MÂDOU.
If the Moronval Academy still exists, I desire to stigmatize it now and
forever as the most unhealthy spot I ever knew. Its dampness makes it
most objectionable for children.
Imagine a long building all _rez-de-chaussée_, without windows, and
lighted only from above. About the room hung an indescribable odor of
collodion and ether, as if it had once been used by a photographer. The
garden was shut in by high walls covered with ivy which dripped with
moisture. The dormitory stood against a superb hotel; and on one side
was a stable, always noisy with the oaths of grooms, the trampling of
horses’ feet, and the rattling of pumps. From one end of the year to
the other the place was always damp, the only difference being that,
according to the different seasons of the year, the dampness was either
very cold or very warm. In summer it was filled with moisture like a
bathroom. In addition, a crowd of winged creatures, who lived among the
old ivy on the walls, attracted by the brightness of the glass in the
low roof, introduced themselves into the dormitory through the smallest
crevice, and struck their wings against the glass, humming loudly, and
finally falling on the beds in clouds.
The winter’s humidity was worse still; the cold crept into the
dormitory through the uneven floors and the thin walls, but after two
hours of shivering the pupils might succeed in getting warm if they
drew their knees up to their chins and kept the bedclothes well over
their heads. The paternal eye of Moronval saw at once the propriety of
utilizing this otherwise unemployed building.
“This shall be the dormitory,” he said.
“May it not be somewhat damp?” Madame Moronval ventured to ask.
“What of that?” he answered, sternly.
In reality there was but room for ten beds; but twenty were placed
there, with a lavatory at the end, a wretched bit of carpet near the
door, and all was in readiness.
Why not? After all, a dormitory is only a place to sleep in, and
children should be able to sleep anywhere, in spite of heat or cold, of
bad air and of creeping things, in spite of the noise of pumps and of
horses. They catch rheumatism, ophthalmia, and bronchitis, to be sure,
but they sleep all the same the calm sweet sleep of children worn out
by out-door exercise and play, and undisturbed by anxieties for the
morrow. This is the popular belief in regard to children, but too many
of us know that the truth is quite different. For example, the first
night little Jack could not close his eyes. He had never slept in a
strange house, and the change was great from his own little room at
home, dimly lighted by a night-lamp, and littered with his favorite
playthings, to the strange and comfortless place where he now found
himself.
As soon as the pupils were in bed, a black servant took away the light,
and Jack remained wide awake.
A pale moon, reflected from the snow that covered a portion of the
skylight, filled the room with a bluish light. He looked at the beds,
standing close together foot to foot the length of the room, most of
them unoccupied, their coverings rolled up in a bundle at one end.
Seven or eight were animated by an occasional snore, by a hollow cough,
or a stifled exclamation.
The new-comer had the best place, a little sheltered from the wind of
the door. Nevertheless, he was far from warm, and the cold kept him
from sleep as much as the novelty of his surroundings. He went over and
over again in his memory every trifling detail of the day’s events. He
saw Moronval’s bulky white cravat, the enormous spectacles of Dr.
Hirsch—his soiled and spotted overcoat; but above all he recalled the
cold and haughty eyes of “his enemy,” as he already in his innermost
heart called D’Argenton.
This thought struck such terror to his soul that involuntarily he
looked to his mother for protection and defence.
Where was she at that moment? A dozen different clocks at that instant
struck eleven. She was probably at some ball or theatre. She would soon
come in, all wrapped in furs and laces. When she came, it mattered not
how late, she always opened Jack’s door and bent over his bed to kiss
him. Even in his sleep he was generally conscious of her presence, and
smilingly opened his eyes to admire her toilette. And now he shuddered
as he thought of the change; and yet it was not altogether painful, for
the chevrons of his uniform delighted him, and he was happy in
concealing his long legs in the skirt of his tunic. He had made two or
three new acquaintances,—a thing very agreeable to most children; he
had found his fellow-pupils odd enough, but their oddities interested
him. They had snowballed each other in the garden, which, to a child
who had been living in the warm boudoir of a pretty woman, was a very
novel amusement.
One thing puzzled Jack: he had not yet seen his royal Highness. Where
was the little king of Dahomey, of whom M. Moronval had spoken so
warmly? Was he in the Infirmary? Ah! if he could only see him, talk
with him, and make him his friend. He repeated to himself the names of
the “eight children of the sun,” but there was no prince among them.
Then he thought he would ask the boy Said.
