard the groans. 
 
 At dinner the principal was radiant, though seem- 
 ingly exhausted by fatigue. "The little wretch ! " 
 he said to Dr. Hirsch and his wife. " The little 
 wretch ! Just see the state he has put me into ! " 
 
 That night Jack found the bed next to his occu- 
 pied. Poor Madou had put his master into such a 
 state that he himself had not been able to go to bed 
 without assistance. Madame Moronval and Dr. 
 ~ Hirsch were there watching the lad, whose sleep 
 was broken by those heavy sighs and sobs common 
 to children after a day of painful excitement. 
 
 " Then, Dr. Hirsch, you don't think him ill ? " asked 
 Madame Moronval, anxiously. 
 
 " Not in the least, madame ; that race has a cover- 
 ing like a monitor ! " 
 
 When they were alone. Jack took Madou's hand 
 and found it as burning hot as a brick from the fur- 
 nace. " Dear MS,dou," he whispered. Madou half 
 opened his eyes and looked at his friend with an 
 expression of utter discouragement. 
 
 " It's all over with Madou," ho murmured ; " Madou 
 has lost his Gri-gri, and will never see Dahomey 
 again." 
 
 This was the reason, then, that he had not left 
 Paris. Two hours after he had run away I'rom the 
 academy, the fifteen francs of market-money and his 
 medal had been stolen from him. Then, relinquish- 
 ing all idea of Marseilles, of the ship and of the 
 Boa, knowing that without iiis Gri-gri Dahomey was 
 
MADOU'S FLIGHT. 117 
 
 Tinattainable, Madou had spent ciglit da3's and niglits 
 in the lowest depths of Paris, looking for his amulet. 
 Fearing that Moronval would discover his where- 
 abouts, he hid during the day and ventured into the 
 streets only after nightfall. He slept by the side of 
 piles of bricks and mortar, which partly protected 
 him from the wind ; or crawled into an open door- 
 »way, or under the arches of a bridge. 
 
 Favored by his size and by. his color, Madou glided 
 about almost unseen ; he had associated with crimi- 
 nals of all classes, and had escaped without contam- 
 ination, for he thought only of finding his amulet. 
 He had shared a crust of bread with assassins, and 
 drank with robbers ; but the little king escaped from 
 these dangers as he had from others in Dahomey, 
 where, when hunting with Kcrika, he had been 
 awakened by the trumpeting of elep'.iants and the 
 roaring of wild beasts, and saw, under some gigantic 
 tree, the dim shadow of some strange animal passing 
 between himself and the bivouac fires ; or caught a 
 glimpse of some great snake slowly winding through 
 the underbrush. But the monsters to be found in 
 Paris are more terrible even than those in the Afri- 
 can forests ; or they would have been, liad he under- 
 stood the dangers he incurred. But ho could not 
 find his Gri-gri. Madou could not talk much, his 
 exhaustion was so great; and Jack fell asleep with 
 his curiosity but partially satisfied. 
 
 In the middle of the night he was awakened sud- 
 denly by a shout from Madou, wlio was singing and 
 talking in his own language with frightful volubility. 
 Delirium had begun. 
 
118 JACK. 
 
 In the morning, Dn Hirsch announced that Madou 
 was -very ill. "A brain-fever ! '' he said, rubbing his 
 hands in glee. 
 
 This Dr. Hirsch was a terrible man. His head 
 was Btuifed full of all sorts of Utopian ideas, of im- 
 pi-acticable theories, and notions absolutely without 
 method. His studies had been too desultory to 
 amount to anything. He had mastered a few Latin 
 phrases, and covered his real ignorance by a smat- 
 tering of the science of medicine as practised among 
 the Indians and the Chinese. Ho even had a strong 
 leaning toward the magic arts, and when a human 
 life was intrusted to his care he took that opportu- 
 nity to try some experiments. Madame Moronval 
 was inclined to call in another phj'sician, but the 
 principal, less compassionate, and unv/illing to incur 
 the additional expense, determined to leave the case 
 solely in the hands of Dr. Hirsch. Wishing to have 
 no interference, this singular physician pretended 
 that the disease was contagious, and ordered Madou's 
 bed to be placed at the end of the garden in an old 
 hot-house. For a week he tried on his little victim 
 every drug he had ever heard of, the child making 
 no more resistance than a sick dog would have done. 
 When the doctor, armed with his bottles and his 
 powders, entered the hot-house, the " children of the 
 sun," to whose minds a ph3'sician was alwa3'8 moro 
 or less of a magician, gathered about the door and 
 listened, saying to each other in awed tones, " What 
 is he going to do now to Mudou?" 
 
 Eut the doctor locked the door, and peremptorily 
 ordered the children from its vicinity, telling them 
 
MADOU'S FLIGHT. HO 
 
 that they would be ill too, tliat Madou's illness was 
 contagious ; and this last idea added additional mys- 
 tery to that corner of the garden. 
 
 Jack, nevertheless, desired to see his friend so much 
 that he alone of all the bo)'s would have gladly passed 
 the threshold, had it not been too closely guarded. 
 One day, however, he seized an occasion when the 
 doctor had gone in search of some forgotten drug, 
 and crept softly into the improvised infirmary. 
 
 It was one of those half rustic buildings which arc 
 used as a shelter for rakes and hoes, or even to house 
 some tender plants. Close by the side of Madou's 
 iron bed, in the corner, was a pile of earthen flower- 
 pots; a broken trellis, some panes of glass, and a 
 bundle of dried roots, completed the dismal picture ; 
 and in the chimney, as if for the protection of some 
 fragile tropical plant, flickered a tiny fire. 
 
 Madou was not asleep. His poor little thin face 
 had still the same expression of absolute indillerence. 
 His black hands, tightly clenched, lay on the outsido 
 of the bedclothes. There was a look of a sick animal 
 in his whole attitude, and in the manner in which he 
 turned his face toward the wall, as if an invisible 
 road was open to his eyes through the white stones, 
 and every chink in the wall had become a brilliant 
 outlook toward a country known to him alone. 
 
 Jack whispered, " It is I, Madou, — little Jack." 
 
 The child looked at him vacantly ; he no longer 
 understood the French language. In his fever, all 
 recollection of it had vanished. Instinct had eff"aced 
 all that art had inculcated, and MS,dou understood 
 and spoke nothing save his savage dialect. At this 
 
120 JACK. 
 
 moment, another of '' the children of the sun," Said, 
 encouraged by Jack's example, followed him into 
 the sick-room, but, startled and disturbed by tho 
 strange scene, retreated to the doorway, and stood 
 with affrighted eyes. 
 
 Madou drew one long, shivering sigh. 
 
 " He is going to sleep, I think," whispered Sa'id, 
 shivering with terror ; for, older than Jack, he in- 
 tuitively felt the cold blast from the wings of Death, 
 which already fanned tho brow of the sick boy. 
 
 " Let us go," said Jack, pale and troubled ; and 
 they hastily ran down the garden-walk, leaving their 
 comrade alone in the twilight. Night came on. In 
 that silent room, which the children had left, the 
 fire crackled cheerfully, burning brightly, and il- 
 luminating every corner as if in search of some- 
 thing that was hidden. The light flickered on the 
 ceiling and was reflected on every small window- 
 pane, glanced over the little bed, and brought out 
 the color of Madou's red sleeve, until tired appar- 
 ently of its fruitless search, discouraged and ex- 
 hausted, and convinced that its heat was useless, 
 for no one was there to warm. The fire gave one 
 last expiring flicker, and then, like the poor little 
 half-frozen king, who had so loved it, sank into 
 eternal rest. 
 
 Poor Madou I The irony of destiny pursued him 
 even after death, for Moronval hesitated whether 
 the interment should be that of a royal prince or 
 of a servant. On one side there were reasons of 
 economy ; on the other, vanity and policj' had a word 
 to say. After much indecision, Moronval decided to 
 
MADOVS FLIGHT. 121 
 
 strike a great blow, thinking that, perhaps, as he 
 had not profited much by the prince living, he 
 might gain something from him dead. So a pompous 
 funeral was arranged. All the daily papers pub- 
 lished a biography of the little king of Dahomey. It 
 was a short one, to be sure, but lengthened by a 
 panegyric of the Moronval Institute, and of its prin- 
 cipal. The discipline of the establishment was com- 
 mended; its hygienic regulations, the peculiar skill 
 of its medical adviser, — nothing had been forgotten, 
 and the unanimity of the eulogiums was something 
 quite touching. 
 
 One daj' in May, therefore, Paris, which, notwith- 
 standing its innumerable occupations and its fever- 
 ish excitements, has always one eye open to all that 
 goes on, — Paris saw on its principal boulevards 
 a singular procession. Four black boys walked by 
 the side of a bier. Behind, a taller lad, a tone lighter 
 in complexion, wearing a fez, — our friend Said, — 
 carried on a velvet cushion an order or two, some 
 roj'al insignia fantastic in character. Then came 
 Moronval, with Jack and the other schoolboys. The 
 professors followed with the habituds of the house, 
 the literary men whom we met at the soiree. How 
 shabby were these last ! How many worn-out coats 
 and worn-out hearts were there ! How manj-^ dis- 
 appointed hopes and unattainable ambitions ! All 
 these slowly marched on, embarrassed by the full 
 light of day to which they were unaccustomed ; and 
 this melancholy escort precisely suited the little 
 deposed king. Were not all of these persons pre- 
 tendents, too, to some imaginary kingdom to which 
 
122 JACK. 
 
 they would never succeed ? Where but in Paris 
 could such a funeral be seen? A king of Dahomey 
 escorted to the grave by a procession of Bohe- 
 mians ! 
 
 To increase the dreariness of the scene, a fine 
 cold rain began to fall, as if fate pursued the littlo 
 prince, who so hated cold weather, even to the very 
 grave. Yes, to the grave ; for when the cofEn had 
 been lowered, Moronval pronounced a discourse so 
 insincere and hard that it would not have warmed 
 you, my poor Madou ! Moronval spoke of the virtues 
 and estimable qualities of the defunct, of the model 
 sovereign he would one day have made had he lived. 
 To those who had been familiar with that pitiful little 
 face, who had seen the child abased by servitude. 
 Moron val's discourse was at once heart-breaking and 
 absurd. 
 
JACK'S DEPARTURE. 123 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 jack's departure. 
 
 The only sincere grief for the negro boy was felt 
 by little Jack. The death of his comrade had im- 
 pressed him to an extraordinary degree, and the 
 lonely deatlibed he had witnessed haunted him lor 
 da^^s. Jack knew too that now he must bear alone 
 all MoronvaFs whims and caprices, for the other 
 pupils all had some one who came occasionally to 
 see them, and who would report any brutalities of 
 which they were the victims. Jack's mother never 
 wrote to him nowadays, and no one at the Institute 
 knew even where she was. Ah ! had he but been 
 able to ascertain, how quickly would the child have 
 gone to her, and told her all his sorrows. Jack 
 thought of all this as they returned liom the ceme- 
 tery. Labassandre and Dr. Hirsch were in front of 
 him, talking to each other. 
 
 " She is in Paris," said Labassandre, " for I saw 
 her yesterday." 
 
 Jack listened eagerly. 
 
 "And was he with her?" 
 
 She — he. These designations were certainly 
 somewhat vague, and j'et Jack knew of whom they 
 were speaking. Could his mother be in Paris ana 
 
124 JACK. 
 
 j-ct not have hastened to Iiim? All the way back to 
 the Institute he was meditating his escape. 
 
 Moronval, surrounded by his professors and friends, 
 Avalked at the head of the procession, and turned 
 occasionally to look back upon them with a rallying 
 gesture. This gesture was repeated by Sa'id to the 
 little boys, whose legs were very weary with the dis- 
 tance they had walked. They would increase their 
 speed for a few rods, and then gradually drop ofif 
 again. Jack contrived to linger more and more 
 among the last. 
 
 " Come I " cried Moronval. 
 
 " Come, come ! " repeated Sa'id. 
 
 At the entrance of the Champs Elys(5es Said turned 
 for the last time, gesticulating violently' to hasten the 
 little group. Suddenly the Egyptian's arms fell at 
 his side in amazement, for Jack was missing! 
 
 At first the child did not run, he was sagacious 
 enough to avoid any look of haste. He affected, on 
 the contrary, a lounging air. But as he drew nearer 
 the Boulevard ITaussmann, a mad desire to run took 
 possession of him, and his little feet, in spite of him- 
 self, went faster and faster. Would the house be 
 closed? And if Labassandro were mistaken, and his 
 mother not in Paris, what would become of him? 
 The alternative of a return to the academy never 
 occurred to him. Indeed, if he had thought of it, the 
 remembrance of the heavy blows and heartfelt sobs 
 that he had heard all one afternoon would have filled 
 him with terror. 
 
 " She is there," cried the child, in a transport of 
 joy, as ho saw all the windows of the house open, 
 
JACK'S DEPARTURE. 125 
 
 and the door also as it was always when his mother 
 was about going out. Ho hastened on, lest the car- 
 riage should take her" away before ho could arrive. 
 But as he entered the Vestibule, he was struck by 
 something extraordinary in its appearance. It was 
 full of people all busily talking. Furniture was 
 being carried away : sofas and chairs, covered for 
 a boudoir in such faint and delicate hues that in the 
 broad lightof day they looked faded. A mirror,framed 
 in silver, and ornamented with cupids, was leaning 
 against one of the stone pillars ; a jardiniere without 
 flowers, and curtains that had been taken down and 
 thrown over a chair, were near by; Several women 
 richly dressed were talking together of the merits 
 of a crystal chandelier. 
 
 Jack, in great astonishment, made his way through 
 the crowd, and could hardly recognize the well-known 
 rooms, such was their disorder. The visitors opened 
 the drawers wide, tapped on the wood of the side- 
 board, felt of the curtains, and sometimes, as she 
 passed the piano, a lady, without stopping or re- 
 moving her gloves, would lightly strike a chord or 
 two. The child thought himself dreaming. And his 
 mother, where was slie ? He went toward her room, 
 but the crowd surged at that moment in the same 
 direction. The child was too little to see what 
 attracted them, but he heard the hammer of the 
 auctioneer, and a voice that said, — 
 
 "A child's bed, carved and gilded, with cur- 
 tains ! " 
 
 And Jack saw his own bed, where he had slept so 
 long, handled by rough men. He wished to exclaim, 
 
126 JACK. 
 
 "The bed is mine — my very own — I will not have 
 it touched;" but a certain feeling of shame v.'ith- 
 held him, and he went from room to room looking 
 for his mother, when suddenly his arm was seized. 
 
 " What ! Master Jack, are you no longer at the 
 s( hool ? " 
 
 It was Constant, his mother's maid — Constant, in 
 her Sunday dress, wearing pink ribbons, and with 
 an air of great importance. 
 
 " Where is mamma ? " asked the child, in a low 
 voice, a voice that was so pitiful and troubled that 
 the woman's heart was touched. 
 
 " Your mother is not here, my poor child," she 
 said. 
 
 "But where is she? And what are all these people 
 doing?" 
 
 " They have come for the auction. But come with 
 me to the kitchen. Master Jack, we can talk better 
 there." 
 
 There was quite a party in the kitchen, — the old 
 ''cook, Augustin, and several servants in the neigh- 
 borhood. They were drinking champagne around 
 the same table where Jack's future had been one 
 evening decided. The child's arrival made quite a 
 sensation. He was caressed b}' them all, for the 
 servants were really attached to his kind-hearted 
 mother. As he was afraid that they would take him 
 back to the Institute, Jack took good care not to say 
 that he had run away, and merely spoke of an 
 imaginary permission ho had received to enable him 
 to visit his mother. 
 
 " She is not here, Master Jack," said Constant, 
 
JACK'S UKt^ARTURE. 127 
 
 " and I really do not know whether I ought — " 
 Then, interrupting herself, Constant exclaimed, "0! 
 it is too bad. I cannot keep this child from his 
 mother 1 " 
 
 Then she informed little Jack that madame was i'.t 
 Ktiolles. 
 
 The child repeated the name over and over again 
 to himself. " Is it far from heie ? " he asked. 
 
 "Eight good leagues," answered Augustin. 
 
 But the cook disputed this point; and then fol- 
 lowed an animated discussion as to the route to be 
 taken to reach Etiolles. Jack listened eagerly, ibr 
 he had already decided to attempt the journey alone 
 and on foot. 
 
 " Madame lives in a pretty little cottage just at 
 the edge of a wood," said Constant. 
 
 Jack understood by this time which side of Paris 
 he should go out. This and the name of the village 
 were the two distinct ideas he had. The distance 
 did not frighten him. " I can walk all night," he 
 iiaid to himself, " even if my legs are little." Then 
 he spoke aloud. " I must go now," he said, " I must go 
 back to school." One question, however, burned on 
 his lips. Was Argenton at Etiolles ? Should he find 
 this powerful barrier between his mother and him- 
 self? He dared not ask Constant, however. Without 
 understanding the truth precisely, he j'et felt very 
 keenly that this was not the best side of his mother's 
 life, and he avoided all mention of it. 
 
 The servants said " good-bye," the coacliman shook 
 hands with him, and then the boy found him- 
 self in the vestibule among a bustling crowd. He 
 
128 JACK. 
 
 did not linger in this chaos, for the house had no 
 longer an}' interest for him, but hurried into the 
 street, eager to start on the journey that would end 
 by placing him with his mother. 
 
 Bercy ! Yes, Bercy was the name of the village 
 the cook had mentioned as the first after leaving 
 Paris. The way was not diflScult to find, although it 
 was a good distance off, but the fear of being caught 
 by Moronval spurred him on. An inquisitive look 
 i'rom a policeman startled him, a shadow on the wall, 
 or a hurried step behind, made hia heart beat, and 
 over and above the noise and confusion of the streets 
 he seemed to hear the cry of " Stop him ! Stop 
 him ! " At last ho climbed over the bank and began 
 to run on the narrow path by the water's edge. 
 The da}"^ was coming to an end. The river was very 
 high and yellow from recent rains, the water rolled 
 heavily against the arches of the bridge, and the 
 wind curled it in little waves, the tops of which 
 were just touched by the level rays of the setting 
 sun. Women passed him bearing baskets of wet 
 linen, fishermen drew in their lines, and a whole 
 river-side population, sailors and bargemen, with 
 their rounded siioulders and woollen hoods, hurried 
 past him. With these there was still another class, 
 lough and ferocious of aspect, who were quite ca- 
 pable of pulling you out of the Seine for fifteen 
 francs, and of throwing you in again for a hundred 
 sous. Occasional!}' one of these men would turn to 
 look at this slender schoolboy who seemed in such 
 a hurry. 
 
 The appearance of the shore was continually 
 
JACK'S DEPARTURE. 129 
 
 changing. In one place it was black, and long 
 planks were laid to boats laden with charcoal. Far- 
 ther on, similar boats were crowded with fruit, and 
 a delicious odor of fresh orchards was wafted on the 
 air. Suddenl}"^ there was a look of a great harbor ; 
 steamboats were loading at the wharves ; a few rods 
 more, and a group of old trees bathed their distorted 
 roots in a limpid stream, and one could easily fancy 
 one's self twenty leagues from Paris, and in an ear- 
 lier century. 
 
 But night was close at hand. 
 
 The arches of the bridges vanished in darkness ; 
 the bank was deserted, and illuminated only by that 
 vague light which comes from even the very darkest 
 body of water. 
 
 But still the child toiled on, and at last found him- 
 self on a long wliarf, covered with warehouses and 
 piled with merchandise. He had reached Berc^', 
 but it was night, and he was filled with terror lest • 
 he should be stopped at the gate ; but the little fu- 
 gitive was hardly noticed. He passed the barrier 
 without hindrance, and soon found himself in a long, 
 narrow street, solitary and dimly lighted. While 
 the child was in the life and motion of the city, he 
 was terrified only by one thought, and that was that 
 Moronval would find him. Now he was still afraid, 
 but his fear was of another character — born of 
 silence and solitude. 
 
 Yet the place where he now found himself was 
 
 not the country. The street was bordered with 
 
 houses on both sides, but as the child slowly toiled 
 
 on, these buildings became farther and farther apart, 
 
 9 
 
130 JACK. 
 
 and considerably lower in height. Although barely 
 eight o'clock, this road was almost deserted. Occa- 
 sional pedestrians walked noiselessly over the damp 
 ground, while the dismal howling of a dog added to 
 the cheerlessness of the scene. Jack was troubled. 
 Each step that he took led him further from Paris, 
 its light and its noise. Ho reached the last wine- 
 shop. A broad circle of light barred the road, and 
 seemed to the child the limits of the inhabited 
 world. 
 
 After he had passed that shop, he must go on in 
 the dark. Should he go into the shop and ask his 
 way? He looked in. The proprietor was seated at 
 his desk ; around a small tabic sat two men and a 
 woman, drinking and talking. When Jack lifted 
 the latch, they looked up; the three had hideous 
 faces — such laces as he had seen at the police sta- 
 tions the day they were looking for Madou. Tho 
 woman, above all, was frightful. 
 
 " What does he want? "' said one of the men. 
 
 The other rose ; but little Jack with one bound 
 leaped the stream of light from the open door, hear- 
 ing behind him a volley of abuse. The darkness 
 now seemed to the child a refuge, and he ran on 
 quickly until he found himself in the open country. 
 Before him stretched field after field ; a few small, 
 scattered houses, white cubes, alone varied the mo- 
 notony of tho scene. Below was Paris, known by 
 its long line of reddish vapor, like the reflection of a 
 blacksmith's forge. The child stood still. It was 
 the first time that he had ever been alone out of 
 doors at night. He liad neither eaten nor drank all 
 
JACICS DEPARTURE. 131 
 
 da}', and was now suffering from intense thirst. He 
 was also beginning to understand what he had un- 
 dertaken. Had he strength enough to reach his 
 mother? 
 
 He finally decided to lie down in a furrow in the 
 bank on the side of the road, and sleep there until 
 daybreak. But as he went toward the spot he had 
 selected, he heard heavy breathing, and saw that a 
 man was stretched out there, his rags making a con- 
 fused mass of dark shadow against the white stones. 
 
 Jack stood petrified, his heart in his mouth, unable 
 to take a step forward or back. At this instant the 
 sleeping figure began to move, and to talk, still 
 without waking. The child thought of the woman 
 in the wine-shop, mid feared that this creature was 
 she, or some other equally repulsive. 
 
 The shadows all about were now to his fanc}' peo- 
 pled with these frightful beings. They climbed over 
 the bank, they barred his further progress. If he 
 extended his hand to the right or the left, he felt 
 certain that he should touch them. A light and a 
 voice aroused the child from this stupor. An officer, 
 accompanied by his orderly, bearing a lantern, sud- 
 denly appeared. 
 
 " Good evening, gentlemen," said the child, gently, 
 breathless with emotion. 
 
 The soldier wlio carried the lantern raised it in 
 the direction of the voice. 
 
 " This is a bad hour to travel, my boy," remarked 
 the officer; " are you going far? " 
 
 " 0, no, sir ; not very fir," answered Jack, who 
 did not care to tell the truth. 
 
132 7ACK. 
 
 " Ah, well ! we can go on together as far as Cha- 
 renton." 
 
 What a delight it was to the child to walk for an 
 hour at the side of these two honest soldiers, to reg- 
 ulate his steps by theirs, and to see the cheerful 
 light from the lantern! From the soldier, too, ho 
 casually learned that he was on the right road. 
 
 " Now wo are at home," said the officer, halting sud- 
 denly. " Good night. And take my advice, my lad, 
 and don't travel alone again at night — it is not safe." 
 And with these parting words, the men turned up a 
 narrow lane, swinging the lantern, leaving Jack alone 
 at the entrance of the principal street in Charenton. 
 The child wandered on until he found himself on the 
 quay ; he crossed a bridge which seemed to him to 
 be thrown over an abyss, so profound were the 
 depths below. He lingered for a moment, but rough 
 voices singing and laughing so startled him that he 
 took to his heels and ran until he was out of breath, 
 and was again in the open fields. He turned and 
 looked back ; the red light of the great city was 
 still reflected on the horizon. Afar off he heard the 
 grinding of wheels. " Good 1 " said the child ; " some- 
 thing is coming." But notliing appeared. And the 
 invisible wagon, whose wheels moved apparently 
 with difficulty, turned down some unseen lane. 
 
 Jack toiled on slowly. Who was that man that 
 stood waiting for him at the turning of the road? 
 One man 1 Nay, there were two or three. But they 
 were trees, — tall, slender poplars, — or a clump of 
 elms — those lovely old elms which grow to such 
 majestic beauty in France ; and Jack was environed 
 
JACK'S DEPARTURE. 133 
 
 by the m3''sterie3 of nature, — nature in the spring- 
 time of the year, when one can almost hear the 
 grass grow, the buds expand, and the earth crackle 
 as the tender herbage shoots forth. All these faint, 
 vague noises bewildered little Jack, who began to 
 sing a nursery rhyme with which his mother for- 
 merly rocked him to sleep. 
 
 It was pitiful to hear the child, alone in the dark- 
 ness, cncoui'aging himself by these reminiscences of 
 his happy, petted infancy. Suddenly the little 
 trembling voice stopped. 
 
 Something was coming — something blacker than 
 the darkness itself, sweeping down on the child as 
 if to swallow him up. Cries were heard ; human 
 voices, and heavy blows. Then came a drove of 
 enormous cattle, which pressed against little Jack 
 on all sides; he feels the damp breath from their 
 nostrils; their tails switch violently, and the heat of 
 their bodies, and the odor of the stable, is almost 
 stifling. Two boys arid two dogs are in charge of 
 these animals ; the dogs bark, and the uncouth peas- 
 ants yell, until the noise is appalling. 
 
 As they pass on, the child is absolutely stupefied 
 by terror. Tliese animals have gone, but will there 
 not be others ? It begins to rain, and Jack, in de- 
 spair, falls on his knees, and wishes to die. The 
 sound of a carriage, and the sight of two lamps like 
 friendly eyes coming quickly toward him, revives 
 him suddenly. He calls aloud. 
 
 The carriage stops. A head, with a travelling 
 cap drawn closely down over the ears, bends forward 
 to ascertain the whereabouts of the shrill cry. 
 
1S4 JACK. 
 
 " I am very tired," pleaded Jack ; " would j'ou be 
 so kind as to let me come into your carriage ? " 
 
 The man hesitated, but a woman's voice came to 
 the child's assistance. " Ah, what a little fellow 1 
 Let him come in here." 
 
 "Where are you going?" asked the traveller. 
 
 The child hesitated. Like all fugitives, he wished 
 to hide his destination. " To Villeneuve St. George," 
 he answered, nervously. 
 
 " Come on, tlien," said the man, with gruff kind- 
 ness. 
 
 The child was soon curled up under a comfortable 
 travelling rug, between a stout lady and gentleman, 
 who both examined him curiously by the light of the 
 little lamp. 
 
 Where was he going so late, and all alone, too ? 
 Jack would have liked to tell the truth, but he was 
 in too great fear of being carried back to the Insti- 
 tute. Then he invented a story to suit the occasion. 
 His mother was very ill in the countr)', where she 
 was visiting. He had been told of this tlie night 
 before, and he had at once started off on foot, be- 
 cause he had not patience to wait for the next day's 
 train. 
 
 "I understand," said the lady. And the gentle- 
 man looked as if he understood also, but made many 
 wise observations as to the imprudence of running 
 about the country alone, there were so many dan- 
 gers. Then he was asked in what house in Ville- 
 neuve his mother's friends resided. 
 
 " At the end of tiie town," answered Jack, 
 promptly,- "the last house on the right." 
 
JACK'S DEPARTURE. \l 
 
 It was lucky that lii.s rising color was hidden by 
 the darkness. His cross-examination, however, was 
 by no means over. Tlie husband and wife were 
 great talkers, and, like all great talkers, extremely 
 curious, and could not be content until they had 
 learned the private affairs of all those persons with 
 whom Ihoy came in contact. Tlicj"^ kept a litllo 
 store, and each Saturday went into the country to 
 get rid of the dust of tlie week ; but they Avero 
 making money, and some day would live altogetiier 
 at Soisy-sous-EtioUes. 
 
 " Is that place far from Etiollcs ? " asked Jack, 
 with a start. 
 
 " 0, no, close by," answered the gentleman, giving 
 a friendly cut with his whip to his beast. 
 
 What a fatality for Jack ! Had ho not told tlio 
 falsehood, he could have gone on in this comfortable 
 carriage, have rested his poor little wearj'' legs, and 
 liad a comfortable sleep, wrapped in the good wo- 
 man's shawl, who asked liiin, ever}'- little while, if he 
 was wai'm enough. 
 
 If he could but summon courage enough to say, 
 "I Lave told you a falsehood; I am going to the 
 same place that you are ; " but he was unwilling to 
 incur tlie contempt and distrust of these good peo- 
 ple ; yet, when they told him that they had reached 
 Villencuvc, the child could not restrain a sob. 
 
 " Do not cry, my little friend," said the kind wo- 
 man; "your mother, perhaps, is not so ill as you 
 think, and the sight of you will make licr well." 
 
 At the last house the carriage stopped. 
 
 " Yes, this is it," said Jack, sadly. Tlie good 
 
13G JACK. 
 
 people suid a kind good-bye. " How lucky you ivre 
 to have finished j'our journe}'," said the woman ; 
 " we have four good leagues before us." 
 
 Little Jack had the same, but durst not say so. 
 He went toward the garden-gate. " Good night," 
 said his new friends, " good night." 
 
 He answered in a voice choked by tears, and the 
 carriage turned toward the right. Then the child, 
 overwhelmed with vain regrets, ran after it with all 
 his speed ; but his limbs, weakened instead of 
 strengthened by inadequate repose, refused all ser- 
 vice. At the end of a few rods he could go no 
 further, but sank on the roadside with a burst of 
 passionate tears, while the hospitable proprietors of 
 the carriage rolled comfortably' on, without an idea 
 of the despair they had left behind them. 
 
 He was cold, the earth was wet. No matter for 
 that; he was too weary to think or to feel. The 
 wind blows violentl}', and soon the poor little boy 
 sleeps quietly. A frightful noise awakens him. 
 Jack starts up and sees something monstrous — a 
 howling, snorting beast, with two fiery eyes that send 
 forth a shower of sparks. The creature dashed 
 past, leaving behind him a train like a comet's tail. 
 A grove of trees, quite unsuspected by Jack, sud- 
 denly flashed out clearly ; each leaf could have been 
 counted. Not until this apparition was far away, 
 and nothing of it was visible save a small green 
 light, did Jack know that it was the express train. 
 
 What time was it? How long had he slept? He 
 knew not, but he felt ill and stiff in every limb. Ho . 
 had dreamed of Madou, — dreamed that they lay 
 
JACK'S DEPARTURE. 137 
 
 sido by side in the cemetery; he saw Madou's face, 
 aud shivered at the thought of the little icy fingers 
 touching his own. To get away from this idea Jack 
 resumed his weary journey. The damp earth had 
 stiffened in the cold night wind, and his own foot- 
 fall sounded in his ears so unnaturally heavy, that 
 he fancied Madou was at his side or behind him. 
 
 The child passes through a slumbering village ; a 
 clock strikes two. Another village, another clock, 
 and three was sounded. Still the boy plods on, with 
 swimming head and burning feet. He dares not 
 stop. Occasionally he meets a. huge covered wagon, 
 driver and horses sound asleep. He asks, in a timid, 
 tired voice, " Is it far now to Etiollcs ? " No answer 
 comes save a loud snore. 
 
 Soon, however, another traveller joins the child — 
 a traveller whose praises are sung by the cheery 
 crowing of the cocks, and the gurgles of the frogs 
 in the pond. It is the dawn. And the child shares 
 the anxiety of expectant nature, aud breathlessly 
 awaits the coming of the new-born day. 
 
 Suddenly, directly in front of him, in the direction 
 in which lay the town where his mother was, the 
 clouds divide — are torn apart suddenly, as it were ; 
 a pale line of light is first seen ; this line gradually 
 broadens, with a waving light like flames. Jack 
 walks toward this light with a strength imparted by 
 incipient delirium. 
 
 Something tells him that his mother is waiting 
 there for him, waiting to welcome him after this hor- 
 rible night. The sky was now clear, and looked like 
 a large blue eye, dewy with tears and full of sweet- 
 
138 , JACK. 
 
 ness. The road no longer dismayed tlie child. Be- 
 sides, it was a smooth highway, without ditch or 
 pavement, intended, it seemed, for the carriages of 
 the wealthy. Superb residences, with grounds care- 
 fully kept, were on botli sides of this road. Between 
 the white houses and the vineyards were green 
 lawns that led down to the river, whose surface 
 reflected the tender blue and rosy tints of tiie sky 
 above. sun, hasten thy coming; warm and com- 
 fort the little child, who is so weary and so sad I 
 
 " Am I far from Etiolies ? " asked Jack of some 
 laborers who were going to their work. 
 
 " No, he was not far from Etiolies -, he had but to 
 follow the road straight on through the wood." 
 
 The wood was all astir now, resounding ivith the 
 chirping of bir.ds and the rustling of squirrels. Tiie 
 refrain of the birds in the hedge of wild roses was 
 repeated from the topmost branches of the century- 
 old oak-trees ; the branches shook and bent under 
 the sudden rush of winged creatures ; and while the 
 last of the shadows faded away, and the night-birds 
 with silent, heavy flight hurried to their mysterious 
 shelters, a lark suddenly rises from the field with its 
 wings wide-spread, and flies higher and higher until 
 it is lost in the sky above. The child no longer 
 walks, he crawls; an old woman meets him, leading 
 a goat; mechanically he asks if it is far to Etiolies. 
 
 The ragged creature looks at him ferociously, and 
 then points out a little stony path. The sunshine 
 Avarms the little fellow, who stumbles over the peb- 
 bles, for he has no strength to lift his feet. At last 
 he sees a steeple and a cluster of houses ; one more 
 
JACK'S DEPARTURE. ]:]9 
 
 effort, and lie will reach them. But he is dizzy iiiid 
 falls ; through his half-shut eyes he sees close at 
 hand a little house covered with vines and roses. 
 Over the door, between the wavering shadows of a 
 lilac-tree already in flower, he saw an inscription in 
 gold letters : — 
 
 PARVA DOMUS, MAGNA QUIES. 
 
 How pretty the house was, bathed in the fresh 
 morning light ! All the blinds are still closed, al- 
 though the dwollers in the cottaged arc awake, for 
 he hears a woman's voice singing, — singing, too, his 
 own cradle-song, in a fresJi, gay voice. Was ho 
 dreaming? The blinds were thrown open, and a 
 woman appeared in a white negligee, with her iiair 
 lightly twisted in a simple knot. 
 
 "Mamma, mamma!" cried Jack, in a weak voice. 
 
 The lad}' turned quicklj', shaded her eyes from the 
 sun, and saw the poor little worn and travcl-stainod 
 lad. 
 
 She screamed " Jack ! "'.and in a moment more 
 was beside him, warming him in her arms, caressing 
 and soothing the little fellow, who sobbed out the 
 anguish of that terrible night on her shoulder. 
 
140 JACK. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 PAEVA DOMUS, MAGNA QUIES. 
 
 " No, uo, Jack ; no, dear child ; do not bo alarmed, 
 you shall never go back to that school. Did they 
 dare to strike you? Cheer up, dear. I tell you that 
 you shall never go there again, but shall always be 
 with me. I will arrange a little room for you to-day, 
 and you will see how nice it is to be in the countrj^ 
 We have cows and chickens, and that reminds mo 
 the poultry has not j'et been fed. Lie down, dear, 
 and rest a while. I will wake you at dinner-time, 
 but first drink this soup. It is good, is it not? And 
 to think that while I was calmly sleeping, j'ou were 
 alone in the cold and dark night. I must go. My 
 chickens are calling me ; " and with a loving kiss Ida 
 went off on tiptoe, happy and bright, browned some- 
 what by the sun, and dressed with rather a theatrical 
 idea of the proprieties. Her country costume had 
 a great deal of black velvet about it, and she wore 
 a wide-brimmed Leghorn hat, trimmed with poppies 
 and wheat. 
 
 Jack could not sleep, but his bath and the soup 
 prepared by Mere Archambauld, his mother's cook, 
 had restored his strength to a very great degree, 
 and he lay on the couch, looking about him with 
 calm, satisfied eyes. 
 
PARVA DOMUS, MAGNA QUIES. Ul 
 
 There was but little of the old luxury. The room 
 he was in was large, furnished in the style of Louis 
 XVI., all graj' and white, without the least gilding. 
 Outside, the rustling of the leaves, the cooing of the 
 pigeons on the roof, and his mother's voice talking 
 to her chickens, lulled him to repose. 
 
 One thing troubled him : D'Argenton's portrait 
 hung at the foot of the bed, in a pretentious at- 
 titude, his hand on an open book. 
 
 The child said to himself, " Where is he ? Why 
 have I not seen him? " Finally, annoyed by the eyes 
 of the picture, which seemed to pursue him either 
 with a question or a reproach, he rose and went 
 down to his mother. 
 
 She was busy in the farm-yard ; her gloves reached 
 above her elbows, and her dress, looped on one side, 
 showed her wide striped skirt and high heels. 
 
 Mere Archambauld laughed at her awkwardness. 
 This woman was the wife of an employe? in the 
 government forests, who attended to the culinary 
 department at Aulnettes, as the house was called 
 where Jack's mother lived. 
 
 " Heavens ! how pretty your boy is 1 " said the 
 old woman, delighted by Jack's appearance. 
 
 " Is he not, Mere 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 quickl3^ 
 
 " Ah, well I if you can't sleep, let us go and look 
 at the house," said his mother, who quickly wearied 
 
142 JACK. 
 
 of every occupation. She shook down lior skirtt;, 
 and took the child over this most original house, 
 which was situated a stone's throw from the village, 
 a'-id realized better than most poets' dreams those 
 of D'Argenton. The house had been originally a 
 shooting-box belonging to a distant chateau. A new 
 tower had been added, and a weathercock, which 
 last gave an aspect of intense respectability to the 
 place. They visited the stable and the orchard, and 
 linished their examination by a visit to the tower. 
 
 A winding staircase, lighted by a skylight of 
 colored glass, led to a large, round room containing 
 four windows, and I'urnished by a circular divan 
 covered with some brilliant Eastern stuff. A couple 
 of curious old oaken chests, a Venetian mirror, some 
 antique hangings, and a high carved chair of the 
 time of Henri II., drawn up in front of an enormous 
 table covered with papers, composed the furniture 
 of the apartment. A charming landscape was visible 
 from the windows, a valicj'^ and a river, a fresh green 
 wood, and some fair meadow-land. 
 
 " It is here that HE works," said his mother, in an 
 awed tone. 
 
 Jack had no need to ask who this HE might be. 
 
 In a low voice, as if in a sanctuary, she continued, 
 without looking at her son, — 
 
 " At present he is travelling. lie will return in 
 a few days, however. I shall write to him that you 
 are hero ; he will bo very glad, lor he is very fond 
 of you, and is the best of men, even if ho does lt)ok 
 a little severe sometimes. You must learn to love 
 him, little Jack, or I shall be very unhappy." 
 
PARVA DOMUS, MAGNA QUIES. 143 
 
 As she spoke slie looked at D'Argenton's picture 
 hung at the end of this room, a picture of which the 
 one in her ruom was a copy ; in fact, a portrait of 
 the poet was in every room, and a bronze bust 
 in the entrance-hall, and it was a most significant 
 fact that there was no other portrait than his in the 
 whole house. " You promise me, Jack, that you will 
 love him ? " 
 
 Jack answered with much effort, " I promise, dear 
 mamma." 
 
 This was the only cloud on that memorable day. 
 The two were so happy in that quaint old drawing- 
 room. They heard M6re Ai-chambauld rattling her 
 dishes in the kitchen. Outside of the house there 
 was not a sound. Jack sat and admired his mother. 
 She thought him much grown and very large for his 
 age, and they laughed and kissed each other every 
 few minutes. In the evening they had some visitors. 
 Pfire Archambauld came for his wife, as he always 
 did, for they lived in the depths of the forest. He 
 took a seat in the dining-room. 
 
 " You will drink a glass of wine, Father Archam- 
 bauld. Drink to the health of my little boy. Is he 
 not nice ? Will j'ou take him with you sometimes 
 into the forest? " 
 
 And as he drank his wine, this tawny giant, 
 who was the terror of the poachers throughout 
 the country, looked about the room with that restless 
 glance acquired in his nightly watchings in the 
 ibrest, and answered timidly, — 
 
 " That I will, Madame d'Argenton." 
 
 This name of D'Argenton, thus given to his mother. 
 
144 JACK. 
 
 mystified our little friend. But as he had no very- 
 accurate idea of either the duties or dignities of life, 
 he soon ceased to take an}' notice of his mother's new 
 title, and became absorbed in a rough game of play 
 with the two dogs under the table. The old couple 
 had just gone, when a carriage was heard at the 
 door. 
 
 "Is it you, doctor?" cried Ida from within, in 
 joyous greeting. 
 
 " Yes, madame ; I come to learn something about 
 your sick son, of whose arrival I have heard." 
 
 Jack looked inquisitively at the large, kindly face 
 crowned by snowy locks. The doctor wore a coat 
 down to his heels, and had a rolling walk, the result 
 of twenty years of sea-life as a surgeon. 
 
 " Your boy is all right, madame. I was afraid, 
 from what I heard through my servant, that he and 
 you might require my services." 
 
 What good people these all were, and how thank- 
 ful little Jack felt that he had forever left that 
 detestable school ! 
 
 When the doctor left, the house was bolted and 
 barred, and the mother and child went tranquilly to 
 their bedroom. 
 
 There, while Jack slept, Ida wrote to D'Argenton 
 a long letter, telling him of her son's arrival, and 
 seeking to arouse his sympathy for the little lonel}' 
 fellow, whose gentle, regular breathing she heard at 
 her side. She was more at her ease when two days 
 later came a reply from her poet. 
 
 Although full of reproaches and of allusions to her 
 maternal weakness, and to the undisciplined nature 
 
PARVA DOMUS, MAGNA QUIES. 145 
 
 of her cbild, the letter was less terrible than she had 
 anticipated. In fact, D'Argenton concluded that it 
 was well to be relieved of the enormous expenses at 
 the academy, and while disapproving of the escapade, 
 he thought it no great misfortune, as the Institution 
 was rapidly running down. " Had he not left it?"' 
 As to the child's future, it should be his care, and 
 when he returned a week later, they would consult 
 together as to what plan to adopt. 
 
 Never did Jack, in his whole life, as child or man, 
 pass sucli a week of utter happiness. His mother 
 belonged to him alone. He had the dogs and the 
 goat, the forest and the rabbits, and yet he did not 
 leave his mother for many minutes at a time. He 
 followed her wherever she went, laughed when she 
 laughed without asking why, and was altogether 
 content. 
 
 Another letter. " He will come to-morrow ! " 
 
 Although D'Argenton had written kindly, Ida was 
 still nervous, and wished to arrange the meeting in 
 her own way. Consequently she refused to permit 
 him to go with her to the station in the little car- 
 riage. She gave him several injunctions, painful to 
 them both, as if they had each been guilty of some 
 great fault, and to the boy inexpressibly mortifying. 
 
 " You will remain at the end of the garden," she 
 said, " and do not come until I call you." 
 
 The child lingered an hour in expectation, and 
 when he heard the grinding of the wheels, ran down 
 the garden walk, and concealed himself behind the 
 gooseberry bushes. He heard D'Argenton speak. 
 His tone was harder, sterner than ever. He heard 
 10 
 
146 JACK. 
 
 liis mother's sweet voice answer gently, " Yes, my 
 dear — no, my dear.'' Then a window in the tower 
 opened. " Come, Jack, I want you, my child ! " 
 
 The boy's heart beat quickly as he mounted the 
 stairs. D'Argenton was leaning back in the tall arm- 
 chair, his light hair gleaming against the dark wood. 
 Ida stood by his side, and did not even hold out her 
 hand to the little fellow. The lecture he received 
 was short and affectionate to a certain extent. 
 " Jack," he said, in conclusion, " life is not a romance ; 
 you must work in earnest. I am willing to believe 
 in your penitence; and if you behave well, I will 
 certainly love you, and we three may live together 
 happily. Now listen to what I propose. I am a 
 very busy man. I am, nevertheless, willing to de- 
 vote two hours every day to your education. If you 
 will study faithfully, I can make of you, frivolous as 
 you are by nature, a man like myself." 
 
 " You hear. Jack," said his mother, alarmed at his 
 silence, " and you undei'stand the sacrifice that your 
 I'riend 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 Char- 
 lotte, and unable to find words to express his sense 
 of such generosity, ended by sa3nng nothing. Seeing 
 the child's embarrassment, his mother gently pushed 
 him into the poet's arms, who pressed a theatrical 
 kiss on his brow. 
 
 " Ah, dear, how good you are ! " murmured the 
 poor woman, while the child, dismissed by an im- 
 perative gesture, hastily ran down tho stairs. 
 
PARVA DOMUS, MAGNA QUIES. 147 
 
 In reality Jack's installation in the house was a 
 relief to the poet. Ho loved Ida, whom he called 
 Charlotte in memory of Goethe, and also because he 
 wished to obliterate all her past, and to wipe out 
 even the name of Ida de Barancy. He loved her in his 
 own fashion, and made of her a complete slave. She 
 had no will, no opinion of her own, and D'Argenton 
 had grown tired of being perpetually agreed with. 
 "Now, at least, he would have some one to contradict, 
 to argue with, to tutor, and to bully ; and it was in 
 this spirit that he undertook Jack's education, for 
 which he made all arrangements with that method- 
 ical solemnity characteristic of the man's smallest 
 actions. 
 
 The next morning, Jack saw, when he awoke, 
 a large card fastened to the wall, and on it, inscribed 
 in the beaiitiful writing of the poet, a carefully pre- 
 pared arrangement for the routine of the day. 
 
 "^ise at six. From six to seven, breakfast ; from 
 seven to eight, recitation ; from eight to nine," and 
 so on. 
 
 Days ordered in this systematic manner resemble 
 those windows whose shutters hardly permit the 
 entrance of air enough to breathe, or light to sec 
 with. Generally these rules are made only to be 
 broken, but D'Argenton allowed no such laxity. 
 
 D'Argenton's method of education was too severe 
 for Jack, who was, however, by no moans wanting in 
 intelligence, and was well advanced in his studies. 
 He was disturbed, too, by the personality of the poet, 
 to whom he had a very strong aversion, and above 
 all he was overwhelmed \)y the new life he was leading. 
 
148 JACK. 
 
 Suddenly transported from the mouldy lane, and from 
 the academy, to the country, to the woods and the 
 fields, he was at once excited and charmed by Nature. 
 The truest waj' would have been to have laid aside all 
 books until the child himself demanded them. Often 
 of a sunny da}', when he sat in the tower opposite his 
 teacher, he was seized with a strong desire to leap 
 out of the window, and rush into the fresh woods 
 after the birds that had just flown away, or in search 
 of the squirrel of which he had caught a glimpse. 
 What a penance it was to write his copy, while the 
 wild roses beckoned him to come and pluck them ! 
 
 " This child is an idiot," cried D'Argenton, when 
 to all his questions Jack stammered some answer 
 as far from what he should have said as if he had 
 that moment fallen from the light cloud he had 
 been steadily watching. At the end of a month 
 the poet announced that ho relinquished the task, 
 that it was a mere loss of precious time to himself, 
 and of no use to the boy, who neither could nor 
 would learn anything. In reality, he was by no 
 means unwilling to abandon the iron rules he had 
 established, and which pressed with severity on 
 himself as well as on the child. Ida, or rather 
 Charlotte, made no remonstrance. She preferred to 
 think her boy incapable of study rather than endure 
 the daily scenes, and the incessant lectures and tears 
 of this educational experiment. 
 
 Above everything she longed for peace. Her 
 aims were as restricted as her intellect, and she lived 
 solely in the present, and an}' future, however 
 brilliant, seemed to her too dearly purchased at the 
 price of present tranquillity. 
 
PAJiVA DOMUS, MAGNA QUI-ES. 149 
 
 Jack was very happ}' when he no longer saw 
 iinder his eyes that pkicard : " Eise at six. Prom 
 six to seven, breakfast ; from seven to ■eight," &c. 
 The days seemed to him longer and brighter. As if 
 he understood that his presence in the house was 
 often an annoj^ance, he absented himself for the 
 whole day with that absolute disregard of time 
 natural to children and loungers. 
 
 He had a great friend in the forester. As soon as 
 he was dressed in the morning he started for Father 
 Archambauld's, just as the old man's wife, before 
 going to her Parisians, as she called her employers, 
 served her husband's breakfast in a fresh, -clean 
 room hung with a light green paper that represented 
 the same hunting-scene over and over again. 
 
 When the forester had finished his meal, he and 
 little Jack started out on a long trarnp. Father 
 Archambauld showed the child the pheasants' nests, 
 with their eggs like large pearls, built in the roots of 
 the trees ; the haunts of the partridges, the fright- 
 ened hares, and the j'oung' kids. The hawthorn's 
 white blossoms perfumed the air, and a variety of 
 wild flowers enamelled the turf. The forester's duty 
 was to protect the birds and their young broods 
 from all injur}"-, and to destroy the moles and snakes. 
 He received a certain sum for the heads or tails 
 of these vermin, and every six months carried to 
 Corbiel a bag of dry and dust}-^ relics. He would 
 have been better pleased could he have taken also 
 the heads of the poachers, with whom he was in 
 constant conflict. He had also a great deal of 
 trouble with the peasants who injured his trees. 
 
150 JACK. 
 
 A doe could be replaced, a dead pheasant was no 
 great matter ; but a tree, the growth of years, was a 
 vastly different affair. He watched them so care- 
 fully that he knew all their maladies. One species 
 of fir was attacked by tiny worms, which come in 
 some mysterious waj'^ by thousands. They select 
 the strongest and handsomest specimens, and take 
 possession of them. The trees have only their res- 
 inous sap as a weapon of defence. This sap tliey 
 pour over their enemies, and over the'ir eggs depos- 
 ited iu the crevices of the bark. Jack watched this 
 unequal contest with the greatest interest, and saw 
 the slow dropping of these odorous tears. Some- 
 times the fir-tree won the victory, but too often it 
 perished and withered slowly, until at last the giant 
 of the forest, whose lofty top had been the haunt 
 of singing-birds, where bees had made tlieir home, 
 and which had sheltered a thousand different lives, 
 stood white and ghastly as if struck by lightning. 
 
 During these walks through the woods, the for- 
 ester and his companion talked very little. They 
 listened rather to the sweet and innumerable sounds 
 about them. The sound of the wind varied with 
 every tree that it touched. Among the pines it 
 moaned and sighed like the sea. Among the birches 
 and aspens, it rattled the leaves like castanets : while 
 from the borders of the ponds, which were numer- 
 ous iu this part of the forest, came gentle rustlings 
 from the long, slender, silken-coated reeds. Jack 
 learned to distinguish all these sounds and to love 
 them. 
 
 The little boy, however, had incurred the enmity 
 
PARVA DOMUS, MAGNA QUIES. 151 
 
 of manj'^ of the peasants, wlio saw liira constantly 
 with the forester, to whom they had sworn eternal 
 hatred. Cowardly and sulk}', they touclied their 
 hats respectfully enough to Jack when they met him 
 Avith Father Archambauld, but when he was alone, 
 they shook their fists at him with horrible oatlis. 
 
 There was one old woman, brown as an Indian 
 squaw, who haunted the very dreams of the child. On 
 his way home at sunset, he always met her with her 
 fagots on her back. She stood in the path and as- 
 sailed him with her tongue ; and sometimes, merely 
 to frighten him, ran after him for a few steps. Poor 
 little Jack often reached his mother's side breathless 
 and terrified, but, after all, this only added another 
 interest to his life. Sometimes Jack found his 
 mother in the kitchen talking in a low voice ; no 
 sound was to be heard in the house save the ticking 
 of the great clock in the dining-room. " ITush, my 
 dear," said his mother ; " He is up-stairs. He is at 
 work ! " 
 
 Jack sat down in a corner and watched the cat 
 lying in the sun. With the awkwardness of a child 
 who makes a noise merely because ho knows he 
 ought not to do so, he knocked over something, or 
 moved the table. 
 
 " Hush, dear," exclaimed Charlotte, in distress, 
 while Mother Archambauld, laying the table, moved 
 on the points of her big feet — moved as lightly as 
 possible, so as not to disturb " her master who was 
 at work." 
 
 He was heard up-stairs — pushing back his chair, 
 or moving his table. He had laid a sheet of paper 
 
152 JACK. 
 
 before him ; on this paper was written the title of his 
 book, but not another word. And yet he now had 
 all that formerly he had said would enable him to 
 make a reputation, — leisure, sufficient means, free- 
 dom from interruption, a~ pleasant study, and country 
 air. When ho had had enough of the forest, he had 
 but to turn his chair, and from another window he 
 obtained an admirable view of sky and water. All 
 the aroma of the woods, all the freshness of the 
 river, came directly to him. Nothing could disturb 
 him, unless it might be the cooing and fluttering of 
 the pigeons on the roof above. 
 
 " Now to work 1 " cried the poet. He opened his 
 portfolio, and seized his pen, but not one line could 
 he write. Think of it ! To live in a pavilion of 
 the time of Louis XV., on the edge of a forest in 
 that beautiful country about Etiolles, to which the 
 memory of the Pompadour is attached by knots of 
 rose-colored ribbons and diamond buckles. To have 
 around him every essential for poetrj'^, — a charming 
 woman named in memory of Goethe's heroine, a Henri 
 II. chair in which to write, a small white goat to follow 
 him from place to place, and an antique clock to 
 mark the hours and to connect the prosaic Present 
 with the romance of the Past ! All these were 
 very imposing, but the brain was as sterile as when 
 D'Argenton had given lessons all day and retired to 
 his garret at night, worn out in body and mind. 
 
 When Charlotte's step was heard on the stairs, 
 he assumed an expression of profound absorption. 
 " Come in," he said, in repl)' to her knock, timidly 
 repeated. She entered fresh and gay, her beautiful 
 
PARVA DOM US, MAGNA QUIES. 153 
 
 arms bared to the elbows, and with so rustic an air 
 that the rice-powder on her face seemed to be the 
 flour from some theatrical mill in an op6ra bouffe. 
 
 " I have come to see my poet," sho said, as she 
 came in. She had a wa)' of drawling out the word 
 poet that exasperated him. " How are you getting 
 on ? " sho continued. " Are you pleased ? " 
 
 " Pleased? Can one over be pleased or satisfied 
 in this terrible profession, which is a perpetual strain 
 on every nerve ! " 
 
 " That is true enough, my friend ; and j'^et I would 
 like to know — " 
 
 "To know what? Have j'ou any idea how long 
 it took Goethe to write his Fausti And yet he lived 
 in a thoroughly artistic atmosphere. He was not 
 condemned, as I am, to absolute solitude — mental 
 solitude, I mean." 
 
 The poor woman listened in silence. From having 
 so often listened to similar complaints from D'Ar- 
 genton, she had at last learned to understand the 
 reproaches conveyed in his words. 
 
 The poet's tone signified, " It is not you who can 
 fill the blank around me." In fact, he found her 
 stupid, and was bored to death when alone with her. 
 
 Without really being conscious of it, the thing 
 that had fascinated him in this woman was the frame 
 in which she was set. He adored the luxury b}' 
 which she was surrounded. Now that he had her 
 all to himself — transformed and rechristened her, 
 she had lost half her charm in his eyes, and yet she 
 was more lovely than ever. It was amusing to wit- 
 ness the air of business with which ho opened each 
 
154 JACK- 
 
 morning tho thrco or four journals to whicli he sub- 
 scribed. He broke tho seals as if he expected to find 
 in their columns something of absorbing personal 
 interest ; as, for exami)le, a critique of his unwritten 
 poem, or a resumd of the book that he meant some 
 day to write. He read these journals without miss- 
 ing one word, and always found something to arouse 
 his contempt or anger. Other people were so for- 
 tunate : their pieces were played ; and what pieces 
 they were ! Their books were printed ; and such 
 books 1 As for himself, his ideas were stolen before 
 ho could write them down. 
 
 " You know, Charlotte, yesterday a new play by 
 Emilc Angier was produced ; it was simply my 
 Pommes D'Atlante." 
 
 " But that is outrageous ! I will write myself to 
 this Monsieur Angier," said poor Lottie, in a great 
 state of indignation. 
 
 During these remarks. Jack said not one word ; but 
 as D'Argenton lashed himself into frenzy, his old an- 
 tipathy to the child revived, and the heavy frowns 
 with which he glanced toward the little fellow 
 showed him very clearly that his hatred was only 
 smothered, and would burst forth on the smallest 
 provocation. 
 
FIRST APPEARAA JE OF BELISAIRE. 155 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE FIRST APPEARANCE OP BELISAIRE. 
 
 One afternoon, when D'Argenton and Charlotte had 
 gone to drive, Jack, who was alone with Mother 
 Archambaiild, saw that he must relinquish his usual 
 excursion to the forest on account of a storm that 
 was coming up. 
 
 The July sky was heav^' with black clouds, copper- 
 colored on the edges;- distant rumblings of tliundcr 
 were heard, and the valley had that air of expecta- 
 tion which often precedes a storm. 
 
 Eatigued b}' the child's restlessness, the forester's 
 wife looked out at the weather, and said to Jack, — 
 
 " Come, Master Jack, it does not rain ; and it would 
 be very kind of you to go and get me a little grass 
 for my rabbits." 
 
 The child, enchanted at being of use, took a basket 
 and went gayly off to search in a ditch for the food 
 the rabbits liked. 
 
 The white road stretched before him, the rising 
 wind blew the dust in clouds, when suddenly Jack 
 heard a voice crying, " Hats ! Hats to sell ! Nice 
 Panamas ! " 
 
 Jack looked over the edge of the ditch, and saw a 
 pedler carrying on his shoulders an enormous basket 
 
156 JACK. ^_ 
 
 piled with straw hats. He walked as if he were 
 footsore and weary. 
 
 Have you ever thought how dismal the life of an 
 itinerant salesman must be? He knows not where 
 ho will sleep at night, or even that he can obtain the 
 iihelter of a barn ; for the average peasant always 
 regards a pedler, or any stranger, indeed, as an ad- 
 venturer, and watches him with distrustful eyes. 
 
 " Hats ! Hats to sell ! " For whose ears did he in- 
 tend this repetition of his monotonous cr}' ? There 
 was not a person in sight, nor a house. Was it for 
 the benefit of the birds, who, feeling the coming of the 
 storm, had taken shelter in the trees? The man took 
 a seat on a pile of stones, while Jack, on the other 
 side of the road, examined him with much curi- 
 osity'. His face was forbidding to a certain extent, 
 but expressed so much suffering in the heavy fea- 
 tures, that Jack's kind heart was filled with pity. At 
 that moment a thunder-clap was heard ; the man 
 looked up at the skies anxiously, and then called to 
 Jack to ask how far off the village was. 
 
