CHAPTER II. THE SCHOOL IN THE AVENUE MONTAIGNE.
CHAPTER III. MÂDOU.
CHAPTER IV. THE REUNION.
CHAPTER V. A DINNER WITH IDA.
CHAPTER VI. AMAURY D’ARGENTON.
CHAPTER VII. MÂDOU’S FLIGHT.
CHAPTER VIII. JACK’S DEPARTURE.
CHAPTER IX. PARVA DOMUS, MAGNA QUIES.
CHAPTER X. THE FIRST APPEARANCE OF BÉLISAIRE.
CHAPTER XI. CÉCILE.
CHAPTER XII. LIFE IS NOT A ROMANCE.
CHAPTER XIII. INDRET.
CHAPTER XIV. A MIDNIGHT INTERVIEW.
CHAPTER XV. CHARLOTTE’S JOURNEY.
CHAPTER XVI. CLARISSE.
CHAPTER XVII. IN THE ENGINE-ROOM.
CHAPTER XVIII. D’ARGENTON’S MAGAZINE.
CHAPTER XIX. THE CONVALESCENT.
CHAPTER XX. THE WEDDING-PARTY.
CHAPTER XXI. EFFECTS OF POETRY.
CHAPTER XXII. CÉCILE UNHAPPY RESOLVE.
CHAPTER XXIII. A MELANCHOLY SPECTACLE.
CHAPTER XXIV. DEATH IN THE HOSPITAL.
JACK
CHAPTER I.
VAURIGARD.
“With a _k_, sir; with a _k_. The name is written and pronounced as in
English. The child’s godfather was English. A major-general in the
Indian army. Lord Pembroke. You know him, perhaps? A man of distinction
and of the highest connections. But—you understand—M. l’Abbé! How
deliciously he danced! He died a frightful death at Singapore some
years since, in a tiger-chase organized in his honor by a rajah, one of
his friends. These rajahs, it seems, are absolute monarchs in their own
country,—and one especially is very celebrated. What is his name? Wait
a moment. Ah! I have it. Rana-Ramah.”
“Pardon me, madame,” interrupted the abbé, smiling, in spite of
himself, at the rapid flow of words, and at the swift change of ideas.
“After Jack, what name?”
With his elbow on his desk, and his head slightly bent, the priest
examined from out the corners of eyes bright with ecclesiastical
shrewdness, the young woman who sat before him, with her Jack standing
at her side.
The lady was faultlessly dressed in the fashion of the day and the
hour. It was December, 1858. The richness of her furs, the lustrous
folds of her black costume, and the discreet originality of her hat,
all told the story of a woman who owns her carriage, and who steps from
her carpets to her coupé without the vulgar contact of the streets. Her
head was small, which always lends height to a woman. Her pretty face
had all the bloom of fresh fruit. Smiling and gay, additional vivacity
was imparted by large, clear eyes and brilliant teeth, which were to be
seen even when her face was in repose. The mobility of her countenance
was extraordinary. Either this, or the lips half parted as if about to
speak, or the narrow brow,—something there was, at all events, that
indicated an absence of reflective powers, a lack of culture, and
possibly explained the blanks in the conversation of this pretty woman;
blanks that reminded one of those little Japanese baskets fitting one
into another, the last of which is always empty.
As to the child, picture to yourself an emaciated boy of seven or
eight, who had evidently outgrown his strength. He was dressed as
English boys are dressed, and as befitted his name spelled with a _k_.
His legs were bare, and he wore a Scotch cap and a plaid. The costume
was in accordance with his years, but not with his long neck and slim
figure.
He seemed embarrassed by it himself, for, awkward and timid, he would
occasionally glance at his half-frozen legs with a despairing
expression, as if he cursed within his soul Lord Pembroke and the whole
Indian army.
Physically, he resembled his mother, with a look of higher breeding,
and with the transformation of a pretty woman’s face to that of an
intelligent man. There were the same eyes, but deeper in color and in
meaning; the same brow, but wider; the same mouth, but the lips were
firmly closed.