“Is not his royal Highness in the school at present?” he asked.
The young man looked at him with wide-opened eyes, in astonished
silence. Jack’s question remained unanswered, and the child’s thoughts
ran on as he lay in his bed, listening to occasional gusts of music
that rang through the house from the lungs of Labassandre, and to the
perpetual sound of the pumps in the stable.
Moronval’s guests were gone, with a final bang of the large gate, and
all was silent. Suddenly the dormitory door was thrown open, and the
small black servant entered, with a lantern in his hand.
He shook off the snow that lay thick on his black head, and crept
between the two rows of beds, with his head drawn down between his
shoulders, and his teeth chattering.
Jack looked at the grotesque shadows on the wall, which exaggerated all
the peculiarities of the black boy—the protruding mouth, the enormous
ears, and retreating forehead.
The boy hung his lantern at the end of the dormitory and stood there
warming his hands, which were covered with chilblains. His face, though
dirty, was so honest and kindly, that Jack’s heart warmed toward him.
As he stood there the negro looked out into the garden. “Ah! the snow!
the snow!” he murmured sadly.
His way of speaking, and the sweet voice, touched little Jack, who
looked at the boy with lively pity and curiosity. The negro saw it, and
said, half to himself, “Ah! the new pupil! Why don’t you go to sleep,
little boy?”
“I cannot,” said Jack, sighing.
“It is good to sigh if you are sorry,” said the negro, sententiously.
“If the poor world could not sigh, the poor world would stifle!”
As he spoke, he threw a blanket on the bed next to Jack.
“Do you sleep there?” asked the child, astonished that a servant should
occupy a bed in the dormitory of the pupils. “But there are no sheets!”
“Sheets are not good for me, my skin is too black.” The negro laughed
gently as he said these words, and prepared to glide into bed, half
clothed as he was, when suddenly he stopped, drew from his breast an
ivory smelling-bottle, and kissed it devoutly.
“What a funny medal!” cried Jack.
“It is not a medal,” answered the negro; “it is my _Gri-qri_.”
But Jack had no idea what a Gri-gri was, and the other explained that
it was an amulet—something to bring him good luck. His Aunt Kérika had
given it to him when he left his native land,—the aunt who had brought
him up, and to whom he hoped to return at some future day.
“As I shall to my mamma,” said little Barancy; and both children were
silent, each thinking of the one he loved most on earth.
Jack returned to the charge in a few minutes. “And your country—is it a
pretty place? Is it far off? and what is its name?”
“Dahomey,” answered the negro.
Jack started up in bed.
“What! Do you know him? Did you come to this country with him?”
“Who?”
“Why, his royal Highness,—you know him,—the little king of Dahomey.”
“I am he,” said the negro, quietly.
The other looked at him in amazement. A king! this servant, whom he had
seen at work all day making fires, sweeping the corridors, waiting on
the table, and rinsing glasses!
The negro spoke the truth, nevertheless. The expression of his face
grew very sad, and his eyes were fixed as if he were looking into the
past, or toward some dear, lost land. Was it the magical word of king
that led Jack to examine this black boy, seated on the edge of his bed,
his white shirt open, while on his dark breast shone the ivory amulet,
with new interest?
“How did all this happen?” asked the child, timidly.
The black boy turned quickly to extinguish the lantern. “M. Moronval
not like it if Mâdou lets it burn.” Then he pulled his couch close to
that of Jack.
“You are not sleepy,” he said; “and I never wish to sleep if I can talk
of Dahomey. Listen!”
And in the darkness, where the whites only of his eyes could be seen,
the little negro began his dismal tale.
He was called Mâdou,—the name of his father, an illustrious warrior,
one of the most powerful sovereigns in the land of gold and ivory: to
whom France, Holland, and England sent presents and envoys. His father
had cannon, and soldiers, troops of elephants with trappings for war,
musicians and priests, four regiments of Amazons, and two hundred
wives. His palace was immense, and ornamented by spears on which hung
human heads after a battle or a sacrifice. Mâdou was born in this
palace. His Aunt Kérika, general-in-chief of the Amazons, took him with
her in all her expeditions. How beautiful she was, this Kérika! tall
and large as a man,—in a blue tunic; her naked arms and legs loaded
with bracelets and anklets; her bow slung over her shoulder, and the
tail of a horse streaming below her waist. Upon her head, in her woolly
locks, she wore two small antelope horns joining in a half-moon; as if
these black warriors had preserved among themselves the tradition of
Diana the white huntress! And what an eye she had, what deftness of
hand! Why, she could cut off the head of an Ashantee at a single blow.