 " Half a mile exactly," answered the child. 
 
 " And the shower will be here in a few moments," 
 said the pedler, despairingly. " All my hats will be 
 wet, and I shall be ruined." 
 
 The child thought of his own memorable journey, 
 and he wished to do a kind act. 
 
 " You can come to our house," he said, " and then 
 your hats will not be injured." The pedler grasped 
 eagerly at this permission, for his merchandise was 
 so delicate. The two hurried on as fast as possible ; 
 the man walking, however, as if he were treading on 
 hot iron. 
 
FIRST APPEARANCE OF PELISAIRE. 157 
 
 " Are you in pain ? " asked the child. 
 
 " Yes, indeed, I am ; my shoes are too small for mo ; 
 you sec m}' feet are so big tliat I can never find an}'- 
 thing large enough for them. 0, if I should ever be 
 rich, I would have a pair of shoes made to measure ! " 
 
 They reached Aulnettes. The pedler deposited 
 in the hall his scafibld of hats, and stood there 
 humbly enough. But Jack led him into the dining- 
 room, saying, " You must have a glass of wine and a 
 bit of bread." 
 
 Mother Archambauld frowned, but nevertheless 
 put on the table a big loaf and a pot of wine. 
 
 " Now a slice of ham," said Jack, in a tone of 
 command. 
 
 " But the master does not wish any one to touch 
 the ham," said the old woman, grumbling. In fact, 
 D'Argenton Avas something of a glutton, and there 
 were always some dainties in the pantry preserved 
 for his especial enjoyment. 
 
 " Never mind ! bring it out ! " said the child, de- 
 lighted at playing the part of host. 
 
 The good woman obeyed reluctantly. The ped- 
 ler's appetite was of the most formidable description, 
 and while he supped he told his simple story. His 
 name was B^lisaire, and he was the eldest of a large 
 family, and spent the summer wandering from town 
 to town. — A violent thunder-clap shook the house, 
 the rain fell in torrents, and the noise was terrific. 
 At that moment some one knocked. ■ Jack turned 
 pale. " They have come ! " he said with a gasp. 
 
 It was D'Argenton who entered, accompanied by 
 Charlotte. They were not to have returned until 
 
158 JACK. 
 
 late, but seeing the approach of the storm, they had 
 given lip their plan. They were, however, wet to 
 the skin, and the poet was in a i'carful rage with 
 himself and every one else. " A fire in the parlor," 
 ho'Said, in a tone of command. 
 
 But while they were taking off their wraps in the 
 hail, D'Argenton perceived the formidable pile of hats. 
 
 "What is that?" he asked. Ah 1 if Jack could 
 but have sunk a hundred feet under ground with 
 his stranger guest and the littered table 1 The poet 
 entered the room, looked about, and understood 
 everything. The child stammered a word or two of 
 apologj', but the other did not listen. 
 
 " Come here, Charlotte. Master Jack receives his 
 friends to-daj', it seems." 
 
 " 0, Jack ! Jack 1 " cried the mother in a horrihed 
 tone of reproach. 
 
 "Do not scold him, madame," stammered Bdlisairo. 
 " I only am in fault ! " 
 
 Here D'Argenton, out of all patience, threw open 
 the door witii a most imposing gesture. " Go at 
 once," he said, violently ; " how dare you come into 
 this house ? " 
 
 B<ilisaire, to whom no manner of humiliation was 
 new, offered no word of remonstrance, but snatched 
 up his basket, cast one look of distress at the tempest 
 out-of-doors, and another of gratitude toward little 
 Jack — who sighed as he heard the rain failing like 
 hail on the Panamas, — and hurried down the garden 
 walk. No sooner had the man reached the highway, 
 than his melancholy voice resumed the cry, " Hats I 
 Hats to sell I " 
 
FIRST APPEARANCE OF BELISAIRE. 159 
 
 In the dining-room profound silence reigned ; the 
 servant was kindling a fire, and Charlotte was 
 shaking the poet's coat, while he sulkily strode up 
 and down the room. 
 
 As he passed the table he caught sight of the ham 
 on which the pedier's knife had made sad havoc. 
 D'Argenton turned pale. Remember that the ham 
 was sacred, like his wine, his mustai'd, and mineral 
 water. " What! the ham, too ! " he exclaimed. 
 
 Charlotte, utterly stupefied by such audacity, could 
 only mechanically repeat his words. 
 
 " I said, madame, that they ought not to cut the 
 liam, that such pork was too good for such a vaga- 
 bond. But the little fellow does not know much yet, 
 he is so youi%." 
 
 Jack by this time was quite alarmed at what he 
 had done, and could only beg pardon in a troubled 
 tone. 
 
 '•■ Pardon, indeed ! " cried the poet, giving way, as 
 it must be admitted he rarely did, to his temper, and 
 shaking the boy violently, exclaimed, " What right 
 had you to touch that ham ? You knew it was not 
 yours. You know that nothing here is yours ; for 
 the bed you sleep on, for the food you eat, you are 
 indebted to my bounty. And why should I care for 
 you ? I know not even j'our name ! " Here an im- 
 ploring gesture from Charlotte stopped the torrent 
 of words. Mother Archambauld was still in the room, 
 and listening with eagerness. The poet turned away 
 suddenly, and rushed up stairs, banging the door 
 after him. 
 
 Jack remained, looking at his mother in consterna- 
 
160 JACK. 
 
 tion. She wrung her pretty hands, and again im- 
 plored heaven to tell her what she had done to merit 
 such a hard fate. 
 
 This was her onlj' resource in the serious perplexi- 
 ties of life ; and, naturally, her question remained 
 unanswered. 
 
 To add the finishing touch to the discomfort of the 
 house, D'Argenton was now taken with one of " his 
 attacks," a form of bilious fever. 
 
 Charlotte petted and soothed him, and waited upon 
 him by inches. The sister-of-charit}' spirit, that lies 
 in the depths of every womanly nature, made her 
 love her poet the more because he was suffering. 
 How tenderly she protected his nerves 1 She laid a 
 woollen cloth on the table under the ^hite one to 
 soften the noise of the plates and the silver. She 
 piled the Henry II. chair with cushions, and had 
 her rolls of hot flannels and her tisanes in readiness 
 at all hours of the day and night. 
 
 Sometimes the poor little woman was fearfuUj' 
 rebufied and mortified by a fretful exclamation from 
 the poet. " Do bo quiet, Charlotte ; you talk too 
 much I " 
 
 This illness brought the good-natured doctor to 
 the house once more. Charlotte met him in the 
 hall. " Come quick, doctor, our dear poet is suffer- 
 ing," she said, anxiously. 
 
 " Nonsense, my dear ; he only wants a little amuse- 
 ment." 
 
 In fact, D'Argenton, who greeted the physician in 
 the most languid tones, soon forgot to keep up the 
 farce in the pleasure of seeing a new face, which 
 
FIRST APPEARANCE OF BE LIS A IRE. 161 
 
 made a pleasant break in Lis monotonous life, and a 
 few moments later beheld liim launched on some 
 dazzling episode of his Parisian life. The doctor saw 
 no reason to doubt the truth of tliese narrations told 
 in such measured and careful phrases, and was always 
 pleased with the appearance of the family, — the 
 intellectual husband, the pretty gay Avife, and the 
 amusing child ; and no intuition gave him a hint, as 
 might have been the case with a more delicate 
 organization, of the peculiarity and bitterness of the 
 ties which bound the household together. 
 
 Often, therefore, on these bright midsummer days, 
 the doctor's horse was fastened to the palisades, 
 while the old man drank the cool glass carefully 
 mixed for him by Charlotte herself, and as he drank, 
 ho told of his wonderful adventures in India. Jack 
 listened with eyes and ears wide open. 
 
 "Jack!" said D'A.rgenton, peremptorily, and 
 pointed to the door. 
 
 " Let him staj', I beg of you ; I like to have children 
 around me. I am quite sure that your boy has dis- 
 covered that I have a grandchild ; " and the old 
 man talked of his little Cdcile, who was two years 
 younger than Jack. 
 
 " Bring her to see us, doctor," said Charlotte ; 
 " the two children would be so iiappy together." 
 
 " Thank you, dear madame ; but her grandmother 
 would never consent. She never trusts the child to 
 any one ; and she herself never goes anywhere since 
 our great sorrow." 
 
 Tliis sorrow, of which the old doctor often spoke, 
 was the loss of his daughter and his son-in-law 
 11 
 
162 JACK. 
 
 within a year after their marriage. Some mj'stery 
 surrounded this double catastrophe. Even Mother 
 Archambauld, who knew everything, contented her- 
 self with saying, " Yes, poor things ! they have had 
 a great deal of trouble." 
 
 The only prescription given by the doctor was a 
 \ erbal one, " Keep him amused, madame ; keep him 
 amused !" 
 
 How could poor Charlotte do this ? They went 
 off together in a little carriage; breakfast, books, 
 and a butterfly-net accompanied them to the forest; 
 but he was bored to death. They bought a boat, but 
 a tete-a-tete in the middle of the Seine was worse 
 than one on shore ; and the little boat soon lay moored 
 at the landing, half lull of water and dead leaves. 
 
 Then the poet took to building; he planned a now 
 staircase and an Italian terrace : but even this did 
 not amuse him. 
 
 One day a man, who came to tune the pianoforte, 
 c-xtolled the merits of an J5olian harp. D'Argenton 
 immediately' ordered one made on a gigantic scale, 
 and placed it on his roof. From that moment poor 
 little Jack's life was a burden to him. The melan- 
 choly wail of the instrument, like a soul in purgatory, 
 pursued him in his dreams. To the child's groat re- 
 lief, the poet was equally disturbed, and the harp 
 was ordered to the end of the garden ; but its shrieks 
 and moans were still heard. D'Argenton fiercely 
 commanded that the instrument should be buried, 
 which was done, and the earth heaped upon it as 
 over some mad animnl. All these various occupa- 
 tions failing fo amuse her poet, Charlotte reluctantly 
 
FIRST APPEARANCE OF BELISAIRE. 163 
 
 decided to invite some of his old friends, but was 
 repaid for her sacrifice by witnessing D'Argenton's 
 joy on being told that Dr. Hirsch and Labassandre 
 were soon to visit them. 
 
 When Jack entered the house, a f(3w days later, he 
 heard the voices of his old professors. The chihl 
 felt an emotion of sick terror, for the sounds recalled 
 the memory of so many wretched hours. He slipped 
 quietly into the garden, there to await the dinner-bell. 
 
 " Come, gentlemen," said Charlotte, smilingly, as 
 she appeared on the terrace, — her large white apron 
 indicating that as a good housekeeper she by no 
 means disdained on occasion to lay aside her lace 
 ruffles and take an active part. 
 
 The professors promptly obeyed this summons to 
 dinner, and greeted Jack as he took his seat with 
 every appearance of cordiality. Two large doors 
 opened on the lawn, be3"ond which lay the forest. 
 
 " You are a lucky i'ellow," said Labassandre. "To- 
 morrow I shall be in that hot, dusty town, eating a 
 miserable dinner." 
 
 " It is a good thing to be certain of having even 
 a miserable dinner," grumbled Dr. Hirsch. 
 
 " Why not remain here for a time ? " said D'Argen- 
 ton, cordially. "There is a room for each of you ; 
 the cellar has some good wine in it — " 
 
 " And we can make excursions," interrupted Char- 
 lotte, gayly. 
 
 " But what would become of mj rehearsals ? " said 
 Labassandre. 
 
 " But you. Dr. Hirsch," continued Charlotte, "you 
 are tied down to the opera-house 1 " 
 
164 JACK. 
 
 " Certainly not ; and my patients are nearly all in 
 the country at this season." 
 
 The idea of Dr. Hirsch having any patients Avas 
 very funny, and yet no one laughed. 
 
 " Well, decide ! " cried the poet. " In the first 
 place, you would be doing me a favor, and could pre- 
 scribe for me." 
 
 " To be sure. The phj'sician here knows nothing 
 of your constitution, while I can soon set you on your 
 I'eet again. I am sick of the Institute and of Moron- 
 val, and never wish to see either more." Thereupon 
 the doctor launched forth in a philippic against the 
 school which supported him. Morouval was a 
 thorough humbug, he never paid anybody, and 
 every one was giving him up ; the affair of Madou 
 had done him great injur}' ; and finally Dr. Hirsch 
 went so far as to compliment Jack on his energetic 
 departure. 
 
 At this, moment Dr. Rivals was shown into the 
 dining-room ; he was overjoyed at finding so gay and 
 talkative a circle. " You see, madame, I was right : 
 our invalid only needed a little excitement." 
 
 " There I differ from you ! " cried Dr. Hirsch, 
 fiercely, snufiBng the battle from afar. 
 
 Old Rivals examined this singular person with some 
 distrust. " Dr. Hirsch," said D'Argenton, " allow 
 mo to present you to Dr. Rivals." They bowed liko 
 two duellists on the field who salute each other before 
 crossing their swords. The country physician con- 
 cluded his new acquaintance to be some famous Pa- 
 risian practitioner, full of eccentricities and hobbies. 
 D'Argenton's illness was the occasion of a long dis- 
 cussion between the plij-sicians. 
 
FIRST APPEARANCE OF BELISAIRE. 165 
 
 It was droll to see the poet's expression. IIo was 
 inclined to take offence that Dr. Rivals should con- 
 sider him a mere hj'pochondriac, and again to be 
 equally annoyed when Dr. Hirsch insisted upon his 
 having a hundred diseases, each one with a worse 
 name than the others. 
 
 Charlotte listened with tears in her eyes. 
 
 " But this is utter nonsense," cried Rivals, who had 
 listened impatiently ; " there are no such diseases, in 
 the first place, and if there were, our friend has no 
 such symptoms." 
 
 This was too much for Dr. Hirsch, and the battle 
 
 began in earnest. They hurled at each other titles 
 
 of books in every language, names of every drug 
 
 known and unknown to the faculty. The scene was 
 
 more laughable than terrific, and was very much like 
 
 one from " Moliere." Jack and his mother escaped 
 
 to the piazza, where Labassandre was already trying 
 
 his voice. The winged inhabitants of the forest 
 
 twittered in terror ; the peacocks in the neighboring 
 
 chateau answered by those alarmed cries with which 
 
 they greet the approach of a thunder-shower ; the 
 
 neighboring peasants started from their sleep, and 
 
 old Mother Archambauld wondered what was going 
 
 on in the little house, where the moon shone so 
 
 whitely on the legend in gold characters over the 
 
 door: 
 
 PARVA DOMUS, MAGNA QUIES. 
 
166 JACK. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 CECILE. 
 
 "Where are you going so early?" asked Dr. 
 Hirscb, indolently, as he saw Charlotte, ga3'ly 
 dressed, prayer-book in hand, come slowly down 
 the stairs, followed by Jack, who was once more 
 clad in the pet costume of Lord Pembroke. 
 
 " To church, my dear sir. Has not D'Argenton 
 told you that I have an especial duty to perform 
 there this morning'? Come with us, will you not? " 
 
 It was Assumption Day, and Charlotte had been 
 much flattered by being asked to distribute the 
 bread. She, with her child, took the seats reserved 
 for them on a bench close to the choir. The church 
 was adorned with flowers. The choir-boys were in 
 surplices freshly ironed, and on a rustic table the 
 loaves of bread were piled high. To complete the 
 picture, all the foresters, in their green costumes, 
 with their knives in their belts and their carbines in 
 their hand^, had come to join in the Te Deum of this 
 official fete. 
 
 Ida de Barancy would have been certainly mucli 
 astonished had some one told her a year, before, that 
 she would one day assist at a religious festival in a 
 village church, under the name of the Vicomtesso 
 
CECILE. 167 
 
 D'Argenton, and that she Avould have all the consid- 
 eration and prestige of a married woman. This now 
 role amused and interested her. She corrected Jack, 
 turned the pages of her prayer-book, and shook out 
 her rustling silk skirts in the most edifying fashion. 
 
 When it was time for the offertory, the tall Swiss, 
 nrmed with a halberd, came for Jack, and bending 
 low whispered in his mother's ear a question as to 
 what little girl should be chosen to assist him; Char- 
 lotte hesitated, for she knew so few persons in the 
 church. Then the Swiss suggested Dr. Eivals' 
 grandchild — a little girl on the opposite side sitting 
 next an old lady in black. The two children walked 
 slowly behind the majestic official, C<;cile carrying 
 a velvet bag much too large for her little fingers, 
 and Jack bearing an enormous wax candle orna- 
 mented with floating ribbons and artificial flowers. 
 They were both charming: he in his Scotch costume, 
 and she simply dressed, with waves of soft brown 
 hair parted on her childish brow, and her face illumi- 
 nated by large gray eyes. The breath of fresh flow- 
 ers mingled with the fumes of incense that hung in 
 clouds throughout the church. C^cile presented her 
 bag with a gentle, imploring smile. Jack was very 
 grave. The little fluttering hand in its thread glove, 
 which he held in his own, reminded him of a bird 
 that he had once taken from its nest in the-forest. Did 
 he dream that the little girl would be his best friend, 
 and that, later, all that was most precious in life for 
 him would come from her? 
 
 " They would make a pretty pair," said an old 
 woman, as the children passed her, and in a lower 
 
1G8 JACK. 
 
 voice adileil, •' Poor littlo soul, I hope she will bo 
 more fortunate than her motliGr ! " 
 
 Tlieir duties over, Jack returned to his place, still 
 under the influence of the hand he had so lightly 
 held. But additional pleasure was in store for him. 
 As they left the church, Madame Eivals approached 
 Madame D'Argenton and asked permission to take 
 Jack home with her to breakfast. Charlotte colored 
 high with gratification, straightened the boy's neck- 
 tie, and, kissing him, whispered, " Be a good child ! " 
 
 From this day forth, when Jack was not at home 
 he was at the old doctor's, who lived in a house 
 in no degree better than that of his neighbors, 
 and only distinguished from them by the words 
 Night-Bell on a brass plate above a small button 
 at the side of the door. The walls were black with 
 age. Here and there, however, an observant eye 
 could sec that some attempts had been made to 
 rejuvenate the mansion ; but everything of that na- 
 ture had been interrupted on the day of their great 
 sorrow, and the old people had never had the heart 
 to go on with their improvements since ; an un- 
 finished summer-house seemed to say, with a dis- 
 couraged air, " What is the use? " The garden was 
 in a complete, state of neglect. Grass grew over the 
 walks, and weeds choked the fountain. The human 
 beings in the house had much the same air. From 
 Madame Rivals, who, eight years after her daughter's 
 deatli, still wore the deepest of black, down to little 
 Cccile, whoso childish face had a precocious expres- 
 sion of sorrow, and the old servant who for a quarter 
 of a century had shared the griefs and sorrows of 
 
CECILE. 1G9 
 
 the family, — all seemed to live in an atmosphere of 
 eternal regret. The doctor, who kept up a certain 
 intercourse with the outer world, was the only one 
 who was ever cheerful. 
 
 To Madame Rivals, C^cile was at once a blessing 
 and a sorrow, for the child was a perpetual reminder 
 of the daughter she had lost. To the doctor, on the 
 contrary, it seemed that the little girl had taken her 
 mother's place, and sometimes, when he was with 
 her alone, he would give way to a loud and merry 
 laugh, which would be quickly silenced on meeting 
 his wife's sad eyes, full of astonished reproach. 
 
 Little C^cile's life was by no means a gay one. 
 She lived in the garden, or in a large room where a 
 door, that was always closed, led to the apartment that 
 had once been her mother's, and which was full of the 
 souvenirs of that short life. Madame Rivals alone 
 ever entered this room, but little C^ciie often stood 
 on the threshold, awed and silent. The child had 
 never been sent to school, and this isolation was very 
 bad for her; she needed the association of other chil- 
 dren. " Let us ask little D'Argenton here," said her 
 grandfather : " the boj' is charming ! " 
 
 " Yes ; but who knows anything about these peo- 
 ple? Whence do they come ?" answered his wife. 
 "Who knows them?" 
 
 " Everybody, my dear. The husband is very ec- 
 centric, certainly', but he is an artist, or a journalist 
 rather, and they are privileged. The woman is not 
 quite a lady, I admit, but she is well enough. I will 
 answer for their respectabilitj'." 
 
 Madame Rivals shook her head. She had but 
 
170 JACK. 
 
 slight confidence in her husband's insight into char- 
 acter, and sighed in an ostentatious wa}'. 
 
 Old Rivals colored guiltily, but returned in a mo- 
 ment to his original idea. 
 
 " The child will be ill if she has not some change. 
 ^Besides, what harm could possibly happen ? " 
 
 The grandmother then consented, and Jack and 
 Cdeile became close companions. The old lady grew 
 very fond of the little fellow. She saw that he was 
 neglected at home, that the buttons were off his 
 coat, and that he had no lesson-hours. 
 
 " Do you not go to school, my dear ? " 
 
 " No, madame," was the answer ; and then quickly 
 added, — for a child's instinct is very delicate, — 
 " Mamma teaches me." ' 
 
 " I cannot understand," said Madame Rivals to her 
 husband, " how they can let this child grow up in 
 this waj', idling his time from morning till night." 
 
 " The child is not very clever," answered the doc- 
 tor, anxious to excuse his friends. 
 
 " No, it is not that ; it is that his stepfather does 
 not like him." 
 
 Jack's best friends were in the doctor's house. 
 Cdeile adored him. They played together in the 
 garden if the weather was fair, in the pharmacy if it 
 was stormy. Madame Rivals was alwa3's there, and 
 as there was no apothecary's store in Etioiles, put 
 up simple prescriptions herself. She had done this 
 for so many j'ears, that she had attained considerable 
 experience, and was often consulted in her husband's 
 absence. The children found vast amusement iu 
 deciphering the labels on tlie bottles, and pasting on 
 
CECILE. 171 
 
 new ones. Jack did this with all a boy's awkward- 
 ness, while little Cocile used her hands as gravely 
 and deftly as a woman grown. 
 
 The old phj'sician delighted in taking the children 
 with him when he went about the country to visit 
 his patients. The carriage was large, the childjen 
 fimall, so that the three were stowed in very com- 
 fortably, and merrily jogged over the rough roads. 
 Wherever they went they were warmly welcomed, 
 and while the doctor climbed the narrow stairs, the 
 children roamed at will through the farm-yard and 
 fields. 
 
 Illness among these peasant homes assumes a very 
 singular aspect. It is never allowed to interfere 
 with the routine and labors of daily life. The ani- 
 mals must be fed and housed for the niglit, and 
 driven out to pasture in the morning, whether the 
 iarmer be well or ill. If ill, the wife has no time to 
 nurse him, or even to be anxious. After a hard day's 
 toil she throws herself on her pallet and sleeps sound- 
 ly until dawn, while her good man tosses fever- 
 ishly at her side, longing for morning. Every one 
 worshipped the doctor, who they affirmed would 
 have been very rich, had he not been so generous. 
 
 His professional visits over, the old man and the 
 children started for home. The Seine, misty and 
 dark with the approach of evening, had yet occa- 
 sional bars of golden light crossing its surface. 
 Slender trees, with their foliage heavily massed at 
 the top, like palms, and the low white houses along 
 the brink, gave a vague suggestion of an Eastern 
 scene. " It is like Nazareth," said little Cocile ; and 
 
172 JACK. 
 
 the two children told each other stories while the 
 carriage rolled slowly homeward. 
 
 Doctor Rivals soon discovered that Jack was by 
 no means wanting in intelligence, and determined, 
 with his natural kindness of heart, to himself supply 
 the great deficiencies in education by giving him an 
 hour's instruction daily. Those of my readers who 
 are in the habit of enjoying a siesta after dinner, will 
 appreciate the sacrifice made by the old man, when 
 I add that it was this precise time that he now freely 
 gave to the little boy, who, in his turn, gratefully 
 applied himself with his whole heart to his lessons. 
 Cdcile was almost always present, and was as pleased 
 as Jack himself when her grandfather, examining the 
 copy-book, said, " Well done ! " To his mother. Jack 
 said nothing of his'labors ; he determined to prove to 
 her at some future day that the diagnosis of the poet 
 had been incorrect. This concealment was rendered 
 very easy, as the mother grew hourly more and more 
 indifferent to her child, and more completely ab- 
 sorbed in D'Argenton. The boy's comings and go- 
 ings were almost unnoticed. His seat at the table 
 was often vacant, but no one asked where he had 
 been. New guests filled the board, for D'Argenton 
 kept open house ; yet the poet was by no means gen- 
 erous in his hospitality, and when -Charlotte would 
 say to him, timidly, " I am out of mono}', my friend," 
 he would reply by a wry face and the word, " Al- 
 ready ? " But vanity was stronger than avarice, and 
 the pleasure of patronizing his old friends, the Bo- 
 liemians, with whom he had formerly lived, carried 
 the day. They all knew that he had a pleasant 
 
CECILS. 173 
 
 home, that the air was good and the table better ; 
 consequently, one would say to another, " Who wants 
 to go to Etiolles to-night ? " They came in droves. 
 
 Poor Charlotte was in despair. " Madame Arcliam- 
 bauld, are there eggs ? — is there any game ? Com- 
 jiany has come, and what shall we give them ? " 
 
 " Anj'thing will suit, madame, I fancy, for they 
 look half starved," said the old woman, astonished 
 at the unkempt, unshorn, and hungry aspect of her 
 master's friends. 
 
 D'Argenton delighted in showing them over the 
 house ; and then they dispersed to the fields, to the 
 river-side, and into the forest, as happy and frolic- 
 some as old horses turned out to grass. In the fresh 
 countr}', in the full sunlight, those rusty coats and 
 worn faces seenaed more rusty and more worn than 
 when seen in Paris; but they were happy, and D'Ar- 
 genton radiant. No one ventured to dispute his 
 eternal " I think," and " I know." Was he not the 
 master of the house, and had he not the key of the 
 wine cellar? 
 
 Charlotte^ too, was well pleased. It was to her 
 inconsequent nature and Bohemian instincts a re- 
 newal of the excitement of her old life. She was 
 flattered and admired, and, while remaining true to 
 her poet, was pleased to show him that she bad not 
 lost her power of charming. 
 
 Months passed on. The little house was enveloped 
 in the melancholy mists of autumn ; then winter snows 
 whitened the roof, followed by the fierce winds of 
 March ; and finally a new spring, with its lilacs and 
 
174 JACK. 
 
 violets, gladdened the hearts of tlie inmates of tlio 
 cottage. Nothing was changed there. D'Argenton, 
 perhaps, had two or throe new symptoms, dignified 
 by Doctor Hirsch with singular names. Charlotte was 
 as totally without salient characteristics, as pretty 
 and sentimental, as she had always been. Jack had 
 grown and developed amazingly, and having studied 
 industriously, knew quite as much as other boys of 
 his age. 
 
 '•' Send him to school now," said Doctor Rivals to 
 his mother, " and I answer for his making a figure." 
 
 " Ah, doctor, how good you are !" cried Charlotte, 
 a little ashamed, and feeling the indirect reproach 
 conveyed in the interest expressed by a stranger, as 
 contrasted with her own indifference. 
 
 D'Argenton answered coldly that he would reflect 
 upon the matter, that he had grave objections to a 
 school, <fec., and when alone with Charlotte, expressed 
 his indignation at the doctor's interference, but from 
 that time took more interest in the movements of the 
 bo3^ 
 
 "Come here, sir," said Labassandre, one day, to 
 .lack. The child obeyed somewhat anxiously. " Who 
 made that net in the chestnut-tree at the foot of the 
 garden ? " 
 
 " It was I, sir." 
 
 C^cile had expressed a wish for a living squirrel, 
 and Jack had manufactured a most ingenious snare 
 of steel wire. 
 
 "Did you make it yourself, without any aid? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," answered the child. 
 
 " It is wonderful, very wonderful," continued the 
 
CELILE. 175 
 
 singer, turning to the others. " The child 1ms a 
 positive genius for mechanics." 
 
 In the evening tliere was a grand discussion. 
 " Yes, madame," said Labassandre, addressing Char- 
 lotte ; " the. man of the future, the coming man, is 
 the mechanic. Rank has had its day, the middle 
 classes theirs, and now it is the workman's turn. 
 You may to-day despise his horny hands, in twenty 
 years he will lead the Avorld." 
 
 " He is right," interrupted D'Argenton, and Doc- 
 tor Hirscli nodded approvingl}'. Singularly enough, 
 Jack, who generally heard the conversation going on 
 about him without heeding it, on this occasion felt 
 a keen interest, as if he had a presentiment of the 
 future. 
 
 Labassandre described his former life as a black- 
 smith at the village forge. " You know, my friends," 
 he said, " whether I have been successful. You 
 know that I have had plenty of applause, and of 
 medals. You may believe me or not, as you please, 
 but I assure you I would part with all sooner than 
 with this;" and the man rolled up his shirt-sleevo 
 and displayed an enormous arm tattooed in red and 
 blue. Two blacksmith's hammers were crossed with- 
 in a circle of oak-leaves; an inscription was above 
 these emblems in small letters : Work and Liberty. 
 Labassandre proceeded to deplore the unhappy liour 
 when the manager of the opera at Nautes had heard 
 him sing. Had he been let alone, he would by this 
 time have been the proprietor of a large machine 
 shop, with a provision laid up for his old age. 
 
 " Yes," said Charlotte, ' but you were very strong, 
 
176 JACK. 
 
 and I have heard you say that the life was a hard 
 one." 
 
 " Precisely; but I am inclined to believe that the 
 individual in question is suflSciently robust." 
 
 " I will answer for that," said Dr. Hirsch. 
 
 Charlotte made other objections. She hinted that 
 some natures were more refined than others — " that 
 certain aristocratic instincts — " 
 
 Here D'Argenton interrupted her in a rage. 
 " What nonsense 1 My friends occupy themselves in 
 your behalf, and then you find fault, and utter absur- 
 dities."' 
 
 Charlotte burst into tears. Jack ran away, for he 
 felt a strong desire to fly at the throat of the tyrant 
 who had spoken so roughly to his pretty mother. 
 
 Nothing more was said for some days ; but the 
 child noticed a change in his mother's manner to- 
 ward him: s-he kissed Lim often, and kissed him 
 with that lingering tenderness we show to those we 
 love and from whom we are about to part. Jack was 
 the more troubled as he beard D'Argenton say to Dr. 
 Eivals, with a satirical smile, ■' Wo are all busy, sir, 
 in 3'our pupil's interest. You will hear some news in 
 a few days that will astonish you." 
 
 The old man was delighted, and said to his wife, 
 "You see, my dear, that I did well to make them 
 open their eyes." 
 
 " Who knows ? I distrust that man, and do not 
 believe he intends any good to the child. It is bet- 
 ter sometimes that your enemy should sit with folded 
 arms than trouble himself about you." 
 
LIFE IS NOT A ROMANCE. 177 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 LIFE IS NOT A ROMANCE. 
 
 One Sunday morning, just after the arrival of tlio 
 train that had brought Labassandre and a noisy band 
 of friends, Jack, who was in the garden busy with his 
 squirrel-net, heard his mother call him. Her voice 
 came from the window of the poet's room. Some- 
 thing in its tone, or a certain instinct so marked in 
 some persons, told the child that the crisis had come, 
 and he tremblingly ascended the stairs. On the 
 Henri Deux chair D'Argenton sat, throned as it were, 
 while Labassandre and Dr. Hirsch stood on either 
 side. Jack saw at once that there were the tribu- 
 nal, the judge, and the witnesses, while his mother 
 sat a little apart at an open window. 
 
 " Come here 1 " said the poet, sternly, and with 
 such an assumption of dignity that one was tempted 
 to believe that the Henry Deux chair itself had 
 spoken. " 1 have often told you that lile is not a 
 romance ; j'ou have seen me crushed, worn and weaiy 
 with my literary labors ; your turn has now come to 
 enter the arena. You are a man," — the child was 
 but twelve, — " you are a man now, and must prove 
 yourself to be one. For a j'car, — the year that I 
 have been supposed to neglect you, — I have per- 
 12 
 
178 JACK. 
 
 mitted you to run free, and, thanks to my peculiar 
 talents of observation, I have been able to decide on 
 your path in life. I have watched the development 
 of your instincts, tastes, and habits, and, with your 
 mother's consent, have taken a step of importance." 
 Jack was frightened, and turned to his mother for 
 sympathy. Charlotte still sat gazing from the win- 
 dow, shading her eyes from the sun. D'Argenton 
 called on Labassandre to produce the letter he had 
 received. The singer pulled out a large, ill-folded 
 peasant's letter, and read it aloud : — 
 
 "Foundry d'Indret. 
 " My Deai! Brother : I have spoken to the mas- 
 ter in regard to the young man, j'our 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 Avife and 
 Zdnaide send messages. Rondic." 
 
 " You hear. Jack," interrupted D'Argenton ; " in 
 four years j'ou will hold a position second to none in 
 tlic world, — you will be a good woi'kman." 
 
 The child had seen the working classes in Paris ; 
 above all, ho had seen a noisy crowd of men in dirty 
 blouses leaving a shop at six o'clock in the PassMje 
 des Douze Maisons. The idea of wearing a blouse 
 was the first that struck him. He remembered his 
 mother's tone of contempt, — "Those are workmen, 
 those men in blouses ! " — he remembered the care 
 with which she avoided touching them in the street 
 as she passed. But he was more moved at the 
 
LIFE IS NOT A ROMANCE. 179 
 
 thought of leaving the beautiful forest, the summits 
 of whose waving trees he even now caught a 
 glimpse of from the window, the Eivals, and above 
 all his mother, whom he loved so much and had 
 found again after so much difficulty. 
 
 Charlotte, at the open window, shivered from head 
 to foot, and her hand dashed away a tear. Was she 
 watching in that western sk}' the fading away of all 
 her dreams, her illusions, and her hopes ? 
 
 " Then must I go away?" asked the child, faintly. 
 
 The men smiled pityingly, and from the window 
 came a great sob. 
 
 " In a week we will go, my boy," said Labassandrc, 
 cheeringly. But D'Argenton, with a frown directed 
 to the window, said, " You can leave the room now, 
 and be ready for your journey in a week." 
 
 Jack ran down the stairs, and out into the village 
 street, and did not stop to take breath until he 
 reached the house of Dr. Rivals, who listened to his 
 story with indignation. 
 
 " It is preposterous ! " he cried. " The very idea 
 of making a mechanic of j'ou is absurd. I will see 
 your father at once." 
 
 The persons who saw the two pass through the 
 ftreet — the doctor gesticulating, and little Jack 
 without a hat — • concluded that some one must bo 
 ill at Aulnettcs. This was not the case, however ; 
 for Dr. Rivals heard loud talking and laughing as ho 
 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, air '" 
 said Mr. Rivals. 
 
180 JACK. 
 
 " We are among friends," answered D'Argonton, 
 " and have no secrets. You have something to say, 
 I suppose, in regard to Jack. These gentlemen 
 know all that I have done for him, my motives, and 
 the peculiar circumstances of the case." 
 
 " But, my friend " — Charlotte said, timidly, fear- 
 ing the explanation that was forthcoming. 
 
 " Go on, doctor," interrupted the poet, sternly. 
 
 " Jack has just told rue that you have apprenticed 
 him to the Forge at Indrct. This, of course, is a 
 mistake on his part." 
 
 " Not in the least, sir." 
 
 " But 3'ou can have no conception of the child's 
 nature, nor of his constitution. It is his health, his 
 very existence, witli which you are trifling. I 
 assure you, madame," he continued, turning toward 
 Charlotte, " that 3'our child could not endure such a 
 life. I am speaking now simply of his ph^'siquc. 
 Mentally and spiritually, he is equally unfitted for it." 
 
 "You are mistaken, doctor," interrupted D'Argon- 
 ton ; " 1 know the boy better than you possibly can. 
 Ho is only fit for manual labor, and now that I offer 
 him the opportunity of earning his duilj' bread in 
 this way, of exercising the one talent he may have, 
 ho goes to you and- makes complaints of me." 
 
 Jack tried to excuse himself. His friend bade 
 him be silent, and continued, — 
 
 " He did not complain to mc. He simpl}' informed 
 me of your decision. I told him to come at once to 
 his motiier, and to you, and entreat you to reconsider 
 your determination, and not degrade him in this 
 way." 
 
LIFE IS NOT A RO^fANCE. 181 
 
 "I den}' tliG degradation," shouted Labassandre. 
 " Manual labor does not degrade a man. The Sav- 
 iour of the world was' a carpenter." 
 
 " That is true," murmured Charlotte, before whose 
 ej'es at once floated a vision of her boy as the infant 
 Jesus in a procession on some feast-day. 
 
 " Do not listen to such utter nonsense, dear ma- 
 dame," cried the doctor, exasperated out of all pa- 
 tience. " To make your boy a mechanic is to sep- 
 arate from him forever. You might send him to the 
 other end of the world, and yet he would not be so 
 far from you. You will see when it is too late ; the 
 day will come that you will blush for him, wlien ho 
 will appear before 3'ou, not as the loving, tender son, 
 but humble and servile, as holding a social position 
 far inferior to j'our own." 
 
 Jack, who had not yet said a word, dismayed at 
 this vivid picture of the future, started up from his 
 seat in the coruer. 
 
 " I will not be a mechanic ! " he said, in a firm 
 voice. 
 
 " 0, Jack ! " cried bis mother, in consternation. 
 
 But D'ArgentoU' thundered out, " You will not be 
 a mechanic, you say ? But you will eat, and sleep, 
 and be clothed at my expense ! No, sir ; I have had 
 enough of you, and I never cared much for parasites." 
 Then, suddenly cooling down, he concluded in a lower 
 tone by a command to the boy to retire to his bed- 
 room. There the child heard a loud and angry dis- 
 cussion going on below, but the words were not to 
 be understood. Suddenly the hall-door opened, and 
 Mr. Rivals was heard to say, — 
 
182 JACK. 
 
 " May I be banged if I ever cross this threshold 
 again ! " 
 
 At this moment Charlotte came in, her eyes red 
 with weeping. For the first time she seemed to 
 have lost all consciousness of self, and had laid aside 
 her role of the coquettish, pretty woman. The tears 
 she liad shed bid been those that age a mother's 
 face, and leave ineffaceable marks upon it. 
 
 " Listen to me. Jack," she said, tenderly. " You 
 have made mo very unhappy. You have been im- 
 pertinent and ungrateful to your best friends. I 
 know, my child, that you will be happy in your new 
 life. I acknowledge that at first I was troubled at 
 the idea; but you heai'd what they said, did you not? 
 A mechanic is very different noAvadays from what 
 it was once. And, besides, at your age you should 
 rely on the judgment of those older than yourself, 
 who have only your interests at heart." 
 
 A sob from the child interrupted her. 
 
 " Then you, too, send me away ! " 
 
 The mother snatched him to her heart, and kissed 
 him passionately. " I send you away, my darling ! 
 You know that if the matter rested with me, you 
 should never leave me ; but, my child, we must both 
 of us be reasonable, and think a little of the future, 
 which is dreary enough for us." And then Charlotte 
 hesitatingly continued, " You know, dear, you are 
 very young, and there are many things you cannot 
 understand. Some day, when 5-ou are older, I will 
 tell you the secret of your birth. It is an absolute 
 romance: some day you shall learn your father's name. 
 But now all that is necessary for you to understand 
 
LIFE IS NOT A ROMANCE. 183 
 
 is, that we have not a penny in the world, and are 
 absolutely dependent on — D'Argenton." This name 
 the poor woman uttered with shame and hesitation, 
 accompanied, at the same time, with a touching look 
 of appeal to her son. " I cannot," she continued, 
 " ask him to do anj'thing more for us ; he has already 
 done so much. Besides, he is not rich. What am 1 
 to do between you both? Ah, if I could only go in 
 your place to Indret and earn my bread ! And yet 
 3'ou would refuse an opening that gives you a cer- 
 tainty of earning your livelihood, and of becoming 
 your own master." 
 
 By the sparkle in her boy's eyes the mother saw 
 that these words had struck home, and in a caressing 
 tone she continued, " Do this for me. Jack ; do this 
 for your mother. The time may come when I shall 
 have to look to you as my sole support." Did she 
 really believe her own words? Was it a presenti- 
 ment, one of those momentary flashes of light that 
 illuminate the future's dark horizon? or had she 
 simply talked for effect? 
 
 At all events, she could have found no better way 
 to conquer this generous nature. The effect was 
 instantaneous. The idea that his mother some day 
 would lean on him suddenly decided him to yield at 
 once. He looked her straight in the ej^es. " Prom- 
 ise me that you Avill never be ashamed of me when 
 my hands are black, and that you will always love 
 me." 
 
 She covered her boy with kisses, concealing in 
 this way her trouble and remorse, for from this time 
 henceforward the unhappy woman was a prey to 
 
184 JACK. 
 
 remorse, and never thought of her child without an 
 agonized contraction of the heart. 
 
 But he, supposing that her embarrassment came 
 from anxiety, and possibly from shame, tore himself 
 awa)', and ran toward the stairs. 
 
 '■' Come, mamma, I will tell him that I accept." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, sir," said the little fellow to 
 D'Argenton, as he opened the door; "I was very 
 wrong iu refusing your kindness. I accept it with 
 thanks." 
 
 " I am happy to find that reflection has taught you 
 wisdom. But now express your gratitude to M. 
 Labassandre : it is he to whom you are indebted." 
 
 The child extended his hand, which was quickly 
 ingulfed in the enormous paw of the artist. 
 
 This last week Jack spent in his former haunts he 
 was more anxious than sad, and the responsibility he 
 felt made itself seen in two little wrinkles on his 
 childish brow. He was determined not to go away 
 without seeing C^cile. 
 
 '' But, my deal", after the scene here the other day, 
 it would not be suitable," remonstrated his mother. 
 But the night before Jack's departure, D'Argenton, 
 full of triumph at the success of his plans, consented 
 that the boy should take leave of his friends. He 
 went there in the evening. The house was dark, 
 save a streak of light coming from the library — if 
 library it could be called — a mere closet, crammed 
 with books. The doctor was there, and exclaimed, 
 as the door opened, " I was afraid they Avould not let 
 you come to say good-bye, my boy ! It was partially 
 my fault. I was too quick-tempered by far. My 
 
LIFE IS NOT A ROMANCE. 185 
 
 wife scolded mo well. She has gone away, j'ou 
 know, with Cc^cile, to pass a month in the Pyrenees 
 with my sister. The child was not well; I think I 
 told her of your impending departure too abruptly. 
 Ah, these children ! wo think they do not feel, but 
 wo are mistaken, and they feel quite as deeply as 
 wo ourselves." He spoke to Jack as one man to 
 another. In fact, every one treated him in the same 
 way at present. And yet the little fellow now burst 
 into a violent passion of tears at the thought of his 
 little friend having gone away without his seeing her. 
 
 " Do you know what I am doing now, my lad ? " 
 asked the old man. " Well, I am selecting some 
 books that you must read carefully. Employ in this 
 way every leisure moment. Remember that books 
 arc our best friends. I do not think you will under- 
 stand this just yet, but one day you will do so, I 
 am sure. In the mean time, promise me to read 
 them," — the old man kissed the boy twice, — "for 
 ,C^cile and myself," he said, kindly ; and, as the door 
 closed, the child heard him say, '• Poor child, poor 
 child I " 
 
 The words were the same as at the Jesuits' Col- 
 lege ; but by this time Jack had learned why they 
 pitied him. . The next morning they started, La- 
 bassandre in a most extraordinary costume, dressed, 
 in fact, for an expedition across the Pampas, — high 
 gaiters, a green velvet vest, a knapsack, and a knife 
 in his girdle. The poet was at once solemn and 
 happy : solemn, because he felt that he had accom- 
 plished a great duty; happy, because this departure 
 filled him with joy. 
 
186 JACK. 
 
 Charlotte embraced Jack tenderly and with tears. 
 " You will take good care of him, M. Labassandre ? " 
 
 " As of my best note, madame." 
 
 Charlotte sobbed. The boy sought to hide his 
 emotion, for the thought of working for his mother 
 had given him courage and strength. At the end 
 of the garden path he turned once more, that he 
 might carry away in his memory a last picture of 
 the house, and the face of the woman who smiled 
 through her tears. 
 
 " Write often ! " cried the mother. 
 
 And the poet shouted, in stentorian tones, " Re- 
 member, Jack, life is not a romance ! " 
 
 Life is not a romance ; but was it not one for him ? 
 The selfish egotist 1 He stood on the threshold of 
 his little home, with one hand on Charlotte's shoul- 
 der, the roses in bloom all about him, and he himself 
 in a pose pretentious enough for a photograph, and 
 so radiant at having won the day, that he forgot his 
 hatred, and waved a paternal adieu to the child he 
 had driven from the shelter of his roof. 
 
INDRET. 187 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 INDEET. 
 
 The opera-singer stood upright in the boat and 
 cried, " Is not the scene beautiful, Jack? " 
 
 It was about four o'clock — a July evening ; the 
 waves glittered in the sunlight, and the air palpitated 
 with heat. Large sails, that in the golden atmof phero 
 looked snowy white, passed by from time to time ; 
 they were boats from Noirmoutiers, loaded to the 
 brim with sparkling white salt. Peasants in their 
 picturesque costumes were crowded in, and the caps 
 of the women were as white as the salt. Other boats 
 were laden with grain. Occasionally a three-masted 
 vessel came slowly up the stream, arriving, perhaps, 
 from the end of the world after a two years' voyage, 
 and bearing with it something of the poetry and 
 mystery of other lands. A fresh breeze came from 
 the sea, and made one long for the deep blue of the 
 ocean. 
 
 " And Indret — where is it ? " asked Jack. 
 
 " There, that island opposite." 
 
 Through the silvery mists that enveloped the 
 island, Jack saw dimly a row of poplar-trees, and 
 some high chimneys from which poured out a thick 
 black smoke; at the same time he heard loud blows 
 
188 JACK. 
 
 of hammers on iron, and a continual whistling and 
 puiSiig, as if the island itself had been an enormous 
 steamer. As the boat slowly made her way to the 
 wharf, the child saw long, low buildings on every 
 side, and close at the river-side a row of enormous 
 furnaces, which were filled from the water by coal 
 barges. 
 
 '' There is Eondic ! " cried the opera-singer, and 
 from his stupendous chest sent forth a hurrah so 
 formidable that it was heard above all the clatter of 
 machinery. 
 
 The boat stopped, and the brothers met with cfi"u- 
 sion. The two res3mbled each other very much, 
 though Eondic was older and not so stout. His. face 
 was closely shaven, and he wore a sailor's hat that 
 shaded a true Breton peasant face tanned by the 
 sea, and a pair of eyes as keen as steel. 
 
 " And how are you all ? " asked Labassandro. 
 
 " Well enough, well, enough, thank Heaven 1 And 
 this is our new apprentice? — he looks very small 
 and not over-strong." 
 
 " Strong as an ox, my dear ; and warranted by all 
 the physicians in Paris ! " 
 
 " So much the better, for it is a hard life here. 
 13ut now hasten, for we must present ourselves to 
 the Director at once.". 
 
 The3^turned into a long avenue lined by fine trees. 
 The avenue terminated in a village street, with white 
 houses on both sides, inhabited by the master and 
 head-workmen. At this hour all was silent ; life and 
 movement were concentrated at the factory; and, but 
 for the linen drying in the yards, an occasional cry 
 
INDRET.- 189 
 
 of an infant, and a pot of flowers at the window, one 
 Avould have supposed the place uninhabited. 
 
 " Ah, the flag is lowered ! " said the singer, as they 
 reached the door. " Once that terrified me ! " and he 
 explained to Jack that when the flag was dropped 
 from the top of the staff, it meant that the doors of 
 the factory were closed. So much the Avorse for late 
 comers ; they were marked as absent, and at the third 
 offence dismissed. They were now admitted by the 
 porter. There was a frightful tumult pervading the 
 large halls which were crossed by tramways. Iron 
 bars and rolls of copper were piled between old 
 cannons brought there to be recast. Rondic pointed 
 out all the different branches of the establishment ; 
 he could not make himself understood save by ges- 
 tures, for the noise was deafening. 
 
 Jack was able to see the interiors of the various 
 workshops, the doors being set Avidely open on ac- 
 count of the heat ; he saw rapid movements of arms 
 and blackened faces; he saw machines in motion, 
 first in shadow, and then Avith a red light playing over 
 their polished surface. 
 
 Puffs of hot air, a smell of oil and of iron, accom- 
 panied by an impalpable black dust, a dust that waa 
 as sharp as needles and sparkled like diamonds, — all 
 this Jack felt ; but the peculiar characteristic of the 
 place was a certain jarring, something like the effort 
 of an enormous beast to shake off the chains that 
 bound him in some subterranean dungeon. 
 
 They had noAv reached an old chateau of the time 
 of the League. 
 
 "Here we are," said Eondic; and addressing his 
 brother, "Will you go up with us?" 
 
190 • JACK. 
 
 " Indeed I will ; I am, besides, by no means un- 
 willing to see ' the monkey ' once more, and to show 
 him that I have become somebody and something." 
 
 He pulled down his velvet vest, and glanced at 
 his yellow boots and knapsack. Rondic made no 
 remark, but seemed somewhat annoyed. 
 
 They passed through the low postern ; on either 
 side of the hall were small and badly lighted rooms, 
 where clerks were very busy Avriting. In the inner 
 room, a man with a stern and haughty face sat \\Tit- 
 ing under a high window. 
 
 " Ah, it is you, Pore Rondic ! " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; I come to present the new apprentice, 
 and to thank you for — " 
 
 "This is the prodigy, then, is it? It seems, young 
 man, that you have an absolute talent for mechanics. 
 But, Rondic, he does not look very strong. Is ho 
 delicate ? " 
 
 " No, sir ; on the contrary, I have been assured that 
 he is remarkably robust." 
 
 " Remarkably," repeated Labassandre, coming for- 
 ward, and, in reply to the astonished glance of the 
 Director, proceeded to say that he left the manufac- 
 torj' six years before to join the opera in Paris. 
 
 " Ah, 3'es, I remember," answered the Director, 
 coldly enough, rising at the same time as if to 
 indicate that the conversation was at an end. " Take 
 away your apprentice, Rondic, and try and make a 
 good workman of him. Under j'ou he must turn out 
 well." 
 
 TIio opera-singer, vexed at having produced no 
 effect, went awa}' somcwiiat crestfallen. Rondic lin- 
 
INDRET. 101 
 
 gered and said a few words to liis jnaster, and then 
 the two men and the child descended the stairs 
 together, each with a different impression. Jack 
 thought of the words " he does not look very strong," 
 while Labassandre digested his own mortification as 
 ho best might. "Has anything gone wrong?" he 
 suddenly asked his brother, — "the Director seems 
 even more surly now than in mj"^ day." 
 
 •' No ; he spoke to me of Chariot, our poor sister's 
 son, who is giving u& a great deal of trouble." 
 
 " In what way?" asked the artist. 
 
 " Since his mother's death he drinks and gambles, 
 aud has contracted debts. Ho is a wonderful 
 draughtsman, and has high wages, but spends them 
 before he has them. ' lie has promised us all to 
 a-efoi'm, but he- breaks his promises as fast as he 
 makes them. I have paid his debts for him several 
 times, but I can never do it again. I have my own 
 famil}', you see, and Zcna'ide is growing up, and she 
 must be established. Poor girl ! Women Jiave more 
 sense than we. I wanted her to marr}' her cousin, 
 but she would not consent. Now we are^trying to 
 separate him from his bad acquaintances hero, and 
 tlie Director has found a situation at Nantes; but 
 I dare say the obstinate fellow will object. You 
 will reason with him to-night, can't j'ou? lie will, 
 perhaps, listen to you." 
 
 •' I will see what I can do," answered Labassandre, 
 pompously. 
 
 As they talked they reached the main street, 
 crowded at this hour with all classes of people, some 
 in mechanics' blouses, others weariug coats. Jack 
 
192 JACK. 
 
 was struck with the contrast presented by a crowd 
 like this to one in Paris, composed of similar classes. 
 
 Labassandre was greeted with entliusiasm. The 
 whisper went about that he received a hundred 
 thousand francs per year for merely singing. His 
 theatrical costume won universal admiration, and his 
 bland smile shone first on one side and then on the 
 other, as he nodded patronizingly to first one and 
 then another of his old friends. 
 
 At the door of Rondic's house stood a j'oung wo- 
 man talking to a youth two or three steps below. 
 Jack thought she must be the old man's daughter, 
 and then remomboi'ed that he had married a second 
 time. She was tali and slender, young and pretty, 
 with a gentle face, white throat, and a graceful head 
 which bent slightly forward as if bowed by its rich 
 weight of hair. Unlike the Breton peasants, she 
 wore no cap ; her light dress and black apron were 
 totally unlike the costume of a working woman. 
 
 " Is she uot pretty ? " asked Rondic of his brother. 
 " She has been giving a lecture to her nephew." 
 
 Madame Rondic turned at that moment, and greeted 
 them warmly. " I hope," she said to the child, " that 
 you will be happy with us." 
 
 They entered the house, and as they took their 
 seats at the table, Labassandre said with a theatrical 
 start, " And where is Zdna'ide ? " 
 
 " We will not wait for her," answered Rondic ; " she 
 will be here presently. She is at work now at the 
 chateau, for she has become a famous seamstress." 
 
 " Indeed ! Then she must have learned also to keep 
 her temper well under control, if she can work at 
 
INDRET. 193 
 
 the Director's," said Labassandre, " for he is such an 
 arrogant, haughty person — " 
 
 " You are very much mistaken," interrupted Ron- 
 die; " he is, ou the contrary, a most excellent man; 
 strict, perhaps, but when a master has to manage two 
 thousand operatives, he must be somewhat of a dis- 
 ciplinarian. Is not that so, Clarisse ? " and the old 
 man turned to his wife, who, seemingly occupied with 
 her dinner, paid no attention to him. A certain pre- 
 occupation was very evident. 
 
 At this moment the youth, with whom Madame 
 Rondic had been talking at the door, came in and 
 shook hands with his uncle Labassandre, who replied 
 coldly to his greeting ; thinking, possibly', of the re- 
 monstrances he had promised to lavish upon him. 
 Z'jnaide quickly followed : a plump little girl, red and 
 out of breath ; not pretty, and square in iace and 
 figure, she looked like her father. She wore a white 
 cap, and her short skirts, and small shawl pinned 
 over her shoulders, increased her general clumsiness. 
 But her heavy eyebrows and square chin indicated 
 an unusual amount of firmness and decision, oiTeriag 
 the strongest possible contrast to the gentle, irres- 
 olute expression of her stepmother's sweet face. 
 "Without a moment's dela}-, not waiting to detach the 
 enormous shears that hung at her side, or to disem- 
 barrass herself of the needles and pins which glittered 
 on her breast like a cuirass, the girl slipped into a 
 seat next to Jack. The presence of the strangers 
 did not abash her in the least. Whatever she had to 
 sa}'- she said, simply and decidedly ; but when she 
 spoke to her cousin Chariot, it was in a vexed tone. 
 13 
 
194 JACK. 
 
 He did not appear to notice this, but replied with 
 jests which left more than one scar. 
 
 " And I wished them to marry each other," said 
 Father Rondic, in a despairing, complaining tone, as 
 he heard them dispute. 
 
 " And I made no objection," said the young man 
 with a laugh, as he looked at his cousin. 
 
 " But I did, then," answered the girl abruptly, 
 frowning and unabashed. " And I am glad of it. 
 Had I married j'ou, my handsome cousin, I should 
 have drowned myself by this time ! " 
 
 These words were said with so much unction that 
 for a few moments the handsome cousin was silent 
 and discomfited. 
 
 Clarisse was startled, and turned to her daughter- 
 in-law with a timid look of appeal. 
 
 " Listen, Cliarlot," said Rondic, anxious to change 
 the conversation : " to prove to j'ou that the Director 
 is a good man. He has found a splendid place at 
 Gu^rigny for you. You will have a better salary 
 tliere than here, and " — here Rondic hesitated, 
 glanced at the irresponsive face of the youth, then 
 at his daughter and at his wife, as if at a loss to 
 finish his phrase. 
 
 " And, it is bettor to go awaj^, uncle, than to bo 
 dismissed 1 " answered Chariot, roughly. " But I do 
 not agree with you. If the Director does not want 
 me, let him say so, — and I will then look out for 
 myself 1 " 
 
 " He is right ! " cried Labassandre, thumping loud 
 applause on the table. A hot discussion now arose ; 
 but Chariot was firm in his refusal. 
 
INDRET. 195 
 
 Z(;naide did not open her lips, but she never took 
 her eyes from her stepmother, wlio was busy about 
 the table. 
 
 " And you, mamma," said she at last, " is it not 
 your opinion that Chariot should go to Gu<irigny ? " 
 
 " Certainly, certainly," answered Madame Rondic, 
 quickly, " I think he ought to accept the offer." 
 
 Chariot rose quickly from his chair. 
 
 " Very well," he said, moodil^-^, " since every one 
 wishes to get rid of me here, it is easy for me to de- 
 cide. I shall leave in a week ; in the meantime I do 
 not wish to hear any more about it." 
 
 The men now adjourned to a table in the garden, 
 neighbors came in, and to each as he entered Rondic 
 offered a measure of wine ; they smoked their pipes, 
 and talked and laughed loudlj"^ and roughly. 
 
 Jack listened to them sadly. " Must I become like 
 these ? " he said to himself, with a thrill of horror. 
 
 During the evening Rondic presented the lad to 
 the foreman of the workshops. Labescam, a heavy 
 Cyclops, opened his eyes wide when he saw his future 
 ■apprentice, dressed like a gentleman, with sucli 
 dainty white hands. Jack was very delicate and 
 girlish in his appearance. His curls were cut, to be 
 sure, but the short hair was in crisp waves, and the 
 air of distinction characteristic of the bo}', and 
 which so irritated D'Argenton, was more apparent in 
 his present surroundings than in his former home. 
 Labescam muttered that lie looked like a sick chicken. 
 
 " 0," said Rondic, " it is only the fatigue of his 
 journey and these clothes that give him that look ; " 
 and then turning to his \yife^ tlie goo4 Joan said, 
 
196 JACK. 
 
 " You must find a Mouse for the apprentice ; and 
 now send him to bed, he is half asleep, and to-morrow 
 the poor lad must be up at five o'clock ! " 
 
 The two women took Jack into the house : it was 
 small and of two stories, the first floor divided into two 
 rooms — one called the parlor, which had a sofa, arm- 
 chairs, and some large shells on the chimney-piece. 
 
 One of the rooms above was nearly filled by a 
 very large bed hung with damask curtains trimmed 
 with heavy ball fringe. In Zi^naide's room the bed 
 was in the wall, in the old Breton style. A wardrobe 
 of carved oak filled one side of the room ; a crucifix 
 and holy images, hung over by rosaries of all kinds, 
 made of ivory, shells, and American corn, completed 
 the simple arrangements. In a corner, however, 
 stood a screen which concealed the ladder that led 
 to the loft where the apprentice was to sleep. 
 