Over the woman’s face, ideas and impressions glided without leaving a
furrow or a trace; in fact, so hastily, that her eyes always seemed to
retain a certain astonishment at their flight. With the child, on the
contrary, one felt that impressions remained, and his thoughtful air
would have been almost painful, had it not been combined with a certain
caressing indolence of attitude that indicated a petted child.
Now leaning against his mother, with one hand in her muff, he listened
to her words with adoring attention, and occasionally looked at the
priest and at all the surroundings with timid curiosity. He had
promised not to cry, but a stifled sob shook him at times from head to
foot. Then his mother looked at him, and seemed to say, “You know what
you promised.” Then the child choked back his tears and sobs; but it
was easy to see that he was a prey to that first agony of exile and
abandonment which the first boarding-school inflicts on those children
who have lived only in their homes.
This examination of mother and child, made by the priest in two or
three minutes, would have satisfied a superficial observer; but Father
O———, who had been the director for twenty-five years of the
aristocratic institution of the Jesuits at Vaurigard, was a man of the
world, and knew too well the best Parisian society, all its shades of
manner and dialect, not to understand that in the mother of his new
pupil he beheld a representative of an especial class.
The self-possession with which she entered his office,—self-possession
too apparent not to be forced,—her way of seating herself, her uneasy
laugh, and above all, the overwhelming flood of words with which she
sought to conceal a certain embarrassment, all created in the mind of
the priest a vague distrust. Unhappily, in Paris the circles are so
mixed, the community of pleasures and similarity of toilets have so
narrowed the line of demarcation between fashionable women of good and
bad society, that the most experienced may at times be deceived, and
this is the reason that the priest regarded this woman with so much
attention. The principal difficulty in arriving at a decision arose
from the unconnected style of her conversation; but the embarrassed air
of the mother when he asked for the other name of the child, settled
the question in his mind.
She colored, hesitated. “True,” she said; “excuse me; I have not yet
presented myself. What could I have been thinking of?” and drawing a
small, highly-perfumed case from her pocket, she took from it a card,
on which, in long letters, was to be read the insignificant name—
_Ida de Barancy_
Over the face of the priest flashed a singular smile.
“Is this the child’s name?” he asked.
The question was almost an impertinence. The lady understood him, and
concealed her embarrassment under an assumption of great dignity.
“Certainly, sir, certainly.”
“Ah!” said the priest, gravely.
It was he now who found it difficult to express what he wished to say.
He rolled the card between his fingers with a little movement of the
lips natural to a man who measures the weight and effect of the words
he is about to speak.
Suddenly he arose from his chair, and approaching one of the large
windows that looked on a garden planted with fine trees, and reddened
by the wintry sun, tapped lightly on the glass. A black silhouette was
drawn on the window, and a young priest appeared immediately within the
room.
“Duffieux,” said the Superior, “take this child out to walk with you.
Show him our church and our hot-houses; he is tired of us, poor little
man!”
Jack supposed that he was sent out to walk so that he might be spared
the pain of saying good-bye to his mother, and his terrified,
despairing expression so touched the kind priest that he hastily
added,—
“Don’t be frightened, Jack. Your mother is not going away; you will
find her here.”
The child still hesitated.
“Go, my dear,” said Madame de Barancy, with a queenly gesture.
Then he went without another word, as if he were already conquered by
life, and prepared for all its evils.
When the door closed behind him, there was a moment of silence. The
steps of the child and his companion were heard on the frozen gravel,
and dying away, left no sound save the crackling of the fire, the
chirps of the sparrows on the eaves, the distant pianos, and an
indistinct murmur of voices—the hum of a great boarding-school.
“This child seems to love you, madame,” said the Superior, touched by
Jack’s submission.
“Why should he not love me?” answered Madame de Barancy, somewhat
melodramatically; “the poor dear has but his mother in the world.”
“Ah! you are a widow?”
“Alas! yes, sir. My husband died ten years ago, the very year of our
marriage, and under the most painful circumstances. Ah! Monsieur
l’Abbé, romance-writers, who are at a loss to invent adventures for
their heroines, do not know that many an apparently quiet life contains
enough for ten novels. My own story is the best proof of that. The
Comte de Barancy belonged, as his name will tell you, to one of the
oldest families in Touraine.”