But, however terrible Kérika might have been on the battlefield, to her
nephew Mâdou she was always very gentle, bestowing on him gifts of all
kinds: necklaces of coral and of amber, and all the shells he
desired,—shells being the money in that part of the world. She even
gave him a small but gorgeous musket, presented to herself by the Queen
of England, and which Kérika found too light for her own use. Mâdou
always carried it when he went to the forests to hunt with his aunt.
There the trees were so close together, and the foliage so thick, that
the sun never penetrated to these green temples. Then Mâdou described
with enthusiasm the flowers and the fruits, the butterflies, and birds
with wonderful plumage, and Jack listened in delight and astonishment.
There were serpents, too, but they were harmless; and black monkeys
leaped from tree to tree; and large mysterious lakes, that had never
reflected the skies in their brown depths, lay here and there in the
forests.
At this, Jack uttered an exclamation, “O, how beautiful it must be!”
“Yes, very beautiful,” said the black boy, who undoubtedly exaggerated
a little, and saw his dear native land through the prism of absence, of
childish recollections, and with the enthusiasm of his southern nature;
but encouraged by his comrade’s sympathy, Mâdou continued his story.
At night the forests were very different; hunting-parties bivouacked in
the jungles, building huge fires to drive away wild beasts, who were
heard in the distance roaring horribly. The birds were aroused; and the
bats, silent and black as shadows, attracted by the fire-light, hovered
over and about it until daybreak, when they assembled on some gigantic
tree, motionless, and pressed against each other, looking like some
singular leaves, dry and dead.
In this open-air life the little prince grew strong and manly,—could
wield a sabre and carry a gun at an age when children are usually tied
to their mother’s apron-string. The king was proud of his son, the heir
to his throne. But, alas! it seemed that it was not enough, even for a
negro prince, to know how to shoot an elephant through the eye; he must
also learn to read books and writing, for, said the wise king to his
son, “White man always has paper in his pocket to cheat black man
with.” Of course some European might have been found in Dahomey who
could instruct the prince,—for French and English flags floated over
the ships in the harbors. But the king had himself been sent by his
father to a town called Marseilles, very far at the end of the world;
and he wished his son to receive a similar education.
How unhappy the little prince was in leaving Kérika; he looked at his
sabre, hung his gun against the wall, and set sail with M. Bonfils, a
clerk in a mercantile house, who sent him home every year with the gold
dust stolen from the poor negroes.
Mâdou, however, was resigned; he wished to be a great king some day, to
command the troop of Amazons, to be the proprietor of these fields of
corn and wheat, and of the palace filled with jars of palm-oil and with
treasures of gold and ivory. To own these riches he must deserve them,
and be capable of defending them when necessary,—and Mâdou early
learned that it is hard to be a king; for when one has more pleasures
than the rest of the world, one has also greater responsibilities.
His departure was the occasion of great public fetes, of sacrifices to
the fetish and to the divinities of the sea. All the temples were
thrown open for these solemnities, the prayers of the nation were
offered there, and at the last moment, when the ship set sail, fifteen
prisoners of war were executed on the shore, and the executioner threw
their heads into a great copper basin.
“Good gracious!” gasped Jack, pulling the bedclothes over his head.
It is certainly not very agreeable to hear such stories told by the
actors in them; and Jack was very glad that he was in the Moronval
Academy rather than in that terrible land of Dahomey.
Mâdou seeing the effect he had produced, dwelt no longer on the
ceremonies preceding his departure, but proceeded to describe his
arrival and life at Marseilles.
He told of the college there, of the high walls and the benches in the
court-yard, where the pupils cut their names; of the solemn professor,
who sternly said, if a whisper was heard, “Not so much noise, if you
please!” The close air of the recitation-rooms, the monotonous
scratching of pens, the lessons repeated over and over again, were all
new and very trying to Mâdou. His one idea was to get into the sun; but
the walls were so high, the court-yard so narrow, that he could never
find enough to bask in. Nothing amused or interested him. He was never
allowed to go out as were the other pupils, and for a very good reason.
At first he had induced M. Bonfils to take him to the wharves, where he
often saw merchandise from his own country, and sometimes went into
ecstasies at some well-known mark.