 " This is my room," said Z(5naide, " and you, my 
 boy, will be up there just over m}' head. But never 
 mind that ; you may dance as much as you please, I 
 sleep too soundly to be disturbed." 
 
 A lantern was given to him. He said good-night, 
 and climbed to his loft, which even at that hour of the 
 night was stifling. A narrow window in the roof was 
 all there was. The dormitory at Moronval had pre- 
 pared Jack for strange sleeping-places ; but there he 
 had companionship in his miseries: hero he had no 
 Madou, here he had nobod3^ The child looked about 
 him. On the bed lay his costume for the next day ; 
 the large pantaloons of blue cloth and the blouse 
 looked as if some person had thrown himself down 
 exhausted with fatigue. 
 
INDRET. 197 
 
 Jack said half aloud, " It is I lying there ! " and 
 while he stood, sadly enough, he heard the confused 
 noise of the men in the garden, and at the same time 
 an earnest discussion in the room below between 
 Zenaide and her stepmother. 
 
 The young girl's voice was easily distinguished, 
 heavy like a man's ; Madame Kondic's tones, on the 
 contrary, were thin and flute-like, and seemed at 
 times choked by tears. 
 
 '' And he is going ! " she cried, with more passion 
 than her ordinary appearance would have led one to 
 suppose her capable of. 
 
 Then Zcnaide spoke — remonstrating, reasoning. 
 
 Jack felt himself in a new world; he was half 
 afraid of all these people, but the memor3^ of his 
 mother sustained him. He thought of her as ho 
 looked at the sky set thick with stars. Suddenly he 
 heard a long, shivering sigh and a sob, and found 
 that Madame Eondic was looking out into the night, 
 and weeping like himself, at a window below. 
 
 In the morning, Father Eondic called him; he swal- 
 lowed a tumbler of wine and ate a crust of bread, 
 and hurried to the machine-sliop. And there, could 
 his foolish mother have seen him, how quickly would 
 she have taken her child from his laborious task, for 
 which he was so totally unfitted by nature and edu- 
 cation. The regulations for lack of punctuality were 
 very strict. The first offence was a fine, and the 
 third absolute dismissal. Jack was generally at the 
 door before the first sound of the bell : but one daj', 
 two or three months alter his arrival on the island, 
 he was delayed by the ill-nature of others. His hat 
 
198 JACK. 
 
 had been blown away by a sudden gust of wind just 
 as he reached the forge. " Stop it I " cried the child, 
 running after it. Just as he reached it, an apprentice 
 coming up the street gave the hat a kick and sent it 
 on ; another did the same, and then another. This 
 was very amusing to all save Jack, who, out of breath 
 and angry, felt a strong desire to weep, for he knew 
 that a positive hatred toward him was hidden under all 
 this apparent jesting. In the meantime the bell was 
 sounding its last strokes, and the child was compelled 
 to relinquish the useless pursuit. He was utterly 
 wretched, for it was no small expense to buy a new 
 cap ; he must write to his mother for money, and 
 D'Argenton would read the letter. This was bad 
 enough ; but the consciousness that lie was disliked 
 among his fellow-workmen troubled him still more. 
 
 Some persons need tenderness as plants need heat 
 to sustain life. Jack was one of these, and he asked 
 himself sadly why no one loved him in his new abid- 
 ing-place. Just as he arrived at the open, door, ho 
 heard quick breathing behind him, a heavy hand was 
 laid on his shoulder, and turning, he saw a smiling, 
 hideous face, wiiile a rough hand extended the miss- 
 ing cap. Where had he seen that face ? "I have 
 it I " he cried at last ; but at that moment there was 
 no time to renew his acquaintance with the pedler, 
 to whom, and to whose fragile stock of goods, ho 
 had given such timely shelter on that showery 
 summer's day. 
 
 The child's spirits rose, he was less sad, less lonely. 
 While his hands were busy with Iiis monotonous toil, 
 his mind was occupied with thoughts of the past: 
 
INDRET. 199 
 
 he saw again the lovely country road near liis 
 mother's house ; he heard the low rumbling of the 
 doctor's gig, and felt the fresh breeze from the river, 
 even there in the stifling atmosphere of the machine- 
 shop. 
 
 That evening he searched for B^lisaire, but in 
 vain ; again the next day, but could learn nothing of 
 him; and by degrees the uncouth face that had 
 revived so many beautiful memories in the child's 
 sick heart faded and died away, and he was again 
 left alone. 
 
 The boy was far from a favorite among the men ; 
 they teased, and played practical jokes upon him. 
 Sunda}- was his only day of rest and relaxation. 
 Then, with one of Dr. Rivals' books. Jack sought a 
 quiet nook on the bank of the river. He had found 
 a deep fissure in the rocks, where he sat quite con- 
 cealed from view, his book open on his knee, the 
 msh, the magic, and the extent of the water before 
 him. The distant church-bells rang out praises to 
 the Lord, and all was rest and peace. Occasionally 
 a vessel drifted past, and from afar came the laughter 
 of children at play. 
 
 He read, but his studies were often too deep for 
 him, and he would lift his eyes from the pages, and 
 listen dreamily to the soft lapping, of the water on 
 the pebbles of the shore, while his thoughts wan- 
 dered to his mother and his little friend. 
 
 At last autumnal rains came, and then the child 
 passed his Sundays at the Rondics, who were all 
 very kind to him, Zcna'ido in particular. The old 
 man felt a certain contempt for Jack's physical deli- 
 
200 JACK. 
 
 Q,z.Q,y, and said the boy stunted his growth by his 
 devotion to books, but " he was a good little fellow 
 all the same ! " In reality, old Rondic felt a great 
 respect for Jack's attainments, his own being of the 
 most superficial description. He could read and 
 write, to be sure, but that was all ; and since he had 
 married the second Madame Rondic, he had become 
 painfully conscious of his deficiencies. His wife 
 was the daughter of a subordinate artillery officer, 
 the belle and beauty of a small town. She was well 
 brought up, — one of a numerous family, where each 
 took her share of toil and economy. She accepted 
 Rondic, notwithstanding the disparity of years and 
 his lack of education, and entertained for her husband 
 the greatest possible affection. He adored his wife, 
 and would make any sacrifice for her happiness or 
 her gratification. He thought her prettier than any 
 of the wives of his friends, — who were all, in fact, 
 stout Breton peasants, more occupied with their 
 liousehold cares than with anything else. Clarisse 
 had a certain air about her, and dressed and arranged 
 her hair in a way that offered the greatest con- 
 trast to the monastic aspect of the women of the 
 country, who covered their hair with thick folds of 
 linen, and concealed their figures with the clumsy 
 fullness of their skirts. 
 
 His house, too, was different from those about him. 
 Behind the full white curtains stood a pot of flowers, 
 sweet basil or gillyflowers, and the furniture was 
 carefully waxed and polished ; and Rondic was de- 
 lighted, when ho returned home at night, to find so 
 carefully arranged a home, and a wife as neatly 
 
IN D RET. 201 
 
 dressed as if it were Sunda}'. He never asked him- 
 self why Clarisse, after the house was in order for 
 the daj'', took her seat at the window with folded 
 hands, instead of occupying herself with needlework, 
 like other women whose days were far too short for 
 all their duties. 
 
 He supposed, innocently enough, that his wife 
 thought only of him while adorning herself; but the 
 whole village of Indret could have told him that 
 another occupied all her thoughts, and in this gossip 
 the names of Madame Rondic and Chariot were never 
 separated. They said that the two had known each 
 other before Madame Rondic's marriage, and that if 
 the nephew had wished he could have married the 
 lady, instead of his uncle. 
 
 But the young fellow had no such desire. Ho 
 merely thought that Clarisse was charmingly pretty, 
 and that it would be very nice to have her for his 
 aunt. But later, when they were thrown so mucli 
 together, while Father Rondic slept in the arm-chair 
 and Zdna'ide sewed at the chateau, these two natures 
 were irresistiblj' attracted toward each other. But 
 no one had a right to make any invidious remark ; 
 they had, besides, always watching over them a pair 
 of frightfully suspicious eyes, those of Z<)naide. She 
 had a way of interrupting theirinterviews, of appear- 
 ing suddenly, when least expected ; and, however 
 fatigued she might be by her day's work, she took 
 her scat in tl>e chimney-corner with her knitting. 
 Z^naide, in fact, played the part of the jealous and 
 suspicious husband. Picture to yourself, if you 
 please, a husband with all the instincts and clear- 
 sightedness of a womtm ! 
 
202 JACK. 
 
 The warfare between herself and Chariot was in- 
 cessant, and the little outbursts served to conceal the 
 real antipathy; but while Father Rondic smiled con- 
 tentedly, Clarisse turned pale as if at distant thunder. 
 
 Z^na'ide had triumphed: she had so managed at 
 the chateau that the Director had decided to send 
 Chariot to Gu<5rigny, to study a new model of a ma- 
 chine there. Months would be necessary for him to 
 perfect his work. Clarisse understood very well that 
 Zdna'ido was at the bottom of this movement, but 
 she was not altogether displeased at Chariot's de- 
 parture ; she flung herself on Zdna'ide's stronger 
 nature, and entreated her protection. 
 
 Jack had understood for some time that between 
 these two women there was a secret. He loved them 
 both: Zdnaide won his respect and his admiration, 
 while Madame Rondic, more elegant and more care- 
 fully dressed, seemed to be a remnant of the refine- 
 ments of his former life. He fancied that she was 
 like his mother ; and yet Ida was lively, gay, and 
 talkative, while Madame Rondic was always languid 
 and silent. They had not a feature alike, nor was 
 there any similai-it)' in the color of their hair. Never- 
 theless, they did resemble each other, but it was a 
 resemblance as vague and indefinite as would result 
 from the same perfume among the clothing, or of 
 something more subtile still, which only a skilful 
 chemist of the human soul could have analyzed. 
 
 Sometimes on Sunday, Jack rciid aloud to tiie two 
 women and to Rondic. The parlor was the room in 
 which they assembled on tiiese occasions. The apart- 
 ment was decorated with u highly colored viow of 
 
INDRET. 203 
 
 Naples, some enormous shells, vitrified sponges, and 
 all those foreign curiosities which their vicinity to 
 the sea seemed naturally to bring to them. Hand- 
 made lace trimmed the curtains, and a sofa and an 
 arm chair of plush made up the furniture of the apart- 
 ment. In the armchair Father Rondic took his seat 
 to listen to the reading, while Clarisse sat in her 
 usual place at the window, idly looking out. Z6naide 
 profited by her one day at home to mend the house- 
 hold linen, disregarding the fact of the day being 
 Sunday. Among the books given to Jack by Dr. 
 Rivals was Danti^'s Z/j/erno. The book fascinated the 
 child, for it described a spectacle that he had con- 
 stantly before his eyes. Those half naked human 
 forms, thos6 flames, those deep ditches of molten 
 metal, all seemed to him one of the circles of which 
 the poet wrote. 
 
 Ono Sunday he was reading to his usual audience 
 from his favorite book; Father Rondic was asleep, 
 according to his ordinary custom, but the two women 
 listened with fixed attention. It was the episode of 
 Francesca da Rimini. Clarisse bowed her head and 
 shuddered. Zenai'de frowned until her heavy eye- 
 brows met, and drove her needle through her work 
 with mad zeal. 
 
 Those grand sonorous lines filled the humble roof 
 with music. Tears stood in the eyes of Clarisse as 
 she listened. Without noticing them, Zcnaide spoke 
 abruptly as the voice of the reader ceased. 
 
 " What a wicked, impudent woman," she cried, 
 " not only to relate her crime, but to boast of 
 it ! " 
 
204 JACK. 
 
 " It is true that she was guiltj," said Clarissc, 
 " but she was also very unhappy." 
 
 " Unhappy ! Don't say that, mamma ; one would 
 think that you pitied this Francesca." 
 
 "And why should I uot, my child? She loved him 
 before her marriage, and she was driven to espouse 
 a man whom she did not love." 
 
 " Love him or not makes but little difference. 
 From the moment she married him she was bound 
 to be faithful. The story says that he was old, and 
 that seems to me an additional reason for respecting 
 him more, and for preventing other people from 
 laughing at him. The old man did right to kill 
 them, — it was only what they deserved ! " 
 
 She spoke with great violence. Her affection 
 as a daughter, her honor as a woman, influenced her 
 words, and she judged and spoke with that cruel 
 candor that belongs to youth, and which judges life 
 from the ideal it has itself created, without compre- 
 hending in the least any of the terrible exigencies 
 which may arise. 
 
 Clarissc did not answer. She turned her face 
 away, and was looking out of the window. Jack, 
 with his eyes on his book, thought of what he had 
 been reading. Here, amid these humble surround- 
 ings, this immortal legend of guiltj' love had echoed 
 " through the corridors of time," and after four hun- 
 dred years had awakened a response. Suddenly 
 through the open casement came a cry, " Hats ! 
 hats to sell ! " Jack started to his feet and ran into 
 the street; but quick as be was, Clarisse had pre- 
 
INDRET. 205 
 
 ceded liim, and as ho weut out, she came in, crushing 
 a letter into her pocket. 
 
 The pedier was far down the street. 
 
 " B^lisaire 1 " shouted Jack. 
 
 The man turned. " I was sure it was you," con- 
 tinued Jack, breathlessly. " Do you come here 
 often ? " 
 
 " Yes, very often;" and then Belisaire added, after 
 a moment, " How happens it, Master Jack, that you 
 are here, and have left that pretty house ? " 
 
 The boy hesitated, and the pedier seeing this, 
 continued, — 
 
 " That was a famous bam, was it not ? And that 
 lovely lady, who had such a gentle face, she was 
 your mother, was she not? " 
 
 Jack was so happy at hearing her name mentioned 
 that he would have lingered there at the corner of 
 the street for an hour, but Belisaire said he was in 
 haste, that he had a letter to deliver, and must go. 
 
 When Jack -entered the house, Madame Rondic 
 met him at the door. She was very pale, and said, 
 in a low voice, with trembling lips, — 
 
 " What did j'ou want of that man ? " 
 
 The child answered that he had known him at 
 EtioUes, and that they had been talking of his 
 parents. 
 
 She uttered a sigh of relief. But that whole 
 evening she was even quieter than usual, and her 
 head seemed bowed by more than the weight of 
 her blonde braids. 
 
206 JACK. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A MIDNIGHT INTERVIEW. 
 
 " Chateau df.s Adlnettes. 
 
 "I AM not pleased ^vit1l you, my cliild. M. Eondic 
 has written to his brother a lonj^ letter, in which he 
 says, that in the year that you have been at Indret 
 you have made no progress. He speaks kindly 
 of you, nevertheless, but does not seem to think you 
 adapted for your present life. We are all grieved 
 to hear this, and feci that you are not doing all that 
 you might do. M. Eondic also says that the air of 
 the workshops is not good for you, that you are pale 
 and thin, and that at the least exertion the perspira- 
 tion rolls down your face. I cannot understand tliis, 
 and fear that you are imprudent, that j'ou go out in 
 the evening uncovered, that j-ou sleep with your 
 windows open, and that you forget to tie j'our scarf 
 around your throat. This must not be ; your health 
 is of the first importance. 
 
 " I admit that your present occupation is not as 
 pleasant as running wild in the forest would be, but 
 remember what M. D'Argenton told you, that ' life 
 is not a romance.' * He knows this very well, poor 
 man ! — better, too, to-day, than ever before. You 
 have no conception of the annoyances to which this 
 great poet is exposed. The low conspiracies that 
 have been formcil against him are almost incredible. 
 They are about to bring out a play at the Theatre 
 FranQais called 'La Fille de Faust.' It is not D'Ar- 
 
A MIDNIGHT INTERVIEW. 207 
 
 gcnton's play, because his is not written, but it is liis 
 idea, and liis title ! Wo do not know whom to sus- 
 pect, lor he is surrounded with faithful friends. 
 Whoever the guilty' party may be, our friend lias 
 been most painfully aifected, and has been seriously 
 ill. Dr. Hirscli fortunately was here, for Dr. Rivals 
 still continues to sulk. That reminds me to tell j"ou 
 that we hear that you keep up 3'our correspondence 
 with the doctor, of which AI. d'Argenton entirely 
 disapproves. It is not wise, my child, to keep up 
 any association with people above you in station ; it 
 only leads to all sorts of chimerical aspirations. 
 Your friendship for little C^cile M. d'Argenton re- 
 gards also as a waste of time. You must, therefore, 
 relinquish it, as avc think that you would then enter 
 with more interest into your present life. You will 
 understand, my child, that I am now speaking en- 
 tirely in 3'our interest. You are now fifteen. You 
 are safely launched in an enviable career. A future 
 opens before you, and you can make of yourself just 
 what you please. 
 
 " Your loving mother, 
 
 " Charlotte." 
 
 " P. S. Ten o'clock at night. 
 
 " Dearest, — I am alone, and hasten to add a good 
 night to my letter, to say on paper what I would say 
 to 3'ou were j'ou here with me now. Do not be dis- 
 couraged. You know just what he is. He is very 
 determined, and has resolved that you shall be a 
 machinist, and you must be. Is he right? I cannot 
 say. I beg of you to be careful of your health ; it 
 must be damp where j'ou are ; and if j'ou need any- 
 thing, write to me under cover to the Archambaulds. 
 llave j-ou any more chocolate ? For this, and for 
 any other little things you want, I lay aside from my 
 personal expenses a little money every month. So 
 
208 JACK. 
 
 you see that j'ou are teaching me econom3\ Re- 
 member that some day I may have only you to rely 
 upon. 
 
 "If you knew how sad I am sometimes in thinking 
 of the future ! Life is not very gay here, and 1 am 
 not always happy. But then, as you know, my sad 
 moments do not last long. 1 laugh and cry at the 
 same time without knowing why. I have no reason 
 to complain, either. He is nervous like all artists, 
 but I comprehend the real generosity and nobility 
 of his nature. Farewell 1 I finish my letter for 
 Mfcre Archambauld to mail as she goes home. We 
 shall not keep the good woman long. M. d'Argenton 
 distrusts her. He thinks she is paid by his enemies 
 to steal his ideas and titles for books and plays ! 
 Good night, my dearest." 
 
 Between the lines of this lengthy letter Jack saw 
 two faces, — that of D'Argenton, dictatorial and 
 stern, — and his mother's, gentle and tender. How 
 under subjection she was 1 How crushed was ber 
 expansive nature ! A child's imagination supplies 
 his thoughts with illustrations. It seemed to Jack, 
 as ho road, that his Ida — she was always Ida to 
 her boy — was shut up in a tower, making signals 
 of distress to him. 
 
 Yes, ho would work hard, ho would make money, 
 and take his mother away from such tyranny ; and as 
 a first step he put away all his books. 
 
 "You arc right," said old Rondic; "your books 
 distract your attention." 
 
 In the workshop Jack heard constant allusions 
 made to the Rondic household, and particularly to 
 the relations existing between Clarisse and Chariot. 
 
A MIDNIGHT INTERVIEW. 209 
 
 Every one knew that the two met continually at a 
 town lialf'-way between Saint Nazarre and Indret. 
 Here Clarisse went under pretence of purchasing 
 provisions that could not be procured on the island. 
 In the contemptuous glances of" the men who met 
 her, in their familiar nods, she read that her secret 
 was known, and yet with blushes of shame dyeing the 
 cheeks that all the fresh breezes from the Loire had 
 no power to cool, she went on. Jack knew all this. 
 No delicacy was observed in the discussion of such 
 subjects before the child. Things were called by 
 their right names, and they laughed as they talked. 
 -Jack did not laugh, however. He pitied the husband 
 so deluded and deceived. He pitied also the Avoman 
 whose weakness was shown in her very way of 
 knotting her hair, in the way she sat, and whose 
 pleading eyes always seemed to be asking pardon 
 for some fault committed. He wanted to whisper to 
 her, " Take care — j'ou are watched." But to Char- 
 lot he would have liked to say, " Go away, and let 
 this woman alone ! " 
 
 He was also indignant in seeing his friend Bulisaire 
 playing such a part in this mournful drama. The 
 pedler carried all the letters that passed between the ~ 
 lovers. Many a time Jack had seen him drop one 
 into Madame Rondic's apron while she changed some 
 money, and, disgusted with his old ally, the child 
 no longer lingered to speak when they met in the 
 street. 
 
 Belisaire had no idea of the reason of this coolness. 
 He suspected it so little, that one day, when he 
 could not find Clarisse, he went to the machine-shop, 
 U 
 
210 JACK. 
 
 and with an air of great mystery gave the -letter to 
 the apprentice. " It is for madame ; give it to her 
 secretly 1 " 
 
 Jack recognized the writing of Chariot. " No," 
 he said at once ; " I will not touch this letter, and 
 I think you would do better to sell your hats than to 
 meddle with such matters." 
 
 B^lisaire looked at him with amazement. 
 
 "You know very well," said the boy, "what these 
 letters are ; and do you think that you arc doing 
 right to aid in deceiving that old man ? " 
 
 The ])edler's face turned scarlet. 
 
 " I never deceived any one ; if papers are given 
 to me to carry, I carry them, that is all. Be sure of 
 one thing, and that is, if I were the sort of person j-ou 
 call me, I should be much better off" than I am to- 
 day ! " 
 
 Jack tried to make him see the thing as he saw it, 
 but evidently the man, however honest, was without 
 any delicacy of perception. "And I, too," thought 
 Jack, suddenly, "am of the people now. Wliat right 
 liave I to any such refinements?" 
 
 That Father Eondic know notliing of all that was 
 going on, was not astonishing. But Zenaide, where 
 was she? Of what was she thinking? 
 
 Zdnaide was on the spot, — more than usual, too, 
 for she had not been at the chiteau for a month. 
 Her eyes were also widely open, and were more keen 
 and vivacious than ever, for Z^naide was about to 
 be married to a handsome young soldier attached to 
 tlie custom-house at Nantes, and the girl's dowry 
 was seven thousand francs. Perc Rondic thought 
 
A MIDNIGHT INTERVIEW. 211 
 
 this too much, but the soldier was firm. The old 
 man had made no provision for Clarisse. If he 
 should die, wliat would become of her? 
 
 But his wife said, "You are yet young — we will 
 be economical. Let the soldier have Zdnaide and 
 the seven thousand francs, for the girl loves him 1 " 
 
 Z(^naide spent a great deal of time before her 
 mirror. She did not deceive herself. " I am ugly, 
 and M. Maugin will not marry me for my beauty, but 
 let him marry me, and he shall love me later." 
 
 And the girl gave a little nod, for she knew the 
 unselfish devotion of which she was capable, the ten- 
 derness and patience with which she would watch 
 over her husband. But all these new interests had 
 so absorbed her that Zdnaide had partially forgotten 
 her suspicions ; the}^ returned to her at intervals, 
 while she was sewing on her wedding-dress, but she 
 did not notice her mother's pallor nor uneasiness, 
 nor did she feel the burning heat of those slender 
 hands. She did not notice her long and frequent 
 disappearances, and she heard nothing of what was 
 rumored in the town. She saw and heard nothing 
 but her own radiant happiness. The banns were 
 published, the marriage-day fixed, and the little 
 house was full of the joyous excitement that pre- 
 cedes a wedding. Zenaide ran up and down stairs 
 twenty times each day with the movements of a 
 j'oung hippopotamus. Her friends came and went, 
 little gifts were pouring in, for the girl was a great 
 favorite in spite of her occasional abruptness. Jack 
 wished to make her a present; his mother had sent 
 him a hundred francs. 
 
212 JACK. 
 
 " This money is your own, my Jack," Charlotte 
 wrote. " Buy with it a gift for M'lle Kondic, and 
 some clothes for yourself. I wish you to make a 
 good appearance at the wedding, and I am afraid 
 that your wardrobe is in a pitiable condition. Say 
 nothing about it in your letters, nor of me to the 
 Rondics. They would thank me, which would be an 
 annoyance, and bring me a reproof besides." 
 
 For two days Jack carried this money with pride 
 in his pocket. He would go to Nantes and buy 
 a new suit. What a delight it would be ! and how 
 kind his mother was ! One thing troubled him : 
 What could he purchase for Z^naide ; he must first 
 see what she had. 
 
 So thinking one dark night, as he entered the 
 house, he ran against some one who was coming 
 down the steps. 
 
 "Is that you, Bdlisaire?" 
 
 There was no reply, but as Jack pushed open the 
 door, he saw that he was not mistaken, that Bclisaire 
 had been there. 
 
 Clarisse was in the corridor, shivering with the 
 cold, and so absorbed by the letter she was reading 
 in the gleam of light from the half open door of the 
 parlor, that she did not even look up as Jack went 
 in. The letter evidently contained some startling 
 intelligence, and the boy suddenly remembered 
 having that day heard that Chariot had lost a large 
 sum of money in gambling with the crew of an 
 English ship that had just arrived at Nantes from 
 Calcutta. 
 
 In the parlor, Zi^naide and Maugin were alone. 
 
A MIDNIGHT INTERVIEW. 213 
 
 Pere Rondic had gone to Chateaubriand and would 
 not return until the next day, which did not prevent 
 her future husband from dining with them. He sat 
 in the large arm-chair, his feet comfortably extend- 
 ed. While Z^naide, carefully dressed, and her hair 
 arranged "by her stepmother, laid the table, this 
 calm and reasonable lover entertained her by an 
 estimate of the prices of the various grains, indigos, 
 and oils that entered the port of Nantes. And such 
 a wonderful prestidigitateur is love that Zijnaide was 
 moved to the depths of her soul by these details, and 
 listened to them as to music. 
 
 Jack's entrance disturbed the lovers. " Ah, here 
 is Jack ! I had no idea it was so late ! " cried the 
 girl. "And mamma, where is she ? " 
 
 Claris^e came in, pale but calm. 
 
 " Poor woman ! " thought Jack, as he watched her 
 trying to smile, to talk, and to eat, swallowing at 
 intervals great draughts of water, as if to choke 
 down some teiTible emotion. Zdnaide was blind to 
 all this. She had lost her own appetite, and watched 
 her soldier's plate, seeming delighted at the rapidity 
 with which the delicate morsels disappeared. 
 
 Maugin talked well, and ate and drank with mar- 
 vellous appetite ; he weighed his words as carefully 
 as he did the square bits into which he cut his 
 bread ; he held his wine-glass to the light, testing 
 and scrutinizing it each time he drank. A dinner, 
 with him, was evidently a matter of importance as 
 well as of time. This evening it seemed as if Cla- 
 risse could not endure it; she rose from the table, 
 
214 JACK. 
 
 went to the window, listened to the rattling of the 
 hail on the glass, and then turning round, said, — 
 
 " What a night it is, M. Maugin ! I wish you were 
 safely at home." 
 
 " I don't, then ! " cried Zi^naide, so earnestly that 
 they all laughed. But the remark made by Clarisse 
 bore its fruit, and the soldier rose to go. But it 
 took him some time to get off. There was his lan- 
 tern to light, his gloves to button; and the girl took 
 all these duties on herself At last the soldier was 
 in readiness ; his hood was pulled over his eyes, a 
 scarf wound about his throat, then Zdna'ide said good 
 night, and watched her Esquimau-looking lover some- 
 what anxiousl}"^ down the street. What perils might 
 he not have to run in that thick darkness ! 
 
 Her stepmother called her impatiently. The ner- 
 vous excitement of Clarisse had momentarily in- 
 creased. Jack had noticed this, and also that she 
 looked constantly at the clock. 
 
 " How cold it must be to-night on the Loire," said 
 Z^uaide. 
 
 " Cold, indeed 1 " 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 tho 
 outer door as usual, she stopped him, saying, — 
 
 " I have done it myself. Let us go up stairs." 
 
 But Zdnaido had not finished talking of M. Maugin. 
 " Do you like his moustache. Jack ? " she asked. 
 
 "Will you go to bed?" asked Madame Roudic, 
 pretending to laugh, but trembling nervously. 
 
 At last the three are on the narrow staircase. 
 
A MIDNIGHT INTER VIE IV. 215 
 
 "Good night," said Clarisse; "I am dying witli 
 sleep." ^ 
 
 But her ej^es were very bright. Jack put his foot 
 on his ladder, but Z(^naide's room was so crowded 
 Avith her gifts and purchases, that it seemed to him 
 a most auspicious occasion to pass them in review. 
 Friends had had them under examination, and they 
 were still displayed on the commode : some silver 
 spoons, a prayer-book, gloves, and all about tumbled 
 bits of paper and the colored ribbon that had fastened 
 these gifts from the chateau ; then came the more 
 humble presents from the wives of the employes. 
 Z^naide showed them all with pride. The boy ut- 
 tered exclamations of wonder. " But what shall I 
 give her? " he said to himself over and over again. 
 
 " And my trousseau. Jack, you have not seen it ! 
 Wait, and I will show it to you." 
 
 With a quaint old key she opened the carved 
 wardrobe that had been in the family for a hundred 
 years ; the two doors swung open, a delicious violet 
 perfume filled the room, and Jack could see and ad- 
 mire the piles of sheets spun by the first Madame 
 Rondic, and the ruffled and fluted linen piled in 
 snowy masses. 
 
 In fact. Jack had never seen such a display. His 
 mother's wardrobe held laces and fine embroideries, 
 not household articles. Then, lifting a heavy pile, 
 she showed Jack a casket. " Guess what is in this," 
 Z(^naide said, with a laugh ; " it contains my dowry, 
 my dear little dowry, that in a fortnight will belong 
 to M. Maugin. Ah, when I think of it, I could sing 
 and dance with joy 1 " 
 
21 G JACK. 
 
 And the girl held out her skirts with each hand, 
 and executed an elephantine gambol, shaking the 
 casket she still held in her hand. Suddenly she 
 stopped ; some one had rapped on the wall. 
 
 " Let the boy go to bed," said her stepmother in 
 an irritated tone; "you know he must be up early." 
 
 A little ashamed, the future Madame Maugin shut 
 her wardrobe, and said good night' to Jack, who 
 ascended his ladder ; and five minutes later tiie little 
 house, wrapped in snow and rocked by the wind, 
 slept like its neighbors in the silence of the night. 
 
 There is no light in the parlor of the Eondic 
 mansion save that which comes from the fitful gleam 
 of the dying fire in the chimney. A woman sat 
 there, and at her feet knelt a man in vehement sup- 
 plication. " I entreat you," he whispered, " if you 
 love me — " 
 
 If she loved him 1 Had she not at his command 
 left the door open that he miglit enter? Had she 
 not adorned herself in the dress and ornaments that 
 he liked, to make herself beautiful in his eyes? 
 What could it be that he was asking her now to 
 grant to him? How was it that she, usually so 
 weak, was now so strong in her denials? Let us 
 listen for a moment. 
 
 " No, no," she answered, indignantly, " it is im- 
 possible." 
 
 " But I only ask it for two days, Clarlsse. With 
 these six thousand francs I will pay the five thou- 
 sand I have lost, and with the other thousand I will 
 conquer fortune." 
 
 She looked at him with an expression of absolute 
 terror. 
 
A MIDNIGHT INTERVIEW. 217 
 
 " No, no," she repeated, " it cannot be. You must 
 find some other way." 
 
 " But there is none." 
 
 " Listen. I have a rich friend ; I will write to her 
 and ask her to lend me the money." 
 
 " But I must have it to-morrow." 
 
 "Well, then, find the Director ; tell him the truth." 
 
 " And he will dismiss me instantly. No ; my plan 
 is much the best. In two days I will restore the 
 money." 
 
 " You only say that." 
 
 " I swear it." And, seeing that his words did not 
 convince her, he added, " I had better have said 
 nothing to you, but have gone at once to the ward- 
 robe and taken what I needed." 
 
 But she answered, trembling, for she feared that 
 he would yet do this, " Do you not know that 
 Z^naide counts her money every day? This very 
 night she showed the casket to the apprentice." 
 
 Chariot started. " Is that so? " he asked. 
 
 " Yes ; the poor girl is very happy. It would kill 
 her to lose it. Besides, the key is not in the ward- 
 robe." 
 
 Suddenly perceiving that she was weakening her 
 own position, she was silent. The young man was 
 no longer the supplicating lover, he was the spoiled 
 child of the house, imploring his aunt to save him 
 from dishonor. 
 
 Through her tears she mechanically repeated the 
 words, " It is impossible." 
 Suddenly he rose to his feet. 
 
 "You will not? Very good. Only one thing 
 
218 JACK. 
 
 remains then. Farewell 1 I will not survive dis- 
 grace." 
 
 He expected a cry. No ; she came toward him. 
 
 " You wish to die I Ah, well, eo do I ! I have had 
 enough of life, of shame, of falsehood, and of love — 
 love that must be concealed with such care that I 
 am never sure of finding it. I am ready." 
 
 He drew back. " What folly ! " he said, sullenly. 
 " This is too much," he added, vehemently, after a 
 moment's silence, and hurried to the stairs. 
 
 She followed him. " Where are you going?" she 
 asked. 
 
 " Leave me ! " ho said, roughly. She snatched his 
 ai'm. 
 
 " Take care ! " she whispered with quivering lips. 
 " If you take one more step in that direction, I will 
 call for assistance 1 " 
 
 " Call, then I Let the world know that your 
 nephew is j'our lover, and your lover a thief." 
 
 He hissed these words iu her ear, for tliey both 
 spoke very low, impressed, in spite of themselves, 
 by the silence and repose of tlio house. By the red 
 light of the dying fire he appeared to her suddenly 
 in his true colors, just what he really was, unmasked 
 by one of those violent emotions which show the 
 inner workings of the soul. 
 
 She saw him with his keen eyes reddened \>j con- 
 stant examination of the cards; she thought of all 
 she had sacrificed for this man; she remembered the 
 care with which she had adorned herself for this 
 interview. Suddenly she was overwhelmed by pro- 
 found disgust for herself and for him, and sank, half 
 
A MIDNIGHT INTERVIEW. 219 
 
 fainting, on tlie couch ; and while tlio thief crept up 
 the familiar staircase, she buried her face in the pil- 
 lows to stifle her cries and sobs, and to prevent her- 
 self from seeing and hearing anything. 
 
 The streets of Indret were as dark as at mid- 
 night, for it was not yet six o'clock. Here and there 
 a light from a baker's window or a wine-shop shone 
 dimly through the thick fog. In one of these wine- 
 shops sat Chariot and Jack. 
 
 " Another glass, my boy ! " 
 
 " No more, thank you. I fear it would make me 
 very ill." 
 
 Chariot laughed. " And j'ou a Parisian 1 Waiter, 
 bring more wine 1 " 
 
 The boy dared make no further objection. The 
 attentions of which he was the object flattered him 
 immensely. That this man, whqfor eighteen months 
 had never vouchsafed him any notice, should, meet- 
 ing him by chance that morning in the streets, have 
 invited him to the cabaret and treated him, was a 
 matter of surprise and congratulation to himself. 
 At first Jack was somewhat distrustful of such 
 courtesy, for the other had such a singular way of 
 repeating his question, " Is there nothing new at the 
 llondics ? Really, nothing new ? " 
 
 " I wonder," thought the apprentice, " if he wishes 
 me to carry his letters, instead of Bdlisaire ! " 
 
 But after a little while the boy became more at 
 ease. Perhaps Chariot, he thought, may not be sucli 
 a bad fellow. A good friend might induce him to 
 relinquish play, and make him a better man. 
 
220 yACK. ' 
 
 After Jack had taken his tliird glass of wine, he 
 became very cordial, and ofiFcred to become this 
 good friend. Chariot accepting the offer with en- 
 thusiasm, the boy thought himself justified in at 
 once offering his advice. 
 
 " Look here, M. Chariot, listen to me, and don't 
 play any more." 
 
 The blow struck home, for the young man's lips 
 trembled nervously, and he swallowed a glass of 
 brandy at one gulp. 
 
 At that moment the factory-bell sounded. 
 
 " I must go," cried Jack, starting to his feet. And, 
 as his friend had paid for the first and second wine 
 they had drank, ho considered it essential that he 
 should now pay in his turn; so he drew a louis from 
 his pocket, and tossed it on the table. 
 
 " Hallo ! a j'ellow boy I " said the barkeeper, unac- 
 customed to seeing such in the possession of ap- 
 prentices. Chariot started, but made no remark. 
 
 " Had Jack been to the wardrobe also ? " he said 
 to himself The boy was delighted at the sensation 
 he had created. " And I have more of the same 
 kind," he added, tapping his pocket. And then he 
 whispered in his companion's ear, " It is for a pres- 
 ent that I mean to buy Zdnaide." 
 
 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 
 
A MIDNIGHT INTERVIEW. 221 
 
 have remained with me until my boat left, which 
 will not be for an hour." 
 
 And he gently drew the lad toward the Loire. It 
 was easily done, for, coming out from the cabaret 
 into the cold air, the wine the child had drank made 
 him giddy. It seemed to him that his head weighed 
 a thousand pounds. This did not last long, however. 
 "Hark!" he said; "the bell has stopped, I think." 
 They turned back. Jack was terrified, for it was 
 the first time that he had ever been late at the 
 Works. But Chariot was in despair. "It is my 
 fault," he reiterated. He declared that he would 
 see the Director and explain matters, and was alto- 
 gether so utterly miserable, that Jack was obliged to 
 console him by saying that it was of no great conse- 
 quence, after all ; that he could afford to be marked 
 •absent' for once. "I will go with j'ou to the boat." 
 
 The boy was so gratified by what he believed to 
 be the good eflect of his words on Chariot, that he 
 enlarged on the noble nature of Pere Kondic and of 
 Clarisse. 
 
 " 0, had 3'ou seen her this morning, you would 
 have pitied her. She was so pale that she looked as 
 if she were dead." 
 
 Chariot started. 
 
 " And she ate nothing. I am afraid she will be 
 ill. And she never spoke." 
 
 " Poor woman ! " said Chariot, with a sigh of relief 
 which Jack took for one of sorrow. 
 
 They reached the wharf. The boat was not there. 
 A thick fog covered the river from one shore to the 
 other. 
 
222 JACK. 
 
 " Let us go in here," said Chariot. It was a iittlo 
 wooden shed, intended as a shelter for workmen 
 while waiting in bad weather. Clarisse knew this 
 shed very well, and the old woman who sold brandy 
 and coffee in the corner had seen Madame Rondic 
 many a time when she crossed the Loire. 
 
 " Let us take a drop of brandy to keep out the cold," 
 said Chariot. At that moment a shrill whistle was 
 heard ; it was the boat for Saint Nazarre. " Good-bye, 
 Jack, and a thousand thanks for your good advice ! " 
 
 " Don't mention it," said the lad, heartily ; " but 
 pray give up gambling." 
 
 " Of course I will," answered the other, hurr3Mng 
 on board to hide his amusement. When Jack was 
 again alone he felt no desire to return to the Works; 
 he was in a state of unusual excitement. Even the 
 heavy fog hanging over tiie Loire interested him. 
 Suddenly ho said to himself, " Why do I not go to 
 Nantes and buy Z^naide's gift to-day ? " A few 
 moments saw him on the way ; but as there was no 
 train until noon, ho must wait for some time, and 
 was compelled to pass that time in a room where 
 there were several of the old employds of the Works, 
 who had been discharged for various misdemeanors. 
 They received the lad civilly enough, and listened 
 attentively when he took up some remark that was 
 made, and uttered some platitudes, stolen from D'Ar- 
 genton, on the rights of labor. 
 
 " Listen ! " they said to each other ; " it is easy to 
 see tliat the boy comes from Paris." 
 
 Jack, excited by this applause and sympatliy, 
 talked fast and freely. Suddenly tlie room swam 
 
A MIDNIGHT INTERVIEW. 223 
 
 around — all grew darlc A fresh breeze restored 
 him to consciousness. He was seated on the bank 
 of the river, and a sailor was bathing his forehead. 
 
 " Are you better ? " said the man. 
 
 " Yes, much better," answered Jack, his teeth 
 chattering. 
 
 " Then go on board." 
 
 " (3o where ?" said the apprentice, in amazement. 
 
 " Why, have you forgotten that you hired a boat, 
 and sent for provisions ? And here comes the man 
 with them." 
 
 Jack was stupefied with amazement, but he was 
 too weak to argue any point ; he embarked without 
 remonstrance. He had a little money left, with 
 which he could buy some little souvenir for Zunaide, 
 so that his trip to Nantes would not be thrown 
 away absolutely. He breakfasted with a poor 
 enough appetite, and sat at the end of the boat, 
 wrapped in thought. He dreamily recalled books 
 that he had read — tales of strange adventures on 
 the sea ; but why did a certain old volume of Rob- 
 inson Crusoe persistently come before him? He 
 saw the rubbed and yellowed page, the vignette 
 of Robinson in his hammock surrounded by drunken 
 sailors, and above it the inscription, " And in a night 
 of debauch I forgot all my good resolutions." 
 
 He was brought back to real life by the songs of 
 his companions, and by a pair of keen bright eyes 
 that were fixed upon his own. Jack was annoyed by 
 this gaze, and leaned forward with a bottle in his 
 hand. 
 
 '• Drink with me, captain 1 " he said. 
 
224 JACK. 
 
 The man declined abruptly. The younger sailor 
 whispered to Jack, " Let bim alone ; he did not wish 
 to take you on board; his wife settled things for 
 him; he thought you had more money than you 
 ought to have ! " 
 
 Jack was indignant at being treated like a thief 
 He exclaimed that his money was his own, that it 
 
 had been given him by . Here he stopped, 
 
 remembering that his mother had forbidden him to 
 mention her name. "But," he continued, "1 can 
 have more money when I wish it, and I am going to 
 buy a wedding present for Zdna'ide." 
 
 He talked on, but no one listened, for a grand 
 dispute between the two men Avas well under way as 
 to the place where they should land. 
 
 At last they entered the harbor of Nantes. Old 
 houses, with carved fronts and stone balconies, met 
 his eyes, crowded as it were among the shipping at 
 the wharves. Large vessels lay at anchor in the 
 harbor, looking to the boy like captives who panted 
 for liberty, sunshine, and space. Then he thought 
 of Madou, of his flight and concealment among the 
 cargo in the hold. But this thought was gone in a 
 moment, and he found himself on shore between his 
 two companions, whom he soon loses and finds again. 
 They cross one bridge, and then another, and wander 
 with neither end nor aim. They drink at intervals ; 
 night comes, and the boy accompanies the sailors to 
 a low dance-house, still in the strange excitement in 
 which he has been .all day. Finally, he finds himself 
 alone on a bench, in a public square, in a state of 
 exhaustion that is far from sleep. The profound 
 
A MIDNIGHT INTERVIEW. 225 
 
 solitude terriBes him, when suddenly he hears the 
 well-known cry, — 
 
 " Hats ! hats ! Hats to sell ! " 
 
 " B^lisaire I " called the boy. 
 
 It was B^lisaire. Jack made a futile effort at 
 explanation. The man scolded the boy gently, lifted 
 him up, and led him away. 
 
 Where are they going ? And who comes here ? 
 and what do they want of him ? Eough men accost 
 him ; they shake him and put irons on his wrists, 
 and he cannot resist,. for he is still more than half 
 asleep. He sleeps in the wagon into which he is 
 thrust ; in the boat, where he lies utterly inert ; and 
 how happy he is after being thus buffeted about to 
 finally throw himself on a straw pallet, shut out from 
 all further disturbance by huge locks and bolts. 
 
 In the morning a frightful noise over his head 
 awoke Jack suddenly. Ah, what a dismal awaken- 
 ing is that of drunkenness ! The nervous trembling 
 in every limb, the iutense thirst and exhaustion, the 
 shame and inexpressible anguish of the human being 
 seeing himself reduced to the level of a beast, and 
 so disgusted with his tarnished existence that he 
 fiiels incapable of beginning life again. 
 
 It was still too dark to distinguish objects, but he 
 1 new that he was not in his little attic. He caught 
 a glimpse of the coming dawn in the white light 
 from two high windows. Where was he ? In the 
 corner he began to see a confused mass of cords and 
 pulleys. Suddenly he heard the same noise that 
 had awakened him : it was a clock, and one that he 
 well knew. He was at Indret, then, but where ? 
 15 
 
226 JACK. 
 
 Could it be that he was shut in the tower where 
 refractory apprentices were occasionally put ? And 
 what had he done ? He tried to recall the events of 
 the day before, and, confused as his mind still was, 
 he remembered enough to cover him with shame. 
 He groaned heavily. The groan was answered by a 
 sigh from the corner. He was not alone, then 1 
 " Who is there ? " asked Jack, uneasily ; " is it 
 B(51isaire ? " he added. But why should B<^lisaire bo 
 there with him ? 
 
 " Yes, it is I," answered the man, in a tone of 
 desperation. 
 
 " In the name of heaven tell me why wo are shut 
 up hero like two criminals?" 
 
 " What other people have been doing I can't tell," 
 muttered the old man ; " I only ppeak for myself, 
 and I have done no harm to any one. My hats are 
 ruined, — and I, too, for that matter!" continued 
 B<ilisaire, dolefully. 
 
 " But what have I done ? " asked Jack, for he 
 could not imagine that among the many follies of 
 which he had been guilty there was one more grave 
 than another. 
 
 " They sa}' — But why do you make me tell you ? 
 You know well enough what tliey say." 
 
 " Indeed, I do not; pray, go on." 
 
 " Well, they saj' that you have stolen Ztjna'ide's 
 dowry." 
 
 The boy uttered an exclamation of horror. " But 
 you do not believe this, Bdlisaire ? " 
 
 The old man did not answer. Every one at Indret 
 thought Jack guilty. Eveiy circumstance was against 
 
A MIDNIGHT INTERVIEW. 227 
 
 the hoj. On the first report of the robber}^, Jack 
 was looked for, but was not to be found. Chariot 
 had very well managed matters. All along the road 
 there were traces of the robbery in the gold pieces 
 displayed so liberally. Only one thing disturbed the 
 belief of the boy's guilt in the mindsof the villagers: 
 what could he have done with the six thousand 
 francs? Neither Bdlisairc's pocket nor his own 
 displayed any indication that such a sum of money 
 bad been in their possession. 
 
 Soon after daybreak the superintendent sent for 
 the prisoners. They wei'e covered with mud, and 
 were unwashed and unshorn ; j'et Jack had a cer- 
 tain grace and refinement in spite of all this; but 
 D(ilisaire's naturally ugl}' countenance was so dis- 
 torted by grief and anxiety', thai, as the two appeared, 
 the spectators unanimously decided that this gentle- 
 looking child was the mere instrument of the 
 wretched being with whom he was unfortunately 
 connected. As Jack looked about he saw several 
 faces which seemed like those of some terrible night- 
 mare, and his courage deserted him. He recognized 
 the sailors, and the proprietors of several of the 
 wineshops, with many others of those whom he had 
 seen on that disastrous yesterday. The child begged 
 for a private interview with the superintendent, and 
 was admitted to the office, where he found Father 
 Rondic, whom Jack went forward at once to greet 
 with extended hand. The old man drew back sadly 
 but resolutelj'. 
 
 " Out of regard for your 3'outh, Jack," said the 
 Director, "and from respect to your parents, and in 
 
228 JACK. 
 
 consideration of your hitherto good behavior, I have 
 begged that, instead of being carried to Nantes and 
 placed in prison, j-ou shall remain here. I now 
 tell you that it is for you to decide what will be 
 done. Tell me the truth. Tell Father Rondic and 
 myself what you have done with the money, give 
 him back what is left, and — no, do not interrupt 
 me," continued the Director, with a frown. " Return 
 the money, and I will then send you to your 
 parents." 
 
 Here Bdlisaire attempted to speak. " Be quiet, 
 fellow ! " said the superintendent ; " I cannot under- 
 stand how you can have the audacity to speak. We 
 believe you to be in reality the guilty party, and 
 that this child has simply been your tool." 
 
 Jack wished to protest against this condemnation 
 of his friend ; but old Rondic gave him no time. 
 
 " You are quite right, sir, it is bad company that 
 has led the lad astray. Everybody loved him in my 
 house; we had every confidence in him until he 
 met this miserable wretch." 
 
 B^lisaire looked so heart-broken at this wholesale 
 condemnation that Jack rushed boldly forward in his 
 defence. " I assure you, sir, that I met B<51isaire 
 late in the day." 
 
 " Do you mean," said the superintendent, " that 
 you committed this robbery all alone ? " 
 
 " I have done no wrong, sir." 
 
 " Take care, my lad — 3'ou are going down bill 
 with rapidity. Your guilt is very evident, and it is 
 useless to deny it. You were alone with the Rondic 
 women in their house all night. Zdnaide showed 
 
A MIDNIGHT INTER VIE IV. 229 
 
 you the casket, and even showed you where it was 
 kept. In the night she heard some one moving in 
 your attic ; she spoke; naturally you made no replj'. 
 She knew that it must be j'ou, for there was no one 
 else in the house. Then you must remoniber that 
 we know how much money you threw away yester- 
 day." 
 
 Jack was about to say, " My mother sent it to 
 me," when he remembered that she had forbidden 
 him to mention this. So he hesitatingly murmured 
 that he had been saving his money for some time. 
 
 " What nonsense 1 " cried the Director. " Do j'ou 
 think you can make us believe that with your small 
 wages you could have laid aside the amount you 
 squandered yesterday? Tell the truth, my lad, and 
 repair the evil you have done as well as possible." 
 
 Then Father Eondic spoke. " Tell us, my boy, 
 where this money is. Remember that it is Zcnaide's 
 dowry, that I have toiled day and night to lay it 
 aside for her, feeling that with it I might make her 
 happy. You did not think of all this, I am sure, and 
 were led away by the temptation of the moment. 
 But now that you have had time to reflect, you will 
 tell us the truth. Remember, Jack, that I am. old, 
 that time may not be given me to replace this money. 
 Ah, my good lad, speak ! " 
 
 The poor man's lips trembled. It must have been 
 a hardened criminal who could have resisted such a 
 touching appeal. Belisaire was so moved that he 
 made a series of the most extraordinary gestures. 
 " Give him the money. Jack, I beg of you 1 " he 
 whispered. 
 
230 JACK. 
 
 Alas 1 if the cliild had had the money, how gladly 
 he would have placed it in the hands of old Rondic, 
 but he could only say, — 
 
 " I have stolen nothing — I sweaj" I have not ! " 
 
 The superintendent rose from his chair impa- 
 tiently. " We have had enough of this. Your heart 
 must be of adamant to resist such an appeal as 
 has been made to you. I shall send you up-stairs 
 again, and give you until to-night to reflect. If you 
 do not then make a full confession, I shall hand 
 y.ou over to the proper tribunal." 
 
 The boy was then left all the long day in soli- 
 tude. He tried to sleep, but the knowledge that 
 every one thought him guilty, that his own shameful 
 conduct had given ample reason for such a judgment, 
 overwhelmed him with sorrow. How could he prove 
 his innocence? By showing his mother's letter. But 
 if D'Argenton should know of it? No, he could not 
 sacrifice bis mother! What, then, should he do? 
 And the boy lay on the straw bed, turning over 
 in his bewildered brain the difficulties of his position. 
 Around him went on the business of life ; he heard 
 the workmen come and go. It was evening, and he 
 would be sent to prison. Suddenly he heard the 
 stairs creak under a heavy tread, then the turning 
 of the key, and Z5naide entered hastily. 
 
 " Good heavens," she cried, " how high up j'ou 
 
 arc 
 
 I " 
 
 She said this with a careless air, but she had wept 
 so much that her e3''es were red and inflamed, lier 
 hair was roughened and carelessly put up. The 
 poor girl smiled at Jack. " I am ugly, am I not* ? 
 
A MIDNIGHT INTERVIEW. 231 
 
 I have no figure nor complexion. J have a big nose 
 and small eyes ; but two days ago I had a handsome 
 dowry, and I cared but little if some of the malicious 
 young girls said, ' It is only for your money that 
 Maugin wishes to marry you,' as if I did not know 
 this I He wanted my money, but I loved him ! And 
 now, Jack, all is changed. To-night he will come 
 and say farewell, and I shall not complain. Only, 
 Jack, before he comes, I thought I would have a little 
 talk with j'ou." 
 
 Jack had hidden his face, and was crying. 
 Zcnaide felt a ray of hope at this. 
 
 " You will give me back my money, Jack, will j'ou 
 not ? " she added eutreatingly. 
 
 " But I have not got it, I assure you." 
 
 " Do not say that. You are afraid of me, but I 
 will not i-eproach you. If you have spent a little 
 you are quite welcome, but tell me where the rest 
 is!" 
 
 " Listen to me, Z(jnaide : this is horrible. Why 
 should every one think me guilty ? " 
 
 She went on as if he had not spoken. " Do j'ou 
 understand that without this money I shall be miser- 
 able? In your mother's name I entreat you here on 
 my knees ! " 
 
 She threw herself on the floor by the side of the 
 bed where the boy sat, and gave way to tears and 
 sobs. Jack, who was as unhappy as she, tried to 
 take her hand. Suddenly she started up. "You 
 will bo punished. No one Avill ever love j'ou be- 
 cause your heart is bad!" and she left the room. 
 She ran hastily' down the stairs to the superintend- 
 
232 "jfACK. 
 
 ent's room, whom she found with her father. She 
 could not speak, for her tears clicked her. 
 
 " Be comforted, my child I " said the Director. 
 " Your father tells me that the mother of this boy is 
 married to a very rich man. We will write to them. 
 If they are good people, youi dowry will be restored 
 to you." 
 
 He wrote the following letter : — 
 
 "Madame: Your son has stolen a sum of money 
 from the honest and hard-working man with whom he 
 lived. This sum represents the savings of j'eara. 
 I have not j'et handed him over to the authorities, 
 hoping that he might bo induced to restore at least 
 a portion of this mone}-. But I am afraid that it has 
 all been squandered among drunken companions. 
 If tiiat is the case, you should indemnify the Eondics 
 for their loss. The amount is six thousand JVancs. 
 I await your decision befoi'e taking any further 
 steps." 
 
 And he signed his name. 
 
 " Poor things — it is terrible news for them! " said 
 Pore Rondic, who amid his own sorrows could still 
 think of those of others. 
 
 Z<inaide looked up indignantly. " Why do you 
 pity these people ? If the boy has taken my money, 
 let them replace it." 
 
 How pitiless is youth ! The girl gave not one 
 thought to the mother's despair when she should 
 hear of her son's crime. Old Rondic, on the contrary, 
 said to himself, " She will die of shame ! " 
 
 In due time this letter written by the superin- 
 tendent reached its destination, as letters which 
 contain bad news generally do. 
 
CHARLOTTE'S JOURNEY. 233 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 charlotte's journey. 
 
 One gray morning Charlotte was cutting the last 
 bunches from the vines ; the poet was at work, and 
 Dr. Hirsch was asleep, when the postman reached 
 Aulnettes. 
 
 "Ah 1 a letter from Indret I " said D'Argenton, 
 slowly opening his newspapers, — " and some verses 
 by Hugo ! " 
 
 Why did the poet watch this unopened letter as 
 a dog watches a bone that he does not wish himself, 
 and is yet determined that no one else shall touch ? 
 Simply because Charlotte's ej'es had kindled at the 
 sight of it, and because this most selfish of beings 
 felt that for a moment he had become a secondary 
 object in the mother's eyes. 
 
 From the hour of Jack's departure, his mother's 
 love for him had increased. She avoided speaking 
 of him, however, lest she should irritate her poet. 
 He divined this, and his hatred and jealousy of the 
 child increased. And when the early letters of Ron- 
 die contained complaints of Jack, he was very much 
 delighted. But this was not enough. He wished 
 to mortify and degrade the boy still more. His hour 
 had come. At the first words of the letter, for he 
 
234 JACK. 
 
 finally opened it, his eyes flamed with mulicions joy. 
 " Ah 1 I knew it ! " he cried, anpl he handed the 
 sheet to Charlotte. 
 
 What a terrible blow for her! Wounded in her 
 maternal pride before the poet, wounded, too, by his 
 evident satisfaction, the poor woman was still more 
 overwhelmed by the reproaches of her own con- 
 science. " It is my own fault 1 " she said to herself, 
 " why did I abandon him ? " 
 
 Now he must be saved, and at all hazards. But 
 where should she find the money? She had nothing. 
 The sale of her furniture had brought in some mil- 
 lions of francs, but they had been quickly spent. Tlic 
 trifles of jewelry she had would not bring half the 
 necessary sum. She never thought of appealing to 
 D'Argenton. First, ho hated the boy ; and next, he 
 was very miserly. Besides, he was far from rich. 
 They lived with great economy in the winter, the bet- 
 ter to keep up their hospitality during the summer. 
 
 "I have always felt," said D'Argenton, after leav- 
 ing her time to finish the letter, " tiiat this boy was 
 bad at heart I " 
 
 Slie made no reply ; indeed she hardly heard what 
 he said. She Avas thinking that her child would go 
 to prison if she could not obtain the money. 
 
 He continued, " What a disgrace this is to me ! " 
 The mother Avas still saying to herself, " The mone3', 
 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 1 if you could," she murmured. 
 
CHARLOTTE'S JOURNEY. 235 
 
 He became very angry. " If I could ! " lie cried. 
 "I expected that I You know better than any one 
 elso how enormous our expenses are here. It ia 
 enough that for two j'ears I have supported that 
 boy without paying for the thefts lie has committed. 
 Six thousand francs ! where shall I find them ? " 
 
 " I did not think of j'ou," she answered, slowly. 
 
 " Of whom, then ? " he questioned, sternly. 
 
 With heightened color, and with lips quivering 
 with shame, she uttered a name, expecting from her 
 poet an explosion of wrath. 
 
 He was silent for a moment. 
 
 "I can but make one more sacrifice for you, 
 Charlotte," he said, pompously. 
 
 " Thanks 1 thanks 1 How good you are 1 " siie 
 cried. 
 
 And they lowered their voices, for Dr. Hirsch was 
 heard descending the stairs. 
 
 It was a most singular conversation — syllabic 
 and disjointed — he affecting great repugnance, she 
 great brevity. "-It was impossible to trust to a 
 letter," Charlotte said. Then, terrified at her own 
 audacity, she added, " Suppose I go to Tours my- 
 self." 
 
 With the utmost tranquillity he answered, " Very 
 well, we Avill go." 
 
 " How good you are, dear ! " she cried: "you will 
 go with me there, and then to Indret with the 
 money 1 " and the foolish creature kissed his hands 
 with tears. The truth Avas that he did not care for 
 her to go to Tours without him ; he knew that she 
 had lived there and been happy. Suppose she 
 
236 JACK. 
 
 should never return to him ! Slie was so weak, so 
 shallow, so inconsistent ! The sight of her old lover, 
 of the luxury she had relinquished — the influence of 
 her child, might decide her to cast aside the heavy 
 chains with which he had loaded her. In addition, 
 he was by no means averse to this little journej', nor 
 to playing his part in the drama at Indret. 
 
 He told Charlotte that he would never abandon 
 her, that he was ready to share her sorrows as well 
 as her joys: and, in short, convinced Charlotte that 
 he loved her more than ever. 
 