She made a fatal mistake here, for Father O——— was born at Amboise, and
knew the nobility of the entire province. So he at once consigned the
Comte de Barancy to the society of Major-General Pembroke and the Rajah
of Singapore. He did not let this appear, however, and contented
himself with replying gently to the _soi-disant_ comtesse,—
“Do you not think with me, madame, that there would be some cruelty in
sending away a child that seems so warmly attached to you? He is still
very young; and do you think his physical health good enough to support
the grief of such a separation?”
“But you are mistaken, sir,” she answered, promptly. “Jack is a very
robust child; he has never been ill. He is a little pale, perhaps, but
that is owing to the air of Paris, to which he has never been
accustomed.”
Annoyed to find that she was not disposed to comprehend him, the priest
continued,—
“Besides, just now our dormitories are full; the scholastic year is
very far advanced; we have even been obliged to decline receiving new
pupils until the next term. You would be compelled to wait until then,
madame; and even then—”
She understood him at last.
“So,” she said, turning pale, “you refuse to receive my son. Do you
refuse also to tell me why?”
“Madame,” answered the priest, “I would have given much if this
explanation could have been avoided. But since you force it upon me, I
must inform you that this institution, whose head I am, exacts from the
families who confide their children to us the most unexceptionable
conduct and the strictest morality. In Paris there are many laical
institutions where your little Jack will receive every care, but with
us it would be impossible. I beg of you,” he added, with a gesture of
indignant protestation, “do not make me explain further. I have no
right to question you, no right to reproach you. I regret the pain I am
now giving, and believe me when I say that my words are as painful to
myself as to you.”
While the priest spoke, over the countenance of Madame de Barancy
flitted shadows of anger, grief, and confusion. At first she tried to
brave it out, throwing her head back disdainfully; but the kind words
of the priest falling on her childish soul made her burst suddenly into
a passion of sobs and tears.
“She was so unhappy,” she cried, “no one could ever know all she had
done for that child! Yes, the poor little fellow had no name, no
father, but was that any reason why a crime should be made of his
misfortune, and that he should be made responsible for the faults of
his parents? Ah! M. l’Abbé, I beg of you—”
As she spoke she took the priest’s hand. The good father sought to
disengage it with some little embarrassment.
“Be calm, dear madame,” he cried, terrified by these tears and
outcries, for she wept, like the child that she was, with vehement
sobs, and with the abandonment in fact of a somewhat coarse nature. The
poor man thought, “What could I do with her if this lady should be
taken ill?”
But the words he used to calm her only excited her more.
She wished to justify herself, to explain things, to narrate the story
of her life, and, willing or not, the Superior found himself compelled
to follow her through an obscure recital, whose connecting thread she
broke at every step, without looking to see how she should ever get
back again to the light.
The name of Barancy was not hers, but if she should tell him her name,
he would be astonished. The honor of one of the oldest families in
France was concerned, and she would rather die than speak.
The Superior hastened to assure her that he had no intention of
questioning her, but she would not listen to him. She was started, and
a wind-mill under full sail would have been more easily arrested than
her torrent of words, of which probably not one was true, for she
contradicted herself perpetually throughout her incoherent discourse,
yet withal there was something sincere, something touching even in this
love between mother and child. They had always been together. He had
been taught at home by masters, and she wished now to separate from him
only because of his intelligence and his eyes that saw things that were
not intended for his vision.
“The best thing to do, it seems to me,” said the priest, gravely,
“would be to live such a life that you need fear neither the scrutiny
of your child nor of any one else.”
“That was my wish, sir,” she answered. “As Jack grew older, I wished to
make his home all that which it ought to be. Besides, before long, my
position will be assured. For some time I have been thinking of
marrying, but to do this it was necessary to send my boy away for a
time that he might obtain the education worthy of the name he ought to
bear. I thought that nowhere could he do as well as here, but at one
blow you repulse him and discourage his mother’s good resolutions.”
Here the Superior arrested her with an exclamation of astonishment. He
hesitated a moment; then looking her straight in her eyes, said,—
“So be it, madame. I yield to your wishes. Little Jack pleases me very
much; I consent to receive him among our pupils.”