 At dinner he said to Doctor Hirsch, " We are 
 obliged to go to Indret, the child has got into trouble, 
 and j'ou must keep house in our absence." They left 
 by the night express and reached Tours early in tlie 
 morning. The old friend of Ida de Barancy lived in 
 one of those pretty chateaux overlooking the Loire. 
 He was a widower without children, an excellent 
 man, and a man of the world. In spite of her infi- 
 delitj'^, he had none but the kindest recollection of 
 the light-hearted woman who for a time had bright- 
 ened his solitude. Ho consequently replied to a 
 little note sent by Charlotte that he was ready to 
 receive her. 
 
 D'Argenton and she took a carriage from the hotel, 
 and as they approached the chateau, Charlotte began 
 to grow uueasy. " It cannot be," she said to herself, 
 " that he intends to go in with mo 1 " She sat in the 
 corner of the carriage, looking out at the fields where 
 she had so often wandered with the boj', who was 
 now wearing a workman's blouse. 
 
 D'Argenton watched her from the corner of his 
 
CHARLOTTE'S JOURNEY. 237 
 
 eyes, gnawing his moustaclie with fury. She was 
 very pretty that morning, a little pale from emotion 
 and from a night of traveh D'Argenton was uneasy 
 and restless; he began to regret having accom- 
 panied her, and felt embarrassed by the part he was 
 playing. 
 
 When he saw the chateau, with its grounds and 
 fountains, its air of wealth, he reproached himself for 
 his own imprudence. " She Avill never return to 
 Aulnettes," he thought. At the end of the avenue 
 he stopped the carriage. " I will wait here," he 
 said, abruptly ; and added, with a sad smile, " Do not 
 be long." 
 
 Ten minutes later he saw Charlotte on the terrace 
 with a tall and elegant-lookiug man. Then began 
 for him a terrible anguish. What were they saying? 
 Should he ever see her again? And it was that de- 
 testable boj"^ that had given him all this disturbance. 
 The poet sat on the fallen trunk of a tree, watching fe- 
 verishly the distant door. Before him was outspread 
 a charming landscape — wooded hills, sloping vine- 
 yards, and meadows overhung with willows ; on one 
 side a ruin of the time of Louis IX., and on the other, 
 one of those ch§,teaux common enough on the shores 
 of the Loire. Just below him a sort of canal was 
 in process of building. He watched the workmen in 
 a mechanical sort of way; they were clothed in uni- 
 form, and seemed an organized body. He rose and 
 sauntered toward them. The laborers were only 
 children, and their reddened eyes and pale faces told 
 the story of their confinement to the poorer quarters 
 of the town. 
 
238 JACK. 
 
 " Who are these children ? " questioned the poet. 
 
 " They belong to the penitentiary," was the an- 
 swer from the official who superintended them. 
 
 D'Argenton asked question after question, saying 
 that he was intimately connected with a family Avhose 
 only son had just plunged them into deep affliction. 
 
 " Send him to us," was the curt reply, " as soon 
 as he leaves the prison." 
 
 " But I doubt if he goes to prison," said D'Argen- 
 ton, with a shade of regret in his voice ; " the par- 
 ents have paid the amount." 
 
 " Well, then, wo have another establishment — the 
 Maison Faterndle. I have some of the circulars 
 here in my pocket, and perhaps you would glance 
 over them, sir." 
 
 D'Argenton took the papers and turned back to- 
 ward the house. The carriage was coming down 
 the avenue, and soon Charlotte, lier color heightened 
 and her eyes bright with hope for her child, ap- 
 peared. 
 
 " I have succeeded," she cried, as the poet entered 
 the carriage. 
 
 " Ah I " he answered, drjdy, relapsing into silence, 
 turning over his circulars with an air of affected in- 
 terest. Charlotte, too, was silent, supposing his 
 pride wounded ; and finally he was obliged to say, 
 "You succeeded, then?" 
 
 " Completely. It has always been his intention to 
 give Jack, on his coming of age, a present of ten 
 thousand francs. Ho has given it to me now. Six 
 thousand will repay tlie money, and the other four 
 thousand I am to employ as I think best for my 
 child's advantage." 
 
CHARLOTTE'S JOURNEY. 239 
 
 " Employ it, then, iu placing liim in the Maison 
 Paternelle, at Mcrtray, for two or three years. It 
 is there only that one can learn to make an honest 
 man from out of a thief." 
 
 She started, for the harsh word recalled her to 
 realit}'-. We know that in that poor little brain im- 
 pressions are very transitory. 
 
 " I am ready to do whatever you choose," she said, 
 " you have been so good and generous ! " 
 
 The poet was enchanted ; he was still master, and 
 he proceeded to read Charlotte a long lecture. Her 
 maternal weakness was the cause of all that had 
 happened. The master-hand of a man was abso- 
 lutely essential. She did not answer, being occu- 
 pied with joy at the thought of her child not being 
 sent to prison. 
 
 It was on Sunday morning that they i-eached Basso 
 Indret. The poet went at once to the superintend- 
 ent's, while Charlotte remained alone at the inn, for 
 hotel there was none at the village. The rain beat- 
 ing against the windows, and the loud talking in the 
 house, gave her the first clear impression she had 
 received of the exile to which she had condemned 
 her boy. However guilty he might be, he was still 
 her child — her Jack. She remembered him as a 
 little fellow, bright, intelligent, and sensitive, and the 
 idea that he would presentlj'^ appear before her as a 
 thief and in a workman's blouse, seemed almost in- 
 credible. Ah ! had she kept her child with her, or 
 had she sent him with other boys of his age to 
 school, he would have been kept from temptation. 
 The old doctor was right, after all. And Jack had 
 
240 JACK. 
 
 lived with these people for two j'ears 1 All the pre- 
 judices of her superficial nature revolted against 
 her surroundings. She was incapable of compre- 
 hending the grandeur of a task accomplished, of a 
 life purchased by the fatigue of the body and the 
 labor of the hands. To change the current of her 
 thoughts, she took up the prospectus of which we 
 have spoken — " Maison Paternelle." The system 
 adopted was absolute isolation. The mother's heart 
 swelled with anguish, and she closed the book and 
 went to the window, where she stood with her eyes 
 fixed on a small bit of the Loire that she saw at the 
 foot of a street, where the water was as rough as the 
 sea itself 
 
 D'Argenton, in the meantime, was accomplishing 
 his mission. He would not have relinquished the 
 duty for any amount of money. He was fond of atti- 
 tudes and scenes. He prepared in advance the 
 terms in which he should address the criminal. 
 
 An old woman pointed out the house of the Ron- 
 dies, but when ho reached it he hesitated. Must he 
 not have made a mistake ? From the wide open 
 windows came the sound of gay music, and heavy 
 feet were heard keeping time to it. " No, this cannot 
 be it," said D'Argenton, who naturally expected to 
 find a desolate house. 
 
 " Come, Zdnaide, it is your turn," called some one. 
 
 " Zcnaide " — why, that was Rondic's daughter ! 
 These people certainly did not take this affair much 
 to heart. All at once a crowd of white-capped 
 women passed the window, singing loudly. 
 
 " Come, Brigadier 1 come. Jack 1 " said some one. 
 
CHARLOTTE'S JOURNEY. 241 
 
 Somewhat mystified, the poet i)ushed open the 
 door, and amid the dust and crowd he saw Jack, ra- 
 diant with happiness, dancing with a stout girl, who 
 smiled with her whole heart at a good-looking fellow 
 in uniform. In a corner sat a gra3'-haired man, much 
 amused hy all that was going on ; with him was a 
 tall, pale, young woman, who looked very sad. 
 16 
 
242 . JACK. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 CLAEISSE. 
 
 Tms was what had happened. The d.iy after ho 
 had written to Jack's mother, the superintendent 
 was in his ofBco alone, when Madame Rondic en- 
 tered, pale and agitated. Paying little attention to 
 llic coolness with which she was received, her con- 
 duct having for a long time habituated lier to the 
 silent contempt of all who respected themselves, she 
 refused to sit down, and, standing erect, said slowly, 
 attempting to conceal her emotion, — 
 
 " I have come to tell you that the apprentice is 
 not guilty ; that it is not he who has stolen my step- 
 ' daughter's dowry." 
 
 The Director started from his chair. " But, ma- 
 dame, every proof is against him." 
 
 "What proofs? The most important is that, my 
 husband being away, Jack was alone with us in the 
 house. It is just this proof that I have come to de- 
 stroy, for there was another man there that night." 
 
 "Whatman? 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 
 
CLAAVSSE. 243 
 
 parted, and an almost inaudible reply was whispered, 
 " No, it was not he who took it ; I gave it to him ! " 
 
 " Unhappy woman ! " 
 
 " Yes, most unhappj'. He said that he needed it 
 for two days only, and I bore for that time the sight 
 of my husband's despair and of Z6naide's tears, and 
 the fear of seeing an innocent person condemned. 
 Nothing came from Chariot. I wrote to him that if 
 by the next day at eleven I heard nothing, I should 
 denounce myself, — and here I am." 
 
 " But what am I to do?" 
 
 " Arrest the real criminals, now that you know 
 who they are." 
 
 " But your husband — it will kill him ! " 
 
 " And me, too," she replied, with haughty bitter- 
 ness. " To die is a very simple matter ; to live is 
 far more difficult." 
 
 She spoke of death with a tone of feverish longing 
 in her voice. 
 
 " If your death could repair j'our fault," returned 
 the Director, gravely ; " if it could restore the money 
 to the poor girl, 1 ccfuld understand why you should 
 wish to die. But — " 
 
 " What shall be done, then," she asked, plaintively ; 
 iii.d all at once she became the Clarisse of old. Her 
 unwonted courage and determination failed her. 
 
 " First, we must know what lias become of this 
 money ; he must have some of it still." • 
 
 Clarisse shook her head. She knew too well how 
 madly that gambler played. She knew that he had 
 thrust her aside, almost walked oyer her, to procure 
 
244 JACK. 
 
 this money, and that he would play until he had lost 
 his last sou. 
 
 The superintendent touched his hell. A gen- 
 darme entered. 
 
 " Go at once to Saint Nazarre," said his chief; 
 " say to Chariot that I require his presence here at 
 once. You will wait for him." 
 
 "Chariot is here, sir; I just saw him come out 
 from Madame Eondic's ; he cannot be far off." 
 
 " That is all right. Go after him quickly. Do not 
 tell him, however, that Madame Eondic is here." 
 
 The man hurried away. Neither the superinten- 
 dent nor Clarissa spoke. She stood leaning against 
 the corner of the desk. The jar of the machinery, 
 the wild whistling of the steam, made a fitting ac- 
 companiment to the tumult of her soul. The door 
 opened. 
 
 " You sent for me," said Cliarlot, in a gay voice. 
 
 The presence of Clarisse, her pallor, and the stern 
 look of his chief, told the story. She had kept her 
 word. For a moment his bold face lost its color, 
 and he looked like an animal driven into a corner. 
 
 "Not a word," said the Director; "we know all 
 that you wish to say. This woman has robbed her 
 husband and her daughter for you. You promised 
 to return her the money in two days. Where 
 is it?" 
 
 Chariot turned beseechingly toward Clarisse. 
 She did not look at him ; she had seen him too well 
 tliat terrible night. 
 
 "Where is the money?" repeated the superin- 
 tendent. 
 
CLARISSE. 245 
 
 " Here — I have brought it." 
 
 What he said was true. He had kept his promise 
 to Clarisse, but not finding her at home, had only 
 too gladly carried it away again. 
 
 His chief took up the bills. " Is it all here ? " 
 
 " All but eight hundred francs," the other an- 
 swered, with some hesitation ; " but I will return 
 them." 
 
 " Now sit down and write at my dictation," said 
 the superintendent, sternly. 
 
 Clarisse looked up quickly. This letter was ^ 
 matter of life and death to her. 
 
 "Write: 'It is I who, in a moment of insane 
 folly, took six thousand francs from the wardrobe in 
 the Rondic house.' " 
 
 Chariot internally rebelled at these words, but he 
 was afraid that Clarisse would establish the facts in 
 all their naked cruelty. 
 
 The superintendent continued : " ' I return the 
 money; it burns me. Release the poor fellows who 
 have been .suspected, and entreat my uncle to for- 
 give me. Tell him that I am going away, and shall 
 return only when, through labor and penitence, I 
 shall have acquired the right to shake an honest 
 man's hand.' Now sign it." 
 
 Seeing that Chariot hesitated, the superintendent 
 said, peremptorily, " Take care, young man ! I warn 
 you that if you do not sign this letter, and address 
 it to me, this woman will be at once arrested." 
 
 Chariot signed. 
 
 " Now go," resumed the superintendent, " to 
 GuiSrign}', if you will, and try to behave well. Re- 
 
246 JACK. 
 
 member, moreover, that if I hear of you in the 
 neighborhood of ludret, you will be arrested at 
 once." 
 
 As Chorlot left the room, he cast one glance at 
 Clarisse. But the charm was broken; she turned 
 her head away resolutely, and when the door closed 
 tried to express her gratitude to the superintendent. 
 
 " Do not thank me, madame," he said ; " it is for 
 your husband's sake that I have acted, with the hope 
 of sparing him the most horrible torture that can 
 overwhelm a man." 
 
 " It is in my husband's name that I thank you. I 
 am thinking of him, and of the sacrifice I must make 
 for him." 
 
 " What sacrifice ? " 
 
 " That of living, sir, when death would be so 
 sweet. I am so weary." 
 
 And in fact the woman looked so ill, so prostrated, 
 that the superintendent feared some catastrophe. 
 He answered compassionately, " Keep up yonr cour- 
 age, madame, and remember that j'our husband 
 loves you." 
 
 And Jack? Ah, ho had his day of triumph 1 The 
 superintendent ordered a placard to be put up in all 
 the buildings, announcing the boy's innocence. Ho 
 was feted and caressed. One thing only was lack- 
 ing, and that was news of B^lisaire. 
 
 When the prison-doors were thrown open, the 
 pedler disappeared. Jack was greatly distressed at 
 this, but nevertheless breakfasted merrily with Zj- 
 na'ide and her soldier, and had forgotten all his woes, 
 when D'Argenton appeared, majestic and clothed in 
 
CLARISSE. 247 
 
 black. It was in vain that they explained the find- 
 ing of the money, the innocence of Jack, and that a 
 second letter had been sent nari-ating all these facts ; 
 in vain did these good people treat Jack with 
 familiar kindness : D'Argenton's manner did not re- 
 lax ; he expressed in the choicest terms his regret 
 that Jack had given so much trouble. 
 
 "But it is I who owe him every apology," cried 
 the old man. 
 
 D'Argenton did not condescend to listen : he 
 spoke of honor and duty, and of the abyss to which 
 such evil conduct must always lead. Jack was con- 
 fused, for he remembered his journey to Nantes, and 
 tho stall in which Zilnaide's lover could testify to 
 having seen him; he therefore listened with down- 
 cast eyes to the ponderous eloquence of the lecturer, 
 who fairly talked Father Eondic to sleep. 
 
 " You must be very thirsty after talking so long," 
 said Z^naide, innocently, as she brought a pitcher of 
 cider and a fresh cake. And the cake looked so 
 nice, so fresh and crisp, that the poet --who was, as 
 we know, something of an epicure — made a breach 
 in it quite as large as that in the ham made by Bdli- 
 sairo at Aulnettes. 
 
 Jack had discovered one ^hing only from all D'Ar- 
 genton's long words, — he had learned that the poet 
 had brought the money to rescue him from disgrace, 
 and the child began to believe that he had done the 
 man great injustice, and that his coldness was only 
 on the surface. The boy, therefore, had never been 
 so respectful. -This, and the cordial reception of tho 
 Kondics, put the poet into the most amiable state of 
 
248 JACK. 
 
 mind. You should have seen him with Jack as they 
 trod the narrow streets of Indret ! 
 
 " Shall I tell him that his mother is so near? " said 
 D'Argenton, unwilling to introduce her boy to Char- 
 lotte in the character of hero and martyr ; it was 
 more than the selfish nature of the man could sup- 
 port. And yet, to deprive Charlotte and her son of 
 the joy of seeing each other once more it was neces- 
 sary to be provided with some reasop ; and this 
 reason Jack himself soon furnished. 
 
 The poor little fellow, deluded by such extraordi- 
 nary amiability, acknowledged to M. d'Argenton that 
 he did not like his present life ; that he should not 
 be anything of a machinist ; that he was too far from 
 his mother. He was not afraid of work, but he liked 
 brain work better than manual labor. These words 
 had hardly passed the boy's lips, when he saw a 
 change in his hearer. 
 
 " You pain me. Jack, you pain me seriously ; and 
 your mother would be very unhappy did she hear 
 you utter such opinions. You have forgotten ap- 
 parently that I have said to you a hundred times 
 that this century was no time for Utopian dreams, 
 for idle fancies ; " and on this text he wandered on 
 for more than an hour. And while these two walked 
 on the side of the river, a lonely woman, tired of the 
 solitude of her room in the inn, came down to the 
 other bank, to watch for the boat that was to bring 
 her the little criminal, — the boy whom she had not 
 seen for two years, and wliom she dearly loved. 
 But D'Argenton had determined to keep them apart. 
 It was wisest — Jack was too unsettled. Charlotte 
 
CLARISSE. 249 
 
 wonld be reasonable enough to comprehend this, 
 and would willingly make the sacrifice for her child's 
 interest. 
 
 And thus it came to pass that Jack and his mother, 
 sepai'ated only by the river, so near that they could 
 Lave heard each other speak across its waters, did 
 not meet that night, nor for many a long day after- 
 wards. - 
 
250 JACK. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 IN THE ENGINE-ROOM. 
 
 How ia it that days of such iutermiDable lengtli 
 can be merged into such swiftly-passing years? 
 Two have passed since Z(?naide was married, and 
 since Jack's terrible adventure. He has worked 
 conscientiously', and loathes the thought of a wine- 
 shop. The house is sad and desolate since Zdnaide's 
 marriage ; Madame Rondic rarely goes out, and 
 occupies lier accustomed seat at the window, the 
 curtain of which, however, is never lifted, for she 
 expects no one now. Her days and nights are all 
 alike monotonous and dreary. Father Rondic alone 
 preserves his former serenity. 
 
 The winter has been a cold one. The Loire has 
 overflowed the island, part of which remained under 
 Avater four months, and the air was filled with fogs 
 and miasma. Jack has had a bad cough, and has 
 passed some weeks in the infirmary. Occasionally a 
 letter lias come for him, tender and loving when 
 his mother wrote in secret, didactic and severe when 
 the poet looked over her shoulder. The only news 
 sent by his mother Avas, that her poet had had a 
 grand reconciliation Avith the Moronvals, who now 
 
IN THE ENGINE-ROOM. 251 
 
 came on Sundaj's, with some of their pupils, to dino 
 at Aiilnettes. 
 
 Moronvtd, Msldou, and the academy seemed far 
 enough away to Jack, who thought of liimself iu 
 those old days as of a superior being, and could sco 
 little resemblance between his coarse skin and round 
 shoulders, and the dainty pink and white child whoso 
 face he dimly remembered. 
 
 Thus were Dr. Rivals' words justified: "It is 
 social distinctions that create final and absolute sep- 
 arations." 
 
 Jack thought often of the old doctor and of Cecile, 
 and on the first of January each year had written 
 them a long letter. But the two last had remained 
 unanswered. 
 
 One thought alone sustained Jack in his sad life : 
 his mother might need him, and he must work hard 
 for her sake. 
 
 Unfortunately wages are in proportion to the 
 value of the work, and not to the ambition of the 
 workman, and Jack had no talent in the direction of 
 his career. He was seventeen, his apprenticeship 
 over, and yet he received but three francs per day. 
 With these three francs he must pay for his room, 
 his food, and his dress; that is, he must replace his 
 coarse clothing as it was worn out ; and what should 
 he do if his mother were to write and say, " I am 
 coming to live with j'ou " ? 
 
 "Look here," said Pere Rondic, "your parents 
 made a great mistake in not listening to me. You 
 have no business here; now how would you like to 
 make a voyage ? The chief engineer of the ' 0yd- 
 
252 yACK. 
 
 iius ' wants an assistant. You can have six francs 
 per day, be fed, lodged, and warmed. Shall I write 
 and say you will like the situation ? " 
 
 The idea of the double pay, the love of travel 
 that Madou's wild tales had awakened in his child- 
 ish nature, combined to render Jack highly pleased 
 at the proposed change. He left Indret one July 
 morning, just four years after his arrival. What a 
 superb day it was I The air became more fresh as 
 the little steamer he was on approached the ocean. 
 Jack had never seen the sea. The fresh salt breeze 
 inspired him with restless longing. Saint Nazarre 
 lay before him, — the harbor crowded with shipping. 
 They landed at the dock, and there learned that the 
 Cj'dnus, of the Compagnie Traiisatlantique, would sail 
 at three o'clock that day, and was already lying out- 
 side, —this being, in fact, the only way to have the 
 crew all on board at the moment of departure. 
 
 Jack and his companion — for Father Rondic had 
 insisted on seeing him on board his ship — had no 
 time to see anything of the town, which had all the 
 vivacity of a market-day. 
 
 The wharf was piled with vegetables, with baskets 
 of fruit, and with fowls which, tied together, were 
 wildly struggling for liberty. Near their merchandise 
 stood the Breton peasants waiting quietly for pur- 
 chasers. They were in no hurry, and made no appeal 
 to the passers-by. In contrast to these, there was a 
 number of small pedlers, selling pins, cravats, and 
 porte-monnaies, who were loudly crying their wares. 
 Sailors were hurrying to and fro, and Rondic learned 
 from one of them that the chief engineer of the 
 
IN THE engine-room: 253 
 
 Cydnus was in a very bad humor because be had 
 not his full number of stokers on board. 
 
 "We must hasten," said Rondic; and they hailed 
 a boat, and rapidly threaded their way through the 
 harbor. The enormous transatlantic' steamers lay at 
 their wharves as if asleep ; the decks of two large 
 English ships just arrived from Calcutta were cov- 
 ered with sailors, all hard at work. They passed 
 between these motionless masses, where the water 
 was as dark as a canal running through the midst of 
 a city under high walls ; then they saw the Cydnus 
 lying, with her steam on. A wiry little man, in his 
 shirt-sleeves, with three stripes on his cap, hailed 
 Jack and Rondic as their boat came alongside the 
 steamer. 
 
 His words were inaudible through the din and 
 tumult, but his gestures were eloquent enough. 
 This was Blanchet, the chief engineer. 
 
 " You have come, then, have you ? " he shouted. 
 "I was afraid you meant to leave me in the lurch." 
 
 " It was • my fault," said Rondic ; " I wished to 
 accompany the lad, and I could not get away yes- 
 terday." 
 
 " On board with you, quick 1 " returned the engi- 
 neer ; " he must get into his place at once." 
 
 They descended first one ladder, then another, and 
 another. Jack, who had never been on board a 
 large steamer, was stupefied at the size and the depth 
 )f this one. They descended to an abyss where the 
 eyes accustomed to the light of day could distin- 
 guish absolutely nothing. The heat was stifling, 
 and a final ladder led to the engine-room, where 
 
254 JACK. 
 
 the heavy atmosphere, charged with a smell of oil, 
 was almost insupportable. Great activity reigned in 
 this room ; a general examination was being made of 
 the machinery, which glittered with cleanliness. Jack 
 looked on curiously at the enormous structure, know- 
 ing that it would soon be his duty to watch it day 
 and night. 
 
 At the end of tlie engine-room was a long pas- 
 sage. " That is where the coal is kept," said the 
 engineer, carelessly ; " and on the other side the 
 stokers sleep." 
 
 Jack shuddered. The dormitory at the academ}', 
 the garret-room at the Rondics, were palaces in 
 comparison. 
 
 The engineer pushed open a small door. Imagine 
 a long cave, reddened by the reflection of a dozen 
 furnaces in full blast; men, almost naked, were stir- 
 ring the fire, the sweat pouring from their faces. 
 
 " Here is 3'our man," said Blanchet to the head 
 workman. 
 
 "All right, sir," said the other without turning 
 round. 
 
 " Farewell," said Rondic. " Take care of your- 
 self, my boy I " and ho was gone. 
 
 Jack was soon set to work ; his task was to carry 
 the cinders from the furnace to the deck, and there 
 throw them into the sea. It was very hard work: 
 the baskets were heavy, the ladders narrow, and the 
 change from the pure air above to the stifling atmos- 
 phere below absolutely suffocating. On the third 
 trip Jack felt his legs giving way under him. He 
 found it impossible to even lift his basket, and sank 
 
IN THE ENGINE-ROOM. 255 
 
 into a corner half fainting. One of the stokers, seeing 
 his condition, brought him a large flask of bi'audy. 
 
 " Tliank j-ou ; I never drink anj'thirig," said Jack. 
 
 The other laughed. " You will drink hero," he 
 answered. 
 
 " Never," murmured Jack ; and lifting the heavy 
 basket, more by an ciFort of will than by muscular 
 force, he ascended the ladder. 
 
 From the deck an animated spectacle was to bo 
 seen. The little steamer ran to and fro from the 
 wharf to the ship, laden with passengers who came 
 hurriedly on board. The passengers wore represen- 
 tatives of all nations. Some were gay, and others 
 were weeping, but in tlie faces of all was to bo read 
 an anxiety or a hope ; for these displacements, these 
 movings, are almost invariably the result of some 
 great disturbance, and are, in general, the last quiver 
 of the shock that throws you from one continent to 
 the other. 
 
 This same feverish element pervaded everything, 
 even the vessel that strained at its anchor. It ani- 
 mated the curious crowd on the jetty who had come, 
 some of them, to catch a last look of some dear face. 
 li animated the fishing-boats, whose sails were spread 
 for a night of toil. 
 
 Jack, with h's empt}' basket at his feet, stood 
 looking down at the passengers, — those belonging 
 to .the cabins comfortably established, those of the 
 steerage seated on their slender luggage. Where 
 were they going? What wild fancj- took them away? 
 What cold and stern reality awaited them on their 
 landing? One couple interested him especially: it 
 
25G JACK. 
 
 was a mother and a child who recalled to him the 
 memory of Ida and little Jack. The lady was young 
 and in black, with a heavy wrap thrown about her, 
 a Mexican sarapo with wide stripes. She had a cer- 
 tain air of independence characteristic of the wives 
 of military or naval officers, who, from the frequent 
 absence of their husbands, are thrown on their own 
 resources. The child, dressed in the English fashion, 
 looked as if he might have belonged to Lord Pem- 
 broke. When they passed Jack they both turned 
 aside, and the long silk skirts were lifted that they 
 might not touch his blackened garments. It was an 
 almost imperceptible movement, but Jack understood 
 it. A rough oath and a slap on the shoulder inter- 
 rupted his sad thoughts. 
 
 " What the deuce are you up here for, sir? Go down 
 to your post!" It was the engineer making his 
 rounds. Jack went down without a word, humiliated 
 at the reproof. 
 
 As he put his foot on the last ladder, a shudder 
 was felt throughout the ship : she had started. 
 
 " Stand there 1 " said the head stoker. 
 
 Jack took his place before one of those gaping 
 mouths ; it was his duty to fill it, and to rake it, and 
 to keep the fire clear. This was not such an easy 
 matter, as, being unaccustomed to the sea, the pitch- 
 ing of the vessel came near throwing him into the 
 flames. He nevertheless toiled on courageously, 
 but at the end of an hour he was blind and deaf, 
 stifled by the blood that rushed to his head. He did 
 as the others did, and ran to the outer air. Ah, how 
 good it was ! Almost immediately, however, an icy 
 blast struck him between (lie shouldors. 
 
IN THE ENGINE-ROOM. 257 
 
 " Quick, give me the brandy ! " he cried with a 
 choked voice, to the man who liad previously offered 
 it to him. 
 
 " Here it is, comrade ; I knew very well that you 
 would want it before long." 
 
 He swallowed an enormous draught ; it was almost 
 pure alcohol, but he was so cold that it seemed like 
 water. After a moment a comfortable warmth spread 
 over his whole system, and then began a burning 
 sensation in his stomach. To extinguish this fire he 
 drank again. Fire, within, and fire without, — flame 
 upon flame, — was this the way th<it he was to live 
 in future?* 
 
 Then began a life of toil, hardship, and drunken- 
 ness that lasted three years: — three years whose 
 seasons were all alike in that heated room down in 
 the bowels of that big ship. 
 
 He sailed from country to country ; he heard their 
 names, Italian, French, and Spanish, but of them all 
 he saw nothing. The fairer the climes they visited, 
 the hotter was his chamber of torment. When he had 
 emptied his cinders, broken his coal, and filled his 
 furnaces, he slept the sleep of exhaustion and intoxi- 
 cation ; for a stoker must drink if he lives. In the 
 darkness of his life there was but one bright spot, 
 his mother. She was like the Madonna in a chapel 
 where all the lights are extinguished save the one 
 that burns before her shrine. Now that he had be- 
 come a man, much of the mystery of her life had 
 become clear to him. His respect for Charlotte was 
 changed to tender pity, and he loved her as we love 
 those for whom we suffer. Even in his most despair- 
 17 
 
258 JACK. 
 
 ing moments he remembered the end for which he 
 toiled, and a mechanical instinct made him carefully 
 preserve almost every sou of his wages. 
 
 Meanwhile, distance and time weakened the inter- 
 course between mother and son. Jack's letters be- 
 came more and more rare. Those of Charlotte were 
 frequent, but they spoke of things so foreign to his 
 new life, that he read them only to liear their music, 
 the far off echo of a living tenderness. 
 
 Letters from Etiolles told him of D'Argenton; later, 
 some from Paris spoke of their having again taken 
 up their residence there, and of the poet having 
 founded a Review, in consequence of ttie solicita- 
 tions of friends. This would be a way of bringing 
 his works prominently before the public, as well as 
 to increase his income. At Havana Jack found a 
 large package addressed to him. It was the first 
 number of the magazine. The stoker mechanically 
 turned its leaves, leaving on them the ti-aces of his 
 blackened fingers ; and suddenly, as he saw the well- 
 known names of D'Argenton, Moronval, and Hirsch 
 on the smooth pages, he was seized with wild rage 
 and fndignation, and he cried aloud, as he shook his 
 fist impatiently in the air, " Wretches, wretches ! 
 what have you made of mo ? " 
 
 This emotion was but brief; day by day his in- 
 tellect weakened, and, strangely enough, he gained 
 in physical health ; he was stronger, and bcttei- able 
 to support the fatigues of his daily labor ; he seemed 
 hardly to recognize any difference between his days 
 when the sln'p tossed and groaned, and Jiis nights 
 when he slept a drunken sleep, disturbed only by an 
 occasional nightmare. 
 
IN THE ENGINE-ROOM. 259 
 
 Was that frightful shock and crash of tho Cyd- 
 nus one of these dreams? That rushing of water, 
 those cries of frightened women, — was all that a 
 dream ? His comrades called him, shook him. "Jack, 
 Jack ! " they cried ; he staggered out, half naked. 
 The eagine-room was already half under water, 
 the compass broken, the fires extinguished. Tho 
 men ran against each other in the darkness. " What 
 is it?" they cried. 
 
 An American ship had run them down. The men 
 struggled up the narrow ladder ; at the head stood 
 tho chief engineer with a revolver in his hand. 
 
 " The first man that attempts to pass me I will 
 shoot ! Go to your furnaces ! Land is not far oft"; 
 we shall reach it yet if my orders are obeyed." 
 
 Each one turned, with rage and despair in his 
 heart. They charged the furnaces with wet coal, 
 and volumes of gas and smoke poured out ; while the 
 water still ascending, in spite of the constant work 
 at the pumps, was as cold as ice. The pumps refuse 
 to work, the furnaces will not burn. The stokers aro 
 in water up to their shoulders before the voice of 
 the chief engineer is heard: "Save yourselves, my 
 men, if you can 1 " 
 
260 JACK. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 d'akgenton's magazine. 
 
 In a narrow street, quiet and orderly, in one of 
 those houses belonging to the last century, D'Argen- 
 ton had established himself as editor of the new 
 magazine ; while Jack, our friend Jack, was its pro- 
 prietor. Do not smile: this was really the case; his 
 money had been used to establish it. Charlotte had 
 some little scruple at first in so employing these 
 funds, which she wished to preserve intact for the 
 boy on his attaining his majority ; but she yielded to 
 the poet's persuasions. 
 
 " Come, my dear, listen I Figures are figures, you 
 know. Can there be a better investment than this 
 Review ? It is far safer than any railroad, at least. 
 Have I not placed my own funds in it ? " 
 
 Within six months D'Argenton had sacrificed 
 thirty thousand francs, and the receipts had been 
 nothing, while the expenses were enormous. Besides 
 tlie offices of the magazine, D'Argenton had hired in 
 the same house a large apartment, from which he 
 had a superb view. The city, the Seine, N6tre Dame, 
 numberless spires and domes, were all spread before 
 his eyes. He saw the carriages pass over the bridges, 
 and the boats glide through the arches. " Hero I 
 
D'ARGENTON'S MAGAZINE. 201 
 
 can live and breathe," he said to himself. " It was 
 impossible for me to accomplish anything in that dull 
 little hole of Aulnettes ! How could one work in 
 such alethargic atmosphere?'' 
 
 Charlotte was still young and gaj' ; she managed 
 the house and the kitchen, which was no small mat- 
 ter with the number of persons who daily assembled 
 around her table. The poet, too, had recently ac- 
 quired the habit of dictating instead of writing, and 
 as Charlotte wrote a graceful English hand, ho em- 
 ploj'ed her as secretary. Every evening, when they 
 Avere alone, he walked up and down the large room 
 and dictated for an hour. In the silent old house, 
 his solemn voice, and another sweeter and fresher, 
 awakened singular echoes. " Our author is compos- 
 ing," said the concierge with respect. 
 
 Let us look in upon the D'Argenton mdnage. We 
 find them installed in a charming little room, filled 
 ■with the aroma of green tea and of Havana cigars. 
 Charlotte is preparing her writing-table, arranging 
 her pens, and straightening the ream of thick paper. 
 D'Argenton is in excellent vein ; he is in the humor 
 to dictate all night, and twists his moustache, where 
 glitter many silvery hairs. He waits to be in- 
 spired. Charlotte, however, as is often the case in 
 a household, is very differently disposed : a cloud is 
 on her face, which is pale and anxious; but not- 
 withstanding her evident fatigue, she dips her pen 
 in the inkstand. 
 
 " Let us see — we are at chapter first. Have j'ou 
 written that ? " 
 
 " Chapter first," repeated Charlotte, in a low, sad 
 voice. 
 
262 JACK. 
 
 The poet looked at, lier with annoyance ; tlien, with 
 an evident determination not to question her, he 
 continued, — 
 
 " In a valley among the Pyrenees, those Pyrenees 
 so rich in legendary lore — " 
 
 He repeated these words several times, then turn- 
 ing to Charlotte, he said, " Have 3'ou written this '? " 
 
 She made an eifort to repeat the words, but 
 Ktopped, her voice strangled with sobs. In vain did 
 she try to restrain herself, her tears flowed in tor- 
 rents. 
 
 " What on earth is the matter ? " said D'Argenton. 
 " Is it this news of the Cydnus ? It is a mere flying 
 report, I am sure, and I attach no importance to it. 
 Dr. Hirsch was to call at the office of the Company 
 to-day, and he will be here directly." 
 
 He spoke in a satirical tone, slightly disdainful, as 
 the weak, children, fools, and invalids are often ad- 
 dressed. Was she not something of all these ? 
 
 " Where were we ? " he continued, when she was 
 calmer. " You have made me lose the thread. Read 
 me all you have written." 
 
 Charlotte wiped her tears away. 
 
 " In a valley among the Pyrenees, those Pyrenees 
 so rich in legendary lore — " 
 
 " Go on." 
 
 " It is all," she answered. 
 
 The poet was very much surprised ; it seemed to 
 him that he had dictated much moi'e. The terrible 
 advantage thouglit has over expression bewildered 
 him. All that he dreamed, all that was in embryo 
 within his brain, he fancied was already in form and 
 
D'ARGENTON'S MAGAZINE. 263 
 
 on the page, and he was aghast at the disproportion 
 between the dream and the reality. His delusion 
 was like that of Don Quixote, — he believed himself 
 in the Empyrean, and took the vapors from the 
 kitchen for the breath of heaven, and, seated on his 
 wooden horse, felt all the shock of an imaginary fall. 
 Had he been in such a state of mental exaltation 
 merely to produce those two lines ? Were these the 
 only result of that frantic rubbing of his dishevelled 
 hair, of that weary pacing to and fro ? 
 
 He was furious, for he felt that he was ridiculous. 
 " It is your fault," he said to Charlotte. " How can 
 a man work in the face of a cr3'ing woman ? It is 
 alvyays the same thing — nothing is accomplished. 
 Years pass away and the places are filled. Do you 
 not know how small a thing disturbs literary compo- 
 sition ? I ought to live in a tower a thousand feet 
 above all the futilities of life, instead of being sur- 
 rounded by caprices, disorder, and childishness." 
 As he speaks he strikes a furious blow upon the 
 table, and poor Charlotte, with the tears pouring 
 from her eyes, gathers up the pens and papers that 
 have flown about the room in wild confusion. 
 
 The arrival of Dr. Hirsch ends this deplorable 
 scene, and after a while tranquillit)'^ is restored. The 
 doctor is not alone ; Labassandre comes with him, and 
 both are grave and mysterious in their manner. 
 
 Charlotte turns hastily. " What news, doctor ? " 
 she asks. 
 
 " None, madame ; no news whatever." 
 
 But Charlotte detected a covert glance at D'Ar- 
 genton, and knew that the physician's words were 
 false. 
 
204 JACK. 
 
 " And what do the officers of the Company say ? '' 
 continued the mother, determined to learn the truth. 
 
 Labassandre undertook to answer, and while he 
 spoke, the doctor contrived to convey to D'Argenton 
 that the Cydnus had gone to the bottom, — " a collis- 
 ion at sea — every soul was lost." 
 
 D'Argenton's face never changed, and it would 
 have been difficult to form an}' idea of his feelings. 
 
 " I have been at work," he said. " Excuse me, I 
 need the fresh air." 
 
 "You are right," said Charlotte; "go out for a 
 walk ; " and the poor woman, who usually detained 
 her poet in the house lest tlie liigh-born ladies of tlio 
 Faubourg St. Germain should entrap'him, is tJii.s 
 evening delighted to see liim leave her, that she may 
 weep in peace — that she may yield to all the wild 
 terror and mournful presentiments that assail her. 
 This is why even the presence of the servant annoys 
 her, and she. sends her to her attic. 
 
 " Madame wishes to bo alone ! Is not madamo 
 afraid ? TThe noise of the wind is very dismal on tho 
 balcony." 
 
 " No, I am not afraid ; leave me." 
 
 At last she was alone. She could think at her 
 ease, without tho voice of her tyrant saying, "What 
 are you tliinking about ? " Ever since she had read 
 in the Journal the brief words, " There is no intelli- 
 gence of the Cydnus," the image of her child had 
 pursued her. Her nights had been sleepless, and she 
 listened to the wind with singular terror. It seemed 
 to blow from all quarters, rattling the windows and 
 wailing through the chimneys. But whether it whis- 
 
D'ARCENTON'S MAGAZINE. 2G5 
 
 pered or shrieked, it spoke to her, and said what it 
 always says to the mothers and wives of sailors, who 
 turn pale as they listen. The wind comes from afar, 
 . but it comes quickly and has met with many adven- 
 tures. With one gust it has torn away the sails of a 
 vessel, set fire ta a quiet home, and carried death 
 and destruction on its wings. This it is that gives 
 to its voice such melancholy intonations. 
 
 This night it was dreary enough : it rattles the 
 windows and whistles under the doors ; it wishes to 
 come in, for it bears a message to this poor mother, 
 and it sounds like an appeal or a warning. The 
 ticking of the clock, the distant noise of a locomo- 
 tive, all take the same plaintive tone and beseeching 
 accent. Charlotte knows only too well what the wind 
 wishes to tell her. It is a story of a ship rolling 
 on the broad ocean, without sails or rudder — of a 
 maddened crowd on the deck, of cries and shrieks, 
 curses and prayers. Her hallucination is so strong 
 that she even hears from the ship a beseeching cry 
 of "Mammal" She starts to her feet; she hears it 
 again. To escape it, she walks about the room, 
 opens the door and look's down the corridor. She 
 sees nothing, but she hears a sigh, and, raising her 
 lamp higher, discovers a dark shadow crouched in 
 the corner. 
 
 " Who is that ? " she cried, half in terror, half in 
 hope. 
 
 " It is I, dear mother 1 " said a weak voice. 
 
 She ran toward him. It is her boy — a tall, rough 
 sailor — rising as she approached him, with the aid 
 of a pair of crutches. And this is what she has made 
 
2G6 JACK. 
 
 of her child ! Not a word, not an exchimatioii, not 
 a caress. They look at each other, and tears fill the 
 eyes of both. 
 
 A certain fatality attaches itself to some people, 
 which renders them and all that they do absolutely 
 ridiculous. When D'Argenton returned that night, 
 ho came with the determination to disclose the fatal 
 news to Charlotte, and to have the whole affair con- 
 cluded. The manner in which he turned the key in 
 the lock announced this solemn determination. But 
 what was his surprise to find the parlor a blaze of 
 light ! Charlotte — and on the table by the fire the 
 remains of a meal. She came to him in a terrible 
 state of agitation. 
 
 " Hush 1 Pray make no noise — he is here and 
 asleep." 
 
 " "Who is here ? " 
 
 " Jack, of course. He has been shipwrecked, and 
 is severely injured. He has been saved as by a 
 miracle. He has just come from Ilio Janeiro, where 
 he spent two months in a hospital." 
 
 D'Argenton forced a smile, which Charlotte en- 
 deavored to believe was one of satisfaction. It must 
 be acknowledged that he behaved very well, and 
 said at once that Jack must stay there until he was 
 entirely recovered. In fact, he could do no less for 
 the actual proprietor of his Review. 
 
 The first excitement over, the ordinary life of the 
 poet and Charlotte was resumed, changed only by 
 the presence of the poor lame fellow, whose legs 
 were badly burned_by the explosion of a boiler, and 
 had not yet healed. He was clothed in a jacket of 
 
D'ARGENTON'S MAGAZINE. 2G7 
 
 blue cloth. His light moustache, the color of ripe 
 wheat, was struggling into sight through the tliick 
 coating of tan that darkened his face; his eyes were 
 red and inflamed, for the lashes had been burned off; 
 and in a state of apathy painful to witness, the sou 
 of Ida de Barancy dragged himself from chair to 
 chair, to the irritation of D'Argenton and to the great 
 shame of his mother. When some stranger entered 
 the house and cast an astonished glance at this figure, 
 Avhich offered so strange a contrast to the quiet, lux- 
 urious surroundings, she hastened to say, " It is my 
 son, he has been very ill," in the same way that the 
 mothers of deformed children quickly mention the 
 relationship, lest they should surprise a smile or a 
 compassionate look. But if she was pained in seeing 
 her darling in this state, and blushed at the vulgarity 
 of his manners or his awkwardness at the table, she 
 was still more mortified at the tone of contempt with 
 which her husband's friends spoke of her son. 
 
 Jack saw little difference in the habituds of the 
 house, save that thej' were older, had less hair and 
 fewer teeth; in every other respect the}' were llie 
 same. They had attained no higher social position, 
 and were still without visible means of support. 
 
 They met every day to discuss the prospects of 
 the Review, and twice each week they all dined at 
 D'Argenton's table. Moronval generally brought 
 with him his two last pupils. One was a young Jap- 
 anese prince of an indefinite age, and who, robbed 
 of his floating robes, seemed very small and slender. 
 With his little cane and hat, he looked like a figure of 
 yellow clay fallen from an ctagsre upon the Parisian 
 
268 JACK. 
 
 sidewalk. The other, with narrow slits of eyes and 
 a black beard, recalled certain vague remembrances 
 to Jack, who at last recognized his old friend Said 
 who had offered him cigar ends on their first inter- 
 view. The education of this unfortunate youth had 
 been long since finished, but his parents had left him 
 with Moronval to be initiated into the manners and 
 customs of fashionable societJ^ All these persons 
 treated Jack with a certain air of condescension. 
 He remained Master Jack to but one person — that 
 was that most amiable of women, Madame Moronval, 
 Avho wore the same silk dress that he had seen her 
 in years before. He cared little whether he was 
 called " Master Jack," or " My boy," — his two 
 months in the hospital, his three yeai's of alcoholic 
 indulgence, the atmosphere of the engine-room, and 
 the final tempestuous conclusion, had caused him 
 such profound exhaustion, such a desire for quiet, 
 that he sat with his pipe between his teeth, silent 
 and half asleep. 
 
 " He is intoxicated," said D'Argenton sometimes. 
 
 This was not the case ; but the young man found 
 his only pleasure in the society of his mother on the 
 rare occasions when the poet was absent. Then he 
 drew his chair close to hers, and listened to her 
 rather than talk himself. Her voice made a de- 
 licious murmur in his ears like that of the first bees 
 on a warm spring day. 
 
 Once, when they were alone, he said to Charlotte, 
 very slowly, " When I was a child I went on a long 
 voyage — did I not?" 
 
 She looked at him a little troubled. It was the 
 
WARGENTON'S MAGAZINE. 269 
 
 first time in his life that he had asked a question in 
 regard to his history. 
 
 " Why do you wish to know ? " 
 
 "Because, three years ago, the first day that I 
 was on board a steamer, I had a singular sensation. 
 It seemed to me that I had seen it all before ; the 
 cabins, and the narrow ladders, impressed me as 
 familiar ; it seemed to me that I had once played on 
 those very stairs." 
 
 She looked around to assure herself that they 
 were entirely alone. 
 
 " It was not a dream. Jack. You were three 
 years old when we came from Algiers. Your father 
 died suddenly, and wo came back to Tours." 
 
 " What was my father's name?" 
 
 She hesitated, much agitated, for she was not pre- 
 pared for this sudden curiosity ; and yet she could 
 not refuse to answer these questions. 
 
 " He was called by one of the grandest names in 
 France, my child — by a name that you and I would 
 bear to-day if a sudden and terrible catastrophe had 
 not prevented him from repairing his fault. Ah, we 
 were very young when we met ! I must tell you 
 that at that time I had a perfect passion for the 
 chase. I remember a little Arabian horse called 
 Soliman — " 
 
 She was gone, at full speed, mounted on this 
 horse, and Jack made no effort to interrupt her — he 
 knew that it was useless. But when she stopped to 
 take breath, he profited by this brief halt to return 
 to his fixed idea. 
 
 " What was my father's name ? " he repeated. 
 
270 JACK. 
 
 How astonished those clear eyes looked 1 She iiad 
 totally forgotten of whom they had been speaking. 
 She answered quickly, — 
 
 " He was called the Marquis de I'Epau." 
 Jack certainly had but little of his motlier's respect 
 for high birth, its rights and its prerogatives, for 
 he received with the greatest tranquillity the intel- 
 ligence of his illustrious descent. What mattered it 
 to him that his father was a marquis, and bore a dis- 
 tinguished name ? This did not prevent his son from 
 earning his broad as a stoker on the Cydnus. 
 
 "Look here, Charlotte,"' said D'Argenton impa- 
 tientl}"^, one day, " something must' be done ! A de- 
 cided step must be taken with this boy. lie cannot 
 remain here forever without doing anything. He is 
 quite well again ; he cats like an ox. He coughs a 
 little still, to be sure, but Dr. Hirsch says that is 
 nothing, — that he will always cough. He must 
 decide on something. If the life in the engine-room 
 of a steamer is too severe for him, let him try a 
 railroad." 
 
 Charlotte ventured to say, timidly, " If you could 
 see how he loses his breath when he climbs the 
 st-airs, and how thin ho is, you would still feel that 
 he is far from well. Can you not employ him on 
 some of the ofEce work ? " 
 
 " I will speak to Moronval," was the reply. 
 
 The result of this was, that Jack for some daj's did 
 everything in the office except sweep the rooms. 
 With iiis usual imperturbability, Jack fulfilled these 
 various duties, enduring the contemptuous remarks 
 
D'AKGENTON'S MAGAZINE. 271 
 
 of Moronval with the same indifference that he op- 
 posed to D'Argenton's cold contempt. Moronval 
 had a certain fixed salary on the magazine ; it was 
 small, to be sure, but he added to it by supplemen- 
 tarj' labors, for which be was paid certain sums on 
 account. The subscription books lay open on the 
 desk, expenses went on, but no receipts came in. 
 In fact, there was but one subscriber, Charlotte's 
 friend at Tours, and but one proprietor, and he, 
 with a glue-pot and brush, was at work in a corner. 
 Neither Jack nor any one else realized this; but 
 D'Argeuton knew it and felt it hourly, and soon 
 hated more strongly than ever the youth upon whose 
 money he was living. 
 
 At the end of a week it was announced that Jack 
 was useless in the office. 
 
 " But, my dear," said Charlotte, " he does all he 
 can 1 " 
 
 "And what is that? He is lazy and indifferent ; 
 he knows not how to sit nor hoAv to 'stand, and he 
 falls asleep over his plate at dinner ; and since this 
 great, shambling fellow has appeared here, you have 
 grown ten j-ears older, my love. Besides, he drinks, 
 I assure you that he drinks." 
 
 Charlotte bowed her head and wept; she knew 
 that her son drank, but whose fault was it? Had 
 they not thrown him into the gulf? 
 
 " I have an idea, Charlotte 1 Suppose we send 
 him to Etiolles for change of air. We will give him 
 a little monej', and it will be a good thing for him." 
 
 She thanked him enthusiasticall}', and it was de- 
 cided that she would go the next day to install her 
 son at Aulnettes. 
 
272 JACK. 
 
 They arrived thei-e ou one of those soft autumnal 
 mornings which have all the beauty of summer 
 without its excessive heat. There was not a breath 
 in the air ; the birds sang loudly, the fallen leaves 
 rustled gently, and a perfume of rich maturity of 
 ripened grain and fruit filled the air. The paths 
 through the woods were still green and fresh ; Jack 
 recognized them all, and, seeing them, regained a 
 portion of his lost youth. Nature herself seemed to 
 welcome him with open arms, and he was soothed 
 and comforted. Charlotte left her son early the 
 next morning, and the little house, with its windows 
 thrown wide open to the soft air and sunlight, had a 
 peaceful aspect. 
 
THE CONVALESCENT. 273 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE CONVALESCENT. 
 
 " And to think that for five years I have been 
 allowed to remain in the belief that my Jacii was a 
 thief!" 
 
 "But, Dr. Rivals — " 
 
 " And tliat if I had not happened to ask for a glass 
 of milk at the Archambaulds, I should have contin- 
 ued to think so ! " 
 
 It was, in fact, at the forester's cottage that Jack 
 and his old friend had met. 
 
 Ilor ten days the youth had been living in solitude 
 at Aulnettes. Each day he had become more like 
 the Jack of his childhood. The only persons with 
 whom he held any communication were the old for- 
 ester and his wife, who had served Charlotte faith- 
 fully for so long a time. She watched over his 
 1 ealth, purchased his provisions, and often cooked 
 his dinner over her own fire, while he sat and 
 smoked at the door. These people neVer asked a 
 question, but when they saw his thin figure and 
 heard his constant cough, they shook their heads. 
 
 The interview between Dr. Rivals and Jack was 
 at first embarrassing to both, but after a little con- 
 18 
 
274 JACK. 
 
 versation, and as soon as the doctor understood the 
 truth, the awkwardness passed away. 
 
 " And now," said the old gentleman, gayly, " I hope 
 we shall see you often. You" have been sent out to 
 grass, apparently, like an old horse, but you need 
 more than tiiat. You require great care, my boy, 
 great care, — particularly in the coming season. 
 Etiolles is not Nice, you understand. Our house is 
 changed, for m}' poor wife died four years ago, — 
 died of absolute grief. My granddaughter does her 
 best to take her place ; she keeps my books and 
 makes up my prescriptions. How glad she will be 
 to see 3'ou ! Now when will j'ou come ? " 
 
 Jack hesitated, as if he read his thoughts. The 
 doctor added, — 
 
 " Cecile knows nothing of all your troubles; so 
 come without any feeling of restraint. It is too cold 
 for j'ou to .be out late to-night ; this fog is not 
 good for J'OU ; but I shall expect you at breakfast 
 to-morrow. Now in with you quickly ; you must not 
 be out after tlie dews begin to fall. If you do not 
 appear I shall come for you." 
 
 As Jack closed the door of the house, he had a 
 singular impression. It seemed to him that he had 
 just come home from one of those long drives with 
 the doctor ; that he should find his mother in the 
 dining-room, while the poet was above in the tower. 
 
 He passed the evening in the chimney-corner, 
 before a fire made of dried grape-vines, for life in 
 the engine-room had made iiim very chilly. As of 
 old, when he returned from his country excursions 
 with the doctor, tlio remembrance of his kindness and 
 
THE CONVALESCENT. 275 
 
 affection rendered him impervious to the slights he 
 received at home, so now did the prospect of seeing 
 Cccile people his solitude with dear phantoms ami 
 happj' visions, that remained with him even Avhile 
 he slept. 
 
 The next day he knocked at the Rivals' door. 
 
 " The doctor has not come in. Mademoiselle is in 
 the office," was the reply of the little servant who 
 had replaced the faithful old woman he had kitown. 
 Jack turned to the office; he knocked hurriedly, 
 impatient to behold his former companion. 
 
 " Come in, Jack," said a sweet voice. 
 
 Instead of obej'ing, he was seized with a strange 
 emotion of fear. 
 
 The door opened suddenly, and Jack asked him- 
 self if the charming apparition on tlie threshold, in 
 her blue dress and clustering blonde hair, was not 
 the sun itself How intimidated he would have been 
 had not the -little hand slipped into iiis own recalled 
 so many sweet recollections of their common child- 
 hood ! 
 
 "Life has been very hard for you, my grand- 
 fatlier tells me," she said. " I have had much sor- 
 row, too. Dear grandmamma is dead ; she loved 
 you, and often spoke of you." 
 
 He sat opposite to her, looking at her. She was 
 tall and graceful; as she stood leaning against the 
 corner of an old bookcase, slie bent her iiead 
 slightly to talk to her friend, and reminded him of a 
 bird. 
 
 Jack remembered that his mother was beautiful 
 also; buf in Cecije thorp was something indefii)- 
 
276 JACK. 
 
 able — an aroma of some divine spring-time, some- 
 thing fresh and pure, to which Charlotte's manner- 
 isms and graces bore little resemblance. 
 
 Suddenly, while he sat in this ecstasy before her, 
 he caught sight of his own hand. It seemed enor- 
 mous to him ; it was black and hardened, and the 
 nails were broken and deformed, — irretrievably 
 injured by contact with fire and iron. He was 
 ashamed, but could not conceal them even by put- 
 ting them in his pocket. But he saw himself now 
 with the eyes of others, dressed in shabby clothes 
 and an old vest of D'Argenton's, that was too small 
 for him and too short in the sleeves. In addition 
 to this physical awkwardness, poor Jack was over- 
 wiielmed b}' the mcmorj' of all the disgraceful 
 scenes through which he had passed. The drunken 
 orgies, the hours of beastly intoxication, all returned 
 to his recollection, and ij; seemed to him that C^cilo 
 knew them, too. The slight cloud that hung on her 
 fair young brow, the compassion he read in her eyes, 
 all told him that she understood his shame and hu- 
 miliation. He wished to run away and shut himself 
 into a room at Aulnettes, and never leave it again. 
 
 Fortunately, some one came into the office, and 
 Cccile, busy at her scales, writing the labels as her 
 grandmother had done, gave Jack time to recover 
 his equanimity. 
 
 How good and patient she was I These poor 
 peasant women were very stupid and wearisome 
 with their long explanations. She encouraged them 
 with her e-ympathj'^, cheered them with her words of 
 counsel, and reproved them gently for their mistakes. 
 
THE CONVALESCENT. 277 
 
 She was busy at this moment with an old ac- 
 quaintance of Jack's, — the very woman who had 
 taken so much pleasure in terrifying him when he 
 was little. Bowed, as nearly all the peasantry are 
 by their daily labor, burned by the sun, and pow- 
 dered by the dust, old Said yet retained a little lifo 
 in her sharp eyes. She spoke of her good man, who 
 had been sick for months, — who could not work, 
 and yet had to eat. She said two or three things 
 calculated to disconcert a young girl, and looked 
 Cecile directly in the face with malicious delight. 
 Two or three times Jack felt a strong inclination to 
 put the Avretch out of the door ; but he restrained 
 himself when he saw the cold dignity with which 
 C(;cile listened. 
 
 The old woman finally finished her discourse, and, 
 as she passed Jack going out, recognized him. 
 
 " What ! " she exclaimed, " the little Aulnettes boy 
 come to life again? Ah, Mademoiselle C(^cile, j'our 
 uncle won't want you to marry him now, I fancy, 
 though there was a time when everybody thought 
 that was what the doctor desired ; " and, chuckling, 
 she left the room. 
 
 Jack turned pale. The old woman had finally 
 struck the blow that, so many years ago, she had 
 threatened him with. But Jack was not the onl}' 
 one who was disturbed. A fair face, bent low over 
 a big book, was scarlet with anno^-ancc. 
 
 "Come, Catherine, bring the soup." It was the 
 doctor who spoke. " And you two, have you not 
 found a word to say to each other after seven years' 
 absence? " 
 
278 JACK. 
 
 At the table Jack was no more at his ease. Be 
 was afraid that some of his bad habits would show 
 tliemselves; and his hands — what could he do with 
 them ? With one he must hold his fork, but with 
 the other? The whiteness of the linen made it look 
 appallingly black. C6cile saw his discomfort, and 
 understanding that her watchfulness increased it, 
 hardly glanced again in his direction. 
 
 Catherine took away the dessert, and put before 
 the young girl hot water, sugar, and a bottle of old 
 brandy. It was she who since her grandmother's 
 death had mixed the doctor's grog. And the good 
 man had not gained by the change ; for she, as the 
 doctor observed in a melancholy tone, " diminished 
 daily the quantity of alcohol." 
 
 Wlien she had served her grandfather, Cdcile 
 turned toward their guest. 
 
 "Do you drink brandy?" she asked. 
 
 "Does he drink brand}'?" said the doctor, with a 
 laugh, " and he in an engine-room for three j'ears? 
 Don't you know — ignorant little puss that you 
 arc — that that is the only waj- the poor fellows can 
 live? On board a vessel where I was, one fellow 
 drank a bottle of pure spirit at a draught. Make 
 Jack's strong, m}' dear." 
 
 She looked at her old friend sadl}"^ and seriously. 
 
 "Willj-ou have some?" 
 
 " No, mademoiselle," he answered, in a low, 
 asliamed voice; and he withdrew his glass, — for 
 whicli effort of self-denial ho was rewarded by one 
 of tliose eloquent looks of gratitude which some 
 \\omen can give, and which are only understood by 
 those whom they address. 
 
THE CONVALESCENT. 279 
 
 " Upon my word, a conversion ! " said the doctor, 
 laughing. But Jack was converted only after the 
 fashion of savages, who consent to believe in God 
 only to please the missionaries. The peasants of 
 EtioUes, at work in the fields, who saw Jack on his 
 way home that night, might have had every reason 
 to suppose that he was crazy or intoxicated. He 
 was talking to himself, and gesticulating wildl3\ 
 " Yes," he exclaimed, " M. d'Argenton was right : I 
 am a mpro artisan and must live and die with my 
 equals ; ii is useless for me to try and rise above 
 them." It was a very long time since the young 
 man had felt any such energy. New thoughts and 
 ideas crowded into his mind ; among them was 
 Gjcile's image. What a marvel of grace and purity 
 she was ! He sighed as he thought that had he been 
 differently educated, he migiit have ventured to ask 
 her to become his wife. At this moment, as he turned 
 a shaqj angle in the road, he found himself face to 
 face with Mother Said, who was dragging a fagot of 
 wood. The old woman looked at him with a wicked 
 smile, that in his present mood exasperated him to 
 such a degree that his look of anger so terrified the 
 old creature that she dropped her fagot and ran into 
 the wood. 
 
 That evening he spent in darkness, and lighted 
 neither fire nor lamp. Seated in a corner of the 
 dining-room, with his eyes fixed on the glass doors 
 that led to the garden, through which the soft mist 
 of a superb autumnal night was visible, he thought 
 of his childhood, and of the last years of his life. 
 
 No, CcJcile would not marry him. In the first 
 
280 JACK. 
 
 place, he was a mechanic ; secondly, his birth was 
 illegitimate. It was the first time in his life that this 
 thought had weighed upon him, for Jack had not 
 lived among very scrupulous people. He had never 
 heard his father's name mentioned, and therefore 
 rarely thought of him, being as unable to measure 
 the extent of his loss as a deaf mute is unable to 
 realize the blessing of the senses he lacks. 
 
 But now the question of his birth occupied him to 
 the exclusion of all others. 
 
 He had listened calmly to the name of his fathei 
 when Charlotte told it; but now he would like to 
 learn from her every detail. Was he really a mar- 
 quis? Was he certainly dead? Had not his mother 
 said this merely to avoid the disclosure of a mortify- 
 ing desertion ? And if this father were still alive, 
 would he not be willing to give his name to his son ? 
 The poor fellow was ignorant of the fact that a true 
 woman's heart is more moved by compassion than by 
 all the vain distinctions of the world. 
 
 " I will write to my mother," he thought. But the 
 questions he wished to ask were so delicate and 
 complicated, that he resolved to see her at once, and 
 have one of those earnest conversations where eyes 
 do the work of words, and where silence is as elo- 
 quent as speech. Unfortunately he had no money 
 for his railroad fare. " Pshaw 1 " he said, " I can go 
 on foot. I did it when I was eleven, and I can surely 
 try it again." And he did try it the next day ; and 
 if it seemed to him less long and less lonely than it 
 did before, it was far more sad. 
 
 Jack saw the spot where he had slept, the little 
 
THE CONVALESCENT. 281 
 
 gate at Villeneu%'e Saint-George's, where he had 
 been dropped by the kind couple from their carriage, 
 the pile of stones where the recumbent form of a 
 man had so terrified him, and he sighed to think 
 that if the Jack of his j^outh could suddenly rise 
 from the dust of the highwa^'^, he would be more 
 afraid of the Jack of to-day than of an}' other dismal 
 wanderer. 
 
 He reached Paris in the afternoon. A settled, 
 cold rain was falling; and pursuing the comparison 
 that lie had made of his souvenirs with the present 
 time, he recalled the glow of the sunset on that May 
 evening when his mother appeared to him, like the 
 archangel Michael, wrapped in glory, and chasing 
 away the shades of night. 
 
 Instead of the little iiouse at Aulnettes where Ida 
 sang amid her roses, Jack saw D'Argenton just issu- 
 ing I'rom 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 tliese 
 two men, one dressed with so much care, brushed, 
 perfumed, and gloved ;> the other in a velvet coat, 
 much too short for him, shiny from wear and weather, 
 no one would have supposed that any tie could exist 
 between them. 
 
 Jack extended his hand to D'Argenton, who gave 
 one finger in return, and asked if the house at Aul- 
 nettes was rented. 
 
 " Rented ? " said the other, not understanding. 
 
 " To be sure. Seeing you here, I supposed that 
 of course the house was occupied, and you were 
 compelled to leave it." 
 
282 JACK. ^ 
 
 " No," said Jack, somewhat disconcerted ; " no one 
 has even called to look at the place." 
 
 " What are you here for? " 
 
 " To see my mother." 
 
 " Filial affection is a most excellent thing. Un- 
 fortunatel}', however, there are travelling expenses 
 to be thought of." 
 
 " I came on foot," said Jack, with simple dignity. 
 
 " Indeed ! " drawled D'Argenton, and then added, 
 " I am glad to see that your legs are in better order 
 than your arms." 
 
 And pleased at this mot, the poet bowed coldly, 
 and went on. 
 
 A week before, and these words would have 
 scarcely been noticed by Jack, but since the pre- 
 vious night he had not been the same person. His 
 pride was now so wounded that lie would have re- 
 turned to Ar.lnettes without seeing his mother, had 
 he not wished to speak to her most seriously. He 
 entered the salon; it was in disorder: chairs and 
 benches were being brought in, for a great fete was 
 in progress of arrangement, which was the reason 
 that D'Argenton was so out of temper on seeing 
 Jack. Charlotte did not appear pleased, but stopped 
 in some of her preparations. 
 
 " Is it you, my dear Jack. You come for money, 
 too, I fancy. I forgot it utterly, — that is, I begged 
 Dr. Hirsch to hand it to you. He is going to Aul- 
 nettes in two or three days to make some very 
 curious experiments with perfumes. He has made 
 an extraordinary discovery." 
 
 Tbcy were talking in the centre of the room ; a 
 
THE CONVALESCENT. 283 
 
 half dozen workmen were going to and fro, driving 
 nails, and moving the furniture. 
 
 " I wish to speak seriouslj^," said Jack. 
 
 "What! now? You know that serious conversa- 
 tion is not my ibrto ; and to-day all is in confusion. 
 Wo have sent out five hundred invitations, it will bo 
 superb ! Come liere, then, if it is absolutely neces- 
 sary. I have arranged a veranda for smoking. Come 
 and see if it is not convenient?" 
 
 She went with him into a veranda covered with 
 striped cotton, furnished with a sofa and jardiniere, 
 but rather dismal-looking with the rain pattering on 
 the zinc roof. 
 
 Jack said to himself, " I had better have Avritten," 
 and did not know what to say first. 
 
 "Well?" said Charlotte, leaning her chin on her 
 hand in that graceful attitude that some women 
 adopt when they listen. He hesitated a moment, as 
 one hesitates in placing a heavy load upon an (jtagfire 
 of trifles, for that wiiich he had to say seemed too 
 much for that pretty little head that leaned toward 
 him. 
 
 "■I should like — I should like to talk to you of 
 my father," he said, wiih some hesitation. 
 
 On the end of her tongue she had the words, 
 " What folly ! " If she did not utter them, the ex- 
 pression of her face, in which were to be read amaze- 
 ment and fear, spoke for her. 
 
 " It is too sad for us, my child, to discuss. But 
 still, fjainful as it is to me, I understand your feel- 
 ings, and am ready to gratify you. Besides," she 
 added, solemnly, '■' I have always intended, when j'ou 
 
284 JACK. 
 
 were twenty, to reveal to you the secret of your 
 birth." 
 
 It was time now for Lim to look astonished. Had 
 she forgotten that three months previous she had 
 made this disclosure. Nevertheless, he uttered no 
 protest, ho wished to compare her story of to-day 
 with an older narration. How well he knew her ! 
 
 " Is it true that my father was noble ? " he asked, 
 suddenly. 
 
 " Indeed he was, my child." 
 
 " A marquis ? " 
 
 " No, only a baron." 
 
 " But I supposed — in fact, you told me — " 
 
 "No, no — it was the elder branch of the Bulac 
 family that was noble." 
 
 " He was connected then with the Bulac family ? " 
 
 " Most assuredly. He was the head of the younger 
 branch." 
 
 " And his name was — " 
 
 " The Baron de Bulac — a lieutenant in the navj'." 
 
 Jack felt dizz}', and had only strength to ask, 
 " How long since he died ? " 
 
 " 0, years and years ! " said Charlotte, hurriedly. 
 
 That his father was dead he was sure ; but 
 had his mother told him a falsehood now, or on 
 the previous occasion? Was he a De Bulac or a 
 L'Epau ? 
 
 " You are looking ill, child," said Charlotte, inter- 
 rupting herself in the midst of a long romance she 
 was telling, " your hands are like ice." 
 
 " Never mind, I shall get warm with exercise," 
 answered Jack, with diflSculty. 
 
THE CONVALESCENT. 285 
 
 " Are you going so soon ? Well, it is best that you 
 should get back before it is late." She kissed him 
 tenderly, tied a handkerchief around his throat, and 
 slipped some money into his pocket. She fancied 
 that his silence and sadness came from seeing 
 all the preparations for a fete in which he was to 
 have no share, and when her maid summoned her 
 for the waiting coiffeur, she said good-bj'e hurriedh'. 
 
 " You see I must leave you ; write often, and take 
 good care of yourself." 
 
 He went slowly down the steps, with his face 
 turned toward his mother all the time. He was sad 
 at heart, but not by reason of this fSte from which 
 he was excluded, but at the thought of all the happi- 
 ness in life from which he had been always shut out. 
 He thought of the children who could love and re- 
 spect their parents, who had a name, a fireside, and a 
 family. He remembered, too, tliat his unhappy fate 
 would prevent him from asking any woman to share 
 his life. He was wretched without realizing that to 
 regret these joys was in fact to be worthy of them, 
 and that it was only the full perception of the sad 
 truths of his destinj- that would impart the strength 
 to cope with them. 
 
 Wrapped in these dismal meditations, ho had 
 reached the Lyons station, a spot where the mu(^ 
 seems deeper, and the fog thicker, than elsewhere. 
 It was just the hour that the manufactories closed. 
 A tired crowd, overwhelmed by discouragement and 
 distress, hurried through the streets, going at once 
 to the wine-shops, some of which had as a sign the 
 one word Consolaiion, as if drunkenness and foi- 
 
286 JACK. 
 
 getfulness were the sole refuge for the wretched. 
 Jack, feeling that darkness had settled down on 
 his life as absolutely as it had on this cold autumnal 
 night, littered an exclamation of despair. 
 
 " They are right ; what is there left to do but to 
 drink?" and entering one of those miserable diink- 
 ing-shops, Jack called for a double measure of brandy. 
 Just as he lifted his glass, amid the din of coarse 
 voices, and through the thick smoke, he heard a 
 flute-like voice, — 
 
 " Do j'ou drink brandy, Jack ? " 
 
 No, he did not drink it, nor Avould he ever touch 
 it again. He left the shop abruptly, leaving his glass 
 untouched and the money on the counter. 
 
 How Jack had a sharp illness of some weeks' dura- 
 tion after this long walk ; how Dr. Hirsch experi- 
 mented upon him until routed by Dr. Rivals, who 
 carried the youth to his own house and nursed liira 
 again to health, is too long a story. We prefer also 
 to introduce our readers to Jack seated in a comfort- 
 able arm-chair, reading at the window of the doctor's 
 office. It was peaceful about him, a peace that camo 
 Irom the sunny sky, the silent house, and the gentle 
 footfall of Cccile. 
 
 He was so happy that he rarely spoke, and con- 
 tented himself with watching the movements of the 
 dear presence that pervaded the simple home. She 
 sewed and kept her grandfather's accounts. 
 
 "I am sure," she said, looking up from her book, 
 " that the dear man forgets half his visits. Did you 
 notice what he said yesterdaj-. Jack? " 
 
 " Mademoiselle 1 " he answered, with a start. 
 
THE CONVALESCENT. 287 
 
 He had not heard one word, although he had been 
 watcliing her with all his eyes. If Cocile said, " My 
 frien 1,'' it seemed to Jack that no other person had 
 over so called him; and when, she said farewell, or 
 good-night, his heart contracted as if he were never 
 to see her again. Her slightest words were full of 
 meaning, and her simple, unaffected wa3's were a 
 delight to the youth. In his state of convalescence 
 ho was more susceptible to these influences than he 
 would ordinarily have been. 
 
 0, the delicious daj^s he spent in that blessed . 
 home ! The office, a large, deserted room, with 
 white curtains at the windows opening on a, village 
 street, communicated to him its healthful calm. The 
 room was filled with the odors of plants culled in 
 the splendor of their flowering, and he drank it in 
 with delight. 
 
 In the scent of the balsam he heard the rushing 
 of the clear brooks in the forest, and the woods were 
 green and shady, when ho caught the odor of the 
 herbs gathered from the foot of tlie tall oaks. 
 
 With returning strength Jack tried to read ; he 
 turned over the old volumes, and found those in 
 which ho had studied so long before, and which he 
 could now far better comprehend. The doctor was 
 out nearly all day, .and the two young people re- 
 mained alone. This would have horrified many a 
 prudent mother, and, of course, had Madame Rivals 
 been living, it would not have been permitted; but 
 t!io doctor was a child himself, and then, who knows? 
 ho may have had his own plans. 
 
 Meanwhile D'Argenton, informedof Jack's removal 
 
288 JACK. 
 
 to the Rivals, saw fit to take great offence. " It is 
 Dot at all proper," wrote Charlotte, " that you should 
 remain there. People will think us unwilling to 
 give you the care you need? You place us in a false 
 position." 
 
 This letter failing to produce any effect, the poet 
 wrote himself: — " I sent Hirsch to cure you, but 
 j'ou preferred a country idiot to the science of our 
 iriend 1 As you call yourself better, I give you now 
 two daj's to return to Aulnettes."* If you are not 
 there at the expiration of that time, I shall consider 
 that )'ou have been guilty of flagrant disobedience, 
 and from that moment all is over between us." 
 
 As Jack did not move, Charlotte appeared on the 
 scene. She came with much dignity, and with a 
 crowd of phrases that she had learned by heart from 
 her poet. M. Rivals received her at the door, and, 
 not in the least intimidated by her coldness, said at 
 once, " I ought to tell you, madame, that it is my 
 fault alone that your son did not obe}'^ you. He has 
 passed through a great crisis. Fortunately he is at 
 an age when constitutions can bo reformed, and I 
 trust that his will resist the rough trials to which it 
 has been exposed. Hirsch would have killed him 
 with his musk and his other perfumes. I took him 
 •iway from the poisonous atmosphere, and now I 
 hope the boy is out of danger. Leave him to me a 
 while longer, and you shall have him back more 
 healthy than ever, and capable of renewing the 
 battle of life; but if you let that impostor Hirsch get 
 hold of him again, I shall think that you wish to 
 get rid of him forever." 
 
THE CONVALESCENT. 289 
 
 " Ah 1 M. Rivals, what a thing to say 1 What have 
 I done to deserve such an insult ? " and Charlotte 
 burst into tears. The doctor soothed her with a few 
 kind words, and then let her go alone into the office 
 to see her son. She found him changed and im- 
 proved much, as if he had thrown off some outer 
 husk, but exhausted and weakened by the transfor- 
 mation. He turned pale when he saw her. 
 
 " You have come to take me away," he exclaimed. 
 
 " Not at all," she answered, hastily. " The doctor 
 wishes you to remain, and where would you be so 
 well as with the doctor who loves you so tenderly?" 
 
 For the first time in his life Jack had been happy 
 away from his mother, and a departure from the 
 roof under which he was would have certainly 
 caused him a relapse. Charlotte was evidently un- 
 comfortable ; she looked tired and troubled. 
 
 " We have a large entertainment every month, 
 and every fortnight a reading, and all the confusion 
 gives me a headache. Then the Japanese prince at 
 the Moronval Academy has written a poem, M. 
 D'Argenton has translated it into French, and we 
 are both of us learning the Japanese tongue. I find 
 it very difficult, and have come to the conclusion 
 that literature is not my forte. The Eeview does 
 not bring in a single cent, and has not now one 
 subscriber. By the Avay, our good friend at Tours is 
 dead. Do you remember him ? " 
 
 At this moment C^cile came in and was received 
 by Charlotte with the most flattering exclamations 
 and much warmth of manner. She talked of D'Ar- 
 genton and of their friend at Tours, which annoyed 
 19 
 
290 JACK. 
 
 Jack intensely, for be would have wished neither 
 person to have been mentioned in C^cile's pure 
 presence, and over and over again he stopped the 
 careless babble of his mother who had no such 
 scruples. They urged Madame D'Argenton to re- 
 main to dinner, but she had already lingered too 
 long, and was uneasily occupied in inventing a series 
 of excuses for her delay, which should be in read- 
 iness when she encountered her poet's frowning 
 face. 
 
 " Above all, Jack, if you write to me, be sure that 
 you put ,on your letter ' io he called /or,' for M. 
 D'Argenton is much vexed with you just now. So 
 do not be astonished if I scold you a little in my 
 next letter, for he is always there when I write. 
 He even dictates my sentences sometimes ; but don't 
 nn'nd, dear, j'ou will understand." 
 
 She acknowledged her slavery with na'ivetd, and 
 Jack was consoled for the tyranny by which she was 
 oppressed by seeing her go away in excellent spirits, 
 and with her shawl wrapped so gracefully ai'ound 
 her, and her travelling-bag carried as lightly as she 
 carried all the burdens of life. 
 
 Have you ever seen those water-lilies, whose long 
 stems arise from the depths of the river, finding their 
 way through all obstacles until they expand on the 
 surface, opening their magnificent white cups, and 
 filling the air with their delicate perfume? Thus 
 grow and flowered the love of these two young 
 hearts. With C<;cile, the divine flower had gi-own in 
 a limpid soul, where the most careless eyes could 
 have discerned it. With Jack, its roots had been 
 
THE CONVALESCENT. 291 
 
 tangled and deformed, but when the stems reached 
 the regions of air and light, thej straightened 
 themselves, and needed but little more to burst into 
 flower. 
 
 " If you wish," said M. Rivals, one evening, " wo 
 will go to-morrow to the vintage at Coudray ; the 
 farmer will send his wagon ; you two can go in that 
 in the morning, and I will join you at dinner." 
 
 They accepted the proposition with delight. They 
 started on a bright morning at the end of October. 
 A soft haze hung over the landscape, retreating 
 before them, as it seemed; upon the mown fields 
 and on the bundles of golden grain, upon the slender 
 plants, the last remains of the summer's brightness, 
 long silken threads floated like particles of gray 
 fog. The river ran on one side of the highway-, 
 bordered by huge trees. The freshness of the air 
 heightened the spirits of the two young travellers, 
 who sat on the rough seat with their feet in the straw, 
 and holding on with both hands to the pide of the 
 wagon. One of the farmer's daughters drove ayoung 
 ass, who, harassed by the wasps, which are very 
 iiumer6us at the time when the air is full of the aroma 
 of ripening fruits, impatiently shook his long ears. 
 
 They went on and on until they reached a hill-side, 
 where they saw a crowd at work. Jack and Cdcilo 
 each snatched a wicker basket and joined the others. 
 What a prettj' sight it was! The rustic landscape 
 seen between the vine-draped arches, the narrow 
 stream, winding and picturesque, full of greei^ islapds, 
 a little cascade and its white foam, aj3c| aboye all, 
 the fog showing through a g(3]der) pjist, and q, fresl) 
 
292 JACK. 
 
 breeze that suggested long evenings and bright 
 fires. 
 
 This charming day was very short, at least so 
 Jack found it. He did not leave Cdcile's side for a 
 minute. She wore a broad-brimmed hat and a skirt 
 of flowered cambric. He filled her basket with Ijie 
 finest of the grapes, exquisite in their purple bloom, 
 delicate as the dust on the wings of a butterfly. 
 They examined the fruit together ; and when Jack 
 raised his, eyes, he admired on the cheeks of the 
 young girl the same faint, powdery bloom. Her hair, 
 blown in the wind in a soft halo above her brow, added 
 to this efi'ect. He had never seen a face so changed 
 and brightened as hers. Exercise and the excite- 
 ment of her pretty toil, the gayety of the vineyard, 
 the laughs and shouts of the laborers, had absolutely 
 transformed M. Rivals' quiet housekeeper. She be- 
 came a child once more, ran down the slopes, lifted 
 her basket on her shoulder, watched her burden 
 carefully, and walked with that rhythmical step which 
 Jack remembered to have seen in the Breton women 
 as they bore on their heads their full water-jugs. 
 There came a time in the day when these two-j'oung 
 persons, overwhelmed by latigue, took their seats at 
 the entrance of a little grove where the dry leaves 
 rustled under their feet. 
 
 And then ? Ah, well, they said^ nothing. They 
 let the night descend softly on the most beautiful 
 dream of their lives ; aud when the swift autumnal 
 twilight brought out in the darkness the bright 
 windows of the simple homes scattered about, the 
 wind freshened, and C<icile insisted on fastening 
 
THE CONVALESCENT. 293 
 
 around Jack's throat the scarf she had brought, the 
 warmth and softness of the fabric, the consciousness 
 of being cared for, was like a caress to the lover. 
 
 He took her hand, and her fingers lingered in his 
 for a moment; that was all. "When they returned to 
 the farm the doctor had just arrived ; they heard 
 his cheery voice in the courtyard. The chill of the 
 earlj'- autumnal evenings has a charm that both 
 Cccile and Jack felt as they entered the large room 
 filled with the light from the fire. At supper innu- 
 merable dusty bottles were produced, but Jack 
 manifested profound indifference to their charms. 
 The doctor, on the contrary, fully appreciated them, 
 so fully that his granddaughter quietly left her scat, 
 ordered the carriage to be harnessed, and wrapped 
 herself in her cloak. Dr. Eivals seeing her in read- 
 iness, rose without remonstrance, leaving on the 
 table his half-filled glass. 
 
 The three drove home, as in the olden days, 
 through the quiet country roads ; the cabriolet, 
 which had increased in size as had its occupants, 
 groaned a little on its well-used springs. This noise 
 took nothing from the charm of the drive, which the 
 stars, so numberless in autumn, seemed to follow 
 with a golden shower. 
 
 " Are you cold, Jack ? " said the doctor, suddenl}'. 
 
 How could he be cold? The fringe of Cecile's 
 great shawl just touched him. 
 
 Alas ! why must there be a to-morrow to such 
 delicious days ? Jack knew now that he loved 
 Cccile, but he realized also that this love would be 
 to him only an additional cause of sorrow. She was 
 
294 JACK. 
 
 too far abovo him, and although he had changed 
 much since he had been so near her, although he 
 had thrown aside much of the roughness of his habits 
 and appearance, he still felt himself unworthy of the 
 lovely fairy who had transformed him. 
 
 The mere idea that the girl should know that ho 
 adored her was distasteful to him. Besides, as his 
 bodily he.ilth returned, he began to grow ashamed 
 of his hours of inaction in " the office." What would 
 she think of him should he continue to remain there? 
 Cost what it would, he must go. 
 
 One morning he entered M. Rivals' house to thank 
 him for all his kindness, and to inform him of his 
 decision. 
 
 "You are right," said the old man; " you are well 
 now bodily and mentally, and you can soon find some 
 employment." 
 
 There was a long silence, and Jack was disturbed 
 by the singular attention with which M. Rivals 
 regarded him. " You have something to say to 
 me," said the doctor, abruptly. 
 
 Jack colored and hesitated. 
 
 " I thought," continued the doctor, " that when 
 a youth was in love with a girl who had no other 
 relation than an old grandfather, the proper thing 
 was to speak to him frankly." 
 
 Jack, without answering, hid his face in his hands. 
 
 " Why are you so troubled, my boy V " continued 
 his old friend. 
 
 " I did not dare to speak to you," answered Jack ; 
 " I am poor and without any position." 
 
 " You can remedy all this." 
 
THE CONVALESCENT. ^ 205 
 
 " But tliere is something else : you do not know 
 that I am illegitimate ! " 
 
 " Yes, I know — and so is she," said the doctor, 
 calml3^ "Now listen to a long story." 
 
 They were in the doctor's library. Through the 
 open window they saw a superb autumnal landscape, 
 long country roads bordered with leafless trees; and 
 beyond, the old country cemetery, its yew-trees pros- 
 trated, and its crosses upheaved. 
 
 " You have never been there," said M. Eivals, 
 pointing out to Jack this melancholy spot. " Nearly 
 in the centre is a large white stone, on which is the 
 one word SIadeleine. 
 
 '' There lies my daughter, Cdcile's mother. She 
 wished to be placed apart from us all, and desired 
 that only her Christian name should be put upon her 
 tomb, saying that she was not worthy to bear tiio 
 name of her father and mother. Dear child, she was 
 so proud 1 She had done nothing to merit this exile 
 after death, and if any should have been punished, it 
 was I, an old fool, whose obstinacy brought all our 
 misfortunes upon us. 
 
 " One day, eighteen j-ears ago this very month, I 
 was sent for in a hurry on account of an accident 
 that had happened at a hunt in the Forct da Sdnart. 
 A gentleman had been shot in the leg. I found the 
 wounded man on the state-bed at the Archambaulds. 
 He was a handsome fellow, with light hair and eyes, 
 those northern eyes that have something of the cold 
 glitter of ice. Ho bore with admirable courage the 
 extraction of the balls, and, the operation over, 
 thanked mo in excellent French, though v.'ith a 
 
296 JACK. 
 
 foreign accent. As lio could not be moved without 
 danger, I continued to attend liim at tlic forester's ; 
 I learned that he was a Russian of high rank, — 'the 
 Comte Nadine,' his companions called him. 
 
 " Although the wound was dangerous, Nadine, 
 thanks to his youth and good constitution, as well as 
 to the care of Mother Archambauld, was soon able to 
 leav.e his bed, but as he could not walk at all, I took 
 compassion on his loneliness, and often carried him in 
 my cabriolet home to my own house to dine. Some- 
 times, when the weather was bad, he spent the night 
 with us. I must acknowledge to you that I adored 
 the man. He had great stores of information, had 
 been everywhere, and seen everything. To my 
 wife he gave the pharmaceutic recipes of his own 
 land, to my daughter he taught the melodies of the 
 Ukraine. We were positively enchanted with him 
 all of us, and when I turned my face homeward on a 
 rainy evening, I thought with pleasure that I should 
 find so congenial a person at my fireside. My wife 
 resisted somewhat the general enthusiasm, but as it 
 was rather her habit to cultivate a certain distrust 
 as a balance to my recklessness, I paid little atten- 
 tion. Meanwhile our invalid was quite well enough 
 to return to Paris, but he did not go, and I did not 
 ask either myself or him why he lingered. 
 
 " One day my wife said, ' M. Nadine must explain 
 why he comes so often to the house; people are 
 beginning to gossip about Madeleine and himself.' 
 
 " ' What nonsense ! ' I exclaimed. I had the ab- 
 surd notion that the count lingered at EtioUes on 
 my account ; I thought he liked our long talks, idiot 
 
THE CONVALESCENT. 297 
 
 that I was. Had I looked at my daughter when he 
 entered the room, I should have seen her change 
 color and bend assiduously over her embroidery all 
 the while he was there. But there are no eyes so 
 blind as those which will not see ; and I chose to bo 
 blind. Finally, when MadiJleine acknowledged to her 
 mother that they loved each other, 1 went to find the 
 comte to force an explanation. 
 
 *' He loved my daughter, he said, and asked me 
 for her hand, although he wished me to understand 
 the obstacles that would be thrown in the w^ay by 
 his family. He said, however, that he was of an age 
 to act for himself, and that he had some small income, 
 which, added to the amount that 1 could give Made- 
 leine, would secure their comfort. 
 
 "A great disproportion of fortune would have ter- 
 rified me, while the very moderation of his resources 
 attracted me. And then his air of lordly decision, 
 his promptness in arranging everything, was singu- 
 larly^ attractive. In short, he was installed in the 
 house as my future son-in-law, without my asking 
 too curiously by what door he entered. I realized 
 that "there was something a little irregular in the 
 affair, but my daughter was very happy ; and when 
 her mother said, ' We must know more before we 
 give up our daughter,' I laughed at her, I was so 
 certain that all was right. One day I spoke of him 
 to M. Vidville, one of the huntsmen. 
 
 " ' Indeed, I know nothing of the Comte Nadine,' 
 he said ; ' he strikes me as an excellent fellow. I 
 know that he bears a celebrated name, and that he 
 is well educated. But if I had a daughter involved, 
 
298 JACK. 
 
 I should wish to know moio than this. I should 
 write, if I ■^vtsre you, to the Russian embassy ; they 
 can tell j'ou everything there.' 
 
 " You suppose, of course, that I went to the em- 
 bassy. That is just what I did not do ; I was too 
 careless, too blindly confident, too busy. I have 
 never been able in my whole life to do what I wished, 
 for I have never had any time ; my whole existence 
 has been too short for the half of what I have wished 
 to do. Tormented by my wife on the subject of this 
 additional information, I finished by lying, '. Yes, yes, 
 I went there ; everything is satisfactory.' Since 
 then I remember the singular air of the comte each 
 time he thought I was going to Paris ; but at that 
 time I saw nothing ; I was absorbed in the plans 
 that my children were making for their future hap- 
 piness. They were to live with us three months in 
 the year, and to spend the rest of the time in St. 
 Petersburg, where Nadine was offered a government 
 situation. My poor wife ended in sharing my joy 
 and satisfaction. 
 
 " The end of the winter passed in correspondence. 
 The count's papers were long in coming, his parents 
 utterly refused their consent. At last the papers 
 came — a package of hieroglyphics impossible to 
 decipher, — certificates of birth, baptism, &c. That 
 which particularly amused us was a sheet filled Avith 
 the titles of my future son-in-law, Ivanovitch Nico- 
 laevitch Stephanovitch. 
 
 " ' Have you really as many names as that ? ' said 
 my poor child, laughing ; ' and I am only Madeleine 
 Rivals.' 
 
THE CONVALESCENT. 299 
 
 " There was at first some talk of the marriage tal^ing 
 place in Paris with great pomp, but Nadine reflected 
 tliat it was not wise to brave the paternal authority 
 on this point, so the ceremony took place at Etiollcs, 
 in the little church where to this VG,\y day are to be 
 seen the records of an irreparable falsehood. ITow 
 happy I was that morning as I entered the church 
 with my daughter trembling on my arm, feeling that 
 she owed all her happiness to me ! 
 
 " Then, after mass, breakfast at the house, and the 
 departure of the bridal couple in a post-chaise — I 
 can see them now as they drove away. 
 
 " The ones who go are generally happy; those who 
 stay are sad enough. When we took our seats at 
 the table that night, the empty chair at our side Avas 
 dreary enough. I had business which took me out- 
 of-doors ; but the poor mother was alone the greater 
 part of the time, and her heart was devoured by her 
 regrets. Such is the destiny of women ; all their 
 sorrows and their griefs come from within, and are 
 interwoven with their daily lives and emploj'ments. 
 
 " The letters that we soon began to receive from 
 Pisa, and Florence, were radiant with happiness. I 
 began to build a little house by the side of our own ; 
 we chose the furniture and the wall papers. ' They 
 are here — they are there,' we said ; and at last we 
 expected the final letters we should receive before 
 they returned. 
 
 "One evening I came in late; my wife had gone to 
 her room ; I supped alone ; when suddenly I heard a 
 step in the garden. The door opened, my daugliter 
 appeared; but she was no longer tlic lair young girl 
 
300 JACK. 
 
 wLom I had parted with a month before. She looked 
 thin and ill, wag poorly dressed, and carried in her 
 hand a little travelling-bag. 
 
 " ' It is I,' she whispered hoarsely ; ' I have come.' 
 
 " ' Good heavens 1 what has happened? Where is 
 Nadine ? ' 
 
 "She did not answer; her eyes closed, and she 
 trembled violently from head to foot. You may 
 imagine my suspense. 
 
 " ' Speak to me, my child. What has happened ? 
 Wliere is your husband?' 
 
 " ' I have none — I have never had one; ' and sud- 
 denly, without looking at me, she began to tell me, 
 in a low voice, her horrible history. 
 
 " He was not a count, his name was not Nadine. 
 He was a Russian Jew by the name of Eoesh, a 
 miserable adventurer. He was married at Riga, 
 married at St. Petersburg. All his papers were false, 
 manufactured by himself. His resources he owed to 
 his skill in counterfeiting bills on the Russian bank. 
 At Turin he had been arrested on an order of extra- 
 dition. Think of my little girl alone in this foreign 
 town, separated violently from her husband, learning 
 abruptly that he was a forger and a bigamist, — for 
 he made a full confession of his crimes. She had 
 but one thought, that of seeking refuge with us. 
 Her brain wa's so bewildered, that, as she told us 
 afterwards, when she was asked where she was 
 going, she simply answered ' To mamma.' She left 
 Turin hastily, without her luggage, and at last she 
 was safe with us, and weeping for the first time since 
 the catastrophe. 
 
THE CONVALESCENT. 301 
 
 "I said, 'Restrain yourself, my love, you will awaken 
 your mother ! ' but my tears fell as fast as her own. 
 The next day my wife learned all ; she did not re- 
 proach me. ' I knew,' she said, ' from the beginning 
 that there was some misfortune in this marriage.' 
 And, in fact, she had certain presentiments of evil 
 from the hour that the man came under our roof. 
 What is the diagnosis of a physician compared to the 
 warning and confidences whispered by destiny into 
 the ear of certain women? In the neighborhood the 
 arrival of my child was quickly known. ' Your 
 travellers have returned,' they said. They asked 
 few questions, for they readily saw that I was un- 
 happy. They noticed that the count was not with 
 us, that Madeleine and her mother never went out; 
 and very soon I found myself met with compassion- 
 ate glances that were harder to bear than anything 
 else. My daughter had not confided to me that a 
 child would be born from this disastrous union, but 
 sat sewing day after day, ornamenting the dainty 
 garments, which are the joy and pride of mothers, 
 with ribbons and lace; I fancied, however, that 
 she looked at them with feelings of shame, for the 
 least allusion to the man who had deceived her made 
 her turn pale. But my wife, who saw things with 
 clearer vision than my own, said, ' You are mistaken : 
 she loves him still.' 
 
 " Yes, she loved, and strong as was her contempt 
 and distrust, her love was stronger still. It was this 
 that killed her, for she died soon after C(5cile's birth. 
 We found under her pillow a letter, worn in all its 
 folds, the only one she had ever received from Na- 
 
302 JACK. 
 
 dine, written before their marriage. Slie had read it 
 often, but she died without once pronouncing the 
 name that I am sure trembled ail the time on her lips. 
 
 " You are astonished that in a tranquil village like 
 this a complicated drama could have been enacted, 
 such as would seem, possible only in the crowded 
 cities of London and Paris. When fate thus attacks, 
 by chance as it were, a little corner so sheltered b}' 
 hedges and trees, I am reminded of those spent balls 
 which during a battle kill a laborer at work in the 
 fields, or a child returning i'rom school. I think if 
 we had not had little C6cile, my wife would have 
 died with her daugliter. Her life from that hour 
 was one longsilence, full of regrets and self-reproach. 
 
 " But it was necessary to bring up this child, and 
 to keep her in ignorance of the circumstances of licr 
 birth. This was a matter of diflScuIty; it is true 
 that we were relieved of her father, who died a few 
 months after his condemnation. Unfortunately, sev- 
 eral persons knew the whole story ; and we wished 
 to preserve Cccile from all the gossip she would hear 
 if she associated with other children. You saw how 
 solitary her life was. Thanks to this precaution, she 
 to-day knows nothing of the tempest that surrounded 
 her birth ; for not one of the kind people about us 
 would utter one word which would give her reason 
 to suspect that there was any mystery. My wife, 
 however, was alwa^'s in dread of some childish ques- 
 tions from C(5cile. But I had other fears : who could 
 be certain that the child of my child did not inherit 
 from her father some of his vices? I acknowledge 
 to you. Jack, that for years I dreaded seeing her 
 
THE CONVALESCENT. ' 303 
 
 father's characteristics in Cdciie ; I dreaded the dis- 
 covery of deceit and falsehood ; but what joy it has 
 been to me to find that the child is the perfected image 
 of Ijer mother ! She has the same tender and half-sad 
 smile, the same candid eyes, and lips that can say No. 
 
 " Meanwhile the future alarmed me : my grand- 
 daughter must some day learn the truth, and that 
 truth must be divulged if she should ever marry. 
 
 "' She must never love any one,' said her grand- 
 mother. 
 
 " If this were possible, would it be wise to pass 
 through life without a protector? Her destinj' must 
 be united with a fate as exceptional as her own. 
 Such a one could hardly be found in our village, 
 and in -Paris we knew no one. It was about the time 
 when these anxieties occupied our minds that your 
 mother came to this place. She was supposed to be 
 the wife of D'Argenton, but the forester's wife told 
 me the real circumstances. I said to myself instantly, 
 ' This boy ought to be Cccile's husband ; ' and from 
 that time I attended to your education. 
 
 " I looked forward to the time that you, a man 
 grown, would come to me and ask her hand. This 
 Avas the reason, of course, that I was so indignant 
 when D'Argenton sent you to Indret. I said to my- 
 self, however, Jack may emerge from this trial in 
 triumph. If he studies, if he works with his head 
 as well as his hands, he may still be worthy of the 
 wife I wish to give him. The letters that we re- 
 ceived from you were all that they should be, and I 
 ventured to indulge the hope I have named. Sud- 
 denly came the intelligence of the robbery. Ah, 
 
304 JACK. 
 
 raj friend, how terrified I was ! how I bemoaned 
 the weaitness of your mother, and the tyranny of 
 the monster who had driven you to evil courses ! I 
 respected, nevertheless, the tender affection that ex- 
 isted toward you in the heart of my little girl, I had 
 hot the courage to undeceive her. We talked of you 
 constantly until the day when I told her that I had 
 scon you at the forester's. If you could have seen 
 the light in her eyes, and how busy she was all day 1 
 a sign with her always of some excitement, as if her 
 heart beating too quickly needed something, either 
 a pen or a needle, to regulate its movements. 
 
 *' Now, Jack, you love my child. I have watched 
 you for two months, and I am satisfied that the future 
 is in j'our own hands. I wish you to study medicine 
 and take my place at EtioUes. I first thought of keep- 
 ing you here, but I concluded that it would take four 
 years to complete your studies, and that your resi- 
 dence with us for that length of time would not be 
 advisable. In Paris you can study in the evening, 
 and work all day, and come to us on Sundays. I will 
 examine your week's work and advise you, and 
 Cdcile will encourage you. Velpeau and others have 
 done this, and you can do the same. Will you try ? 
 Odcile is the reward." 
 
 Jack was utterly overwhelmed, and could only 
 heartily shake the hand of the old man. But per- 
 haps C<3cile's affection was only that of a sister ; and 
 lour years was a long time : would she consent to 
 wait? 
 
 " Ah, my boy, I cannot answer these questions," 
 said M. Rivals, gayl}"^; " but I authorize 3'ou to ask 
 
THE CONVALESCENT. 305 
 
 them at headquarters. C^cile is up-stairs ; go and 
 speak to her." 
 
 That was rather a difficult matter, with a heart 
 going like a trip-hammer, and a voice choked with 
 emotion. C6cile was writing in the office. 
 
 " C^cile," he said, as he entered the room, " I am 
 going away." She rose from her seat, very pale. " I 
 am going to work," he continued. " Your grand- 
 father has given me permission to tell you that. I 
 love you, and that I hope to win 3'ou as my wife." 
 
 He spoke in so low a voice that any other person 
 than Cdcile would have failed to understand iiim.. 
 But she understood him very well. And in this room, 
 lighted by the level raj's of the setting sun, the young 
 girl stood listening to this declaration of love as to 
 an echo of her own thoughts. She was perfectly 
 unabashed and undisturbed, a tender smile on her 
 lips, and her eyes full of tears. She understood per- 
 fectly that their life would be no holiday, that they 
 would be racked by separations and long years of 
 waiting. 
 
 "Jack," she said, after he had explained all his 
 plans, " I will wait for you, not only four years, but 
 forever." 
 
 Jack went to Paris in search of employment, found 
 it in the house of Eyssendeck, at six francs a day ; 
 then tried to procure lodgings not too far removed 
 from the manufactory. He was happy, full of hope 
 and courage, impatient to begin his double work as 
 mechanic and student. The crowd pushed against 
 him, and he did not feel them ; nor was he conscious 
 20 
 
306 JACK. 
 
 of the cold of this December night ; nor did he hear 
 the young apprentice girls, as they passed him, say to 
 each other, " What a handsome man ! " The great 
 Faubourg was alive and seemed to encourage him 
 with its gayety. 
 
 " What a pleasure it is to live ! " said Jack ; " and 
 how hai-d I mean to work 1 " Suddenly he stumbled 
 against a great square basket filled with fur hats and 
 caps ; this basket stood at tlie door of a shoemak- 
 er's stall. Jack looked in and saw B^lisaire, as ugly 
 as ever, but cleaner and better clothed. Jack was 
 delighted to see him, and entered at once ; but C>^li- 
 saire was too deeply absorbed in the examination of 
 a pair of shoes that the cobbler was showing him, to 
 look up. These shoes were not for himself, but for 
 a tin}' child of four or five years of ago, pale and 
 thin, with a head much too large for his bod}'. BJli- 
 saire was talking to the child. 
 
 " And they are nice and thick, my dear, and will 
 keep those poor little feet warm." 
 
 Jack's appearance did not seem to surprise him. 
 
 " Where did you come from ? " he asked, as calmly 
 as if he had seen him the night before. 
 
 " How are you, Biilisairo ? Is this your child ? " 
 
 " 0, no ; it belongs to Madame Weber," said the 
 pedler, with a sigh ; and when he had ascertained 
 that the little thing was well fitted, Bolisaire drew 
 from his pocket a long purse of red wool, and took 
 out some silver pieces that he placed in tho cobbler's 
 hand with that air of importance assumed by work- 
 ing people when they pay away, money. 
 
 " Where are 3'ou going, comrade ?" said the pedler 
 
THE CONVALESCENT. 307 
 
 to Jack, as they stood on the pavement, in a tone so 
 expressive tliat it seemed to say, If you take this 
 side, I shall go the other. 
 
 Jack, who felt this without being able to under- 
 Ptand it, said, " I hardly know where I am going. I 
 am a journeyman at Eyssendeck's, and I want to find 
 a room not too far away." 
 
 " At Eyssendeck's ? " said the pedler. " It is not 
 easy to get in thfire ; one must bring the best of rec- 
 ommendations." 
 
 The expression of his ej^es enlightened Jack. B j- 
 lisaire believed him guilty of the robbery, — so 
 true it is that accusations, however unfounded and 
 however explained away, yet leave spots and tar- 
 nishes. When Bclisaire saw the letters of the super- 
 intendent at Indret, and heard the whole story, his 
 whole face lighted up with liis old smile. " Listen, 
 Jack, it is too late to seek a lodging to-night; como 
 with me, for I have a room whei'c you can sleep to- 
 night, and perhaps can suggest something that will 
 suit you. But we will talk about that as we sup. 
 Come now." 
 
 Behold the three — Jack, the pedler, and Madame 
 Weber's little one, whose new shoes clattered on the 
 sidewalk famously — were soon hurrj'ing along the 
 streets. Bdlisaire informed Jack that his sister was 
 now a widow, and that he had gone into business 
 with her. Occasionally, in the full tide of his his- 
 tory, he stopped to shout his old cry of " Hats ! 
 hats 1 Hats to sell ! " But before he reached his home, 
 he was obliged to lift into his arms Madame Weber's 
 little bo}", who had begun to weep despairingly. 
 
308 JACK-. 
 
 " Poor Httlo fellow ! " said B<;Iisaire, " lie is not in 
 the habit of walking. He rarely goes out, and it is 
 merely that I may take him out with me sometimes 
 that I have had him measured for these new shoes. 
 His mother is away from home at work all day ; she 
 is a good, hard-working woman, and has to leave her 
 child to the care of a neighbor. Here we are ! " 
 
 They* entered one of those large houses whose 
 numerous windows are like narrow slits in the walls. 
 The doors open on the long corridors, which serve 
 as ante- rooms, where the poor people place their 
 stoves and their boxes. At this hour they were 
 at dinner. Jack, as he passed, looked in at the doors, 
 which stood wide open. 
 
 " Good evening," said the pedler. 
 
 " Good evening," said the friendly voices from 
 within. 
 
 In some rooms it was different : there was no fire, 
 no light — a woman and children watching for the 
 father, who was at the wine-shop round the corner. 
 
 The pedler's room was at the top of the house, and 
 ho seemed very proud of it. " I am going to show 
 you how well I am established, but you must wait 
 until I have taken this child to its mother." He 
 looked under the door of a room opposite his own, 
 pulled out a key and unlocked it, went directly to 
 the stove where had simmered all day the soup for 
 the evening meal. He lighted a candle and fastened 
 the child into a high chair at the table, gave it a 
 spoon and a saucepan to pla}' with, and then said, 
 " Come away quickly ; Madame Weber will be hero 
 in a minute, and I wish to hear what she will say 
 
THE CONVALESCENT. 309 
 
 when she sees the child's new shoes." He smiled 
 as he opened his room — a long attic divided in two. 
 A pile of hats told his business, and the bare walls 
 liis poverty. 
 
 BJlisaire lighted his lamp and arranged his dinner, 
 which consisted of a fine salad of potatoes and salt 
 herring. He took from a closet two plates, bread and 
 wine, and placed them on a little table. " Now," he 
 said, with an air of triumph, " all is ready, though it 
 is not much like that famous ham you gave me in the 
 country." The potato salad was excellent, however, 
 and Jack did justice to it. Bulisaire was delighted 
 with the appetite of his guest, and did his duty as 
 host with great delight, rising every two or three 
 minutes to see if the water was-boiling for the coffee. 
 
 " You have a taste for housekeeping, Belisaire," 
 said Jack, " and have things nicely arranged." 
 
 " Not yet," answered the pedler ; " I need very 
 many articles, — in fact, these are only lent to me by 
 Madame Weber while we are veaiting." 
 
 " Waiting for what ? " asked Jack. 
 
 " Until we can be married!" answe'red the pedler, 
 boldly, indifferent to Jack's gay laugh. " Madame 
 Weber is a good woman, and you will see her soon. 
 We are not rich enough to start alone in housekeep- 
 ing, but if we could find some one to share the ex- 
 penses, we would lodge and feed him, do his washing 
 and all, and it would not be a bad thing for him, an^^ 
 more than for us. Where there is enough for two 
 there is always enough for three, you know 1 The 
 difficulty is to find some one who is orderly and 
 sober, and won't make too much trouble in the 
 house." 
 
310 7^CK. 
 
 " How should I do, B<;lisaire?" 
 
 " Would you like it, Jack ? I have been thinking 
 about it for an hour, but did not dare speak of it. 
 Perhaps our table would be too simple for you." 
 
 " No, B^Lisaire, nothing would be too simple. I 
 wish to be very economical, for I, too, am thinking 
 of marrying." 
 
 " Really ! But in that case we can't make our ar- 
 rangements." 
 
 Jack laughed, and explained that his marriage was 
 an affair of four j'ears 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 lieard 
 it too, for it began a melancholy wail. " I am com- 
 ing," cried the woman from the end of the corridor, 
 to console the little one. 
 
 " Listen," said Bdlisaire. The door opened ; an 
 exclamation, followed by a laugh, was heard, and 
 presently Madame Weber, with her child on her 
 arm, entered B^lisaire's room. She was a tall, good- 
 looking woman, of about thirty, and she laughed as 
 she showed him the little one's feet, but there was a 
 tear in her eye as she said, " You are the person 
 who has done this." 
 
 " Now," said Bdlisaire, with simplicity, " how could 
 she guess so well ? " 
 
 Madame Weber took a seat at the table, and a cup 
 of coffee, and Jack was presented to her as tlieir 
 future associate. I must acknowledge that she re- 
 ceived him with a certain reserve, but when she had 
 examined the aspirant for this distinction, and learned 
 
THE CONVALESCENT. 3(1 
 
 that the two mea had known each other for ten years, 
 and that she had before her the hero of the story of 
 the ham that she had heard so many times, her face 
 lost its expression of distrust, and she held out her 
 hand to Jack. 
 
 " This time B<ilisaire is right. He has brought mo 
 a half dozen of his comrades who were not worth 
 the cord to hang them with. He is very innocent, 
 because he is so good." 
 
 Then came a discussion as to arrangements. It 
 was decided that until the marriage he should sharo 
 Bclisaire's room and buy himself a bed ; they would 
 share the expenses, and Jack would pay his propor- 
 tion every Saturday. After the marriage, they 
 Avould establish themselves more commodiouslj'', and 
 nearer the Eyssendeck Works. This establishment 
 recalled to him Indret on a smaller scale. Owing to 
 lack of space, there were in the same room three rows, 
 one above the other, of machines. Jack was on the 
 upper floor, where all the noise and dust of the place 
 ascended. When he leaned over the railing of tho 
 gallery, he beheld a constant whirl of human arms, 
 arid a regular and monotonous boat of machiner}-. 
 
 The heat was intense, worse than at Indret, because 
 there was less ventilation ; but Jack bore up bravely 
 under it, for his inner life supported him through all 
 the trials of the day. His companions saw intui- 
 tively that' he lived apart from them, indifferent to 
 their petty quarrels and rivalries. Jack shared 
 neither their pleasures nor their hatreds. He never 
 listened to their sullen complaints, nor the muttered 
 thunder of this great Faubourg, concealed like a 
 
312 JACK. 
 
 Ghetto in this magnificent city. He paid no atten- 
 tion to the socialistic theories, the natural growth in 
 the minds of those who live poor and suffering so 
 near the wealthier classes. 
 
 I am not disposed to assert that Jack's compan- 
 ions liked him especially, but they respected him at 
 all events. As to the workwomen, they looked upon 
 him much as a Prince Rodolphe, — for they had all 
 read "The Mysteries of Paris," — and admired his tall, 
 slender figure and his careful dress. But the poor 
 girls threw away their smiles, for he passed their 
 corner of the establishment with scarcely a glance. 
 This corner was never without its excitement and 
 drama, for most of the workwomen had a lover among 
 the men, and this led to all sorts of jealousies ami 
 scenes. 
 
 Jack went to and fro from the manufactory alone. 
 He was in haste to reach his lodgings, to throw aside 
 his workman's blouse, and to bury himself in his 
 books. Surrounded with these, many of them those 
 lie had used at school, ho commenced the labors of 
 the evening, and was astonished to find with what 
 facility he regained all that lie thought he had forever 
 lost. Sometimes, however, he encountered an unex- 
 pected difficulty, and it was touching to see the 
 j'oung man, whose hands were distorted and clumsy 
 from handling heavy weights, sometimes throw aside 
 bis pen in despair. At his side Belisaire sat sewing 
 the straw of his summer hats, in respectful silence, 
 the stupefaction of a savage assistant at a magician's 
 incantations. He frowned when Jack frowned, grew 
 impatient, and when his comrade came to the end of 
 
THE CONVALESCENT. 313 
 
 some difficult passage, nodded his head with an air 
 of triumph. The noise of the pedler's big needle 
 passing through the stiff straw, the student's pen 
 scratching upon the paper, the gigantic dictionaries 
 hastily taken up and thrown down, filled the attic with 
 a quiet and healthy atmosphere ; and when Jack 
 raised his eyes he saw from the windows the light 
 of other lamps, and other shadows courageously pro- 
 longing their labors into the middle of the night. 
 
 After her child was asleep, Madame Weber, to 
 economize coal and oil, brought her work to the 
 room of her friend; she sewed in silence. It had 
 been decided that they should not marry until 
 spring, the winter to the poor being always a season 
 of anxietj' and privation. Jack, as he wrote, thought, 
 " How happy they are." His own happiness came 
 on Sundays. Never did any coquette take such 
 pains with her toilette as did Jack on those days, 
 for he was determined that nothing about him should 
 remind C^cile of his daily toil ; well might he have 
 been taken for Prince Rodolphe had he been seen 
 as he started off. 
 
 Delicious day! without hours or minutes — a day 
 of uninterrupted felicity. The whole house greeted 
 him warmly, a bright fire burned in the salon, 
 flowers bloomed at the windows, and C^cile and the 
 doctor made him feel how dear he was to them both. 
 After they had dined, M. Rivals examined the work 
 of the week, corrected everything, and explained all 
 that had puzzled the youth. 
 
 Then came a walk through the woods, if the day 
 was fair, and they often passed the chalet where Dr. 
 
314 JACK. 
 
 Hirsch still came to pursue certain experiments. Ho 
 Llack was the smoke that poured from the chimneys, 
 that one would have fancied that the man was burn- 
 ing all the drugs in the world. " Don't you smell the 
 poison?" said M. Rivals, indignantly. But the young 
 l)eople passed the house in silence ; they instinctive- 
 ly felt that there were no kindly sentiments within 
 those walls toward them, and, in fact, feared that 
 the fanatic Dr. Hirsch Avas sent there as a spy. But 
 what had they to fear, after all? Was not all inter-- 
 course between D'Argenton and Charlotte's son for- 
 ever ended ? For three months they had not met. 
 Since Jack had been engaged to C(5cile, and under- 
 stood the dignity and purity of love, he had hated 
 D'Argenton, making him responsible for the fault of 
 his weak mother, whose chains were riveted more 
 closely by the violence and tyranny under which a 
 nobler nature would have revolted. Charlotte, who 
 feared scenes and explanations, had relinquished all 
 hope of reconciliation between these two men. She 
 never mentioned her son to D'Argenton, and saw 
 him only in secret. 
 
 She had even visited the macliine-shop in a fiacre 
 and closely veiled, and Jack's fellow-workmen had 
 seen him talking earnestly with a woman elegant in 
 appearance and still young. They circulated all sorts 
 of gossip in regard to the mysterious visitor, which 
 finally reached Jack's ears, who begged his mother 
 not to expose herself to such remarks. They then 
 saw each other in the gardens, or in some of the 
 churches : for, like many other women of similar 
 characteristics, she had become devote as she grew 
 
THE CONVALESCENT. 31") 
 
 old, as much from an overflow of idle sentimentality 
 as 'from a passion for honors and ceremonies. In 
 these rare and brief interviews Charlotte talked all 
 the time, as was her habit, but with a worn, sad air. 
 She said, however, that she was happy and at peace, 
 and that she had every confidence in M. d'Argenton's 
 brilliant future. But one day, as mother and son 
 were leaving the church-door, she said to him, with 
 some embarrassment, " Jack, can you let me have a 
 little money for a few days? I have made some 
 mistake in my accounts, and have not money enough 
 to carry me to the end of the month, and I dare not 
 ask D'Argenton for a pennj'." 
 
 He did not let her finish ; he had just been paid 
 ofi", and he placed the whole amount in his motlier's 
 hand. Then, in the bright sunsliine he saAV what 
 the obscurity of the church had concealed : traces 
 of tears and a look of despair on the face that was 
 generally so smiling and fresh. Intense compassion 
 filled his heart. " You are unhappy," he said ; 
 '' come to me, I shall be so glad to have you." 
 
 She started. " No, it is impossible," she said, 
 in a low voice ; "he has so many trials just now ; " 
 and she hurried away as if to escape some tempta- 
 tion. 
 
316 JACK. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE WEDDING-PARTT. 
 
 It was a summer morning. The pedler and his 
 comrade were up before daybreak. One was sweep- 
 ing and dusting, with as little noise as possible, care- 
 ful not to disturb his companion, who was established 
 at the open window. The sky was the cloudless 
 one of June, pale blue with a faint tinge of rose 
 still lingering in the east, tliat could be seen between 
 the chimneys. In fi'ont of Jack was a zinc roof, 
 which, when the sun was in mid-heaven, became a 
 terrible mirror. At this moment it reflected faintly 
 the tints of the sky, so that the tall chimneys looked 
 like the masts of a vessel floating on a glittering 
 sea. Below was heard the noise from the poultry 
 owned by the various inhabitants of the Faubourg. 
 Suddenly a cry was heard : " Madame Jacob I Ma- 
 dame Mathieu ! Here is your bread." 
 
 It was four o'clock. The labors of the day had 
 begun. The woman whose daily business it was to 
 supply that quarter with bread from the baker's had 
 begun her rounds. Her basket was filled with 
 loaves of all sizes, sweet-smelling and warm. She 
 carries them all through the corridors, placing them 
 at the corners of the various doors ; her shrill voice 
 
THE WEDDING-PARTY. 317 
 
 aroused the sleepers ; doors opened and shut ; child- 
 ish voices uttered cries of joy, and little bare feet 
 pattered to meet the good woman, and returned 
 hugging a loaf as big as themselves, with that pe- 
 culiar gesture that you see in the poor people who 
 come out of the bake-shops, and which shows the 
 thoughtful observer what that hard-earned bread 
 signifies to them. 
 
 All the world is now astir ; windows are thrown 
 open, even those where the lamps have burned the 
 greater part of the night. At one sits a sad-faced 
 woman, at a sewing-machine, aided by a little girl, 
 Avho hands her the several pieces of her work. 
 At another a young girl, with hair already neatly 
 braided, is carefully cutting a slice of bread for 
 her slender breakfast, watching that no crumb shall 
 fall on the floor she swept at daybreak. Further 
 on is a window shaded by a large red curtain to 
 keep off the reflection irom the zinc roof. All 
 these rooms open on the other side into a dark 
 and ugly house of enormous size. But the student 
 heeds nothing but his work. One sound only de- 
 presses him at times, and that is the voice of an old 
 woman, who says every morning, before the noises 
 of the street have begun, " How happy people ought 
 to be who can go to the country on a day like this !" 
 To whom does the poor woman utter these woi'ds, 
 day after day ? To the whole world, to herself, or 
 onlj' to the canary, whose cage, covered with fresh 
 leaves, she hangs on the shutters? Perhaps she is 
 talking to her flowers. Jack never knew, but ho is 
 much of her opinion, and would gladly echo her 
 
318 JACK. 
 
 words; for his first waking thoughts turn toward a 
 tranquil village street, toward a little green door. 
 Jack has just reached this point in hia reverie when 
 a rustle of silk is heard, and the handle of his door 
 rattles. 
 
 " Turn to the right," said Bdlisaire, who was mak- 
 ing the cofiee. 
 
 The handle is still aimlessly rattled. Bdlisaire, 
 with tlie coffee-pot in his hand, impatiently throws 
 it open, and Charlotte rushes in. Bdlisaire, stupe- 
 fied at this inundation of flounces, feathers, and laces, 
 bows again and again, while Jack's mother, who 
 does not recognize him, excuses herself, and retreats 
 toward the door. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir," she said ; " I made a 
 mistake." 
 
 At the sound of her voice Jack rises from his 
 chair in astonishment. 
 
 " Mother 1 " he cried. 
 
 She ran to him and took refuge in his arms. 
 