“My dear sir!”
“But on two conditions.”
“I am ready to accept all.”
“The first is, that until the day that your position is assured, the
child shall spend his vacations under this roof, and shall not return
to yours.”
“But he will die, my poor Jack, if he does not see his mother!”
“Oh, you can come here whenever you please; only—and this is my second
condition—you will not see him in the parlor, but always here in my
private room, where I shall take care that you are not interfered with
and that no one sees you.”
She rose in indignation.
The idea that she could never enter the parlor, or be present on the
reception-days, when she could astonish the other guests with the
beauty of her child, with the richness of her toilette, that she could
never say to her friends, “I met at the school, yesterday, Madame de
C———, or Madame de V———,” that she must meet Jack in secret, all this
revolted her.
The astute priest had struck well.
“You are cruel with me, sir. You oblige me to refuse the favor for
which I have so earnestly entreated, but I must protect my dignity as
woman and mother. Your conditions are impossible. And what would my
child think—”
She stopped, for outside the glass she saw the fair, curly head of the
child, with eyes brightened by the fresh air and by his anxiety. Upon a
sign from his mother, he entered quickly.
“Ah, mamma, how good you are! I was afraid you were gone!”
She took his hand hastily.
“You will go with me,” she answered; “we are not wanted here.”
And she sailed out erect and haughty, leading the boy, who was
stupefied by this departure which so strongly resembled a flight. She
hardly acknowledged the respectful salute of the good father, who had
also risen hastily from his chair; but quickly as she moved, it was not
too quick for Jack to hear a gentle voice murmur, “Poor child! poor
child!” in a tone of compassion that went to his heart. He was
pitied—and why? For a long time he pondered over this.
The Superior was not mistaken. Madame la Comtesse Ida de Barancy was
not a comtesse at all. Her name was not Barancy, and possibly not even
Ida. Whence came she? Who was she? No one could say. These complicated
existences have fortunes so diverse, a past so long and so varied, that
one never knows the last shape they assume. One might liken them to
those revolving lighthouses that have long intervals of shadow between
their gleams of fire. Of one thing only was there any certainty: she
was not a Parisian, but came from some provincial town whose accent she
still retained. It was said that at the Gymnase, one evening, two Lyons
merchants thought they recognized in her a certain Mélanie Favrot, who
formerly kept an establishment of “gloves and perfumery;” but these
merchants were mistaken.
Again, an officer in the Hussars insisted that he had seen her eight
years before at Orleans. He also was mistaken. And we all know that
resemblances are often impertinences.
Madame de Barancy had however travelled much, and made no concealment
of the fact, but an absolute sorcerer would have been needed to evolve
any facts from the contradictory accounts she gave of her origin and
her life. One day Ida was born in the colonies, spoke of her mother, a
charming créole, of her plantation and her negroes. Another time she
had passed her childhood in a great chateau on the Loire. She seemed
utterly indifferent as to the manner in which her hearers would piece
together these dislocated bits of her existence.
As may be imagined, in these fantastic recitals, vanity reigned
triumphant, the vanity of a chattering paroquet. Bank and money, titles
and riches, were the texts of her discourse. Rich she certainly was.
She had a small hotel on the Boulevard Haussmann; she had horses and
carriages, gorgeous furniture in most questionable taste, three or four
servants, and led a most indolent existence, trifling away her life
among women like herself, less confident in her bearing, perhaps, than
they, from her provincial birth and breeding. This, and a certain
freshness, the result of a childhood passed in the open air, all kept
her somewhat out of the current of Parisian life, where, too, being so
newly arrived, she had not yet found her place.
Once each week, a man of middle age, and of distinguished appearance,
came to see her. In speaking of him, Ida always said “Monsieur” with an
air of such respect that one would have supposed him to be at the court
of France in the days when the brother of the king was so denominated.
The child spoke of him simply as “our friend.” The servants announced
him as “M. le Comte,” but among themselves they called him “the old
gentleman.”