 " Save me, my child, save me ! That man, for 
 whom I have sacrificed everything, — my life and 
 that of my child, — has beaten me cruelly. This 
 morning, when he came in after two days' absence, 
 1 ventured to make some observation ; I thought I 
 had a right to speak. He flew into a frightful pas- 
 sion, and — " 
 
 The end of her sentence was lost in a torrent of 
 tears and in convulsive sobs. Bfjlisaire had retired 
 at her first words, and discreetly closed the door 
 after him. Jack looks at his mother, full of terror 
 and pity. How pale and how changed she is 1 In 
 
THE WEDDING-PARTY. 319 
 
 the clear light of the young day the marks of time 
 are clearly visible on her face, and the gray hairs, 
 that she has not taken the trouble to conceal, shine 
 like silver on her blue-veined temples. Without any 
 attempt at controlling her emotion, she speaks with- 
 out restraint, pouring forth all her wrongs. 
 
 " How I have suffered, Jack ! He passes his life 
 now at the cafds and in dissipation. Did you know 
 that, when he went to Indret with that money, I was 
 there in the village, and crazy to see you ? He re- 
 proaches me with the bread you ate under his roof, 
 and yet — yes, I will tell you what I never meant 
 3'ou to know — I had ten thousand francs of yours 
 that were given to me for j'ou exclusively. Well, 
 D'Argenton put them into his Review ; I know that 
 he meant to pay you large interest, but the ten thou- 
 sand francs have been swallowed up with all the 
 others, and when I asked him if he did not intend to 
 account to you for them, do you know what he did ? 
 He drew up a long bill of all that he has paid for 
 you. Your board at Etiolles, that amounts to fif- 
 teen thousand francs. But he does not ask you to 
 pay the difference ; is not tliat very generous ? " 
 and Charlotte laughed sarcastically. " I tell you I 
 have borne everj'thing," she continued, — " the rages 
 he has fallen into on j'our account, and the mean 
 way in which he has talked with his friends of the 
 affair at Indret; as if your innocence had never 
 been fully established ! 
 
 " And then to leave me in ignorance of his where- 
 abouts, to spend his time with some countess in the 
 Faubourg St. Germaine, — for those women are all 
 
320 JACK. 
 
 crazy about him, — and then to receive my re- 
 proaches with such disdain, and finally to strike me ! 
 Me, Ida de Barancy ! This was too much. I 
 dressed, and put on my hat, and then I went to him. 
 I said, ' Look at me, M. d'Argenton ; look at me 
 well j it is the last time that you will see me ; I am 
 going to my child.' And then I came away." 
 
 Jack had listened in silence to these revelations, 
 growing paler and paler, and so filled with shame 
 for the woman who narrated them that he could not 
 look at her. When she had finished, he took her 
 hand gently, and with much sweetness, but also with 
 much solemnity, he said, — 
 
 " I thank you for having come to me, dear mother. 
 Only one thing was lacking to complete my happi- 
 ness, and that was your presence. Now take care ! 
 I shall never allow j^ou to leave me." 
 
 "Leave youl No, Jack; we will always live to- 
 gether — we two. You know I told 3'ou that the 
 day would come when I should need you. It has 
 come now." 
 
 Under her son's caresses she became tranquillized. 
 There came an occasional sob, like a child who has 
 wept for a long time. 
 
 " You see," she said, " how happy we may be. I 
 owe you much care and tenderness. I feel now that 
 I can breathe freely. Your room is bare and small, 
 but it seems to me like Paradise itself." 
 
 This brief summary of the apartment regarded by 
 B61isaire as so magnificent, disturbed Jack sorao- 
 what as to the future ; but he had no time now for 
 discussions ; he had but half an hour before he must 
 
THE WEDDIKG-rARTY. 321 
 
 leave, and lie must decide at once on something def- 
 inite. He must consult Bulisiiire, wliom he heard 
 patiently pacing the corridor, and who would have 
 waited until nightfall without once knocking to see 
 if the interview was over. 
 
 " Belisaire, my mother has come to live with me ; 
 how shall we manage ? " 
 
 Bdlisairo started as he thought, " And now the 
 marriage must be postponed, for Jack will not be 
 One of our little manage!" 
 
 But he concealed his disappointment, and exerted 
 himself to suggest some plan that would relieve his 
 friend of present embarrassment. It was decided 
 finally that he should relinquish the room to Jack 
 and iiis mother, and find for himself a closet to sleep 
 in, depositing his stock of hats and his furniture 
 Avith Madame Weber. 
 
 Jack presented his friend to B(;lisaire, wiio re- 
 membered very well the fair lady at Aulnettes, and 
 at once placed himself for the day at the service of 
 Ida de Barancy ; for " Charlotte " was no more 
 lieard of. A bed must be purchased, a couple of 
 chairs, and a dressing-bureau. Jack took from the 
 drawer where he kept his savings three or four gold 
 pieces which he gave his mother. 
 
 " You know," he said, " that if marketing is dis- 
 agreeable to you, good Madame Weber will attend 
 to the dinners." 
 
 " Not at all ; Bdlisaire will simply tell me where 
 to go. I intend to do everything for you ; you will 
 see the nice little dinner I shall have ready for you 
 when you come back to-night." 
 21 
 
322 JACK. 
 
 She had laid aside her shawl, rolled up her sleeves, 
 and was all ready to begin her work. Jack, de- 
 lighted to see her so energetic, embraced her with 
 his whole heart, and left his room in a verj'' joyous 
 frame of mind. With what courage he toiled all 
 day 1 The present unfortunate career and hopeless 
 future of his mother had troubled him for some time, 
 and marred his joys and his hopes. To what depth 
 of degradation would D'Argenton compel her to 
 sinkl To what end was she destined 1 Now aU 
 was changed. Ida, tenderly protected by his filial 
 love, would become worth^^ of her whom she would 
 some day call " my daughter." 
 
 It seemed to Jack, moreover, that this event in 
 some way diminished the distance between C(^cile 
 and liimself, and he smiled to himself as he thought 
 of it. But after his work, as he drew near his home, 
 he was seized by a panic. Should he find his mother 
 there? He knew witli what promptitude Ida gave 
 wings to her fancies and caprices, and he feared lest 
 she had felt the temptation to re-tie the knot so has- 
 tily broken. But on the staircase this dread van- 
 ished. Above all the noises of the house he heard 
 a fresh, clear voice singing like a lark. Jack stood 
 on the threshold in mute amazement. Thoroughly 
 freshened and cleaned, with Bdlisaire'S goods gone, 
 and with the addition of a pretty bed and dainty dress- 
 ing-bureau, the room looked like a different place. 
 There were flowers on the chimney, and the table 
 was spread with a wlyte cloth, on which stood a 
 tempting-looking pie and a bottle of wine. Ida, in an 
 embroidered skirt and loose sack, a little cap mounted 
 on the top of her puffs, hardly looked like herself. 
 
-THE WEDDING-PARTY. 323 
 
 " Well ! " she said, i-unning to meet him ; " and 
 what do yoii think of it?" 
 
 " It is altogether charming. And how quick you 
 l.avo been 1 " 
 
 " Yes ; B(;Iisaire helped me. and his nice widow 
 also. I have invited them to dine with us." 
 
 " But what will j'ou do for dishes ? " 
 
 "You will see. I have bought a few, and cur 
 neighbors on the other side have lent me some. 
 They are very obliging aiso." 
 
 Jack, who had never thought these people partic- 
 iilarlj'^ complaisant, opened his eyes wide. 
 
 " But this is not all. I went to buy this pie at a 
 place where they sell them fifteen cents less than 
 anywhere else. It was so far, however, that I had 
 to take a carriage to return." 
 
 This was thoroughly cliaracteristic. A carriage at 
 two francs to save fifteen cents ! She evidently 
 knew where the best things were to be found. 
 
 The bread came from the Vienna bakery, and the 
 coffee and dessert from the Palais Eoyale. Jack lis- 
 tened with a sinking heart. She saw that something 
 was wrong. 
 
 " Have I spent too much ? " she asked. 
 
 "No, I think not, — for one occasion," he an- 
 swered, with -some hesitation. 
 
 " But I have not been extravagant. Look here," 
 she said, and she showed him a long green book ; 
 " in this I mean to keep my accounts. I will show 
 my entries to you after dinner." 
 
 B^lisaire and Madame Weber with her child now 
 entered the room. It was truly delicious to see the 
 
324 JACK. 
 
 airs of condescension with which Ida received them ; 
 but her manner was withal so kind that they were 
 soon entirely at their case. 
 
 B(;lisaire was somewhat out of spirits, for he saw 
 that his marriage must be indefinitely postponed, as 
 he had lost his " comrade." Ah, one ina}' well com- 
 pare the events of this world to the see-saws ar- 
 ranged by children, which lifts one of the plaj-ers, 
 while the other at the same time feels all the hard- 
 ness of tlie earth below. "Jack mounted toward the 
 light, while his companion descended toward the 
 implacable reality. To begin with, the person calle^ 
 Bulisairo — who should in reality have been named 
 Resignation, Devotion, or Patience — was now 
 obliged to relinquish his pleasant room and sleep 
 in a closet, the only place on that floor; not for 
 worlds would he have gone farther from Madame 
 Weber. 
 
 Their gwests gone, and Jack and his mother alone, 
 she was astonished to see him bring out a pile of 
 books. 
 
 " What are j'ou going to do ? " she asked. 
 
 " 1 am going to study." And ho then told her of 
 the double life he led ; of his hopes, and the reward 
 that was held out to him at the end. Until then he 
 had never confided them to her, fearing that she 
 would inform D'Argenton, whom he utterly dis- 
 trusted, and ho feared that in some way his happi- 
 ness would be compromised. But now tliat his 
 mother belonged to him alone, he could speak to her 
 of Cecile and of his sui)remo joy. Jack talked with 
 enthusiasm of his love, but soon saw that his mother 
 
THE WEDDING-PARTY. 325 
 
 did not understand him. She had a certain amount 
 of sentiment, but love had not the same signification 
 for her that it had for him. She listened to him 
 ^vilh the same interest that she would have felt in 
 the third act at the Gymnase, when the IngSnue in 
 a wliite dress, with rose-colored ribbons, listened to 
 the declaration of a lover with frizzed hair. She 
 was pleased with the spectacle as presented by her 
 son, and said two or three times, " How nice ! how 
 very nice ! It makes me think of Paul and Vir- 
 ginia ! " 
 
 Fortunately, lovers, when speaking of their pas- 
 sion, listen to the echoes of their words in their own 
 hearts, and Jack, thus absorbed, heard none of the 
 commonplace comments of his mother. 
 
 Jack had been living a week in this way when, 
 one evening, Bdlisaire came to meet him with a 
 radiant face. " We are to be married at once ! 
 Madame Weber has found a ' comrade.' " 
 
 Jack, who had been the unintentional caure of his 
 friend's disappointment, was equally well pleased. 
 This pleasure, however, did not last; for, on seeing 
 " the comrade," he received a most unpleasant im- 
 pression. The man was tall and powerfully built, but 
 the expression of his face was far from agreeable. 
 
 The great day arrived at last. Among the middle 
 classes, a day is generally given to the civil mar- 
 riage, another to the wedding at Ihe church ; but 
 the people to whom time is money cannot afford 
 this. So they generally take Saturday for the two 
 ceremonies. 
 
326 JACK. 
 
 Belisaire's wedding, therefore, occurred on that 
 day, and was really one of the most imposing of 
 the many processions they met on their way to the 
 municipality. Although the white dress of the bride 
 was missing, Madame Weber, in her quality of 
 widow, wore a dress of brilliant blue of that bright 
 indigo shade so dear to persons who like solid 
 colors ; a many-hued shawl was carefully folded 
 on her arm, and a superb cap, ornamented witli 
 ribbons and flowers, displayed her beaming peasant 
 lace. She walked by the side of B(51isaire's father, 
 a little dried-up old man, with a hooked nose and 
 abrupt movements, and a perpetual cough that 
 his new daughter-in-law endeavored to soothe by 
 rubbing his back with considerable violence. These 
 repeated frictions somewhat disturbed the dignity 
 of the wedding procession. 
 
 Bdlisaire came next, giving his arm to his sister, 
 whose nose was as hooked as her father's. Belisaire 
 himself looked almost handsome ; he led by one hand 
 iladame Weber's little child. Then came a crowd 
 of relatives and fi-ieuds, and finally Jack, Madame 
 de Barancy being unwilling to do more than honor 
 the wedding-dinner with her presence. This repast 
 was to take place at Vincennes. 
 
 When the train that brought the party reached 
 the restaurant, the room engaged by B61isaire was 
 still occupied. This gave them time to look at 
 the lake and to amuse themselves with examining 
 the croAvd of merrymakers. They were dancing and 
 singing, playing blind-man's-buff and innumerable 
 other games ; under the trees a girl was mending 
 
THE WEDDING-PARTY. 327 
 
 the flounces of a bride's dress. O, tliose white 
 dresses ! With what joy those girls let them drag 
 over the lawn, imagining themselves for that one 
 occasion women of fashion. It is precisely this 
 illusion that the people seek in their hours of 
 amusement : a pretence of riches, a momentary sem- 
 blance of the envied and happy of this earth. 
 
 Bclisaire's party were too hungry to be gaj', and 
 liiey hailed with joy the announcement that dinner 
 was ready at last. The table was laid in one of 
 those large rooms whose walls were frescoed in 
 laded colors, and whose size was apparently in- 
 creased by innumerable mirrors. At each end of the 
 table was a huge bouquet of artificial orange blos- 
 soms, a centrepiece of pink and white sugar, and 
 ornaments of the same, which had ofEciated at many 
 a wedding-dinner in the previous six months. They 
 took their seats in solemn silence, though Madame 
 de Barancy had not yet arrived. 
 
 The guests were somewhat intimidated by the 
 black-coated waiters, who disdainfully looked at 
 tliese poor people who were dining at a dollar per 
 lie id, a sum wiiich each one of the guests thought 
 of with respect, and envied Belisaire who could 
 afford such an extravagant entertainment. The 
 waiters were, however, filled with profound con- 
 tempt, which they expressed by winks at each other, 
 invisible however to the guests. 
 
 Belisaire had just at his side one of these gentle- 
 men, who filled him with holy horror ; another, 
 opposite behind his wife's chair, watched him so 
 disagreeably that the good man scarcely dared lift 
 
328 JACK. 
 
 his eyes from the carte,, — on which, among familiar 
 words like ducks, chickens, and beans, appeared the 
 well-known names of generals, towns, and battles — 
 Marengo, Eichelieu, and so on. Bjlisaire, like the 
 others, was stupefied, the more so when two plates 
 of soup were presented Avith the question, " Bisque, 
 or Purde de Cr^cy ? " Or two bottles : " Xeres, or 
 I'acaset, sir?" 
 
 They answered at hazard as one does in some of 
 those society games where you are requested to 
 select one of two flowers. In fact, the answer was 
 of little consequence since both plates contained 
 the same tasteless mixture. Tliere was 60 much 
 ceremony that the dinner threatened to be very dull, 
 and interminable as well, from the indecision of the 
 guests as to the dishes they should accept. It was 
 Madame Weber's clear head and decided hand that 
 cut this Gordian knot. She turned to her child. 
 "Eat evcrj'thing," she said, " it costs us enough." 
 
 These words of wisdom had their effpct on tho 
 whole assembly, and after a little tho table was gay 
 enough. Suddenly the door was thrown open, and 
 Ida do Barancy entered, smiling and charming. 
 
 "A thousand pardons, my friends, but I had a 
 carriage that crept." 
 
 She wore her most beautiful dress, for she rarely 
 had an opportunity nowadays of making a toilette, 
 and produced a most extraordinary efl'ect. The way 
 in which she took her seat by Belisaire, and put her 
 gloves in a wineglass, the manner in which she 
 signed to one of the waiters to bring her the carte, 
 overwhelmed the assembly with admiration. It 
 
THE WEDDING-PARTY. 329 
 
 was delightful to see her order about those im- 
 posing waiters. One of them she had recognized, 
 the one who terrified Bilisaire so much. " You are 
 here then, now ! " she said carelessly ; and shook 
 her bracelets, and kissed her hand to her son, asked 
 for a footstool, some ice, and eau-de-Seltz, and soon 
 knew the resources of the establishment. 
 
 " But, good beaveng, 5'ou are not very gay here ! " 
 she cried suddenly. She rose, took her plate in 
 one hand, lier glass in the other. " I ask permission 
 to change places witli Madame Bilisaire ; I am quite 
 sure that her husband will not complain." 
 
 This was done with much grace and considera- 
 tion. The little Weber uttered a shout of indignation 
 on seeing his mother rise from her chair, and all 
 this noise and confusion soon changed the previous 
 stiffness and restraint into laughs and gayety. The 
 waiters went round and round the table executing 
 marvellous feats, serving twenty persons from one 
 duck so adroitly carved and served that each one 
 had as much as he wanted. And the peas fell like 
 hail on the plates ; and the beans — prepared at one 
 end of the table with salt, pepper, and butter; and 
 such butter ! — Avere mixed by a waiter who smiled 
 maliciously as he stirred the fell combination. 
 
 At last the champagne came. With the exception 
 of Ida, not one person there knew anything more of 
 this wine than the name ; and champagne signified 
 to them riches, gay dinners, and gorgeous festivals. 
 They talked about it in a low voice, waited and 
 watched for it. Finally, at dessert, a waiter appeared 
 with a silver-capped bottle that he proceeded to 
 
330 JACK. 
 
 open. Ida, who never lost an opportunity of making 
 a sensation and assuming an attitude, put her pretty 
 hands over her ears, but the cork came out like any 
 other cork; the waiter, holding the bottle high, went 
 around the table very quickly. The bottle was in- 
 exhaustible ; each person bad some froth and a few 
 drops at the bottom of the glass, which he drank with 
 respect, and even believed that there was still more 
 in the bottle. It did not matter : the magic of the 
 word champagne had produced its effect, and there 
 is so much French gayety in the least particle of its 
 Iroth that an astonishing animation at once per- 
 vaded the assembly. A dance was proposed; but 
 music costs so much! 
 
 " Ah ! if we only had a piano," said Ida de 
 Uarancy, with a sigh, at the same time moving her 
 lingers on the table as if she knew how to play. 
 Bjlisaire disappeared for a few moments, but soon 
 returned with a village musician, who was ready to 
 play until morning. Jack and his mother at first 
 felt out of their element in the noisy romp that 
 ensued, but Ida finally organized a cotillon, and the 
 rustling of her silk skirts and the jangling of her 
 bracelets filled the souls of the younger Avomen 
 Avith admiration and jealousy. Meanwhile the night 
 ■wore on, tlio little Weber was asleep wrapped in 
 a shawl on a sofa in the corner. Jack had made 
 many signs to Ida, who pretended not to under- 
 stand, carried away as she was by the pleasure 
 and happiness about her. Jack was like an old 
 father who is anxious to take his daughter home 
 from a ball. 
 
THE WEDDING-PARTY. 331 
 
 " It is late," he said. 
 
 " Wait, dear," was her answer. At length, how- 
 ever, he seized her cloak, and wrapping it around 
 her, drew her away. There was no train at that 
 hour, and indeed no omnibus ; fortunately a fiacre 
 ■was passing, which they hailed. But the newly 
 married pair decided to return on foot through the 
 Bois de Vincennes. The fresh morning air was de- 
 licious after the heat of the restaurant; the child 
 slept sweetly on B61isaire's shoulder, and did not 
 even awake when he was placed in his bed. Ma- 
 dame B^ilisaire threw aside her wedding-dress, as 
 pumed a plainer one, and at once entered on the 
 duties of the day. 
 
332 JACK. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 EFFECTS OP POETRY. 
 
 The first visit of Madame de Barancy at EtioUes 
 gave Jack great pleasure and also great anxiety. 
 He was proud of his mother, but he knew her, nev- 
 ertheless, to bo weak and rash. He feared Cccile's 
 calm judgment and intuitive perceptions, keen and 
 quick as tlicy sometimes are in the young. The first 
 i'ew moments tranquillized him a little. The em- 
 phatic tone in which Ida addressed C<icile as " my 
 daughter" was all well enough, but when under the 
 influence of a good breakfast Madame de Barancy 
 dropped her serious air and began some of her 
 extravagant stories, Jack felt all his apprehensions 
 revive. She kept her auditors on the qui vive. 
 Some one spoke of relatives that M. Rivals had in 
 the Pyrenees. 
 
 ■'Ah, yes, tlie Pyrenees 1" she sighed. " Gavarni, 
 the Mer do Glace, and all that. I made that journey 
 fifteen j-ears ago with a friend of my family, the 
 Due do Casares, a Spaniard. I made his acquaint- 
 ance at Biarritz in a most amusing way 1 " 
 
 Cccile having said how fond she was of the sea, 
 Ida again began, — 
 
 " Ah, my love, had you seen it as I have seen it 
 
EFFECTS OF POETRY. 333 
 
 in a tempest off Palma ! I was in the saloon with 
 the captain, a coarse sort of man, who insisted on my 
 drinking puncli. I refused. Then the wretch got 
 very angry, and opened the window, took me just at 
 tlie waist, and held me above the water in the light- 
 ning and rain." 
 
 Jack tried to cut in two these dangerous recitals, 
 but they came to life again, like those reptiles which, 
 however mutilated, still retain life and animation. 
 
 The climax of his uneasiness was reached, how- 
 ever, when, just as his' lessons were to begin, he 
 heard his mother propose to Cdcile to go down 
 into the garden. What would she say when he Avas 
 not there ? He watched them from the window ; 
 Cdcile's slender figure and quiet movements were 
 tliose of a well-born, well-bred woman, while Ida, 
 still handsome, but loud in her st3'le and costume, 
 affected the manners of a j'oung girl. For the first 
 lime Jack felt his lessons to be very long, and only 
 breathed freely again when they were all together 
 walking in the woods. But on this day Jiis mother's 
 presence disturbed the harmony. She had no com- 
 prehension of love, and saw it only as something 
 utterly ridiculous. But the worst of all was the 
 sudden respect she entertained for Zes convenances. 
 She recalled the young people, bade them " not to 
 wander away so far, but to keep in sight," and then 
 she looked at the doctor in a significant way. Jack 
 saw more than once that his mother grated on the 
 old doctor's nerves; but the forest was so lovely, 
 C(;cile so affectionate, and the few H'ords they ox- 
 changed were so mingled with the sweet clatter of 
 
334 JACK. 
 
 birds and the liumming of bees, that by degrees 
 the poor boy forgot his terrible companion. But Ida 
 wished to make a sensation, so they stopped at the 
 forester's. Mere Archambauld was delighted to see 
 her old mistress, paid her many compliments, but 
 asked not a question in regard to D'Argenton, her 
 keen personal sense telling her that she had best 
 not. But the sight of this good creature, for a long 
 time so intimately connected with their life at Aul- 
 nettes, was too much for Ida. Without waiting for 
 the lunch so carefully prepared by Mother Archam- 
 bauld, she rose suddenly from her chair, as suddenly 
 as if in answer to a summons unheard by the others, 
 and went swiftlj-^ through the forest paths to her old 
 home at Aulnettes. 
 
 The tower was more enshrouded than ever in its 
 green foliage, and the blinds were closely drawn. 
 Ida stood in lonely silence, listening to the tale told 
 with silent eloquence by these gray stones. Then 
 she broke a branch from the clematis that threw its 
 sprat's over the wall, and inhaled the breath of its 
 starry wliite blossoms. 
 
 " AVliat is it, dear mother?" said Jack, who had 
 hastened to follow her. 
 
 "Ah!" she said, with rapidlj' falling tears, " j'ou 
 know I have so much buried here ! " 
 
 Indeed the house, in its melancholy silence and 
 with the Latin inscription over the door, resembled 
 a tomb. She dried her ej'es, but for that evening 
 her gayety was gone. In vain did C(?cile, who had 
 been told that Madame D'Argenton was separated 
 from her husband, try with minor cares to efface 
 
EFFECTS OF POETRY. 335 
 
 the painful impression of the day; in vain did Jack 
 peek to interest her in all his projects for the future. 
 
 " You see, my child," she said, on her way home, 
 " that it is not best for me to come here with you. 
 I have suffered too much, and the wound is too 
 recent." 
 
 Her voice trembled, and it was easy to see that, 
 after all the humiliations to which she had been 
 subjected by this man, she yet loved him. 
 
 For many Sundays after, Jack came alone to 
 EtioUes, and relinquished what to him was the 
 greatest happiness of the day, the twilight walk, and 
 the quiet talk with C^cile, that he might return to 
 Paris in time to dine with his mother. He took the 
 afternoon train, and passed from the tranquillity of 
 the country to the animation of a Sunday in the 
 Faubourg. The sidewalks were covered by little 
 tables, where families sat drinking their coffee, and 
 crowds wei-e standing, with their noses in the air, 
 watching an enormous yellow balloon that had just 
 been released from its moorings. 
 
 In remoter streets, people sat on the steps of the 
 doors, and in the courtyard of the large, silent 
 house the concierge was chatting with his neighbors, 
 who had taken chairs out to breathe air a little 
 fresher than they could obtain in their confined 
 quarters within. 
 
 Sometimes, in Jack's absence, Ida, tired of her 
 loneliness, went to a little reading-room kept by a 
 certain Madame Ldvcque. The shop was filled with 
 mouldy books, was literally obstructed by magazines 
 and illustrated papers, which she lot for a sou a day. 
 
SSO JACK. 
 
 Here lived a dirty, pretentious old woman, who 
 spent lier time in making a certain kind of anti- 
 quated trimming of narrow, colored ribbons. 
 
 It seems that Madame L^vSque had known better 
 daj's, and that under the first empire her father was 
 a man of considerable importance. "lam the god- 
 child of the Due de Dantzic," she said to Ida, with 
 emphasis. She was one of the relics of past days, 
 such as one finds occasionally in the secluded cor- 
 ners of old Paris. Like the dusty contents of her 
 shop, her gilt-edged books torn and incomplete, her 
 conversation glittered with stories of past splendors. 
 That enchanting reign, of which she had seen but 
 the c()nclusion,'had dazzled her eyes, and the mere 
 tone in whicii she pronounced the titles of that time 
 evoked the memory of epaulettes and gold lace. 
 And her anecdotes of Josephine, and of the ladies 
 of the court ! One especial tale Madame Levequo 
 Avas never tired of telling: it Avas of the fire at the 
 Austrian embassy, the night of the famous ball given 
 by tlie Princess of Schwartzenberg. All her sub- 
 sequent j-ears had been lighted by those flames, and 
 by that light she saw a procession of gorgeous mar- 
 shals, tall ladies in very low dresses, with heads 
 dressed a la Titus or d la Grecque, and the emperor, 
 in his green coat and white trousers, carrying in his 
 arms across the garden the fainting Madame de 
 Schwartzenberg. 
 
 Ida, with her passion for rank, delighted in the 
 society of this half-crazed old creature, and while 
 the two women sat in the dark shop, with the names 
 of dukes and marquises gliding lightly from the'.r 
 
EFFECTS OF POETRY. 337 
 
 tougues, a workman would come in to buy a paper 
 for a sou, or some woman, impatient for the conclu- 
 sion of some serial romance, would come in to ask if 
 the magazine had not yet arrived, and cheerfully 
 pay the two cents that would deprive her, if she 
 were old, of her snuff, and, if she were young, of 
 her radishes for breakfast. 
 
 Occasionally Madame Leveque passed a Sunday 
 with friends, and then Ida had no other amusement 
 than that which she derived from turning over a pile 
 of books taken at hazard from Madame L5vcqne's 
 shelves. These books were soiled and tumbled,, 
 with spots of grease and crumbs of bread upon 
 them, showing that they had been read while eating. 
 Siie sat reading by the window, — reading until her 
 head swam. She read to escape thinking. Singu- 
 larly out of place in this house, the incessant toil 
 that she saw going on about her depressed her, 
 instead of, as with her son, exciting her to more 
 strenuous exertions. 
 
 The pale, sad woman who sat at her machine day 
 after day, the other with her sing-song repetition of 
 the words, " How happy people ought to be who can 
 go to the countr}' in such weather 1 " exasperated her 
 almost beyond endurance. The transparent blue of 
 the sky, the soft summer air, made all these miseries 
 seem blacker and less endurable ; in the same way 
 tliat the repose of Sunday, disturbed only by church- 
 bells and the twitter of the sparrows on the roofs, 
 weighed painfully on her spirits. She thought of 
 her early life, of her drives and Avalks, of the gay 
 parties in the country, and above all of the more 
 22 
 
338 JACK. 
 
 recent years at Etiolles. She thought of D'Ar- 
 gentoii reciting one of his poems on the porch in 
 the moonlight. Where was he? What was he 
 doing? Three months had passed since she left 
 him, and he had not written one word. Then the 
 book fell from her hands, and she sat buried in 
 thought until the arrival of her son, whom she en- 
 deavored to welcome with a smile. But he read the 
 whole story in the disorder of the room and in the 
 careless toilet. Nothing was in readiness for dinner. 
 
 " I have done nothing," she said, sadly. " The 
 weather is so warm, and I am discouraged." 
 
 "Why discouraged, dear mother? Are you not 
 with me ? You want some little amusement, I 
 fancy. Let us dine out to-day," he continued, with 
 a tender, pitying smile. But Ida wished to make a 
 toilet; to take out from her wardrobe some one of 
 her pretty costumes of other days, too coquettish, 
 too conspicuous for her present circumstances. To 
 dress as modestly as possible, and walk through 
 these poor streets, afforded her no amusement. In 
 spite of her care to avoid anything noticeable in her 
 costume, Jack always detected some eccentricity, — 
 ill the length of her skirts, which required a car- 
 riage, or in the cut of her corsage, or the trimming 
 of her hat. Jack and his mother then went to dine 
 at Bngnolet or Romainville, and dined drearily 
 enough. They attempted some little conversation, 
 but they found it almost impossible. Their lives 
 had been so different that they really now had little 
 in common. While Ida was disgusted with the 
 coarse table-clotli spotted by wine, and polished, 
 
EFFECTS OF POETRY. 339 
 
 with a disgusted face, her plate and glass with lior 
 napkin, Jack hardly perceived this negligence of" 
 service, but was astonished at his mother's ignorance 
 and indifference upon many other points. 
 
 She had certain phrases caught from D'Argenton, 
 a peremptory tone in discussion, a didactic '' I think 
 so ; I believe ; I know." She generally began and 
 finished her arguments with some disdainful gesture 
 that signified, " I am verj' good to take the trouble 
 to talk to you." Thanks to that miracle of assimila- 
 tion by which, at the end of some years, husband 
 and wife resemble each other, Jack was terrified to 
 see an occasional look of D'Argenton on his mother's 
 face. On her lips was often to be detected the sar- 
 castic smile that had been the bugbear of his bpy- 
 hood, and which he always dreaded to see in D'Ar- 
 genton. Never had a sculptor found in his clay 
 more docile material than the pretentious poet had 
 discovered in this poor woman. 
 
 After dinner, one of their favorite walks on these 
 long summer evenings was the Square des Buttes- 
 Chaumont, a melancholy-looking spot on the old 
 heights of Montfau^on. The grottos and bridges, 
 the precipices and pine groves, seemed to add to 
 the general dreariness. But there was something 
 artificial and romantic in the place that pleased Ida 
 by its resemblance to a park. She allowed her 
 dress to trail over the sand of the alleys, admired 
 the exotics, and would have liked to write her name 
 on the ruined wall, with the scores of others that 
 were already tliere. When they were tired with 
 walking, they took their seats at the summit of the 
 
340 JACK. 
 
 hill, to GDJoy the superb view that was spread out 
 before them. Paris, softened and veiled by dust 
 and smoke, lay at their feet. The heights ai'ound 
 the faubourgs looked in the mist like an immense 
 circle, connected hy Pere la Chaise on one side, 
 and Montmartre on tho other, with Mont£au§on; 
 nearer them they could witness the enjoyment of the 
 people. In the winding alleys and under the groups 
 of trees j'oung people were singing and dancing, 
 while on tlie hillside, sitting amid the yellowed grass, 
 and on the dried red earth, families were gathered 
 together like flocks of sheep. 
 
 Ida saw all this with weary, contemptuous eyes, 
 and her very attitude said, "How inexpressibly tire- 
 sonje it is 1 " Jack felt helpless before this persist- 
 ent melancholy. He thought lie might make the 
 acquaintance of some one of these honest, simple 
 families, and perhaps in their society his mother 
 might be cheered. Once he thought he had found 
 what he wanted. It was one Sunday. Before them 
 walked an old man, rustic in appearance, leading two 
 little children, over whom he was bending with that 
 wonderful patience which only grandfathers are 
 possessed of. 
 
 " I certainly know that man," said Jack to his 
 mother ; " it is — it must be M. Rondic." 
 
 Rondic it was, but so aged and grown so thin, 
 that it was a wonder that his former apprentice had 
 recognized him. The girl with him was a miniature 
 of Zijuaide, Avhile the boy looked like Maugin. 
 
 The good old man showed great pleasure in meet- 
 ing Jack, but his smile was sad, and then Jack saw 
 
EFFECTS OF POETRY. 3il 
 
 tliat lie wore crape on his hat. The j'outh dared not 
 ask ii question until, as they turned a corner, Zenaido 
 bore down upcn them like a ship under full sail. 
 She had changed her plaited skirt and rufSed cap 
 for a Parisian dress and bonnet, and looked larger 
 than ever. She had the arm of her husband, who 
 was now attached to one of the custom-houses, and 
 who was in uniform. Zdna'ide adored M. Mangiii 
 and was absurdly proud of him, while he looked 
 very happy in being so worshipped. 
 
 Jack presented his mother to all these good peo- 
 ple ; then, as they divided into two groups, he said 
 in a low voice to Zenaide, " What has happened ? Is 
 it possible that Madame Clarisse — " 
 
 " Yes, she is dead ; she was drowned in the Loire 
 accidentally." 
 
 Then she added, " We say ' accidentally ' on fa- 
 ther's account ; but you, who knew her so well, may 
 be quite sure that it was by no accident that she 
 perished. She died because she could never see 
 Chariot again. Ah, what wicked men there are in 
 this world I " 
 
 Jack glanced at his mother, and was quite ready 
 to agree with his companion. 
 
 " Poor father ! we thought that he could not sui*- 
 vive the shock," resumed Zdnaide ; " but then ho 
 never suspected the truth. When M. IVIaugin got 
 his position in Paris, we made him come with us, 
 and we live all together in the Rue des Silas at 
 Charonno. You will come and see him, won't you, 
 Jack ? You know ho always loved you ; and now 
 only the children amuse him. Perhaps you can 
 
342 JACK. 
 
 mnke him talk. But let us join him ; he is looking 
 at us, and thinks we are speaking of him, and he 
 docs not like that." 
 
 Ida, who was deep in conversation with M. Mau- 
 gin, stopped short as Jack approached her. He sus- 
 pected that she had been talking of D'Argenton, as 
 indeed she had, praising his genius and recounting 
 his successes, which, had she confined herself to the 
 truth, would not have taken long. They separated, 
 promising to meet again soon ; and Jack, not long 
 afterward, called upon them with his mother. 
 
 He found the old ornaments on the chimney that 
 he had learned to know so well at Indret, the 
 sponges and corals ; he recognized the big wardrobe 
 as an old friend. The rcoms were exquisitely clean, 
 and presented a perfect picture of a Breton interior 
 transplanted to Paris. But he soon saw thaLhis motli- 
 cr was bored by Z6na'ide, who was too energetic and 
 positive to suit her, and that there, as everywhere 
 else, she was haunted by the same melancholy and 
 the same disgust which she expressed in the brief 
 phrase, " It smells of the work-shop." 
 
 Ti)o house, the room she lived in, the bread slio 
 ate, all seemed impregnated with one smell, ouo 
 especial flavor. If she opened the window, she per- 
 ceived it even more strongly ; if she went out, each 
 breath of wind brought it to her. The people she 
 saw — even her own Jack, when he returned at 
 night with his blouse spotted with oil — exlialed the 
 same baleful odor, which shb fancied clung even to 
 herself — the odor of toil — and filled her with im- 
 mense sadness. 
 
EFFECTS OF POETRY. 343 
 
 One evening, Jack found his mother in a state of 
 extraordinary excitement; her eyes wore bright and 
 complexion animated. "D'Argenton has written to 
 me ! " she cried, as he entered the room ; " 3'-es, my 
 dear, he has actually dared to write to me. For 
 four months he did not vouchsafe a syllable. lie 
 writes me now that he is about to return to Paris, 
 and that, if I need him, he is at my disposal." 
 
 " You do not need him, I think," said Jack, quietly, 
 though ho was in reality as much moved as his 
 mother herself 
 
 " Of course I do not," she answered, hurriedly. 
 
 " And what shall you say ? " 
 
 " Sa}- ! To a wretch who has dared to lift his 
 hand to me ? You do not yet know me. I have, 
 thank Heaven, more pride than that. I have just 
 finished Iiis letter, and have torn it into a thousand 
 bits. I am curious to see his house, though, now 
 tliat I am not there to keep all in order. He is evi- 
 dently out of spirits, and perhaps he is not well, as 
 he has been for two months at — what is the name 
 of the YJlace ? " and she calmly drew from her pocket 
 the letter which she said she had destroyed. "Ah, 
 j'es, it is at the springs of Roj'at that he has been. 
 What nonsense ! Those mineral springs have al- 
 Avays been bad for him." 
 
 Jack colored at her flilsehood, but said not one 
 word. All the evening she was busy, and seemed 
 to have regained the courage and animation of her 
 first days vvitli her son. While at work she talked 
 to herstlf Suddenl}'^ she crossed the room to Jack. 
 
 " You arc full of coacago, my boy," she said, kiss- 
 ing him. 
 
344 JACK. 
 
 Ho was occupied in watching all that was going 
 on within his mother's mind. " It is not I whom she 
 kisses," he said, shrewdly ; and his suspicions were 
 confirmed \>y a trifle that proved how completely 
 the past had taken possession of the poor woman's 
 mhid. She never ceased humming the words of 
 a little song of D'Argenton's, which the poet was 
 ia the habit of singing himself at the piano in the 
 twilight. Over and over again she sang the refrain, 
 and the words revived in Jack's mind only sad and 
 shameful memorres. Ah, if ho had dared, what 
 words he would have said to the woman before him ! 
 But she was his mother; he loved her, and wished 
 by his own respect to teach her to respect herself, 
 lie therefore kept strict guard over his lips. This 
 first warning of coming danger, however, awoke in 
 him all the jealous foreboding of a man who was 
 about to be betrayed. He studied her waj' of say- 
 ing good-bye to him when ho left in the morning, 
 and he analyzed her smile of greeting on his return. 
 He could not watch her himself, nor could ho con- 
 fide to an}' other person the distrust with which she 
 inspired him. He knew how often a woman sur- 
 rounds the man whom she deceives in an atmos- 
 phere of tender attentions, — the manifestations of 
 hidden remorse. Once, on his way home, he thought 
 he saw Hirsch and Labassandre turning a distant 
 corner. 
 
 " Has any one been here ? " he said to the con- 
 cierge ; and by tlie way he was answered he saw 
 that some plot was already organized against him. 
 The Sunday after on his return from EtioUes ho 
 
EFFECTS OF POETRY. 345 
 
 found Iiis mother so completely absorbed in her book 
 that she did not even hear him come in. He would 
 not have noticed this, knowing her mania for ro- 
 mances, had not Ida made an attempt to conceal the 
 book. 
 
 " You startled me," she said, half pouting. 
 
 " What are you reading? " he asked. 
 
 "Nothing, — some nonsense. And how are our 
 frie;ids?" Butaa she spoke, a blush covered her face 
 and glowed under her fine transparent skin. It was 
 one of the peculiarities of this childish nature that 
 she was at once prompt and unskilful in falsehood. 
 Annoyed by his earnest gaze, she rose from her chair. 
 " You wish to know what I am reading ! Look, then." 
 Ho sajv once more the glossy cover of the Review 
 that he had read for the first time in the engine-room 
 of the C3'dnus ; only it was thinner and smaller. 
 Jack would not have opened it if the following title 
 on the outer page had not met his eyes : — 
 
 THE PARTING. 
 
 A POEM. 
 
 Br TUE ViCOMTE Amaoky d'Aegenton. 
 
 And commenced thus : — 
 
 "TO ONE WHO HAS GONE. 
 
 " What! without one word of farewell, 
 Without a turn of the head . . ." 
 
 Two hundred lines followed these. That there 
 might be no mistake, the name of Charlotte occurred 
 several times. Jack flung down the magazine with 
 a shrug of the &houlders. "And he dared to send 
 you this ?" 
 
34G JACK. 
 
 " Yes ; two or three days ago." 
 
 Ida was dj'ing to pick up the book from the floor, 
 but dared not. After a while she stooped, care- 
 lessly. 
 
 "You do not intend to keep those verses, do you? 
 They are siiuply absurd." 
 
 " But I do not think them so." 
 
 " Ho simply beats his wings and crows, mother 
 dear ; his words touch no human heart." 
 
 "Bo more just, Jack," — her voice trembled, — 
 " heaven knows that I know M. D'Argenton better 
 than any one, his faults and the defects of his nature, 
 because I have suffered from them. The man I give 
 up to you ; as to the poet, it is a different thing. In 
 the opinion of every one, the peculiarity of M. D'Ar- 
 genton's genius is the sympathetic quality'' of his 
 vurtcs. Musset had it in some degree; and I think 
 that the beginning of this poem, ' The Parting,' is 
 very touching: the j'oung woman who goes away 
 in the morning fog in her ball-dress without one 
 word of farewell." 
 
 Jack could not restrain himself. " But the woman 
 is yourself," he cried, "and you know under whi.t 
 circumstances you left." 
 
 She answered, coldly, — 
 
 " Is it kind in you, my son, to recall such humilia- 
 tions? Had M. D'Argenton treated me a thousand 
 times worse than he has, I should be able, I hope, to 
 recognize the fact that he stands at the head of the 
 poets of France. More than one person who speaks 
 of him with contempt to-daj"^, will j'et tie proud of 
 having known him and of having sat at his table 1 " 
 
EFFECTS OF POETRY. 347 
 
 and as sho finished she left the room with great 
 dignity. Jack took his seat at his desk, but his 
 heart was not in his work. He felt that " the 
 enemy," as in his childish days he had called the 
 vicomtc, was gradually making his approaches. In 
 fact Arnaury d'Argenton was as unhappy apart from 
 Charlotte as she was herself. Victim and exe- 
 cutioner, indispensable to each other, ho felt pro- 
 foundly the emptiness of divided lives. From the 
 first hour of their separation the poet had adopted 
 a dramatic and Byronic tone as of a broken heart. 
 He was seen in the restaurants at night, surroundofl 
 by a group of flatterers who talked of her; he 
 wished to have every one know his misery and its 
 details ; he wished to have people think that he was 
 drowning his sorrows in dissipation. When ho said, 
 " Waiter! bring mo some pure absinthe," it was tliat 
 some one at the next table might whisper, " He 
 is killing himself by inches — all for a woman ! " 
 
 D'Argenton succeeded simply in disordering his 
 stomach and injuring his constitution. His "at- 
 tacks" were more Ircqiient, and Charlotte's ab- 
 sence was extremely inconvenient. What other 
 woman would ever have endured his perpetual 
 complaints?. Who would administer his powdgrs 
 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 drfeary be- 
 cause he was environed by disorder and dust, which 
 all women, even that foolish Ida, contrive to get rid 
 of in some way. Neither the fire nor the lamp would 
 burn, and currents of air whistled under all tiie 
 
348 JACK. 
 
 doors; and in the depths of his selfish nature D'Ar- 
 genton sincerely regretted his companion, and be- 
 came seriously unhappy. Then he decided to take 
 a journey, but that did him no good, to judge from 
 the melancholy tone of his letters to his friends. 
 
 One idea tormented him, that the woman whom he 
 so regretted was happy away from him, and in the 
 society of her son. Moronval said, " Write a poem 
 about it," and D'Argenton went to work. Onfortu- 
 natel}', instead of being calmed by this compositicn, 
 he was more excited than ever, and the separation 
 became more and more intolerable. As soon as the 
 Ixeview appeared, Hirsch and Labassandre were bid- 
 den to carry a copy at once to the Rue des Panoyeaux. 
 
 This done, D'Argenton decided that it was time 
 to make a grand coup. He dressed with great care, 
 took a fiacre, and presented himself at Charlotte's 
 door at an hour that he knew Jack must be awa3% 
 P'Argenton was verj' pale, and the beating of his 
 heart choked him. One of the greatest mysteries in 
 human nature is that such persons have a heart, 
 and that that heart is capable of beating. It was not 
 love that moved hjm, but he saw a certain romance 
 in the affair, the carriage stationed at the corner as 
 for an elopement, and above all the hopQ of gratifying 
 his hatred of Jack. He pictured to himself the dis- 
 appointment of tlie youth on his return to find that 
 the bird had flown. He meant to appear suddenly 
 before Cliarlotte, to throw himself at her feet, and, 
 giving her no time to think, to carry her away with 
 him at once. She must be very much changed since 
 he last saw iier if she could resist him. He entered 
 
EFFECTS OF POETRY. 349 
 
 her room without knocking, saying in a low voice, 
 "It is I.'- 
 
 There was no Charlotte ; but instead, Jack stood 
 before him. Jack, on account of the occurrence of 
 his mother's birthday, had a holiday, and was at 
 work with his books. Ida was asleep on her bed in 
 the alcove. The two men looked at each other 
 in silence. This time the poet had not the advan- 
 tage. In the first place, he was not at home ; 
 next, how could he treat as an inferior this tall, 
 proud-looking fellow, in whoso intelligent face ap- 
 peared, as if still more to exasperate the lover, some- 
 thing of his mother's beauty. 
 
 " Why do j'ou come here ? " asked Jack. 
 
 The other stammered and colored. " I was told 
 that 3'our mother was here." 
 
 " So she is; but I am with her, and you shall not 
 see her." 
 
 This was said rapidly and in a low voice ; then 
 Jack took D'Argenton by the shoulder' and wjieeled 
 him back into the corridor. The poet Avith some 
 difficulty preserved his footing. 
 
 " Jack," he said, endeavoring to be dignified, — 
 " there has been a misunderstanding for some time 
 between us, but now that j-ou are a man, all this 
 should cease. I ofi'er you my hand, my child." 
 
 Jack shrugged his shoulders. " Of what use are 
 these theatricals between us, sir ? You detest me, 
 and I return the compliment 1 " 
 
 " And since when have we been such enemies, 
 Jack ? " 
 
 " Ever since wc Jcnew each other ! My earliest 
 
350 JACK. 
 
 recollection is of absolute hatred toward you. Be- 
 sides, why should we not hate each other like the 
 bitterest of foes ? By what other name should I call 
 j'ou ? Who and what are you ? Believe me that if 
 ever in my life I have thought of you without auger, 
 it has never been without a blush of shame." 
 
 " It is true. Jack, that our position toward each 
 other has been entirely false. But, my dear friend, 
 life is not a romance." 
 
 But Jack cut short this discourse. 
 
 " You are right, sir, life is not a romance : it is, 
 on the contrary, a very serious and positive matter. 
 In proof of which, permit me to say that every in- 
 stant of my time is occupied, and that I cannot lose 
 one of them in useless discussions. For ten years my 
 mother has been your slave. All that I suffered in 
 this time my pride will never let you know. M3' 
 mother now belongs to me, and I mean to keep her. 
 What do you want of her ? Her hair is gray, and 
 your treatment of her has made great Avrinkles on 
 her forehead. She is no longer a pretty woman, but 
 she is my mother 1 " 
 
 They looked each other straight in the face as 
 they stood in that narrow, squalid corridor. It was 
 a fitting frame for a scene so humiliating. 
 
 " You strangely mistake the sense of my words," 
 said the poet, deadly pale. " I know that your 
 resources must be very moderate ; I come, as an old 
 friend, to see if I can serve you in any way." 
 
 " We need nothing. The work of my hands sup- 
 plies us with all we require." 
 
 " You are very proud, my dear Jack ; you were 
 not so always." 
 
EFFECTS OF POETRY. 351 
 
 "That is verj' true, sir, and also that your presence, 
 that 1 once was forced to endure, has now become 
 odious to me." 
 
 The attitude of the young man was so determined 
 and so insulting, his looks so thoroughly carried out 
 his words, that the poet dared not add one word, 
 and descended the stairs, where liis careful costume 
 was strangely out of place. When Jack: heard his 
 last footfall, he returned to his room : on the thresh- 
 old stood Ida, strangel}' white, her eyes swollen with 
 tears and sleep. 
 
 " I was there," she said in a low voice ; " I heard 
 everything, even that I was old and had wrinkles." 
 
 He approached her, took her hands, and looked 
 into the depths of her eyes. 
 
 " He is not far away. Shall I call him ? " 
 
 She disengaged her hands, threw her arms around 
 his' neck, and with one of tho^e sudden impulses that 
 prevented her from being utterly unworthy, ex- 
 claimed, " You are right. Jack ; I am your mother, 
 and only your mother 1 " 
 
 Some days after this scene. Jack wrote the fol- 
 lowing letter to M. Rivals : — 
 
 "My Dear Friend: She has left me, and gone back 
 to him. It all happened in such an unexpected 
 manner that I have not j^et recovered froni the blow. 
 Alas ! she of whom I must complain is my mother. 
 It would be more dignified to keep silence, but I 
 cannot. I knew in my childhood a negro lad who 
 said, ' If the world could not sigh, the world would 
 stifle ! ' I never fully understood this until to-daj-, 
 for it seems to me that if I do not write you this 
 letter, that I could not live. I could not wait until 
 
352 JACK. 
 
 Suiid;iy because I could not speak before Cucile. I 
 told you (if the explanation that man and I had, did 
 I not? Well, from tliat time my mother was so very 
 sad, and seemed so worn out by the scene she had 
 gone through, that L resolved to change our resi- 
 dence. I understood that a battle was being fought, 
 and that, if I wished her to be victorious, if 1 wished 
 to keep my motiier with me, that I must employ all 
 means and devices. Our street and house displeased 
 her. I wanted something gayer and more airy. I 
 hired then at Charonne Rue de Silas three rooms 
 newly papered. I furnished these rooms with great 
 care. All the money I iiad saved — pardon me these 
 details — I devoted to this purpose. B^lisaire aided 
 me in moving, while Zdna'ide was in the same street, 
 and I counted on her in many ways. All these ar- 
 rangements were made secretly, and I hoped a great 
 surprise and pleasure was in store for my mother. 
 The place was as quiet as a village street, the trees 
 were well grown and green, and I fancied that she 
 would, when established there, have less to regret 
 in the country-life she had so much enjoyed. 
 
 " Yesterday evening everything was in readiness. 
 Bdlisaire was to tell her that I was waiting for her at 
 the Rondics, and then he was to take her to our new 
 home. I was there waiting ; white curtains hung at 
 all the windows, and great bunches of roses were on 
 the chimney. I had made a little fire, for the even- 
 ing was cool, and it gave a home look to the room. 
 In the midst of my contentment I had a sudden pre- 
 sentiment. It was like an electric spark. "She will 
 not come." In vain did I call myself an idiot, in vain 
 did 1 arrange and rearrange her chair and her foot- 
 stool. 1 knew that she would never come. More than 
 once in vay life I have had these intuitions. One might 
 believe that Fate, before striking her heaviest blows, 
 had a moment of compassion, and gavo mo a warning. 
 
EFFECTS OF POETRY. 353 
 
 She did not come, but B^lisaire brought a note from 
 her. It was very brief, merely stating that M. D'Ar- 
 genton was very ill, and that slie regarded it as her 
 duty to watch at his side. As soon as he was well she 
 would return. Ill I I had not thought of that. I might 
 call myself ill, too, and keep her at my bedside. How 
 well he understood her, the wretcli ! How thoroughly 
 he had studied that weak but kindly nature! You 
 remember those 'attacks' he talked of at EtioUes, 
 and which so soon disappeared after a good dinner. 
 It is one of those which he now has. But my mother 
 was only too glad of an excuse, and allowed herself 
 to be deceived. But to return to my story. Behold 
 me alone in this little home, amid all the wasted 
 efforts, time and money 1 Was it not cruel? I could 
 not remain there ; I returned to my old room. The 
 house seemed to me as sad as a funeral-chamber. I 
 permitted the fire to die out, and the roses wither and 
 tall on the marble hearth below with a gentle rustle. 
 I took the rooms for two j'ears, and I shall keep 
 them with something of the same superstition with 
 which one preserves for a long time the cage from 
 which some favorite bird has flown. If my mother 
 returns we will go there together. But if she does 
 not I shall never inhabit the place. I have now 
 told 3'ou all, but do not let Ccciie see this letter. 
 Ah, my friend, will she too desert me ? The treach- 
 ery of those we love is terrible indeed. But of what 
 am I thinking ; I have her word and her promise, 
 and Ccciie always tells the truth." 
 23 
 
354 JACK. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 cecile's unhappy resolve. 
 
 For a long time Jack had faith that his mother 
 would return. In the morning, in the evening, in 
 the silence of midday, he fancied that he heard the 
 rustling of her dress, her light step on the threshold. 
 When he went to the Rondics he glanced at the little 
 house, hoping to see the windows opened and Ida 
 installed in the refuge, the address of which, wit!i 
 the key, he had sent to her : " The house is ready. 
 Come when you will." Not a word in reply. The 
 desertion was final and absolute. 
 
 Jack was in great grief. When our mothers do us 
 Iiarm, it wounds and grieves us, and seems like a 
 direct cruelty from the hand of God. But Cocile 
 was the magician to cure him ; she knew just the 
 words to use, and her delicate tenderness defied the 
 rough trials of destiny. A great resource to him at 
 tliis time was hard work, which is one's best defence 
 against sorrow and regrets. While his mother had 
 been with him, she, without knowing it, had oiton 
 prevented him from working. Her indecision liad 
 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 
 
CECILE'S UNHAPPY RESOLVE. 3.55: 
 
 that she was gone, he took rapid strides and re- 
 gained his lost time. Each Sunday he went to 
 EtioUes ; he was at once more in love, and wiser. 
 Tlie doctor was delighted with the progress of liis 
 j-'upil; before a year was over, he said, if he went 
 on ill this way, he could take his degree. 
 
 These words thrilled Jack with jo\', and when he 
 repeated them to B(;lisaire, the little attic positively 
 glowed and palpitated with happiness. Madame 
 Bulisaire was suddenly filled witli a desire to learn, 
 and her husband must teach her to read. But while 
 M. B,ivals was pleased at Jack's progress with his 
 books, he was discontented with the state of his 
 health ; the old cough had come back, his eyes were 
 feverish and his hands hot. 
 
 " 1 do not like this," said the good man : " you 
 work too hard ; you must stop ; you have plenty of 
 time : Cdcile does not mean to run away." 
 
 Never had the girl been more loving and tender; 
 she seemed to feel that she must take his mother's 
 place as well as her own ; and it was precisely this 
 sweetness that induced Jack to make greater exer- 
 tions each day. His bodily frame was in the same con- 
 dition as that of the Fakirs of India — urged to such 
 a point of feverish excitement that pain becomes a 
 pleasure. He was grateful to the cold of his little 
 attic, and to the hard dry cough that kept him from 
 sleeping. Sometimes at his writing-table he sud- 
 denly felt a lightness throughout all his being — a 
 strange clearness of perception and an extraordinary 
 excitement of all his intellectual faculties ; but this 
 was accompanied with great physical exhaustion. 
 
356 JACK. 
 
 His work went like lightning, and all the difficulties 
 of his task disappeared. He would have gone on 
 thus to the end of his labor, had he not received a 
 painful shock. A telegram arrived : 
 
 " Do not come to-morrow ; we are going away for 
 a week. Rivals." 
 
 Jack received that despatch just as Madame Be- 
 lisaire had ironed his fine linen for the next day. The 
 suddenness of this departure, the brevity of the de- 
 spatch, and even the printed characters instead of 
 liis friend's well-known writing, affected him most 
 painfully. He expected a letter from Cecile or the 
 doctor to explain the mystery, but nothing came, and 
 for a week he was a prey to suspense and anxiety. 
 The truth was : neither C<;cile nor the doctor had 
 left home, but that M. Rivals wished for time to 
 prepare the youth for an unexpected blow — for a 
 decision of Cdciie's so extraordinary that he hoped 
 his granddaughter would be induced to reconsider 
 it. One evening, on coming into the house, he had 
 found Cdcile in a state of singular agitation ; her 
 lips were pale but firmly closed. He tried to make 
 her smile at the dinner-table, but in vain ; and sud- 
 denly, in reply to some remark of his in regard to 
 Jack's coming, she said, " I do not wish him to 
 come." 
 
 He looked at her in amazement. She was as pale 
 as death, but in a firm voice she repeated, " I do not 
 wish him to come on Sunday, or ever again." 
 
 " What is the matter, ray child ? " 
 
 " Nothing, dear grandf.ither, save that I can never 
 maiMy Jack." 
 
CECILE'S UNHAPPY RESOLVE. 357 
 
 " You frighten me, C<5cile ! Tell me what you 
 mean." 
 
 " I am simply beginning to understand myself. I 
 do not love him ; I was mistaken." 
 
 " Good heavens, child, are you quite mad ? You 
 have had some childish misunderstanding." 
 
 " No, grandpapa, I assure you tliat I have for Jack 
 a sister's friendship, nothing more. I cannot be his 
 wife." 
 
 .The doctor was startled. " Cdcile," he said, 
 gravely, "do j'ou love any other person?" 
 
 She colored. " No ; but I do not wish to marry ; " 
 and to all that M. Rivals said she would make no 
 other reply. 
 
 He asked her what would be said, what would 
 be thought by their little world. " Remember," ho 
 said, " that to Jack this will be a frightful blow ; hia 
 whole future will be sacrificed." 
 
 Cecile's pale features quivered nervously. Her 
 grandfather took her hand. 
 
 " My child," he said, " think well before you 
 decide a question of such importance." 
 
 " No," she answered ; " the sooner he knows my 
 decision the better for us botli. I know that I am 
 going to pain him deeply, but the longer we delay 
 the worse it will be, and I cannot see him again 
 until he knows the truth ; I am incapable of such 
 treachery." 
 
 " Then you mean to give the bo}' his dismissal," 
 said the doctor, in a rage. " Good heavens ! what 
 strange creatures women are ! " 
 . She looked at him with such an expression of 
 despair that ho stopped short. 
 
358 JACK. 
 
 " No, no, little girl, I am not angry with j'ou. It 
 is my fault more than yours. You were too young 
 to know your own mind. I am an old fool, and shall 
 alwaj's be one until the bitter end." 
 
 Then came the painful duty of writing to Jack. 
 Ho began a dozen letters, destroyed them all, and 
 finally sent the telegram, hoping that C<5cile would 
 have come to her senses before the week was over. 
 
 The next Saturday, when Dr. Rivals said 'to his 
 granddaughter, " He will come to-morrow ; is your 
 decision irrevocable ? " 
 
 " Irrevocable," she said, slowly. 
 
 Jack arrived early on Sunday. When he reached 
 the door the servant said, " My master is waiting for 
 you in the garden." 
 
 Jack felt chilled to the heart, and the doctor's face 
 increased his fears, for he, though for forty years 
 accustomed 'to the sight of human suffering, was as 
 troubled as Jack. 
 
 " Cdcile is here — is she not?" were the youth's 
 first words. 
 
 " No, my friend, I left her — at — where we have 
 been, j'ou know ; and she will remain some time." 
 
 " Dr. Rivals, tell me what is wrong. She does not 
 wish to see me again? Is that it?" 
 
 Tiie doctor could not answer. Jack seated him- 
 self for fear he should fall. They were at the foot 
 of the garden. It was a fresh, bright November 
 morning; hoar-frost lay on the lawn, a faint haze 
 hung over the distant hills and reminded him of that 
 day at Coudray, the vintage, and their first whisper 
 of love. The doctor laid a paternal hand on his 
 
CECILE'S UNHAPPY RESOLinS. 350 
 
 shoulder. " Jack," he whispered, " do not be un- 
 happ3'. She is verj' j'oiing and will perhaps change 
 her mind. It is a mere caprice." 
 
 " No, doctor, Cucile never has caprices. That 
 would be horrible — to drive a knife into a man's 
 heart merely from caprice ! I am sure she has 
 reflected for a long time before she came to tliis 
 decision. She knew, that her love was my life, and 
 that in tearing it up my lil'e would also perish. If 
 sho has done this, then it is because she knew well 
 tliat it was her duty so to do. I ought to have ex- 
 pected it ; I should have known tiiat so great a hap- 
 piness could not bo for me." 
 
 lie staggered to his feet. His friend took his hand. 
 " Forgive me, my brave boy ; I hoped to make you 
 both happ3-." 
 
 " Do not reproach yourself. Tell her that I accept 
 her decision. Last year," he continued, " I began 
 tlic only liapp}' season of my life. I was born on 
 that day, and to-duj' I die. But these few happy 
 months I owe to you and to CJcile ; " and the youth 
 hurried away. 
 
 " But you will breakfast with me," said the 
 doctor. 
 
 " No ; I should be too sad a guest." 
 
 He crossed the garden with a firm step, and went 
 away without once looking back. Had he turned 
 he would have seen, half hidden by the curtain of a 
 Avindow in the second story, a face as pale and agi- 
 tated as his own. The girl extended her slender 
 arms, and tears rained down her cheeks. The follow- 
 ing days were sad enough. The little house that hud 
 
360 JACK. 
 
 for months been bright and gay, resumed its ancient 
 mournful aspect. The doctor, mucli troubled, no- 
 ticed that his granddaughter spent much of her time 
 in her mother's former room. Where Madeleine had 
 fonnerly wept, her child now shed in turn her tears. 
 " Would she die as did her mother? " 
 
 The doctor asked himself, day after day, If she did 
 not love Jack, why was she so sad ? If she did love 
 him, why had she refused him? The old man was 
 sure that there was some mystery, something that 
 he ought to know ; but at the least question, Cecilo 
 ran away as if in fear. 
 
 One night the bell rang a summons from a dying 
 man. It was the husband of old Salu, who had met 
 with an accident. These people lived near Aul- 
 nottes, in a miserable little hole, and on a straw bed 
 in the corner lay the sick man. When Di-. Rivals 
 entered the place he was nearly suffocated by the 
 odor of burning herbs. 
 
 " What have you been doing here. Mother Sale ? " 
 lie said. The old woman hesitated, and wished to 
 tell a falsehood; ho gave her no time, however. 
 " So Hirsch is here again, is he ? " he continued. 
 " Open the doors and windows, you will be suffo- 
 cated." 
 
 While M. Rivals bent over the sick man, he half 
 opened his eyes. " Tell him, wife, tell him," he 
 muttered. 
 
 The old woman paid no attention, and the man 
 began again : " Tell him, I say, tell him." 
 
 The doctor looked at Mother Sal(5, who turned a 
 deep scarlet. " I am .sure I am very sorry if I said 
 
CECILE'S UNHAPPY RESOLVE. 361 
 
 anything to hurt the feelings of such a good j'oung 
 lady," she muttered. 
 
 "What young lady? Of whom do j'ou speak?" 
 asked the doctor, turning hastily around. 
 
 " Well, sir, I will tell you the truth. The mad 
 doctor gave me twenty francs to toll Mamselle C^cile 
 the story of her father and mother." 
 
 M. Rivals seized the old peasant woman and shook 
 her violently. 
 
 " And you dared to do that ? " he cried, in a furious 
 rage. 
 
 " It was for twenty francs. I could never have 
 opened my lips but for the twenty francs, sir. In 
 the first place, I knew nothing about it until he told 
 me, so that I could repeat it." 
 
 " The wretch ! But who could have told him ? " 
 
 A groau from the sick-bed recalled the physician 
 to his duty. All the long night he watched there, 
 and when all was over he returned in haste to 
 EtioUes and went directly in search of C<;cile. Her 
 room was empty, and the bed had not been slept in. 
 His heart stood still. He ran to the office, still he 
 found no one. But the door of Madeleine's old room 
 stood open, and there among the relics of the dear 
 dead, prostrate on the PrierDieu, was C^cile asleep, 
 in an attitude that told of a night of prayer and 
 tears. She opened her eyes as her grandfather 
 touched her. 
 
 " And the wretches told you the secret that we 
 have taken so much pains to hide from you ! And 
 strangers and enemies told you, my poor little 
 darling, the sad tale we concealed." 
 
3G2 JACK. 
 
 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 m}' 
 mother's dishonor, and my conscience compelled me 
 to have no secrets from my husband. There was 
 but one thing to do, and I did it." 
 
 " But j'ou love him? " 
 
 " With my whole heart ; and I believe he loves me 
 so well that he would marry me in spite of m\' 
 shameful history ; but I would never consent to such 
 a sacrifice. A man does not marry a girl who has 
 no father — who has no name, or, if she had one, it 
 would be that of a robber and forger." 
 
 " But you are mistaken, my child ; Jack was proud 
 and happy to marry you with a thorough knowledge 
 of your historj'. I told it all to him, and if you had 
 had more confidence in me, you would have avoided 
 this trial to us all." 
 
 " And he was willing to marry me I " 
 
 " Child ! he loves j'ou. Besides, 3'our destinies 
 iiro similar. Ho has no father, and his mother has 
 never been married. The only difference between 
 you is that your mother was a saint, and his is a 
 sinner." 
 
 Then the doctor, who had told Jack C^cile's his- 
 tory, now related to her the long martyrdom of the 
 youth she loved. He told her of his exile i'rom his 
 mother's arms — of all that he had endured. I un- 
 derstand it all now," he cried ; '' it is she who has 
 told Hirsch of your marriage." 
 
CECILE'S UNHAPPY RESOLVE. 3G3 
 
 While the doctor -was talking, Cdcile was ovcr- 
 whehned with despair to think that she had caused 
 Jack, already so unhappy, so much needless sorrow. 
 " 0, how he has suffered 1 " she sobbed. " Have you 
 heard anj^tliing from him? '' 
 
 " No : but he can como and tell you himself all 
 that you wish to know," answered her grandfather,- 
 Avith a smile. 
 
 " But lie may not wish to come." 
 
 '•Well, tlien, we will go to him. It is Sunday; 
 lol us find him and bring iiim home with us." 
 
 An hour or two later, M. Eivals and his grand- 
 daughter were on their way to Paris. Just after 
 they left, a man stopped before the house. Ho 
 looked at tlie little door. " This is the place," ho 
 said, and he rang. The servant opened the door, 
 but seeing before her one of tlioso dangerous ped- 
 Jers that wander through the country, she attempted 
 to close it again. 
 
 " What do you want ? " 
 
 " The gentleman of the house." 
 
 " He is not at home." 
 
 '' And the young lady ? " 
 
 " She is not at home, either." 
 
 " When will they be back ? " 
 
 " I havo no idea ! " And she closed the door. 
 
 " Good heavens ! " said Bdlisaire, in a choked 
 voice ; " and must he be permitted to die without 
 any help ? " 
 
364 JACK. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A MELANCHOLY SPECTACLE. 
 
 That evening there was a great literary entertain- 
 ment at the editors of the Review ; a fete had been 
 arranged to celebrate Charlotte's return, at which it 
 was proposed that D'Argenton should read his new 
 poem. 
 
 But was there not something rather ridiculous in 
 deploring the absence of a person who was then 
 present? And how could he describe the sufferings 
 of a deserted lover, he who was supposed at the 
 moment to be at the summit of bliss, by reason of 
 the return of the beloved object ? Never had the 
 apartments been so luxuriously arranged; flowers 
 were there in profusion. The toilet of Charlotte 
 was in exquisite taste, white with clusters of violets, 
 and all the surroundings breathed an atmosphere of 
 riches., Yet nothing could have been more deceptive. 
 Tiie Review was in a dying condition ; the numbers 
 appearing at longer intervals, and growing small bj' 
 degrees and beautifully less. D'Argenton had swal- 
 lowed up in it the halfof his fortune, and now wished 
 to sell it. It was this unfortunate situation, added 
 to an attack skilfully managed, that had induced the 
 foolish Charlotte to return to him. ' Ho had only to 
 
A MELANCHOLY SPECTACLE. 365 
 
 assume before her the air of a great man crushed by 
 unmerited misfortune, for her to reply that she would 
 serve him always. 
 
 D'Argenton was foolish and conceited, but he un- 
 derstood the nature of this woman in a most won- 
 derful degree. She thought him handsomer and 
 more fascinating than he was twelve years before, 
 when she saw him for the first time, under the chan- 
 deliers of the Moronval salon. Many of the same 
 persons were there also: Labassandre in bottle-green 
 velvet, with the high boots of Faust; and Dr. Hirscii 
 with his coat-sleeves spotted by various chemicals ; 
 and Moronval in a black coat ver^' white in the seams, 
 and a Avhite cravat very black in the folds ; several 
 "children of the sun," — the everlasting Japanese 
 prince, and the Egyptian from the banks of the Nile. 
 What a strange set of people they were 1 They might 
 Jiave been a band of pilgrims on the march toward 
 some unknown Mecca, whose golden lamps retreat 
 before them. During the twelve j-ears that we have 
 known them, many have fallen from the ranks, but 
 others have risen to take their places; nothing dis- 
 courages tJiem, neither cold nor heat, nor even hun- 
 ger. They hurry on, but the^' never arrive. Among 
 them D'Argenton, better clothed and better fed, re- 
 sembled a rich Hadji with his harem, his pipes, and 
 his riches ; on this evening he was especially radiant, 
 for he had triumphed. 
 
 During the reading of the poem Charlotte sat in 
 an attitude of feigned indifference, blushing occa- 
 sionally at veiled allusions to herself. Near her was 
 Madame Moronval, who, small as she was, seemed 
 
366 JACK. ^ 
 
 quite tall because of the extraordinar}' height of her 
 forehead and the length of her chin. The poem went 
 on and on, the fire crackled on the hearth, and the 
 •wind rattled against the glass doors of the balcony, 
 as it did on a certain night of which Charlotte appar- 
 ently had but little remembrance. Suddenly, during a 
 most pathetic passage, the door opened suddenly, the 
 servant appeared, and with a terrified air summoned 
 iier mistress. 
 
 " Madame, madame ! " she cried. 
 
 Charlotte went to her. " What is it? " she asked. 
 
 " A man insists on seeing you. 1 told him that it 
 was impossible ; but he said he would wait for you, 
 and he seated himself on the stairs." 
 
 " I will see him," said Charlotte, much moved ; for 
 she guessed at the purport of the message. 
 
 But D'Argenton objected, and turning , toward 
 Labassandre, he said, " Will you have the goodness 
 to see who this intruder is ? " and the poet turned 
 back to the table to resume his reading. But the 
 door opened again wide enough to admit the head 
 and arm of Labassandre, who beckoned earnestly. 
 
 " What is it? " said D'Argenton, impatiently, when 
 lie reached the ante-room. 
 
 " Jack is very ill," said the tenor. 
 
 " I don't believe it," answered the poet. 
 
 " This man swears that it is so." 
 
 D'Argenton looked at the man, whose face was not 
 absolutely unknown to him. 
 
 " Did you come from the gentleman, — that is to 
 say, did he send j-ou ? " 
 
 " No ; he is too sick to send any one. It is three 
 
A MELANCHOLY SPECTACLE. 367 
 
 weeks since he has been in his bed, and very, 
 very ill." 
 
 " What is his disease ? " 
 
 " Something on the lungs, and the doctors say 
 that he cannot live ; so I thought I had better come 
 and tell his mother." 
 
 " What is yonr name 1 " 
 
 " Bdlisaire, sir ; but the lady knows me." 
 
 " Very well, then," said the poet, " you will say to 
 the one who sent you, that the game is a good one, 
 though rather old, and he had better try something 
 else." 
 
 " Sir ? " said the pedler, interrogatively, for he 
 did not comprehend these sarcastic words. 
 
 But D'Argenton had left the room, and B^lisaire 
 stood in silent amazement, having caught a glimpse 
 of the lighted salon and its crowd of people. 
 
 " It is nothing, only a mistake," said the poet on 
 his entrance ; and while he majestically resumed his 
 reading, the pedler hurried home through the dark 
 streets, through the sharp hail and fierce wind, eager 
 to reach Jack, who lay in a high fever, on the narrow 
 iron bed in the attic-room. 
 
 He had been taken ill on his return from EtioUes; 
 he lay there, almost without speaking, a victim to 
 fever and a severe cold, so serious, that the physi- 
 cians warned his friends that they had everything to 
 fear. B<jlisaire wished to summon M. Rivals, but to 
 this Jack refused to consent. This was the only 
 energy he had shown since his illness, and the only 
 time he had spoken voluntarily, save when he told 
 his friend to take his watch, and a ring he owned, 
 and sell them. 
 
368 JACK. 
 
 All Jack's savings had been absorbed in furnishing 
 the rooms at Cliaronne, and the Bulisaire household 
 was equally impoverished through their recent mar- 
 riage. But it mattered very little; the pedler and 
 his wife were capable of every sacrifice for their 
 friend ; they carried to the Mont de Pi^td the. greater 
 part of their furniture, piece by piece — for medi- 
 cines were so dear. They were advised to send 
 Jack to the hospital. " He would be better oflF; and, 
 besides, he would then cost you nothing," was the 
 argument employed. The good people were now at 
 the end of their resources, and decided to inform 
 Charlotte of her son's danger. 
 
 " Bring her back with you," said* Madame B^lisaire 
 to her husband. " To see his mother would be such 
 a comfort to the lad. He never speaks of her be- 
 cause he is so proud." 
 
 But Bdlisairo did not bring her. He returned in 
 a very unhappy frame of mind, from the reception 
 he had received. His wife, with her child asleep on 
 her lap, talked in a low voice to a neighbor, in front 
 of a poor little fire — such a one as is called a 
 widow's fire b}' the people. The two women listened 
 to Jack's painful breathing, and to the horrible cou^h 
 that choked him. One would never have recognized 
 this unfurnished, dismal room as the bright attic 
 where cheerful voices had resounded such a short 
 time before. There was no sign of books or studies. 
 A pot of tisane was simmering on the hearth, filling 
 the air with that peculiar odor which tells of a sick- 
 room. Bdlisaire came in. 
 
 " Alone ? " said his wife. 
 
A MELANCHOLY SPECTACLE. 369 
 
 He told in a low voice that he had not been per- 
 mitted to see Jack's mother. 
 
 " But had you no blood in your veins ? You should 
 have entered by force and called aloud, ' Madame, 
 your son is dying ! ' Ah, my poor Bdlisaire, you will 
 never be anything but a weak chicken ! " 
 
 "But, had I undertaken such a thing, I should 
 simply have been arrested," said the poor man, in 
 a distressed tone. 
 
 " But what are we going to do ? " resumed Ma- 
 dame B^lisaire. " This poor boy must have better 
 care than we can give him." 
 
 A neighbor spoke. " He must go to the hospital, 
 as the physician said." 
 
 " Hush, hush 1 not so loud 1 " said B^lisaire, point- 
 ing to the bed ; " I'm afraid he heard you." 
 
 " What of that ? He is not your brother, nor your 
 son; and it would be better for you in every 
 respect." 
 
 " But he is my friend," answered B^lisaire, proudly ; 
 and in his tone was so much honest devotion that his 
 wife's eyes filled with tears. 
 
 The neighbors shrugged their shoulders and went 
 away. After their departure, the room looked less 
 cold and less bare. 
 
 Jack had heard all that was said. In spite of his 
 weakness he slept little, and lay with his face turned to 
 the wall, with eyes wide open. If that blank surface, 
 wrinkled and tarnished like the face of a very old 
 woman, could have spoken, it would have said that in 
 those pitiful eyes but one expression could have been 
 8cer^ that of utter and overwhelming despair. He 
 24 
 
370 JACK. 
 
 never complained, however ; he even tried, at times, 
 to smile at his stout nurse, when she brought him 
 his tisanes. The long and solitary days passed away 
 in this inaction and helplessness. Why was he not 
 strong in health and body like the people about him, 
 and yet for whom did he wish to labor ? His mother 
 had left him, C^cile had deserted him. The faces of 
 these two women haunted him day and night. When 
 Charlotte's gay and indifferent smile faded away, the 
 delicate features of C4cile appeared before him, 
 veiled in the mystery of her strange refusal ; and 
 the youth lay there incapable of a word or a gesture, 
 Avhile his pulses beat with accelerated force, and his 
 hollow cough shoolt him from head to foot. 
 
 The day after this conversation at Jack's bedside, 
 Madame B^lisaire was much startled, on entering the 
 room, to find him, tall and gaunt, sitting in front of 
 the fire. " Why are you out of your bed ? " she asked 
 with severity. 
 
 " I am going to the hospital, my kind friend ; it is 
 impossible for me to stay here any longer. Do not 
 attempt to detain me, for go I will." 
 
 " But, Mr. Jack, you cannot walk there, weak as 
 you are." 
 
 " Yes, I can, if your husband will give me the help 
 of his arm." 
 
 It was useless to resist such determination, and 
 Jack said farewell to Madame B^lisaire, and de- 
 scended the stairs with one sad look of farewell at 
 the humble home which had been illuminated by so 
 many fair dreams and hopes. How long the walk 
 was ! They stopped occasionally, but dared not 
 
A MELANCHOLY SPECTACLE. 371 
 
 linger long, for the air was sharp. Under the lower- 
 ing December skies the sick youth looked worse 
 even "than when he lay in his bed. His hair was 
 wet with perspiration, the hurr)'ing crowds made him 
 dizzy and faint. Paris is like a huge battlefield 
 where mere existence demands a struggle ; and Jaclv 
 seemed like a wounded soldier borne from the field 
 by a comrade. 
 
 It was still early when tliey reached the hospital. 
 Early as it was, however, they found the huge wait- 
 ing-room filled with persons. An enormous stove 
 made the air of the room almost intolerable, with its 
 smell of hot iron. When Jack entered, assisted by 
 B^lisaire, all eyes were turned upon him. They were 
 awaiting the arrival of the physician, who would 
 give, or refuse, a card of admittance. Each one was 
 describing his symptoms to some indifferent hearer, 
 and endeavoring to show tliat he was more ill than 
 any one else. Jack listened to these dismal conver- 
 sations, seated between a stout man who coughed 
 violently, and a slender young girl whose thin shawl 
 was so tightly drawn over her head that only her 
 wild and .affrighted eyes were to be seen. Then 
 the door opened, and a small, wiry man appeared ; it 
 was the physician. A profound silence followed all 
 aliang the benches. The doctor warmed his hands 
 at the stove, while he cast a scrutinizing glance 
 about the room. Then he began his rounds, followed 
 by a boy carrying the cards of admission to the dif- 
 ferent hospitals. What joy for the poor wretches 
 when they were pronounced sick enough to receive 
 a ticket. What disappointment, what entreaties from 
 
372 JACK. 
 
 those who were told that they must struggle on yet 
 a little longer ! The examination was brief, and if it 
 seemed somewhat brutal at times, it must be re- 
 membered that the number of applicants was very 
 large, and that the poor creatures loved to linger 
 over the recital of their woes. 
 
 Finally the physician reached the stout man next 
 to Jack. " And what is the matter with you, sir ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " My chest burns like fire," was the answer. 
 
 " Ah, your chest burns like fire, does it I Do you 
 not sometimes drink too much brandy ? " 
 
 " Never, sir," answered the patient indignantly. 
 
 " Well, then, if you do not drink brandy, how about 
 wine ? " 
 
 " I drink what I want of that, of course." 
 
 " Ah, yes, I understand I You drink with your 
 friends." 
 
 " On pay-days I do, certainly." 
 
 " That is, you get drunk once in the week. Let 
 me see your tongue." 
 
 When the physician reached Jack, he examined 
 him attentively, asked his age and how loug he had 
 been ill. Jack answered with much diflSculty, and 
 while he spoke, Biilisaire stood behind him with a 
 face full of anxiety. 
 
 " Stand up, my man," and the doctor applied his 
 ear to the damp clothing of the invalid. " Did you 
 walk here ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " It is most extraordinary that j-ou were able to do 
 so, in the state in which you are ; but you must not 
 
A MELANCHOLY SPECTACLE. 373 
 
 try it again;" and he handed him a ticket and passed 
 on to continue his inspection. 
 
 Of all the thousand rapid and confused impres- 
 sions that one receives in the streets of Paris, do 
 3'ou remember any one more painful than the sight 
 of one of those litters, sheltered from the sun's rays 
 hy a striped cover, and borne by two men, one be- 
 hind and the other in front, — the form of a human 
 being vaguelj'^ defined under the linen sheets ? Women 
 cross themselves when these litters pass them, as 
 tliey do when a crow flies over their heads. 
 
 Sometimes, a mother, a daughter, or a sister, walks 
 at the side of the sick man, their eyes swimming in 
 tears at this last indignity to which the poor are sub- 
 jected. Jack thus laj', consoled by the sound of the 
 familiar tread of his faithful Bdlisaire, who occasion- 
 ally took liis hand to prove to him that he was not 
 completely deserted. 
 
 The sick man at last reached the hospital to which 
 he had been ordered. It was a dreary structure, 
 looking out on one side upon a damp garden, on the 
 other on a dark court. Twenty beds, two arm-chairs, 
 and a stove, were the furniture of the large room to 
 which Jack was carried. Five or six phantoms in 
 cotton nightcaps looked up from a game of domiiios 
 to inspect him, and two or three more started from 
 the stove as if frightened. 
 
 The corner of the room was brightened by an altar 
 to the Virgin, decorated with flowers, candles, and 
 lace ; and near by was the desk of the matron, who 
 came forward, and in a soft voice, the tones of which 
 seemed half lost among the folds of her veil, said : 
 
374 JACK. 
 
 " Poor fellow, how sick he looks 1 he must go to 
 bed at once. We have no bed yet, but the one at 
 the end there will soon be empty. While we are 
 waiting, we will put him on a couch." 
 
 This couch was placed close to the bed " that would 
 soon be empty," from whence were heard long sighs, 
 dreary enough in themselves, but made a thousand 
 times more melancholy by the utter indifference with 
 which they Avere heard by the others in the room. 
 The man was dying, but Jack was himself too ill to 
 notice this. He hardly heard B(51isaire's"aM»-eyoiV," 
 norths rattling of dishes as the soup was distributed, 
 nor a whispering at his side ; he was not asleep, but 
 exhausted by fatigue. Suddenly a woman's voice, 
 calm and clear, said, " Let us pray." 
 
 He saw the dim outline of a woman kneeling near 
 the altar, but in vain did he attempt to follow the 
 words that fell rapidly from her lips. The conclud- 
 ing sentence reached him, however. - 
 
 " Protect, God, my friends and my enemies, all 
 prisoners and travellers, the sick and the dying." 
 
 Jack slept a feverish sleep, and his dreams were 
 a confused mixture of prisoners rattling their chains, 
 and of travellers wandering over endless roads. He 
 Avas one of these travellers : he was on a highway, 
 like that of Etiolles; C^cile and his mother were be- 
 fore him refusing to wait until he could reach them ; 
 this he was prevented from doing by a row of enor- 
 mous machines, the pistons of which were moving 
 with dizzy haste, and from whose chimneys were pour- 
 ing out dark volumes of smoke. Jack determined to 
 pass between tbem ; he is seized by their iron arms, 
 
A MELANCHOLY SPECTACLE. 375 
 
 torn and mangled, and scalded with the hot steam ; 
 but he got through and took refuge in the FSret de 
 Senart, amid the freshness of which Jack became 
 once more a child and was on his way to the forester- s ; 
 but there at the cross-road stood mother Said ; he 
 turned to run, and ran for miles, with the old woman 
 close behind him ; he heard her nearer and nearer, 
 he felt her hot breath on his shoulder ; she seized 
 him at last, and with all her weight crushed in his 
 chest. Jack awoke with a start ; he recognized the 
 large room, the beds in a line, and heard the sighs 
 and coughs. He dreamed no more, and yet he still 
 felt the same weight across his body, something so 
 cold and heavy that he called aloud in terror. The 
 nurses ran, and lifted Something, placed it in the 
 next bed, and drew the curtains round it closely. 
 
376 JACK. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 DEATH IN THE HOSPITAL. 
 
 " Come, wake up I Visitors are here." 
 
 Jack opened his eyes, and the first thing that 
 struck him was the curtains of the next bed, — they 
 hung in such straight and motionless folds to the 
 very ground,. 
 
 " Well, my boy, you had a pretty bad time last 
 night. The poor fellow in the next bed had con- 
 vulsions and fell over on you. I suppose you wero 
 terribly frightened. Now raise yourself a little that 
 we may see you. But you are very weak." 
 
 The man who spoke was about forty years of age, 
 wearing a velvet coat and a white apron. His beard 
 was fair and his eyes bright. Ho feels the sick 
 man's pulse and asks him some questions. 
 
 " What is your trade ? " 
 
 " A machinist." 
 
 "■Do you drink?" 
 
 " Not now ; I did at one time." 
 
 Then a long silence. 
 
 " What sort of a life have you led, my poor boy ? " 
 
 Jack saw in the physician's face the same sym- 
 pathetic interest that ho had perceived the previous 
 
DEATH IN THE HOSPITAL. 377 
 
 day. The students surrounded the bed, and the 
 doctor explained to them various symptoms that 
 he observed. They were at once interesting and 
 alarming, he said ; and Jack listened with some 
 curiosity to the words " inspiration/' " expiration," 
 " phthisis," (fee, and at last understood that his was 
 looked upon as a most critical case, — so critical 
 that, after the physician had left the room, the good 
 sister approached, and with gentle discretion asked 
 if his family were in Paris, and if he could send to 
 them. 
 
 His family ! Who were they ? A man and a 
 woman who were already there at the foot of the 
 bed. They belonged to the lower classes ; but he 
 had no other friends than these, no other relatives. 
 
 " And how are we to-day ? " said B61isaire, cheer- 
 ily, though he kept his tears back with difEculty. 
 Madame Bdlisaire lays on the table two fine oranges 
 she has brought, and then, after a kind remark or 
 two, sits in silence. 
 
 Jack does not speak ; his eyes are wide open and 
 fixed. Of what is he thinking ? 
 
 " Jack," said the good woman, suddenly, " I am 
 going to find your mother ; " and she smiled encour- 
 agingly. 
 
 Yes, that is what he wants"; now that he knows 
 that he must die, he forgets all the wrongs his 
 mother has been guilty of toward him. 
 
 But Bijlisaire does not wish his wife to go. He 
 knows that she holds in utter contempt " the fine 
 ladv " as she calls Jack's mother, that she detests 
 the man with the moustache, and that she will make 
 
378 JACK. 
 
 a scene, and perhaps — who knows but the police 
 may be called in ? 
 
 " No," she said, " that is all nonsense ; " but finally 
 yielded to the persuasions of her husband, and 
 allowed him to go in her stead. 
 
 " I will bring her this time, never fear ! " he said, 
 with an air of confidence. 
 
 " Where aro you going ? " asked the concierge, 
 stopping him at the foot of the staircase. 
 
 " To M. D'Argentou's." 
 
 " Are you the man who was here last night ? " 
 
 " Precisely," answered Bdlisaire, innocently. 
 
 " Then you need not go up, for there is no one 
 there ; they have gone to the country, and will not 
 return for some time." 
 
 In the country, in all this cold and snow ! It 
 seemed impossible. In vain did he insist, in vain 
 did he say tliat the lady's son was very ill — dying 
 in the hospital. The concierge held to his state- 
 ment, and would not permit B^lisaire to go one step 
 further. 
 
 The poor man retreated to the street again. Sud- 
 denly a brilliant idea struck him. Jack had never 
 told him any- of the particulars of what had taken 
 place between the Rivals and himself; he had merel}' 
 stated the fact that the marriage was broken off. 
 Cut at Indret and in Paris he had often spoken of 
 the goodness and charity of the kind doctor. If ho 
 could only be induced to come to Jack's bedside, so 
 tliat the poor boy could have some familiar face 
 about him! Without further hesitation he started 
 
DEATH IN THE HOSPITAL. 379 
 
 for EtioUes. Alas, we saw him at the end of this 
 long walk ! 
 
 During all this time, his wife sat at their friend's 
 side, and knew not what to think of this prolonged 
 absence, nor how to calm the agitation into wliich 
 the sick youth was thrown by the expectation of 
 seeing his mother. His excitement was unfortu- 
 nately increased by the crowd that always appeared 
 on Sundays at the hospital. Each moment some one 
 of the doors was thrown open, and each time Jack 
 expected to see his mother. The visitors were 
 clean and neatly dressed who gathered about the 
 patients they had come to see, telling them family 
 news and encouraging them. Sometimes the voices 
 were choked with tears, though the eyes were dry. 
 Jack heard a constant murmur of voices, and the 
 perfume of oranges filled the room. But what a 
 disappointment it was, after being lifted by the aid 
 of a little stick hung by cords, when he saw that his 
 mother had not come ! He fell back more ex- 
 hausted, more despairing than ever. 
 
 With him, as with all others who are on the thresh- 
 old of dcaith, the slender thread of life that remained 
 to him was too fragile to attach itself to the robust 
 years of his manhood, and took him bej'ond them 
 into the far away days when he was little Jack, the 
 velvet-clad darling of Ida de Barancy. 
 
 The crowd still came, women and little children, 
 who stood in displeased surprise at their father's 
 emaciation and at his nightcap, and uttered exclama- 
 tions of delight at the sight of the beautifully dressed 
 altar. But Jack's mother did not appear. Madame 
 
380 yAClC. 
 
 Bfilisaire knows not what to say. She has hinted 
 that M. D'Argenton may be ill, or that his mother is 
 driving in the Bois, and now she spreads a colored 
 handkerchief on her knees and pares an orange. 
 
 " She will not come ! " said Jack. These very 
 words he had spoken in that little home at Charonne 
 which he had prepared with so much tender care. 
 But his voice was now weaker, and had even a little 
 anger in its accents. " She will not come ! " he re- 
 peated ; and the poor boy closed his eyes, but not in 
 sleep. He thought of Cdcile. The sister heard his 
 sighs, and said to Madame Bdlisaire, whose large 
 face was shining with tears, — ■ 
 
 " What is the matter with him ? I am afraid he is 
 suffering more." 
 
 " It is on account of his mother, whom he expects, 
 and he is troubled that she does not come." 
 
 " But she must be sent for." 
 
 " My husband went long ago. But she is a fine 
 lady ; she won't come to a hospital and run the risk 
 of soiling her silk skirts." 
 
 Suddenly the woman rose in a fit of anger. 
 
 " Don't cry, dear," said she to Jack, as she would 
 have spoken to her little child ; " I am going for your 
 mother." 
 
 Jack understood what she said, understood that 
 she had gone, but still continued to repeat, in a 
 harsh voice, the words, " She will not come ! she will 
 not come ! " 
 
 The sister tried to soothe him. " Calm yourself, 
 my child." 
 
 Then Jack rose in a sort of delirium. " I tell you 
 
DEATH IN THE HOSPITAL. 381 
 
 she will not come. You do not know her, she is a 
 heartless mother ; all the misery of my miserable life 
 has come from her I My heart is one huge wound, from 
 the gashes she has cut in it. When he pretended to 
 be ill, she went to him on wings, and would never 
 again leave him ; and I am dying, and she refuses to 
 come to me. What a cruel mother ! it is she who has 
 killed me, and she does not wish to see me die ! " 
 
 Exhausted by this effort. Jack let his head fall 
 back on the pillow, and the sister bent over him in 
 gentle pity, while the brief winter's day ended in a 
 yellow twilight and occasional gusts of snow. 
 
 Charlotte and D'Argenton descended from their 
 carriage. They had just returned from a fashionable 
 concert, and were carefully dressed in velvet and 
 furs, light gloves an.d laces. She was in the best of 
 spirits. Remember that she had just sliown herself 
 in public with her poet, and had shown herself, too, 
 to be as pretty as she was ten 3'ears before. The 
 complexion was heightened by the sharp wintry air, 
 and the soft wraps in which she was enveloped 
 added to her beauty as does the satin and quilted 
 lining of a casket enhance the brilliancy of the gems 
 within. A woman of the people stood on the side- 
 walk, and rushed forward on seeing her. 
 
 " -Madamd, madamc ! come at once ! " 
 
 " Madame Bulisaire ! " cried Charlotte, turning 
 pale. 
 
 " Your child is very ill ; he asks for you I " 
 
 " But this is a persecution," said D'Argenton. "Let 
 us pass. If the gentleman is ill, we will send him a 
 physician." 
 
382 JACK. 
 
 " He has physicians, and more than he wants, for 
 he is at the hospital." 
 
 " At the hospital 1 " 
 
 " Yes, he is there just now, but not for very long. 
 I warn you, if you wish to see him you must hurry." 
 
 " Come on, Charlotte, come on ! It is a frightful lie. 
 It is some trap laid ready for you ; " and the poet 
 drew Charlotte to the stairs. 
 
 " Madame, your son is dying 1 Ah, God, is it pos- 
 sible that a mother can have a heart like this ! " 
 
 Charlotte turned toward her. " Show me where 
 he is," she said ; and the two women hurried through 
 the streets, leaving D'Argenton in a state of rage, 
 convinced that it was a mere device of his enemies. 
 
 Just as Madame Bdlisaire left the hospital, two 
 persons hurried in, — a young girl and an old man. 
 
 A divine face bent over Jack. " It is I, my love, it 
 is C6cile." 
 
 It was indeed she. It was her fair pale face, paler 
 than usual by reason of her tears and her watchings ; 
 and tlio hand that held his was the slender one that 
 had alreadybrought the youtli such happiness, and j'ct 
 did its part in bringing him where we now see him ; 
 for fate is often cruel enough to strike jou through 
 j-our dearest and best. The sick youth opens his 
 weary e3'cs to sec that ho is not dreaming. Cdcile 
 is really there; she implores his pardon, and explains 
 why she gave him such pain. Ah, if she had but 
 known that their destinies were so similar I 
 
 As she spoke, a great calm came to Jack, following 
 all tiie bitterness and anger of the past weeks. 
 
 " Then you love me ? " he whispered. 
 
DEATH IN THE HOSPITAL. 383 
 
 " Yes, Jack ; I have always loved you." 
 
 Whispered in this alcove, that had heard so many 
 dying groans, this word love had a most extraordi- 
 nary sweetness, as if some wandering bird had taken 
 refuge there. 
 
 " How good you are to come, C^cile 1 Now I shall 
 not utter another murmur. I am ready to die, with 
 j'ou at my side." 
 
 "Die! Who is talking of dying?" said the old 
 doctor in his heartiest voice. " Have no fear, my boy, 
 we will pull you through. You do not look like the 
 same person you were when we came." 
 
 This vras true enough. He was transfigured with 
 happiness. He pressed Cdcile's hand to his cheek, 
 and whispered an occasional word of tenderness. 
 
 " All that was lacking to me in life.j'ou have given 
 me, dear. You have been friend and sister, wife and 
 mother." 
 
 But his excitement soon gave place to exhaustion, 
 his feverish color to frightful pallor. The ravages 
 made by disease were only too plainly visible. Cdcile 
 looked at her grandfather in fright; the room was 
 full, of shadows, and it seemed to her that she recog- 
 nized a Presence more sombre, more mysterious than 
 Night. 
 
 Suddenly Jack half lifted himself: " I hear her," 
 lie whispered ; " she is coming ! " 
 
 But the watchers at his side heard only the wintry 
 wind in the corridors, the steps of the retreating 
 crowd in the court below, and the distant noises in 
 the street. He listened a moment, said a few unin- 
 telligible words, then his head fell back and his eyes 
 
384 JACK. 
 
 closed. But he was right. Two women were run- 
 ning up the stairs. They had been allowed to enter, 
 though the hour for the admittance of visitors had 
 long since passed. But it was one of" those occa- 
 sions where rules may be broken and set aside. 
 
 When they arrived at the outer door, Charlotte 
 stopped. " I cannot go on," she said, " I am fright- 
 ened." 
 
 " Come on," the other answered, roughly ; " you 
 must. Ah, to such women as you, God should never 
 give children 1 " 
 
 And she puslied Charlotte toward the staircase. 
 The large room, the shaded lamps, the kneeling forms, 
 the mother saw at one glance ; and further on, at the 
 end of the apartment, were two men bending over 
 a bed, and Cdcile 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 sink- 
 ing heart. It was Jack indeed, with arms stiffly 
 falling at his side, and eyes fixed on vacancy. 
 
 The doctor bent over him. " Jack, my friend ; it 
 is your mother, she is here!" 
 
 And she, unhappy woman, stretched out her arms 
 toward him. " Jack, it is 1 1 I am here ! " 
 
 Not a movement. 
 
 The mother cried in a tone of horror, " Dead? " 
 
 " No," said old Rivals ; " no, — Delivered." 
 
 THE END. 
 
Estes dr' Lauriafs Publications. — Novels. 
 
 NEW AND POPULAR NOVELS. 
 
 SLAVES OF THE RING. By F. W. Robinson, author of " See- 
 ond Cousin Sarah," "Little Kate Kirby," "For Her Sake," "Poor 
 Humanity," "Her Face was her Fortune," " True to Herself," "A 
 Woman's Ransom," &c. 1 vol. 8vo. Cloth, $1.25 ; Paper, 75 cts. 
 
 •»* " ' Slaves of the Ring ' is a rema.Vably interesting TOmance. The 
 stoi-j is well written, the charaotera arc well drawn, and racy sketches of 
 rural life are pleasantly interwoven with the action of the narrative." — 
 Boston Transcript. 
 
 A WOMAN'S RANSOM. By F. W. Robinson, author of "Slaves 
 of the Ring," " Little Kate Kirby," " For Her Sake," &c. 1 vol. 
 8vo. Cloth, $1.25; Paper, 75 cts. 
 
 •»* " The new novel, by the author of the ' Slaves of the Ring,' is alive 
 with incident ; it is ingeniously constructed, and there is a cleverness in 
 incident and management of the stoiy which cannot be denied ; the interest 
 is kept up with singular vividness, and without the exti'avagant expedients 
 to which popular novelists often resort." — Press. 
 
 TOO MUCH AI-ONE. Bv Mrs. J. U. Riddell, author of "A Life's 
 Assize," " Phemie Keller," ' George Geith," " Above' Suspicion," <£,c. 
 1vol. 8vo. Cloth, $1.25; Paper, 75 cts. 
 *»* " The stoiy is deeply interesting. It is one of the very best of recent 
 
 fictions." — Worcester Spy. 
 
 ABOVE SUSPICION. By an-angement with Mi-s. J. H. Riddell, 
 author of " Too Much Alone," " A Life's Assize," &c. 1 vol. 8vo. 
 Cloth, $1.25; Paper, 75 cts. 
 
 A TANGLED SKEIN. By Albany de Fonblanque, .Tu., an 
 
 author who has inherited genius of an uncommon order. 1 vol. 8vo. 
 
 Cloth, $1.25; Paper, 75 cts. 
 
 *,* "This novel captivates the reader when be firet opens it, and holils 
 
 him in strong and agreeable chains to its closing page." — Boston 
 
 Traveller. 
 
 " It is so well written that, having once taken up the book, it will l>o im- 
 possible to lily it down until the end." — Press. 
 
 A FAMILY TREE. ByAi-BANt de Fonislanqhe, Jii., aiillior of 
 "Cut Adrift," "A Tangled Skein." 1 vol. Svo. Cloth, $1.2."); 
 Paper, 75 cts. 
 •»*"It is a well-conceived story, and is presented in a manner to in- 
 terest — Toledo Commercial. 
 
 For Sale at all the I3oolcstor.ps and. Depots, and 
 sent, postpaid, to any part pf the "W'orld, on receip* 
 of Price, l:>y I-CSTFCS &; :fji=k.p-R;^'4:, 3qq. -VfJ^hirvsr 
 Ion Street, IJpgtop- 
 
Estes &» Lauriat's Publications. — Novels. 
 
 THE WIDOW LEROUGE. By Emii.e Gaboriau, author of "The 
 Mysteiy of Orcival," " File JNo. 113," " The Clique of Gold," " Other 
 People s Money." 1vol. 8vo. Clolh, $1.2."); Paper, 73 cts. 
 %* "A novel of much power." — Journal. 
 
 *' Gaboriau is an author whose works arc appreciated for their original 
 ity and ingcnuit)'." — ilesaenger. 
 
 THE MYSTERY OF ORCIVAL. By Emile Gaboeiau, author of 
 " File No. 113," &c. 1vol. 8vo. Cloth, ;J1.25; Paper, 7o cts. 
 " Admirably written, each character finely drawn. It will be read with 
 4orrow, with pleasure, and profit. Head it, and then we have no doubt you 
 vill add it to your collection of choice novels with as much pleasure as we 
 do." — Latcrence American. 
 
 THE CLIQUE OF GOLD. Translated from the French of Emilb 
 
 Gaeokiac, autlior of " File No. 113," " Other People's Money," 
 
 " Within an Inch of His Life," " The "Widow Lcrouge," "TheMys 
 
 tery of Orcival," &c. 1vol. Svo. Cloth, $1.25; Paper, 75 cts. 
 
 •«* " It is sti'onjjly sensational, but the materials ai'e managed with so 
 
 strong a dramatic insight that one has not time or inclination to think of 
 
 improbabilities. M. Gaboriau is without a peer in this particular style of 
 
 stoiy." — Boston Gazette. 
 
 " Gahoriau's novels increase iu power as we become familiar with his 
 sl^'lc."— Transcript. 
 
 OTHER PEOPLE'S MONEY. From the French of Emii,e Gabo- 
 lUAU, authoi "f " File No. 1 13," " The Clique of Gold," " Within an 
 Inch of His Life.' I vol. 8vo. Cloth, $1.25; Paper, 75 cts. 
 *»* ** Exciting througnout, the story appeals to refined tastes, and should 
 be read widely, as its merit is stcrUng." — Tranller. 
 
 WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE. From the French of Emilk 
 Gauoriau, author of " The Widow Lerou^e," " The M vsteiy of Orci 
 val," "File No. 113." 1vol. 8vo. Cloth, $1.25; P.ipcr, 75 cts. 
 •»* " An exciting and cntertainiug novel, full of dramatic incident and 
 
 well-figured character-pictures." — Commercial Advertiser. 
 
 FILE No. 113. By Eshle Gaboriau, autlior of " The Clique of Gold," 
 "Other People's Money," "Within an Inch of His Life," " The Widow 
 Lerouge," " The Mysteiy of Orcival." 1vol. Svo. Cloth, $1.25; 
 Paper, 75 cts. 
 
 "«* " As good as Cihoriau's stories of French life and character uniform- 
 ly arc, we think this one surpasses nil his former elFoits." — Journal. 
 
 "'File No. 113 'has created a seusatiou wherever it has appeared." — 
 Cntic. 
 
 IPov Sale at all the Uoolcstores and IDepots, ^.nd 
 Bent, y-ostpaid, to any part of tlie "World, on receipt 
 of Trice, tiy rCSTKS <Sc l-.AJUlllAJr, 301 "WasUinj^ 
 ton Sti net Hoston. 
 
Estts &» Lauriat's Publications. — Novels. 
 
 WOVEN OF MANY THREADS. By C. V. IIamii,ton, author of 
 
 " Eopes of Sand," " Ciowu from tlie Spear." 1 vol. 8vo. Cloth, 
 
 $1.25 ; Paper, 50 eta. 
 
 »»* "As at present advised, we may venture to say that this ' first novel of 
 
 the season,' from the pen of an American lady, will meet with acceptance 
 
 from the readers of fiction. The style is free and glowing, and the author, 
 
 locating her stoiy in Italy, finds opportunities to show familiarity with the 
 
 land of song and art, of which she makes incidental use to heighten the 
 
 interest of the tale." — Boston Transcript. 
 
 KOPES OF SAND. By C. V. Hamilton, author of " Woven of Many 
 
 Threads," " Crown from the Spear." 1 vol. 8vo. Cloth, f 1.25 ; Paper, 
 
 75cts. 
 
 *,* " A work woven as well as this in plot, character, genci-al finish, and 
 
 execution, deseiTcs to have its ^vriter publicly heralded )ipon the title-page." 
 
 — Times, 
 
 CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. By C. V. Hamilton, author of 
 " Woven of Many Threads," " E.ope3 of Sand." 1 vol. 8vo. Cloth, 
 $1.25 ; Paper, 75 cts. 
 
 *^*" It is a story of French domestic life and character, full of interest, 
 and writtei. in attractive style. The moral of the story is that the crown 
 of happiness may he won after long struggle and suffering." — Herald. 
 
 " Coming from the pen of the author of * Woven of Many Threads,' 
 this stoiy is sure of a warm welcome. In some respects it is an improve- 
 ment upon its predecessor, having a more compact and artistic form, and 
 more powerful interest." — Phil. Inquirer. 
 
 KATE BEAUMONT. By J. W. De Forest, author of " Overland," 
 
 " Miss Ravencl's Conversion," " Flaying the Mischief." 1vol. 8vo. 
 
 Illustrated. Cloth, $1.25 ; Paper, 75 cts. 
 
 ♦»* " lie has written a novel that is veiy readable, and he has given 
 
 proof of being able to do more and better work. His painstaking, his 
 
 careful obseivation and sprightliness, are qualities which will certainly 
 
 achieve a more than partial sueeess." — Nation. 
 
 " This is one of the best American novels we have ever read. It is writ- 
 ten with a vigorous pen that never flags till the last word is iratten and the 
 last scene closed." — People, Concord. 
 
 Ifor Sale at all the Bookstores ancl Depots, ancl 
 Bent, ijo.stpaicl, to any part of the "W^orld, on. receipt 
 of rrlce, by KSTES dc LikTJKIA.T, 30X "Washing- 
 ton Street, Uoston. 
 
Estes &* Lauriafs Publications. — Aovcls. 
 
 VINJCTA. From llie Glcrman ofE. Werneh, author of " Good l.uck," 
 6M. 1vol. bvo. ClolL, $1.25; Taper, To eta. 
 
 DUOKEN CHAINS. Translated by FitANOEa A. SnAW, from the 
 Ucrman of K. Weuneu, author of " Good Luck," &c. 1 vol. 8vo. 
 Cloth, $1.2o ; Paper, 75 cts. 
 %* " It has spii'it and action, united with power »nd depth of feeling." — 
 Tfmiscript, 
 
 " The plot is highly interesting, and is well developed, while an art ot- 
 oiosi-hcre pervades the work, that shows both refinement and jESth"tic 
 appreciation on the part of the writer. The style is strong and vigorous, 
 and contains scenes of great power." — Gazette. 
 
 GOOD LUCK. r>y the author of "Broken Chains." 1 vol. 8vo. 
 Cloth, $1.25; Paper, 75 cents. 
 
 •,* " An atti-aetivc and fascinating volume, with highly di-amatie char- 
 Bctci-3, clearly drawn and well sustained throughout, and containing many 
 pages of absorbing interest. The ti*anslation is graceful and natui'al, one 
 of the happy kind that makes us foi^ct that the stoiy was fiist written in a 
 foreign tongue." — Enquirer. 
 
 " I began to read the proof-sheets last evening, and was compelled by tlio 
 iatcrest of the stoiy to read into the small hours." — L. C. M. 
 
 NOT EASILY JEALOUS. 1vol. 8vo. Cloth, $1.25 ; Paper, 75 cts. 
 *** " Tliis *Not Easily Jealous,' has some bright and sparkling chai-ac- 
 tcr^ in it. Xherc is not much plot or incident in it; but the interest is well 
 eustuincd, and it is written in such a taking sort of stylo as to make it veiy 
 fascinating " — People. 
 
 GX PJATED. By the author of " Six Jlonths Ilcnce," and " Behind 
 the Veil." 1 vol. Svo. Cloth, $1.25 ; Paper, 75 cts. 
 *#* "The author shows power of invention, felicity' in the management 
 of details, and a keen insight into the mysteries of life." — Boston Globe. 
 
 SIX MONTHS HENCE. By the author of "Behind the Veil," "Ex- 
 piated." C'lotli, $1.25; Paper, 7'5 cts. 
 
 *,* " This remarkably well written story comes to us characterized by a 
 most skilful arrangement. 'Behind the Veil ' gave promise of considera- 
 ble al)ility in the field of design. ' Six Months Hence ' has fully realized 
 this promise." — Philadelphia Age. 
 
 " It is of absorbing interest; and whoever tikes it >ip will not readily put 
 it down till the last scene is enactetl, and tlic curtain falls." — People 
 'Concord) . 
 
 ITor Sale at all tlie l-JoolvStores and Depots, and 
 sent, postpaid, to any part of llie World, on receipt 
 ol Prioe, by KaX'-KS & Xj.^UXiIA.'r, SOX AVashing- 
 ton Street, !tJoKtoi"L. 
 
Estes &» Lauriafs Publications. — Novels. 
 
 CHECKMATE. By J. S. I.E Fanu, author of "A Lost Name," 
 " Tenauts of Malory," &c. 1 voL ovo. Cloth, $1.25 ; Paper, 73 cts. 
 
 *»*"FuIl of startling surprises, and written with great power." — K. B. 
 ilercury. 
 
 " A powerfully written stoiy, with an excellent plot, well carried out." — 
 Farmer. 
 
 " A work of fiction with a plot a.i deep as 'Wilkie Collins'a ' Woman in 
 White.' " — Herald. 
 
 OPEN SESAME. By Florence Mahrtat, author of " Love's Con- 
 flict," " Prey of tlie Gods," " Her Lord and Master." With Illustra- 
 tions. 1 vol. Svo. Cloth, f 1.25 ; Paper, 73 cents. 
 
 •»* " The plot of this story is deeply laid." — Register. 
 " A stoiy of much love." — Herald. 
 
 DEEP WATERS. By Anna IL Deuet, author of " Misrepresenta- 
 tion," &c., &c. 1 voL 8vo. Cloth, $1.25 ; Paper, 7n cts. 
 
 *»* "A novel full of melancholy and pathos." — Democrat. 
 
 "The story opens in one of those old English homes which have been 
 highly respectable and wealthy, and is well worth reading." — Commercial, 
 Toledo. 
 
 WOMAN'S LOVE ; or, Like and Unlike. Bv J. F. SMiTn, author of 
 "Lady Ashleigh," "Marion Buruard," &c. 1 vol. 8vo. Cloth, 
 $1.23 ; Paper, 75 cts. 
 
 *»* " This novel will satisfy the most exacting readei's of the old style of 
 romance." — Albany Journal. 
 
 STRETTON. By IlENHr Kingslet, author of "Eavenshoc," " Geof- 
 frey Hamlj'n,"" " Hetty," &c., &c. With Illusti-ations. 1 vol. 8vo. 
 Cloth, $1.25; Paper, 73 cts. 
 
 •»* " A charming, bright, and sparkling novel for the tourist." — Bangor 
 Whig. 
 
 " Ilenry Kingslcy has done more to cultivate a correct taste among 
 readers of modern novels, than any other author of the day." — Titnes, Nete 
 Orleans. 
 
 JETTATRICE. From the French of Madame Augustus Cbaven, 
 author of " Flcurange," " A Sister's Storj," &e. 1 vol. 8vo. Cloth 
 $1.25 ; Paper, 75 cts. 
 
 *»* "A tale of rare purity and nobility." — Press. 
 
 " The scene is laid at Messina, and runs through Naples and Italy." — 
 Courier. 
 
 H'or Sale at all the T3ookstores and. IDepola, and 
 sent, postpaid, to any part of the World on receipt 
 of Trice, by KS'-fiCS &; LA.UliIA.T, 301 'Washius- 
 ton Sti-eet, JBoston. 
 
Estes &' LauriaCs Publicatiotis. — Novels. 
 
 JOCELYN'S MISTAKE. By Mi's. J. K. Spendee, nuthor of " Ilel 
 Own Fault," " liiolliei-3 in 'Law," &.K.. 1vol. 8vo. Cloth, $1.25; 
 Paper, 75 cts. 
 
 •»• " Mi-s. Speuilcr'a English is unusually good, and she has learned the 
 art of working her opinions of men and things into the web of her story, 
 iastCbU of merely intercalating homilies. . , . The Jocelyn of the book is 
 Tcry skilfully drawn. ... It rises in typo and dietiou far above the ephcm- 
 cral stories of the season." — Academy. 
 
 THE I<OST DESPATCH. Translated from the German of Fbied- 
 Ricn FuiEuiucu, by L. A. Willjulms. 1 vol. 8vo. Cloth, $1.25; 
 Paper, 50 cts. 
 
 %* " Lovers of pen-pictures and florid writing will not find any of their 
 favorite style. There is no padding, no burning sensation, no bigamy, nor 
 divorce, liut tlierc is a well cousti'uctcd story, well-told, and also some 
 finely-drawn chai-actera. The interest, too, is well sustained. *The Lost 
 Despatch ' will sei-ve to pass a couple of hours pleasantly enough ; and what 
 is more to the puix)0se, in tliesc days of filtliy novels, it may be i-ead by all 
 without fear or hesitation." — N. T. Globe. 
 
 CIIOISY. By James P. Stoet. 1 vol. 8vo. Cloth, $1.25; Paper, 
 75 cts. 
 
 %• " We recommend the book for a pleasant companion on lisUess 
 A ugust days. While shedding a tear of sympathy over the fate of Nina 
 Clioisy, its salutary lesson cannot fail to produce lasting results." — 
 Transcript. 
 
 " It is full of interesting and thrilling incidents from beginning to end." 
 — Press. 
 
 NOBODY'S FORTUNE. V.Y Kdmtjnd Yates, author of "Black 
 Sheep," "The Yellow Flag.^' vol. 8vo. Cloth, #1.25; Paper, 
 75 cts. 
 
 *,* " The fact that Dickens was connected, even thus indirectly, with the 
 work, will give it additional value in the estimation of most readers." — 
 Cleveland Herald. 
 
 "The best of his productions." — Bosta Post. 
 
 THE YELLOW FLAG. By Edmund Yates, author of "Nobody's 
 Fortune," "Black SheCi)." 1vol. 8vo. Cloth, $1.25 ; Paper, 76 cts. 
 
 *,* " The story is di-amatic from opening to close, keeping the reader 
 constantly attcnt, and each moment giving a gratification." — Nevi Bedford 
 Mercury. 
 
 For Sale at all the Boolistores and Depots, and 
 sent, postpaid, to any part of the World, on receipt 
 of Price, by KSTKS <Sc I-i.<VXJK,IA.'X\ 301 Washing- 
 ton Street, Boston. 
 
Estes &= Lauriafs Publications. — Novels. 
 
 ELENA: AN ITALIAN TALE. By L. N. Comtn, autbor of 
 • ■ Achors'one I'lioiy," "Elliuo," <Stc. 1 yol. Cloth, $1.23; Taper, 
 75 cts. 
 
 *»* " ' Elena,' in cliaractei' and plot, is excellent." — Traveller (Boston). 
 
 "An Italian story of great power ani beauty; sure to live." — Leedt 
 'Mercury. 
 
 "The most elegant and interesting fiction of the season." — London 
 messenger. 
 
 " A very pleasing and touching stoiy. It is sure to be read." — London 
 Daily Xews. 
 
 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. BvL. N. Comtx, author of "Elena," 
 "Ellice,"&c. 1vol. Cloth, $r.25 ; Paper, 75 cts. 
 *»* " A quiet, charming, English romance of real life. The scenes are 
 life-like, and the story interesting. The heroine at once wins the sympa- 
 thy of the reader, which deepens into admiration, and an intense interest 
 in her fortunes and misfortunes." — Examiner. 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. By the author of "Pctites Eo- 
 
 mancc." 1vol. 8vo. Cloth, $1.25; Paper, 75 cts. 
 *,* " A stoiy which we do not hesitate to recommend." — Spectator. 
 " A tiiste would be difficult to please which could not find amusement in 
 following the fortunes of the actors developed in this story." — Tratiscript. 
 
 MAUD OR NINA —Like Cures Like. By G. J. WnTTE-MELviLLK, 
 author of "Katerfelto," "Digby Grand," &c.,&c. 1vol. Svo. Cloth, 
 $1.25 ; Paper, 75 cts. 
 
 *»* " Sprightly and sensational." — Vox Populi. 
 
 "The most fastidious may read Maud and Nina." — Journal. 
 
 ZELDA'S FORTUNE. By R. E. riiANCTi,i.ON, author of "Earl Dean," 
 " Pearl and Emerald." 1 vol. Svo. Illustrated. Cloth, #1.25 ; Paper, 
 75 cts. 
 *»* " This book shows as much power as Bulwer's early novels did." — 
 Spriiigjield Itcpjiblican. 
 
 " Charles G. Leland and Louise Chandler Moulton speak of it in very 
 flattering terms." — Public. 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OF TOBEREEVIL. By Miss Mdi.- 
 
 HOLLAND, author of "Hester History." 1 vol. Svo. Cloth, $1.25; 
 
 Paper, 75 cts. 
 
 *»*"Atalcof] 
 
 replete with racy incident, stirring adventures, and well-depicted feeling 
 
 — Inter-Occan. 
 
 For Sale at all the Bookstores and Depots, and 
 pent, postpaid, to any part of the "World, on. receipt 
 of Price, by ESTES &; L.A.XJJBLA.'X", 301 '^''ushing:- 
 ton. Street, Boston. 
 
Estes fir" Lauriat's Publications. — Novels. 
 
 THE FOE IN THE HOUSEHOLD. By Caboline Cuesebuo'. 
 1 vol. 8vo. Cloth, $1.25 ; Paper, 75 cts. 
 
 *,• " It is purely domestic in its character, instiuctivc in its moral teach- 
 ings, and possesses a subtle interest more absorbing than that which at- 
 taches to the conventional style of modern romances." — Press. 
 
 CAN THE OLD LOVE. By Zauel Bahnes Buddington. 1 vol. 
 8vo. lllusU-ated. Cloth, $1.25; Paper, 7a cts. 
 