The old gentleman was very rich, for madame spared nothing, and there
was an enormous expenditure going on constantly in the house. This was
managed by Mademoiselle Constant, Ida’s waiting-maid. It was this woman
who gave her mistress the addresses of the tradespeople, who guided her
inexperience through the mazes of life in Paris; for Ida’s pet dream
and hope was to be taken for a woman of irreproachable character, and
of the highest fashion.
Thus it will be seen into what state of mind the reception of Father
O——— had thrown her, and in what a rage she left his presence. An
elegant coupé awaited her at the door of the Institution. She threw
herself into it with her child, retaining only sufficient self-command
to say “home,” in so loud a voice that she was heard by a group of
priests who were talking together, and who quickly dispersed before
this whirlwind of furs and curled hair. In fact, as soon as the
carriage-door was closed, the unhappy woman sank into a corner, not in
her usual coquettish position, but overwhelmed and in tears, stifling
her sobs in the quilted cushions.
What a blow! The priest had refused to take her child, and at the first
glance had discovered the humiliating truth that she believed to have
thoroughly disguised under the luxurious surroundings of a woman of the
world and of an irreproachable mother.
Her wounded pride recalled with renewed flushes of shame the keen eyes
of the good father. She recalled all her falsehood, all her folly, and
remembered his incredulous smile at almost her first words.
Silent and motionless in the other corner of the carriage sat Jack,
looking sadly at his mother, unable to comprehend her despair. He
vaguely conceived himself to be in fault, the dear little fellow, and
yet was secretly glad that he had not been left at the school.
For a fortnight he had heard of it night and day; his mother had
extorted a promise from him not to weep; his trunk was packed, and all
was ready, and the child’s heart was full of trouble; and now at the
last moment he was reprieved.
If his mother had not been in so much trouble now, he would have
thanked her; how happy would he have been curled up at her side, under
her furs, in the little coupé in which they had had so many happy hours
together—hours which were now to be repeated. And Jack thought of the
afternoons in the Bois, of the long drives through the gay city of
Paris—a city so new to both of them, and full of excitement and
interest. A monument, perhaps, or even a mere street incident,
delighted them.
“Look, Jack—”
“Look, mamma—”
They were two children together, and together they peered from the
window,—the child’s head with its golden curls close to the mother’s
face tightly veiled in black lace.
A despairing cry from Madame de Barancy aroused the boy from all these
sweet recollections. “_Mon dieu!_” she cried, wringing her hands, “what
have I done to be so wretched?”
This exclamation naturally elicited no response, and little Jack, not
knowing what to say, or how to console her, timidly caressed her hand,
even at last kissing it with the fervor of a lover.
She started and looked wildly at him.
“Ah! cruel, cruel child, what harm you have done me in this world!”
Jack turned pale. “I? What have I done?”
He loved but one person on the face of the earth, his mother. He
thought her absolutely perfect; and without knowing it, he had injured
her in some mysterious way. The poor child was now overwhelmed with
despair also, but remained utterly silent, as if the noisy
demonstrations of his mother had shocked him, and made him ashamed of
any manifestations on his own part. He was seized with a sort of
nervous spasm. His mother took him in her arms. “No, no, dear child, I
was only in jest; be sensible, dear. What! must I rock my long-legged
boy as if he were a baby? No, little Jack, you never did me any harm.
It is I who did wrong. Come, do not weep any more. See, I am not
crying.”
And the strange creature, forgetful of her recent grief, laughed gayly,
that Jack too might laugh. It was one of the privileges of this
inconsequent nature never to retain impressions for any length of time.
Singularly enough, too, the tears she had just shed only seemed to add
new freshness and brilliancy to her youthful beauty, as a sudden shower
upon a dove’s plumage seems to bring out new lustre without penetrating
below the surface.
“Where are we now?” said she, suddenly dropping the window that was
covered with mist. “At the Madeleine. How quickly we have come! We must
stop somewhere; at the pastry-cook’s, I think. Dry your eyes, little
one, we will buy some meringues.”
They alighted at the fashionable confectioner’s, where there was a
great crowd. Rich furs and rustling silks crushed each other; and
women’s faces with veils half lifted were reflected in the surrounding
mirrors which were set in gilt frames and cream-colored panels;
glittering glass, and a variety of cakes and dainties delighted the
spectators. Madame de Barancy and her child were much looked at. This
charmed her, and this small success following upon the mortification of
the previous hour, gave her an appetite. She called for a quantity of
meringues and nougat, and finished by a glass of wine. Jack followed
her example, but with more moderation, his great grief having filled
his eyes with unshed tears and his heart with suppressed sighs.
When they left the shop the weather was so fine, although cold, and the
flower-market of the Madeleine so fragrant with the sweet perfume of
violets, that Ida determined to dismiss the carriage and return on
foot. Briskly, and yet with a certain slowness of step, that indicated
a woman accustomed to admiration, she started on her walk, leading Jack
by the hand. The fresh air, the gay streets and attractive shops, quite
restored Ida’s good-humor. Then suddenly, by what connection of ideas I
know not, she remembered a masqued ball to which she was going that
night, preceded by a restaurant dinner.
“Mercy! I had forgotten. Hurry! little Jack—quick!” She wanted flowers,
a bouquet, a dozen forgotten trifles: and the child, whose life had
always been made up of just such trifles, and who felt as much as his
mother the subtile charm of these elegances, followed her in high glee,
delighted by the idea of the fête that he was not to see. The toilette
of his mother always interested him, and he fully appreciated the
admiration her beauty excited as they went through the streets and into
the various shops.
“Exquisite! exquisite! Yes, you may send it to me—Boulevard Haussmann.”
Madame de Barancy tossed down her card, and went out, talking gayly to
Jack of the beauty of her purchases. Suddenly she assumed a graver air.
“Remember, Jack, what I say. Do not tell our good friend that I went to
this ball; it is a great secret, It is five o’clock. How Constant will
scold!”
She was not mistaken.
Her maid, a tall, stout person of forty years, ugly and masculine,
rushed toward Ida as she entered the house.
“The costume is here. There is no sense in being so late. Madame will
not be ready in season. No one could make her toilette in such a little
while.”
“Don’t scold, Constant. If you only knew what had happened. Look!” and
she pointed to Jack.
The factotum seemed utterly out of patience. “What! Master Jack back
again! That is very naughty, sir, after all you promised. The police
will have to come and take you to school; your mother is too good.”
“No, no, it was not he. The priest would not have him. Do you
understand? They insulted me!” Whereupon she began to cry again, and to
ask of heaven why she was so unhappy. What with the meringues and the
nougat, the wine and the heat of the room, she soon felt very ill. She
was carried to her bed; salts and ether were hastily sought.
Mademoiselle Constant acquitted herself with the propriety of a woman
who is no stranger to such scenes, went in and out of the room, opened
and shut wardrobes, with a certain self-possession that seemed to say,
“This will soon pass off.” But she did not perform her duties in
silence.
“What folly it was to take this child to the Fathers! As if it was a
place for him in his position! It would not have been done certainly,
had I been consulted. I would engage to find a place for this boy at
very short notice.”
Jack, terrified at seeing his mother so ill, had seated himself on the
edge of the bed; where, looking at her anxiously, he in silence asked
her pardon for the sorrow he had caused her.
“There! get away, Master Jack. Your mother is all right. I must help
her dress now.”
“What! You do not mean, Constant, that I must go to this ball. I have
no heart to amuse myself.”
“Pshaw! I know you, madame. You have but five minutes. Just look at
this pretty costume, these rose-colored stockings, and your little
cap.”
She shook out the skirts, displayed the trimming, and jingled the
little bells which adorned it, and Ida ceased to resist.
While his mother was dressing, Jack went into the boudoir, and remained
alone in the dark. The little room, perfumed and coquettish, was, it is
true, partially illuminated by the gas lamps on the boulevard. Sadly
enough the child leaned against the windows and thought of the day that
was just over. By degrees, without knowing how, he felt himself to be
“the poor child” of whom the priest had spoken in such compassionate
tones.
It is so singular to hear one’s self pitied when one believes one’s
self to be happy. There are sorrows, in fact, so well concealed, that
those who have caused them, and even sometimes their victims, do not
divine them.