 *»• " The most unique and original poi-tion exhibits a manied man of 
 s jiity-thrce years of age, who falls in love with the child of his friend, on 
 her return from hoarding-school." — Philadelphia Age. 
 
 RUTH MAXWELL. BvLadv Blake, author of "Claude," "Lady 
 of Lyndon." 1 vol. 8vb. Cloth, $1.25 ; Paper, 75 cts. 
 
 *,* " This stoiy is told with a quiet charm, and contains thoroughly good 
 and pleasant reading." — Morning Post. 
 
 "It is a gracefully Aviittcn stoiy, full of interest, and distinguished by 
 so>nc capital character drawings. The tone is healthy, and the style bright 
 ana sph-itcd. The heroine is a channing conception, and is developed 
 with i-arc skill and eifect. We can conscientiously recommend the book 
 as one tlioroughly pure in its moi-ality, and peculiarly adapted to summei 
 i-cading." — Globe. 
 
 LADY OF LYNDON. By Lady Blake, author of "Claude," "Euth 
 Maxwell." 1vol. 8vo. Cloth', $1.25; Paper, 75 eta. 
 
 *»* " There is nothing sensational in its plot; the moral it inculcates is 
 pure, healthy, and instructive, while its literary qualifications cannot be 
 gainsaid." — New York Albion. 
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. By Jlrs. OLiPnANT, author of " Stoiy of Valen- 
 tino and his Brother," " Squire Ardcn," " For Love and Life," "In- 
 nocent." 1vol. 8vo. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.25; Paper, 50 cts. 
 
 •»• " In ' A Rose in June ' Mrs. Oliphant is at her very best again. The 
 book is full of character, di'awn with the most delicate of touches." — 
 AtlicntEum. 
 
 " A pleasant novel, agreeably told. Mrs. Oliphant is accomplished in 
 her art ; her knowledge of the instniraent with which she has to deal, and 
 of the audience for whom she plays upon it, was never more thoroughly 
 exhibited than in her Litest work, ' A Rose in' June.' " — Observer. 
 ^ "One of the sweetest, most charming, and most natui-al stories which 
 that popular Avi'itcr has given us." — Boston Journal. 
 
 IPoTC Sale at all ilie Bookstores rind Depots, and 
 sent, postpaid, to any part of the "World, on receipt 
 of -Price, by KS'PJKS &= L-A-TIXtl^T, 301 "Washina- 
 lon Street. Boston, 
 
Esles £r» Lauriafs Publications.— ^ Novels. 
 
 BUSS UOVEti. From the Fi-ench of Victok CnEKBtrLiBZ, author of 
 
 tlie "Romance of au Honest Woman," &c. Translated by Fkahces 
 
 A.Shaw. 1vol. 8vo. Cloth, 1 1.2o ; P.iper, 60 ets. 
 
 *** " This translation of one of the popular French novels is a thorough 
 
 love slorj' ; it is alive with incident, and the interest is kept up with singu 
 
 lar vividness, and without the extravagant expedients to which popular 
 
 novelists often resort." — Gazette. 
 
 " The stoiy is veiy strong in plot, and the ti'anslation is excellent." — 
 Commercial. 
 
 BUFFETS. By CnAKLES II. Doe. 1vol. 8to. Cloth, ^1.25 ; Paper, 
 T. ots. 
 
 *** '* It ia very spic}' and thoroughly modern." — Chicago Journal. 
 
 "There is a great deal of pleasant humor in this novel." — .^ftojiy 
 Journal. 
 
 " This novel shows much skill and some delicacy of touch, in which our 
 n.ivelists generally are most wanting." — Sprinjfield Republican. 
 
 IJiA. By Kathekine Valerio. 1 vol. 8vo. Cloth, ^1.25; Paper, 
 75 cts. 
 
 *#* " In the construction of the stor}', we ^Ind proof of considerable inven- 
 tive power, a lively and brilliant imagination, and a cei-tain lluency of 
 expression." — N. Y. Tribune. 
 
 ** There is a freshness in this that is attractive." — ilessenger. 
 
 "A charming Italian love-stoiy, as mellow, genial, and pure as au 
 Italian sun." 
 
 " A cleverly written stoiy of Italian life, pure in tone." — Transcript. 
 
 ONLY THREE WEEKS. 1 vol. 8vo. Cloth, §1.25 ; Paper, 50 cts. 
 
 %*" Just the kind of a stoiy for reading leism'cly on a summer day." 
 — Advertiser. 
 
 " The book is a ^ood one, full of powerful situations, excellent delinea- 
 tions of character, and capital writing." — Gazette. 
 
 "A sparkling, racy novel." — People {Concord). 
 
 "Cliarming little story." — N. T. Tribune. 
 
 A COMEDY OF TERRORS. By James De Mu.le, author of 
 "American BaiTon," " Ciyptogram," "Dodge Club." 1 vol. 8vo. 
 Cloth, 11.25 ; Paper, 75 cts. 
 ♦»* " Every chapter is full of mirth. De Mille is a rare genius with 
 the pen." — Press {Providence). 
 
 " It is in many respects the most ingenious of this fertile novelist's 
 books." — Boston Jourrwl. 
 
 IHor Sale at all the Bookstores and Depots, and 
 sent, postpaid, to any part of the "World, on receipt 
 of rrice, by KS'l'KS &; J_,A.UJbtI.A.'JL\ ,S01 AVashinji- 
 ton Street, Boston. 
 
Estcs &» LauriaCs Publications. — Novels. 
 
 NOT WITHOUT THORNS. By Entjis Graham. Ivol.Svo. aoth, 
 #1.25; Taper, 73 cts. 
 *,*"A stoiy of English domestic life, vciy smoothly and gracefully 
 written, with some character-drawing which is near lifting It into a higher 
 itinge than most novels that we have from English authorship. The 
 reader may count upon being interested; and the book is one which 'is 
 worthy of being placed in every library of summer reading.'* 
 
 SOMETHING TO DO. I vol. 8vo. CloUi, $1.25 ; Paper, 75 cts. 
 
 *,* "It contains many things of a vciy instructive chai'acter." — Boston 
 Tijnes. 
 
 ** A story of to-day, picturing characters, scenes, incidents, and accidents 
 of (he passing hour. Its i-apid movement, interesting and varied conver- 
 sations, and giticeful style, will make ' Something to Do ' very popular with 
 readers of the best modern fiction." 
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. Br the author of " Ready-Money 
 Mortiboy," "My Little Girl." 1 vol. 8vo. Cloth, $1.25; Paper, 
 50cts. 
 *«* " The chai'acters arc sketched with spirit, and the style is pure and 
 good. "-^ Spy (Worcester). 
 
 " It is written with a groat deal of dash and vivacity, and is llavored with 
 a species of grim humor which is veiy entertaining." — Journal. 
 "The book is hcaltliy and highly entertaining." — Boston Post. 
 
 RUiVOR. By the author of " Counterparts " and " Charles Auchestcr," 
 1vol. 8vo. ClotL, f 1.25; Paper, 75 cts. 
 *,* " ' Rumor,' is no common stoiy. It has scenes and sentiments of siug- 
 idar force, individuality, and beauty." 
 
 COUNTERPARTS. By the author of "Oiarles Auchestcr" and 
 "Rumor." 1vol. 8vo. Cloth, $1.25; Paper, 75 cts. 
 
 •»• " This bciutiful story deals with the finer sensibilities of our nature." 
 • - Rural. 
 
 " It is one of those books the world will not willingly let die, and the 
 publishers have shown both wisdom and good taste in republishing. The 
 style of the book is different from that of most modern novels ; there is 
 thought enough in it to make a half dozen novels of the present day." — 
 Courier. 
 
 CHARLES AUCHESTER. Bv the author of " Rumor " and " Conn 
 terparts." 1vol. 8vo. Cloth, $1.25 ; Paper, 75 cts. 
 
 Vor Sale at all the Bookstores and Dfepots, and 
 eent, postpaid, to any part of the "World, on receipt 
 of Price, by KSXKS Sc I^A.JJItIA.'r, 301 AVashing- 
 ton. Street, Boston. 
 
Estes fir» Lauriafs Ptiblicaiions. — History. 
 
 Epochs of i^odern History. 
 
 Edited by EDWAED E. MORRIS, M. A., 
 Of Lincoln College, Oxford. 
 
 1 he Era of the Protestant Revolution. By F. Seebohm, author of 
 "The Oxford Rcfoimoi'3 — Colet, Eiasmus, More." 1 vol. 16mo. 
 Cloth. $1.00. 
 
 The Crusades. By the Bev. G. W., Cox, M.A., late Scholar of Triaity 
 College, Oxford, author of the " History of Greece," " Mythology of 
 the Aiyau Nations," &c. 1vol. lOmo. Cloth. $1.00. 
 
 Tlie Thirty Years' War, 1018-1C48. By Samuel Eawson Gardi- 
 ner. 1vol. 16mo. Cloth. $1.00. 
 
 The Houses of Ijancaster and York; with the Conquest and Loss of 
 France. By James Gairdneb. 1 vol. 16mo. Cloth. $1.00. 
 
 Edward III. By the Rev. W. Warburton, M. A., late Fellow of All- 
 Souls College, Of ford, her Majesty's Senior Inspector of Schools. 1 
 vol. 16mo. Cloth. $1.00. 
 
 The Ageof Anne. By EDWAKDE.MoRBis,M.A.,Editorof theSeries. 
 1vol. 16mo. Cloth. $1.00. 
 
 The Fall of the Stuarts ; and Western Europe from 1678 to 1697. By 
 the Rev. Edward Hale, [M. A., Assistant Master at Eton. 1 vol. 
 lomo. aoth. $1.00. 
 
 The Puritan Revolution and the First Two Stuarts. BySAM'L 
 Rawson Gabdlner. 1 vol. 16mo. Cloth. $1.00. 
 
 The War of American Independence. By John Malcolm Lud- 
 low, Ban-ister-at-Law, authorof "A Sketch of the History of the United 
 States from the Independence to Secession." 1vol. IGmo. Cloth. $1.00. 
 
 The Early Plantagenets and their relation to the Ilistoiy of Europe; 
 the Foundation and Growth of Constitutional Goverumeut. By the 
 Eev. "Wm. Stubbs, M. A. 1 vol. 16mo. Cloth. $1.00. 
 
 The Age of Elizabeth. Bv the Rev. M. CBEionTON, M. A., Fellow 
 of Merton College, Oxford! 1 vol. 16mo. Cloth. $1.00. 
 
 Frederick the Great and the Seven Years' War. By F. W. Long- 
 man, of Balliol College, O.xford. 1vol. IGmo. Cloth. $1.00. 
 
 The French Revolution, and the Wa»a that came of it. 1787 to 1815. 
 By B. Meriton Cordery, author of "King and Common ivealth.' 
 1vol. 16mo. Cloth. $1.00. 
 
 The Norman Kings and the Feudal System. By the Eev. A. H. 
 Johnson, M. A., Fellow of All-Souls College, Oxford. 1 vol. 16mo. 
 aoth. $1.00. 
 
 The Beginning of the Middle Ages. Charles the Great and Alfred; 
 the History of England in its connection with that of Europe in the 
 Ninth Centurv. By the Very Eev. R. W. CnnKCn, M. A., Dean of 
 St. Paul's, ivol. 16mo. Cloth. $1.00. 
 
 For Sale at all the Bookstores a.ncl Depots, and 
 esent, postpaid, to any part of the "World, on I'eceipt 
 of IPrice, by- ES'PKS <Sc ZjAJURLAjr, 301 "Washing:- 
 ton Street, Boston. 
 
Estcs &" Latiriafs Publications. — History. 
 
 EPOCHS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 
 
 A SERIES OF BOOKS NARRATING THE 
 
 HISTORY OF ENGLAND AT SUCCESSIVE EPOCHS. 
 
 EDITED DY 
 
 The Rev. M. CREIGHTON, M. A., 
 
 Late Fellow and Tutor of M *rton College, Oxford. 
 
 The object of this Series is to supply an Elemcntaiy Histoiy of England, 
 which shall he s.^ull(.l and tiustwoi-tby as well as inexpensive. English 
 Histoiy convenienily divides itself into eight Periods. By the adoption of 
 this division a moro intelligible anci more interesting view of the coui-se of 
 English Histoiy may be obtained, while the advantage of cheapness will be 
 secured by the separate sale of the several divisions. 
 
 Early England np to the Norman Conqncst. By FnEDEaiCE 
 YoiSK-PowELL, M. A., liaw Lecturer Ch. Ch. Oxford; IXistorical 
 Lecbircr Trin. Coll. Oxford. With 4 Maps. 1 vol. 16mo. 50 cts. 
 
 England a Continental Power, from the Conquest to Magna Charts, 
 1006-1210. By LoinSB CREionTON. With a Colored Map of the Do- 
 minious of the Angevin Kings. 1 vol. IGmo. Cloth. 50 cts. 
 
 The Rise of the People, and Growth of Parliament, from the 
 Great Charter to the Accession of Henry VXI. (1215-1485. 
 
 By James Eowlet, M. A. Professor of Modern History and Litera- 
 ture, University College, Bi-istol. With 4 Maps. 1 vol. IGmo. 
 Cloth. 60 cts. 
 
 The Tudors and the Reformation. (1485-1603.) By the Rev. 
 Mandell Cbeighton, M. A., Late Fellow and Tutor of Micrton Col- 
 lege, Oxford; Editor of the Series. With 3 Maps. 1 vol. lOmo. 
 Cloth. 60 cts. 
 
 The Straggle against Absolute Monarchy, from 1G03 to 1C88. 
 
 By B. Mekiton Coedekt, author of "King and Commonwealth." 
 With 2 Maps. 1vol. lOmo. Cloth. 50 cts. 
 
 The Settlement of the Constitution, from 1C88 to 1T78. By 
 James Ex)Wlet, M. A., Professor of Modern Histoiy and Literature, 
 University College, Bristol. 1 vol. 16mo. Cloth. 60 cts. 
 
 England during the American and European Wars, from 
 1778 to 1820. By O. W. Tancock, M. A., Assistant-Master, King'a 
 School, Sherborne, Dorset. 1 vol. ICmo. Cloth. 60 cts. 
 
 Modern England from 1820 to 1875. By T. Aunold, M. A., 
 autlior of " A History of English Literature," &c. 1 vol. IGmo 
 Cloth. 60 cts. 
 
 ^or Sale at all the Bookstores and Depots, and 
 sent, postpaid, to any part of the "^Vorld, on receipt 
 of Price, by KSTKS &: LA.tTKIA.I', 301 Washina- 
 ton Street, Boston. 
 
Esies &» Lauriafs PubLications. — History. 
 
 EPOCHS OF ANCIENT HISTORY. 
 
 A series of books nairating the Ilistoiy of Greece and Eome, aad of 
 tteir relations to other countries, at successive Epochs. Edited by the 
 EcT. G. W. Cox, M. A., autlior of the " Aryan Mythology," and jeintly 
 by CiiATLES Sanket, M. A., late Scholar of Queen's College, Oxlbrd; 
 Assistant Master, Marlborough College. Uniform with " Epochs of Mod- 
 ern History." 
 
 The Greeks and the Persians. By the Eev. Geo. TV. Cox, M. A 
 Ijte Scholar of Trinity College, Oxford, Joint Editor of the Scries. 
 With 4 colored Maps. 1 vol. 16mo. Cloth. $1.00. 
 
 The Early Empire. By the Rev. W. Wolfe Capes, M. A., Eeadcr 
 of Ancient History in the Univci'sity of Oxford. With 2 colored Maps. 
 1vol. 16mo. Cloth. $1.00. 
 
 Early Rome, from the Foundation of the City to its Destruc- 
 tion by the Gauls. By Wilhelm Iiene, author of "History of 
 Rome." With 1 colored Map. 1 vol. 16mo. Cloth. #1.00. 
 
 The Athenian Empire, from the FUsht of Xerxes to the Fall 
 of Athens. By the Rev. G. W. Cox, M. A., late Scholar of Triuity 
 College, Oxford, Joint Editor of the Series. With 5 colored Maps. 
 1vol. 16mo. Cloth. $1.00. 
 
 The Roman Triumvirates. By the Vciy Rev. CtEAKLES Merri- 
 VAI.E, D.D., DeanofEly. With 1 colored Map. 1vol. 16mo. Cloth. 
 $1.00. 
 
 The Age of the Antonines ; or, the Roman Empire of the 
 3d Century. By the Rev. Wolfe Capes, M. A., Reader of An- 
 cient Ilistorv in the University of Oxford. With 2 colored Maps. 
 1 vol. 16m6. Cloth. $1.00. 
 
 Macedonian Empire, its Rise and Culmination to the Death 
 of Alexander the Great. By A. M. Curteis, M. A., Assistant 
 blaster, Sherborne School. With 8 colored Maps. 1 vol. ICiuo. 
 Cloth. $1.00. 
 
 The Gracchi, JUarins, and Sulla. By A. H. Beeslt, M, A., As- 
 sistant Master, Marlborough College. 1 vol. IGmo. Cloth. $1.00. 
 
 Rome and Carthage, the Punic Wars. ByE. Bosworth SinTn, 
 M. A., Assistant Master, Harrow School. 1 vol. ICmo. Cloth. $1.00. 
 
 Spartan and Theban Supremacy. By Charles Sanket, M. A., 
 late Scholar of Queen's College, Oxford; Assistant Master, Marl- 
 borough College ; Joint Editor of the Scries. 1 vol. lOmo. Cloth. 
 $1.00. 
 
 iPor Sale at all tlie Boolcstores and Depots, and 
 eent, postpaid, to any part of the ~World, on receipt 
 of Price, by ESXES &o LA.XJKIA.X, 301 "Washing- 
 ton Street, .Boston. 
 
Estes fir* Lauriafs Publications. — Scientific. 
 
 NATURAL HISTORY AND SCIENCE. 
 
 HAI4F-HOURS WITH INSECTS. A Popular Account of their 
 Habits, Modes of Life, &c. ; which are beneficial, and which are inju- 
 rious to vegetation. By A. S. Paokaed, Jk., of the Peahody Academy 
 of Science. The subjects treated of arc : Insects of the Garden ; 
 llclations of Insects to Man; Insects of the Plant-House; Edible 
 insects ; Insects of the Pond and Stream ; the Population of an Apple- 
 Tree ; Insects of the Field ; Insects of the Forest ; Insects as Mimics ; 
 Insects as Architects; Social Life of Insects and Mental Powci-s of 
 Insects. The volume contains colored plate, 260 wood-cut iUusti-a- 
 tions and ^2 pages, bound in one volume. Crown Svo., cloth. $2.50. 
 
 OUR COJMMON INSECTS. A Popular Account of the more com- 
 mon Insects of our Countiy, embracing Chapters on 13ccs and tlicir 
 Pai*asitcs, Moths, Flics, JUosquitos, Beetles, <fec. ; while a Calendar 
 will give a general account of the more common Injurious and Bene- 
 ficial Insects, and their Time of Appearance, Habits, &c. 200 pp. 
 Profusely Illustrated. 1 vol., 12mo., cloth. Price $2.50. 
 
 SAY'S ENTOMOLOGV. A Description of the Insects of North 
 America. By Tho-iias Sat. With 54 full-page steel-plate Illusti-a- 
 tions, engraved and colored from nature. Edited by J. L. LeConte. 
 With a Momoii- by Geokge Ord. 2 vols., 8vo., cloth, $15.00 ; half- 
 calf, $20.00. 
 *,*Thi3 standard work is now out of print, the plates having been dc- 
 Btroyed. We offer the balance of the edition at the above prices. It will 
 soon become scai-ce, and command a veiy much higher price. 
 
 FIETiD OliNITHOLOGY. A Manual of Instraction on Collecting, 
 Preparing, and Presciving Birds. By Elliott Coues. With which 
 is issued a Check-List of North American Birfs. 1 vol. 8vo., cloth. 
 $2.50. 
 
 KEY TO NORTH AMERICAN BIRDS. By EiiiOTT CotTES, 
 M. D. 369 imperial octavo pages. Illustrated by 6 Steel Plates, and 
 238 Wood-Cuts. A Manual or Text-Book of the Bn-ds of North 
 America; containing a Synopsis of Living and Fossil Birils, and 
 Descriptions of every North American Species known to this Time. 
 1 vol., royal 8vo., cloth. Price, $7.00. 
 
 PACKARD'S GUIDE TO THE STUDY OF INSECTS. Being 
 a Popular Introduction to tlie Study of Entomology, and a Treatise on 
 Injurious and Beneficial Insects; Avith Descriptions and Accounts of 
 the Habits of Insects, their Transformations, Development, and Classi- 
 fi'-ation. 13 full-page Plates, and 670 Cuts in the Text, embracing 1260 
 Figures of American Insects. Sixth edition. 1 vol., bvo. Price re- 
 duced to $5.00. 
 *,* This book is now acknowledged to he the standard, and is used in 
 
 the loading universities and institution-) of Europe and America. 
 
 TPor Sale at .all the J3oolcstores and Depots, and 
 sent, postpaid, to any part of the "World, on receipt 
 of Frice, by KS'JTiCy & I_,A.UliIA.'j:, 301 Wasliing- 
 ton Street, iioston. 
 
Esies 6r» Lauriat's Publications. — Scientific. 
 
 Natural History and Science continued. 
 
 LAND AND GAME. The Lantl and Game Bii-ds of New EuKlanrl. 
 With Descriptions of the Birds, tlicii- Nests and H'fgs, theii- Habits and 
 Notes. An entirely new and accurate work, whicii no sportsman or 
 collector can afford to be without. 1 vol. 8vo. Cloth, §3.00. 
 
 TYtOR (E. B.). PRIMITIVE CULTURE. Eesearches into the 
 Development of Mythology, Philosophy, Ilcligion, Art, and Custcm. 
 2 vols., 8vo cloth, ^5.00. 
 *»*" Scanty justice can be done to Mr. Tyler's admirable discussion of 
 animism. It is in the skill and sagacity wiUi which such illustrations aic 
 introduced that one principal charm of Mr. Tyler's hook consists. The 
 author asks us to admit nothing on a priori evidence, for which in'cfrag- 
 able inductive proof cannot also he cited, and at every step he halts to 
 take his bearings, minutely scrutinizing the whole visible fieltl. In track- 
 ing the wilderncs? of primeval speculation, he is a guide no less safe than 
 delightful." — John Fiske, in the North American Ueview. 
 
 LIFE HISTORIES OF ANIMALS, INCLUDING MAN; or, 
 Outlines of Compai*ativc Embryology. "With numerous Illustrations. 
 1 vol. 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. 
 *,* " An ample work of reference for advanced studeir'^s." — Tribune. 
 
 THE UNITY OF NATURAL PHENOMENA. An Introduction 
 to the Study of the Forces of Nature. Being a popular Explanation 
 of the Latest Discoveries in the Domain of Natural Science, including 
 the CoiTClation of Forces, Mode of Motion, Force of Gravity, and 
 Mutual Convertibility of the Forces of Nature. From the French of 
 Emile Saiget. Wiih Notes and an Introduction by Prof. T. Moses, 
 of Urbana University. 1 vol. Crown 8vo. $1.50. 
 
 A HAND-BOOK OF HARDY TREES, SHRUBS, and Ilcrba- 
 ceou3 Plants. Containing Descriptions, Native Countries, &c., of the 
 best species in cultivation ; together with ciUtural details, comparative 
 hardiness, suitability for particular positions, &c., based on the French 
 work of Decaisse and Naudui, of the Institute of Fi-ance. By W. 
 B. Hemslet ; with an Introduction by Ebwakd S. Band, Ju. 300 
 fine lllusti'ations. 1 vol. 8vo. 700 pp. $7.50. 
 
 TYLOR (E. B.). THE EARLY HISTORY OF MANKIND, 
 
 and Development of Civilization. By Edward B. I'yi.gr, author of 
 " Primitive Culture," " Mexico and the Mexicans," &c. 1 vol, 8vo. 
 $2.50. 
 
 WHAT YOUNG PEOPLE SHOULD KNOAV. Being the Anat- 
 omv, Physiobgy, and Hygiene of the Human llcproduetive Org.ius. 
 By "rrof.'BuKT G. WlLDEK. of Cornell University. 12mo. $1.60. 
 *t* A careful and straigbtiorward essay upon this important subject, by 
 this distinguished naturalist, and one which is sure to atU'act great atten- 
 tion. 
 
 ITor Sale at all the Bookstores and Depots, and 
 eent, postpaid, to. any part of the "World, on receipt 
 of I"'rice, by ESTKS <fc ]L.A.TJRlA.'r, 301 "Washins- 
 ton Street, Boston, 
 
Esles fir^ Lauriat's Publications. — Scientijic. 
 
 HALF-HOUR RECREATIONS 
 
 In Popular Ssscieixce- "Vol. I. 
 
 Edited by DANA ESTES. 
 1 vol., Crown 8vo., Cloth, with Index, ^2.50. 
 
 •^* The gi'owing demand, in this countiy, for books on popular scicnoe, 
 encouraged the editor and pnblishei's to issue this series of papers, com- 
 piled from the works of tlic most popular scicntiiic writers. 
 
 1. Strange Discoveries respcctiug the Anrora and recent Solar 
 Researches. By Ricdakd A. Proctob, F. R. A. S. 
 
 I. Cranial Affinities of Man and the Ape. By Prof. BusoLPn 
 VinCHOW, of Berlin, author of " Cellular Pathology." Fully illus- 
 ti'ated. 
 
 3 Spectrum Analysis Explained, and its Uses to Science Illusti-atcd. 
 With a Colored Plate and several Woodcuts. 
 
 I. Spectrum Analysis Discoveries, showing its application in Mi- 
 
 croscopic.ll Research, and to Discoveries of the Physical Constitution 
 and Movements of the Heavenly Bodies. From the works of tichcUcn, 
 Young, Roscoe, Lockycr, Huggins, and others. 
 
 .i. Nebnia;, Meteoric Showers and Comets. 
 
 3 Unconscious Action of the Brain, and Epidemic Delusions, 
 
 ByDr. Caiu'enteu, author of the "Microscope and its llevclatious," 
 " Jlumau Physiology," itc. 
 
 7. Geology of the Stars. By Prof. A. WiNcnELL, of tlie University of 
 
 Michigan, author of " Sketches of Creation." 
 
 8. On Yeast. By Prof. IlcxLET, F. R. S. 
 
 9. The Stone Age, Past and Present. By Edward B. Tylou, author 
 
 of " Primitive Culture." 
 
 10. Origin o*" Metal liicrous Deposits. By Prof. T. Stehuv Hunt. 
 
 II. Coal as a Reservoir of Power, by RobeutHukt; and Atoms. 
 by Prof. Clifford. 
 
 12. The Circulation ofthe Waters on the Face of the Earth. By 
 
 I'rof. H. W. Dove. 
 
 Tlie above 12 Nos. sold separately. Price 2j cents each. 
 
 li^or Sale at all the Bookstores and Depot.'=!, and 
 pent, postpaid, to any part of tlie "World, on receipt 
 of Price, by JES'PKS &c LAXIRIAT, 301. ^Vashing- 
 ton Street. Uoston. 
 
 Ci 
 
Esies fir" LauriaCs Publications. — Scientific. 
 
 HALF-HOUR RECREATIONS 
 
 In IPopixlar Science. Vol. II. 
 
 Twelve Ports. SO Cts. eacb. Twelve Consecutive IVumbers, 
 
 malting a Contplete Volume, will be sent, postpaid, 
 
 as Issued, on receipt of $S.50. 
 
 Wc annex a list of some of the papers which appear in Vol. II. of the series : 
 
 The Transmission of Sound by the Atmosphere. By John Trn- 
 
 DA1.1:,, r. E. S. Gigantic Cuttle-Fish. By W. Saville Kent, 
 
 r. L. S., nf the Natural Ilistoiy Department of the British Museum. 
 
 The Glacial Kpoch of our Globe. By Alex. Bradn. 
 
 The Sun and the Earth. By Prof. BALFOnn Stewakt, F. E. S. 
 
 Force Electrically Fxhibited. By J. W. Phelps. 
 
 The Ice Age in Britain. By Prof. A. Geikie, F. E. S. Canscs 
 
 of the Degeneracy of the Teeth. By Prof. Henky S. Chase. 
 The Great Pyramid of Egypt. Photography. 
 
 Plant liife in the Sea. By L. Knt. The Illumination of Bea- 
 cons and Buoys. 
 
 Brain and Mind. By Prof. Buet G. Wildeb, of Cornell TTniTcrsity, 
 author of " What Young People Should Know." 
 
 SPECTRUM ANALYSIS EXPLAINED. An explanation of this 
 wonderful discovery, and its uses to science, including the received 
 Theory of Sound, Heat, Li^ht, and Color; with chaptei's on the Sun, 
 Stara, Nebulfe, Comets, and Meteoric Showers. Abridged from the 
 works of Schellen, Eoscoc, Huggins, Lockyer, Young, and others, 
 hy the editor of "Half-Hour Eecreations in Popular Science." With 
 2 Colored Plates and 20 Illustrations. 1 vol. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 NORTH AMERICAN SYLVA; or, A Description of the Forest 
 Trees of the United States, Canada, and Nova Scotia. Containing all 
 the Trees discovered in the Eocky Mountains, in Oregon, down to the 
 shores of the Pacific, and into the confines of California, as well as in 
 various pails of the United States. Considered with respect to Uieir 
 use in the Arts and their introduction into Commerce. By F. iVuDKEW 
 MicnAUx and Thomas Nottall. Illustrated with 227 beautifully 
 colored Plates. 5 vols. Half morocco, gilt edge. Price $75.00. 
 
 STRUTT'S SYLVA BRITANNIC A AND SCOTICA ; or, Por- 
 traits of Forest Trees distinguished for their Antiquity, Magnitude, or 
 Beauty. Drawn from Nature and Etched by Jacob George Strutt. 
 Imperial folio, comprising 50 veiy large and' highly finished Etchings. 
 Half bound, morocco, extra, gilt edges. $4o.u0. 
 
 ir»ox' Sale at all tlie IBoolcstores and Depots, and 
 sent, postpaid, to any part of the "World, on receipt 
 of Price, by KSTES &; LA.TJE,I^T, 301 ■'^Vasliing- 
 ton Street, JBoston. 
 
Estes &• Lauriafs Publications. — Biography, dr'c. 
 
 HISTORICAL BIOGRAPHY, &c. 
 
 CAMPBELL'S LIVES OF THE CHIEF JUSTICES OF ENG- 
 LAND. Illustrated with Views of A^cstminster Hall, and Portraits of 
 the Justices. A new edition, printed on fine tinted paper, and bound 
 in bevel boards. 
 
 Cloth, lettered, 6 vols., 8vo $21 00 
 
 Law sheep, " " 26 00 
 
 Half calf, marbled edges, 6 vols., 8vo .... 36 00 
 New edition, cloth, 4 vols., 12mo 8 00 
 
 MEMORIES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. A Collection of Inter- 
 esting Incidents, Anecdotes, and Historical Skeiches, relating to West- 
 minster Hall, its famous Judges and Lawyers, and its Great Trials. 
 With an Historical Introduction bv Edwakd Foss, F. E.S., author of 
 the " Lives of the Judges of England," &c. Handsomely illustrated. 
 Superbly printed on tinted paper, and elegantly bound with bevelled 
 boards, uniform with the 8vo edition of Campbell's Chief Justices. 
 2 vols. 8vo. Cloth, $7.00. 
 
 ADVENTURES OF AN ATTORNEY in Search of Pi-actice. By 
 Sir Geouge Stephen. An amusing account of the mishaps, adven- 
 tures, and diiScultics experienced by a young attorney who made his 
 way in the world. 1 vol. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $2.25. 
 
 CAMPBELL'S LIVES OF THE LORD CHANCELLORS and 
 Keepe"a of the Great Seal of England. From the Earliest Times till 
 the Kcign of Victoria, including the Lives of Lords Lyndhurst and 
 Brougham. Laid paper. Fully Illusti'ated. Bound unifonn with the 
 8vo edition of the Lord Chief Justices. By the same author. 
 
 Cloth, bevelled, 10 vols $35 00 
 
 Law sheep, « << 45 00 
 
 Half calf, e.xti-a 60 00 
 
 FAMOUS CASES OF CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE. With 
 an Introduction on the Theoiy of Presumptive Proof. By S. M. Phil- 
 LU'S, author of " Phillips on Evidence." Second edition, revised and 
 greatly enlarged. 1 vol. 8vo. Cloth, $3.00. 
 
 ERSKINE'S SPEECHES. The Speeches of Lord Erskinc, while at 
 the Bar. Reprinted fram the 6-volumc 8vo edition of 1810. With a 
 Memoir and Notes. By Edwabd Walford, M. A. 2 vols. 8vo. 
 Portrait. Cloth, $7.50. 
 
 MEMOIR OF THOMAS, FIRST LORD DENMAN, formerly 
 Lord Chief Justice of England. By Sir Joseph AitNOULD, late 
 Judge of the High Court of Bombay. Published uniform with 
 Campbell's Lives of the Chief Justices, and making volumes five and 
 six of the Series. 
 
 2 volumes, 8vo, tinted paper, cloth, bevelled . . . $7 00 
 
 " " " sheep 9 00 
 
 " " " half calf 12 00 
 
 For Sale at all the Bookstores and Depots, and 
 went, postpaid, to any part of the "SVorld, on receipt 
 of I'rice, by ESXKS &; LA-TJKIik'r, 301 \Va,shing- 
 ton Street, Boston. 
 
Estes &^ Lawiafs Publications. — New Editions. 
 
 NEW EDITIONS. 
 
 NORMANDY PICTURESQUE. By Henbt Blackbijbn. Dlus- 
 trated. 
 
 ARTISTS AND ARABS. By Henkt Blackbukn. Illustratol. 
 
 WORDS OF WASHINGTON. By James Parton. 
 
 FAMILIAR LETTERS FROM EUROPE. By C. C. Felton. 
 
 HAMILTON'S (GAIL) WORKS. lOmo. 
 
 Country Living and Country Thinking. 
 
 Gala Days. 
 
 Stambling-Blocks. 
 
 A New Atmosphere. 
 
 Skirmishes and Sketches. 
 
 Summer Rest. 
 
 Wool-Gathering. 
 
 Woman's Wrongs. 
 
 Sermons to the Clergy. 
 
 First Love is Best. 
 
 THE FOLK-LORE OF ROME. Collected by Word of Mouth from 
 the People. By R. H. Busk, author of " PatraSsas," " Saj^from the 
 Far East," &c. AVith Index. 1 vol. Crown 8vo. $2.50. 
 
 MEETING THE SUN. A Journey all Aiound the World, throu^'h 
 Egypt, Cliina, Japan, and California, including an account of thcM;ir- 
 riage Ceremonies of tlio Emperor of China. By William Simpsox, 
 F. K. G. S., Jlcmbor of Soc. Bib. Ai-chaeology. With about 50 Ilclio- 
 types and Illustrations engraved on Wood, from Original Drawings by 
 the author. 1vol. 8vo. Cloth, #i.50. 
 
 IHor Sale at all the Boolrstores and Depots, and 
 sent, postpaid, to any part of the "World, oin. receipt 
 of Price, by ISSTES <Sc IjA-XTRIA-T, 301 AVashiiia- 
 con Street, Boston, 
 
Estes fir* Lauriafs Publications. — Subscription Books, 
 
 Over 100,000 Copict of thvt Book have been aoltl in France. 
 
 GUIZOT'S POPULAR HISTORY OF FRANCE. 
 
 Tkanslated bt ROBERT BLACK. 
 Sold only to Subscribers. Price, 50 Cts. per Part. 
 %* This g:i'eat work is now offered to the American public, and the 
 Publishers, having spared no pains or expense in its reproduction, confi- 
 dently believe that, as a specimen of book-making, it is unexcelled by any 
 book made in America. By a special an-angement with tlie European 
 publishers, we have secured electi'Otypcs of aW of the original woodcuts, by 
 the celebrated artist, A. de Neuyille, thereby securing impressions of the 
 same fully equal to the originals. These three hundred itlusti-ations are 
 pronounced by some of the best Art judges in the counti-v to be the finest 
 WOODCUTS EVER PiUNTED IN Ameiuca. Bcsidcs the above we shall add 
 to the work FoBTT magnificent Steel Line Engravings, by celebrated 
 artists. 
 
 Persons wanting a good and reliaile History of France, need have no 
 hesitation in subscribing for this, as it is the only one of a popular nature, 
 and by a standard historian^ to be had in the English language. The Pub- 
 lishers offer it confidently believing that it will supply a lonnj-felt want. 
 The world-wide reputation of GuizoT is a sufficient recommendation to the 
 work, and a guaranty of its being a thoroughly coiTCCt and an intensely 
 iutercsting histoiy. 
 
 153" Experienced canvassers wanted for thia magnificent work. Apply 
 to the Publishei-s. 
 
 Fifty-five parts, paper $27.50 
 
 Six large royal octavo vols., cloth, cxti-a 33.00 
 
 " " " full sheep (libi-aiy), maiblcd edges 39.00 
 
 " " " half calf, gilt, extra 45.00 
 
 " " " half morocco, extra. 45.00 
 
 " " " full morocco, gilt, extra 60.00 
 
 " " " full tree calf, gilt, extra 60.00 
 
 TESTIMONIALS. 
 
 Boston, Nov. ao, 1873. 
 
 Gentlemen : M. Guizot's History of France sliould be read by all who are not in- 
 difTerent to liisloiical studies. To a most interesting subject he brin;^s ihe expenence 
 ofa statesman, the study of a professor, and the charm of an accomplished writer. 1 
 am glad you arc to place this recent work within the reach of all American readers. 
 Faithfully yours, CHARLES SUMNER. 
 
 Everything from the pen of Guizot is remarkable for thoroughness of investigation 
 and exact statement. WENDELL PHILLIPS. 
 
 The name of Guizot is a sudicieDt guarantv for the historical value of whatever he 
 writes. E. G. KtlBINSON, Pres Brown University. 
 
 1 should be glad to see Guizot's History of France in every school. 
 
 JOHN U. PHILBRICK, Sup't Public Schools, Boston. 
 
 Tlie work supplies a want which has long been felt, and it ought to be in the hands 
 ot all students of history. We cannot doubt that it wi.l meet with the same favorable 
 reception in England w hich has already attended its publication in France. — London 
 Times. 
 
 H'or Sale to Subscribers only, and sent, postpaid 
 to any part of the AVorld, on receipt of Trice, by 
 JT.STES &. I ■A.TJJi.lAJi:, No. 301 ^V"asllington Street 
 13o.ston. 
 
Estes &-» Lauriafs Publications. — Miscellaneous. 
 
 MiSCELLANEOUS 
 
 nOBINSON CRUSOE, Life and Adventures of. With a Biographical 
 Account of De Foe. Illustrated with 12 characteristic Engravings. 
 Uniform with "Pilgrim's Progress" and "Swiss Family Kobinson." 
 1 vol. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON; or, Adventures on a Desert Island. 
 Uniform with " Kobinson Crusoe " and " Pilgrim's Progress." "With 
 Illustrations. 1 vol. Ci-own 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. Large Type, with fine lUustrntions by 
 Dalzicl Brothers. Uniform with " Swiss Family Eobinson," " Kobin- 
 son Crusoe," " Arabian Nights." 1vol. Clown 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 ARABIAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENT; or. The Thousand 
 and One Nights. Uniform with "Pilgrim's Progress," "Kobinson 
 Crusoe," " Swiss Family Robinson." 1 vol. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 THE AMERICAN STATE AND AMERICAN STATESMEN. 
 
 By "William Giles Dix. 1 vol. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 *»* Consisting of Essays on the following subjects: Charles Sumner; 
 Senators and States; The British Parliament; The American Congress; 
 Christianity the Inspirer of Nations ; Materialism tlie Curse of America ; 
 America a Christian Power ; Abraham Lincoln ; Origin of the Empire of 
 North America ; National Unity the Source of Authority ; National Sover- 
 eignty ; Are the United States a Nation ? 
 
 CURRAN'S SPEECHES. The Speeches of John Philpot Cun-an, 
 while at the Bar. "W^itU a Poiti'ait, Memoir, and Introductory Notes. 
 Edited by J. A. L. "Whittieb, Esq. 1 vol. Svo. Tinted paper, 
 aoth, #3.50. 
 
 PASSAGES FROM THE LIFE OF CHARLES KNIGHT, 
 
 Publisher, Author, and Leader in the "Work of Popular Education ; 
 Editor of the "Penny Encyclopaedia," "The Libraries of Useful and 
 Entci-taining Knowledge," and "The Popular History of England." 
 Kevised and slightly abridged from the English edition. Large 12mo. 
 600 pp. Cloth extra, $2.50. 
 
 For Sale at all the Bookstores and Depots, and 
 eent, postpaid, to any part of the "World, ot[\. receipt 
 of Frioe, l>y EiSTJEGS & i,A.XTKIA.T, 301 "Washing- 
 ton Street, Boston. 
 
Estes &» Lauriafs Publications. — Novels. 
 
 NOVELS. 
 
 THACKERAY (W. M.) WORKS. The Kensington EdiUon. Com- 
 plete in Twelve volumes. Crown 8 vo. Cloth, J24.00. 
 
 1. Vanity Fair. 
 
 2. The History of Pendennis, 
 
 3. The Newcomes. 
 
 4. Esmond and Barry liyndon. 
 
 5. The Virginians. 
 
 6. The Adventures ofPhilip. To which is prefixed a Shabby Gen- 
 teel Stoby. 
 
 1. Paris, Irish, and Eastern Sketches. 
 Pai-is Sketch Book. ( Irish Sketch Book. | Comhill to Cairo. 
 
 8. Hogart)' Diamomd, Yellowplnsh Papers, and Burlesques. 
 
 A Legend of the Rhine. 
 Kebccca and Bowcna. 
 The Histoiy of the next French 
 Cox'a Diary. [llevolutioo. 
 
 The Fatal Boots. 
 
 The Great Ilogarty Diamond. 
 Yellowplush Papei-s. 
 Novels by Eminent Hands. 
 Jcamcs's Diarr. 
 Adventures of Major Gahagan. 
 
 9. The Book of Snobs, and Sketches of Life and Character. 
 
 The Book of Snobs. 
 
 Sketches and Travels in London. 
 
 Character Sketches. 
 
 Men's Wives. 
 
 The Fitzboodle Papers. 
 
 The Bedford Bow Conspiracy. 
 
 A Little Dinner at Tinunins's. 
 
 10. Roundabout Papers and Lectures. 
 
 Boundabout Papers. I The English Humorists of the 
 
 The Four Georges. | Eighteenth Century. 
 
 The Second Funeral of Napoleon. 
 
 It. Catherine, &c. 
 
 Catherine. I Dennis Duval. I The Wolves and the Lamb. 
 
 Lovel, the Widower. | Ballads. | Ciitical Reviews. 
 
 Little Travels. 
 
 12. Christmas Books. 
 
 Mi-s. Perkins's Ball. I Our Street. 
 
 Dr. Birch. | The Kicklobuiys on the Rhine. 
 
 The Rose and the Ring. 
 
 For Sale at all tlie Bookstores and Depots, and 
 sent, postpaid, to any part of th.e "World, on receipt 
 of Price, by ES'X'iCcS <Sc LA.UJti.LA.'X", 301 "Wasliins- 
 ton Street, Boston. 
 
Estes &» Lauriafs Publications. — Subscription Books. 
 
 THE GLOBE ENCYCLOPiEDIA 
 
 OF UNIVERSAL INFORMATION. 
 
 EDITED Br 
 
 JOHN M. ROSS, LL.D., 
 
 Senior Master of English Literature, High School of Edinburgh ; for- 
 merly Assistant Editor of "Chambers' Encyclopaedia; " with a 
 numerous and able Staff of Contributors. 
 
 *»* (1.) Tlie Globe Encyclopaedia will contain articles on a greater num- 
 ber and variety of subjects than any previous work of the same character. 
 
 (2.) Though these articles will, in general, be very condensed, every 
 pai-ticular essential to a proper understanding of the subject will be given ; 
 and where space is absolutely required, the new Encyclopaedia will be as 
 complete in treatment as much larger works. , 
 
 (3.) In all the more important departments of knowledge, the Globe En- 
 cyclopaedia will not only furnish the results of the most exact and solid 
 research, but it will also seek to cany out more thoroughly than any of its 
 predecessors the practice of referring to the best authorities on the subjects 
 discussed or described. 
 
 (4.) The meaning of names of places, &c., always interesting and often 
 Buggestive, will be given with a fidness, and, it is believed, with an accu- 
 racy, not hitherto attempted. 
 
 (5.) Special attention will be bestowed upon the language, literature, and 
 history of the English Nation, its Colonies and Dependencies. 
 
 (0.) The most recent statistics regarding the population, agriculture, 
 commerce, and social condition of foreign countries, will be given, so that 
 the Globe Encyclopaedia, as the latest work of the kind, will necessarily 
 prove of the most useful. 
 
 (7.) The articles in the scientific departments — e. g.. Medicine, Chom- 
 istiy. Natural History, and Botany — will be in accordance with the best 
 and latest teaching on these subjects. 
 
 Forty-eight Parts, paper covers $24 00 
 
 Six volumes, quarto, cloth 30 GO 
 
 " " " full libraiy, sheep 36 00 
 
 " " " half morocco, extra 42 00 
 
 " " " calf 42 00 
 
 Ifor Sale to Subscribers only, and sent, postpaid, 
 to any part of the "World, on receipt of IPrice, by 
 KS'JTES &; IJ.A.TJKIA.T, No. 301 "VS^asb.ington Street, 
 Boston.. 
 
Estes (St* Lauriat's Publications. — Subscription Books. 
 
 The PICTURESQUE WORLD; 
 
 Or, Scenes in Many Lands. 
 
 Unsurpassed in Interest and Beauty of Illustration by any Work ever 
 
 offered to the American public. It will be profusely Illustrated 
 
 with more than 
 
 One Hundred Steel Engravings., 
 
 And ovek EIGHT HUNDEED of the FINEST SPECIMENS OK 
 WOOD ENGRAVING 
 
 Which haye ever been produced in any country. These Illustrations are 
 from designs and paintings by the very best European and Amcricaa artists, 
 among whom may be mentioned the following : — 
 
 GUSTAVE DOEE, SIR CHAS. EASTLAKE, R. A., 
 
 ALPn. DE NEUVILLE, W. H. BARTLETT, 
 
 LEOPOLD FLAMING, J. STARK, R. A., 
 
 GIACOSfELLI, KAULBACH, 
 
 ANASTASI, WEBER, 
 
 FRANCAIS, WERNER, 
 
 DAUBIGNT, HERTEL, 
 
 FOULQUIER, GERMANS BOHN, 
 
 LANCELOT, J. M. HART, 
 
 DE LA CHAELEVIE, GRANVILLE PERKINS, 
 
 BROCKEDON, J. D. WOODWARD, 
 
 BATTY, THOMAS MORAN, 
 
 STRUTT, GEORGE L. BROWN, 
 
 And others of equal merit and distinction. 
 It will be prepared under the editorship of 
 
 LEO DE COLANGE, LL.D., 
 Editor ZoU's Popular Encyclopaedia and Dictionaiy, <S;c. The work will 
 be published in forty to forty-eight serial parts, at 50 cts. each. 
 
 For Sale to Subscribers only, and. sent, postpaid, 
 to any part of tlie "World, on receipt of Frice, by 
 insXiCS & LAXJ14IA.T, No. 301 "Washington Street, 
 Boston. 
 
Esies fir* Lauriafs Publications. — Subscrij>tion Books. 
 
 MA.R TIIST'S 
 
 POPULAR 
 
 HISTORY OF FRANCE, 
 
 From the Commencement of the French Berolution of 1789 
 to the Present Day, including 
 
 TUB CONSULATE AND THE EMPIRE, 
 LIFE AND CAMPAIGNS OF NAPOLEON, 
 THE RESTORATION, 
 
 REVOLUTIONS OF 1830 AND 1848, 
 RISE AND FALL OF NAPOLEON III, 
 THE CRIMEAN AND FRANCO-PRUSSIAN WARS, 
 AND THE ESTABLISHMENT OF THE PRESENT REPUBLIC. 
 
 Thirty Parts, paper covera $15 00 
 
 Three toIs., cloth extra 16 50 
 
 " " libraiy sheep, marbled edges 19 50 
 
 " " half calf, gilt extra, marbled edges .... 22 50 
 
 " " half morocco extra " " .... 22 50 
 
 " " full morocco, gilt «xtra 30 00 
 
 " " fuU tree calf " " 30 00 
 
 %* This work is published uniform with, and as a continuation of, " Gui- 
 iot's Popular History of France," from the earliest times to 1789, and the 
 two will form the 
 
 Only Complete Standaxd History of France 
 
 IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 
 
 It will be magnificently illustrated by ' 
 
 A. DE NEUVILLE, EAJDJEIIT, 
 
 DE LA CHAHLERIE, RENAUD, 
 
 VIOLLAT, PinLIPPOTEADX, 
 
 KOSSEAU, FLAJtCSTG, STAAL, 
 
 •nd others of the most distinguished European artists. 
 
 'Wo-c Sale to SuI>soribers only, and sent, postpaid, 
 to any part of thie World, on receipt of IPrice, by 
 BSTICS & XiAXJB.LA.X, ISTo. SOX TS^ashington Street 
 Boston. 
 
Estes &-> Lauriafs Publications. — Subscription Books. 
 
 SUBSCRIPTION BOOKS. 
 
 GIXJIZOT'S 
 
 POPULAR 
 
 HISTORY OF EiMGLAND, 
 
 From the Earliest Times to the Reign of Victoria. 
 
 Author of "A Histoiy of Civilization," "Popular History of France.*" 
 &c., &c. 
 
 Tkanslated by F. mot THOMAS, 
 
 And magnificently Hlustrated with Steel Plates and Woodcuts, by 
 
 A. De NEUVTLLE, ElOLE BAYARD, LEYENDECKER, 
 
 Sm JOHN GILBERT, RIOU, WEBER, 
 
 A. MARIE, STAAL, and OinEES. 
 
 Ipg" To bo published unifoi-m with the " Popular Histoiy of France." 
 
 Thii-ty-six Parts, paper cover $18 00 
 
 Four vols., cloth exti-a, gilt side 22 00 
 
 " " full library sheep, marbled edges 26 00 
 
 " " half calf, gilt extra, marbled edges .... 30 00 
 
 " " half morocco cxti-a, marbled edges 30 00 
 
 " " full morocco, gilt edges 40 00 
 
 " " full ti-ee calf, gilt edges 40 00 
 
 •,* The publishera offer this work coufideutly believing that it will ac- 
 quire the position attained by the " History of France," by the same author, 
 and be acknowledged as 
 
 The Standard History of England. 
 
 The well-known eminence and impartiality of the great historian, and the 
 sumptuous style in which the work will be produced, will insure it a wel- 
 come by all lovera of good literature and art. 
 
 ITor Sale to Subscribers only, and sent, postpaid, 
 to any part of the "World, on receipt of Price, by 
 £:STK)S & LA-tTKI^I', No. 301 "Washington Street, 
 ■Boston. 
 
Estes &» Lauriafs Publications. — Subscription Boohs. 
 
 (PIOTOUIAL EDITION.) 
 
 Illustrated ivlth 310 Woodcuts and 36 Full-Page Plates, 
 
 By Sir JOHN GILBERT, A. R. A. 
 
 Togctlier with Illustrations on Steel, from Tictures by 
 
 C. W. COPE, E. A., K. M. WAKD, n. A., 
 
 W. P. FEITII, K. A., C. CLINT, A. II. A., 
 
 LESLIE, E. A., H. S. MAEKS, A. E. A., 
 
 MACLISE, E. A., W. Q. OECHAEDSON, A. E. A, 
 
 And Otiiers. 
 
 *»* The text aJoptcd in the present edition is that recently revised by 
 Mr. Chaelbs KKiGni, who, thirty years ago, issued the first number of 
 his Pictorial Edition of Sbakspere. As a "Labor of Love," the work 
 grew under his hands, and on its completion, in England and America, it 
 was universally admitted to be the best edition of the works of Sbakspere, 
 and one of (he noblest conti'ibutions to the literature of the day. Thor 
 oughly familiar with all that has been added to oui* knowledge of the poet's 
 writings, Mr. Knight undertook a revision of his original work. By a col- 
 lation of the early editions of the separate plaj-s which are in various pub- 
 lic and private collections, ho has been enabled to produce 
 
 Tlie Most Accurate Text of Sliakspere Extant. 
 
 The size of this edition, being two volumes Eoyal Octavo, will keep it 
 within the range of the bookcase, as well as render it a handsome addition 
 to books for the drawing-room table, and it is believed to be tlxs cheapest 
 finely illustrated edition ever ojfcred the pxiJbUc, 
 
 In addition to the carefully edited text, and beautiful illustrations, it will 
 contain a full Glossakial Index, and 
 
 Charles Knight'G Complete Notes, 
 
 repiinted from the last London edition, without alteration or ahHdgmcr.f , 
 thus making it invaluable to the student, as well as an ornament to (lie 
 library. 
 The work Tvill be published in thirty-six serial p.arts, at £0 cts. each. 
 
 J^or Sale to Subscribers only, arxd sent, postpaid, 
 to any part of tlie World, or\. receipt of Trice, by 
 ES'-TES &; Ijj?VXJRI.A.T, N"o. 30T. Washington Street 
 Boston. 
 
WP!^^^rai5^W 
 
 CHOICE FICTION. 
 ,C,T. 
 
 IVIy Bonnie Liassa 
 
 An entirely new and charming story by Mrs. C- V. Hamilton, author of "Woven of Many 
 Threads," " Ropes of S.iud," " Crown liom the Siiear," Hic. 
 
 1 Tol. 8vo. Cloth, $1.S5; Paper, 50 cts. 
 
 lAToven of Many Threads. 
 
 By C V. Hamilton, author of " Ropes of Sand," " Crown from the Spear," &c 
 1 -rol. 8to. Clotb, $l.:i5; Paper, HO cts. 
 
 ** As at present advised, we may venture to say that this * first novel of the season,* 
 from the pea of an Americuu bidy, will meet with acceptance from the readers of fiction. 
 The style is free and glowing, and the author, locating her storv in Italy, finds opportunities 
 to show familiarity with the land of song and art, of which she makes incidental jise to 
 heighten the intei*estof the tale." — Boston 'Jraascrfpt. 
 
 " The execution and st>de are good, occa.«ioually lining to a resemblance of Victor 
 ' Hugo's best passages." — The Age^ Philadeljihia. 
 
 " In style, sentnueut, and treatment, tliis book is n success, and the reading public 
 will find it an agreeable and instructive companion." — N, T. Commercial Adm-titer. 
 
 " The entire treatment has a sti-eugtli superior to most novels of the day." — N. Y. 
 SuTiday Times. 
 
 R^ve 
 
 Tpes of Sand. 
 
 By C V. Hamilton, author of ** Woven of Many Threads," '■ Crown from the Spear,*' &c 
 1 Tol. 8to. Clotn, $1.25; Paper, 75 cts. 
 
 "A work woven as well as tliis in plot, character, general finish, and execution, 
 desen'es to have its wiitcr pu licly hei-aldcd upon the title-page." — Titties. 
 
 Grown from the Spear. 
 
 By C Y. Hamilton, author of " Woven of Many Threads," "Ropes of Sand," &c. 
 1 vol, Svo. Cloth, $1.35; Paper, 75 cts. 
 
 "It is a story of French domestic life and character, full of interest, and written in 
 attractive style. The moi'al of the stoiy is that tlie crown of happiness may be won after 
 long struggle and suffering." — Merald. 
 
 " Coming from the pen of the author of ' Woven of Many Threads,' this story is sure 
 of a warm welcome. In some respects it is an improvement upon its predecessor, hav- 
 ing a more compact and artistic form, and more powerful interest." — P/iiL Inquirer. 
 
 Sont, i>optpaid, on receipt of Frice, \>y ESTES Sl LAURIAT, 
 301 "Wasliington Street* Boston. 
 
 M^^T<<enVikTii)M IflflL— ^^ 
 
Sail HaniltOD's Essays M MM. 
 
 A Nevr XLditioii, reduced to $1.50 per volume. 
 
 Coxmtry Living and Country Thinking. 
 
 16nio. 
 
 Gala-Days, ifimo. 
 
 Stumbling-Blocks. iGmo. 
 
 A ITew Atmosphere. i6mo. 
 
 Skirmishes and Sketches. i6mo. 
 
 Summer Rest. iCmo. 
 
 Wool-Gathering. iCmo. 
 
 Woman's Wrongs, A Counter- Irritant. 
 ICmo. 
 
 Sermons to the Clergy. iGmo. 
 First Love is Best. i6mo. 
 
 ** These hooks axe full of ideas, many of which arc bold, hardy, and conh-adictory of 
 common notions ; and this hardiness of thought finds expression in emphatic lanoruage. 
 This is one of the causes of Gail Hamilton's ix>pularity. Khc gives utteraur*'! to what is 
 felt by myriads, but which myriatls lack eitlier the capacity or courage t" speak what 
 they think. She is one of those thinkei-s and writers who ai*e helping to push and pull 
 the world onwai*d, and not even the most determined of obstnictionista can deny that it 
 does move rapidly under the impulsion imparted by such workei*s. But all the contents 
 of ttiese volumes do not i-elate to the highest order of subjects ; some of (he papers are 
 devoted to mattere of ever3-day life, and are, perhaps, the most attractive of the number. 
 They are animated by the most humane spirit, showing that the writer's heart is as kind 
 as her head is sound." — Boston Traveller. 
 
 " She labors to redress wrongs and remove evils. Her quick blows fall on all sides, and 
 happy is conservatism if it escapes rough treatment. For fossil ideas and fossilized stiiic- 
 turcs she has no mercy. Her teachings do not tend to the unsexing of woman, but rather 
 to a development of woman's nature in the direction of independence and freedom from 
 forms. The essence of purity and true womanliness is as dear to her as to the truest of her 
 sex." — New York Commercial Advertiser, 
 
 " There is no need to puff Gail Hamilton's books. She is one of the most pungent, 
 racy wi'iters of these times; shai-p, witty, keenly satirical, seeing clearly the comic afTd 
 the serious sides of life, and able to desci-ibe them graphically." — Green- Mountain 
 Freeman, 
 
 ** As a writer upon Nature in her visible manifestations and associations, and of those 
 living creatures which inhabit and vivify all her places, her open pastures and her secret 
 dells, Gail Hamilton is especially charming." — American AH Journal. 
 
 ** Gail Hamilton's humor, like beauty, is its own excuse for being." ■ — Detroit Post, 
 ** The man who can be indifferent to Gail Hamilton's brightness, must be dull indeed." 
 Elmira Advertiser. 
 
 WHAT THINK YE OF CHRIST? 
 
 1 vol. Square IGmo. Cloth. $1.00. 
 
 Sent, postpaid, on receipt of Trice, ty ESTES & LAURIAT, 
 SOX "WasliingtonL Street, Boston.