The door opened—his mother was ready.
“Come in, Master Jack, and see if this is not lovely.”
Ah! what a charming Folly! Silver and pink, lustrous satin and delicate
lace. What a lovely rustling of spangles when she moved!
The child looked on in admiration, while the mother, light and airy,
waving her Momus staff, smiled at Jack, and smiled at herself in the
Psyche, without at that time asking heaven why she was so unhappy. Then
Constant threw over her shoulders a warm cloak, and accompanied her to
the carriage, while Jack, leaning over the railing, watched from stair
to stair, moving almost as if she were dancing the little pink slippers
embroidered with silver, that bore his mother to balls where children
could not go. As the last sound of the silver bells died away, he
turned towards the salon, disturbed and anxious for the first time by
the solitude in which he ordinarily passed his evenings.
When Madame de Barancy dined out, Master Jack was confided to the
tender mercies of Constant. “She will dine with you,” said Ida.
Two places were laid in the dining-room that seemed so huge on such
days. But very often Constant, finding her dinner anything but
cheerful, took the child and joined her companions below, where they
feasted gayly. The table-cloth was soiled, and the conversation was not
of the purest; and very often the conduct of the mistress of the house
was commented upon, in words to be sure that were slightly veiled, so
as not to frighten the child. This evening there was a grand discussion
as to the refusal of the Fathers to receive the boy. The coachman
declared that it was all for the best,—that the priests would have made
of the child “a hypocrite and a Jesuit.”
Constant protested against these words. She was not a professor of
religion, she said, but she would not hear it spoken ill of. Then the
discussion changed to the great disappointment of Jack, who listened
with all his little ears, hoping to hear why this priest, who appeared
so good, was not willing to receive him.
But for the moment Jack was of little consequence; each was absorbed in
narrating his or her religious convictions.
The coachman, who had been drinking, said that his God was the sun; in
fact, he, like the elephants, adored the sun! Suddenly some one asked
how he knew that elephants adored the sun.
“I saw it once in a photograph,” said he, sternly. Upon which
Mademoiselle Constant vehemently accused him of impiety and atheism;
while the cook, a stout Picardian with true peasant shrewdness, told
them to be quiet.
“Hush!” she said; “you should never quarrel over your religions.”
And Jack—what was he doing all this time?
At the end of the table, stupefied by the heat and the interminable
discussions of these brutes, he slept, with his head on his arms, and
his fair curls spread over his velvet sleeves. In his unrestful slumber
he heard the hum of the servants’ voices, and at last he fancied that
they were talking of him; but the voices seemed to reach from afar
off—through a fog, as it were.
“Who is he, then?” asked the cook.
“I don’t know,” answered Constant; “but one thing is certain, he can’t
remain here, and she wishes me to find a school for him.”
Between a yawn and a hiccough, the coachman spoke,—
“I know a capital school, and one that will, just answer your purpose.
It is called the Moronval College—no, not college—but the Moronval
Academy. But what of that? it is a college all the same. I put my child
there once, when I was ordered off with the Egyptian army. The grocer
gave me the prospectus, and I think I have it still.”
He looked in his portfolio, and from among the tumbled and soiled
papers he extracted one, dirtier even than the others.
“Here it is!” he cried, with an air of triumph.
He unfolded the prospectus and began to read, or rather to spell with
difficulty:
“Gymnase Moronval—in the—in the—”
“Give it to me,” said Mademoiselle Constant; and taking it from him,
she read it at one glance.
“Moronval Academy—situated in the finest quarter of Paris—a family
school—large garden—the number of pupils limited—course of
instruction—particular attention paid to the correction of the accent
of foreigners—”
Mademoiselle Constant interrupted herself here to breathe, and to
exclaim, “This seems all right enough!”
“I think so,” said the cook.
The reading of the prospectus was resumed, but Jack was soundly asleep,
and heard no more.
He was dreaming. Yes, while his future was thus under discussion around
this kitchen-table, while his mother was dancing as Folly in her
rose-colored skirts and silver bells, he was dreaming of the kind
priest, and of the tender voice that had murmured—“Poor child!”