The steamers puffing and blowing, and the great ships setting their
sails, all spoke to him of departure and deliverance.
Mâdou dreamed of these ships all through school-hours,—one had brought
him to that cold gray land, another would take him away. And possessed
by this fixed idea, he paid no attention to his A B C’s, for his eyes
saw nothing save the blue of the sea and the blue of the sky above. The
result of this was, that one fine day he escaped from the college and
hid himself on one of the vessels of M. Bonfils; he was found in time,
but escaped again, and the second time was not discovered until the
ship was in the middle of the Gulf of Lyons. Any other child would have
been kept on board; but when Mâdou’s name was known, the captain took
his royal Highness back to Marseilles, relying on a reward.
After that, the boy became more and more unhappy, for he was kept a
very close prisoner. Notwithstanding all this, he escaped once more;
and this time, on being discovered, made no resistance, but obeyed so
gently, and with such a sad smile, that no one had the heart to punish
him. At last the principal of the institution declined the
responsibility of so determined a pupil. Should he send the little
prince back to Dahomey? M. Bonfils dared not permit this, fearing
thereby to lose the good graces of the king. In the midst of these
perplexities Moronvol’s advertisement appeared, and the prince was at
once dispatched to 23 Avenue Montaigne,—“the most beautiful situation
in Paris,”—where he was received, as you may well believe, with open
arms. This heir of a far-off kingdom was a godsend to the academy. He
was constantly on exhibition; M. Moronval showed him at theatres and
concerts, and along the boulevards, reminding one of those
perambulating advertisements that are to be seen in all large cities.
He appeared in society, such society at least as admitted M. Moronval,
who entered a room with all the gravity of Fénélon conducting the Duke
of Burgundy. The two were announced as “His Royal Highness the Prince
of Dahomey, and M. Moronval, his tutor.”
For a month the newspapers were full of anecdotes of Mâdou; an attaché
of a London paper was sent to interview him, and they had a long and
serious talk as to the course the young prince should pursue when
called to the throne of his ancestors. The English journal published an
account of the curious dialogue, and the vague replies certainly left
much to be desired.
At first all the expenses of the academy were discharged by this
solitary pupil, Monsieur Bonfils paying the bill that was presented to
him without a word of dispute. Mâdou’s education, however, made but
little progress. He still continued among the A B C’s, and Madame
Moronval’s charming method made no impression upon him. His defective
pronunciation was still retained, and his half-childish way of speaking
was not changed. But he was gay and happy. All the other children were
compelled to yield to him a certain deference. At first this was a
difficult matter, as his intense blackness seemed to indicate to these
other children of the sun that he was a slave.
And how amiable the professors were to this bullet-headed boy, who, in
spite of his natural amiability, so sturdily refused to profit by their
instructions! Every one of the teachers had his own private idea of
what could be done in the future under the patronage of this embryo
king. It was the refrain of all their conversations. As soon as Mâdou
was crowned, they would all go to Dahomey. Labassandre intended to
develop the musical taste of Dahomey, and saw himself the director of a
conservatory, and at the head of the Royal Chapel.
Madame Moronval meant to apply her method to class upon class of crisp
black heads. But Dr. Hirsch saw innumerable beds in a hospital, upon
the inmates of which he could experiment without fear of any
interference from the police. The first few weeks, therefore, of his
sojourn at Paris seemed to Mâdou very sweet. If only the sun would
shine out brightly, if the fine rain would cease to fall, or the thick
fog clear away; if, in short, the boy could once have been thoroughly
warm, he would have been content; and if Kérika, with her gun and her
bow, her arms covered with clanking bracelets, could occasionally have
appeared in the _Passage des Douze Maison_, he would have been very
happy.
But Destiny altered all this. M. Bonfils arrived suddenly one day,
bringing most disastrous news of Dahomey. The king was dethroned, taken
prisoner by the Ashantees, who meant to found a new dynasty. The royal
troops and the regiment of Amazons had all been conquered and
dispersed. Kérika alone was saved, and she dispatched M. Bonfils to
Mâdou to tell him to remain in France, and to take good care of his
Gri-gri, for it was written in the great book that if Mâdou did not
lose that amulet, he would come into his kingdom. The poor little king
was in great trouble. Moronval, who placed no faith in the _gri-gri_,
presented his bill—and such a bill!—to M. Bonfils, who paid it, but
informed the principal that in future, if he consented to keep Mâdou,
he must not rely upon any present compensation, but upon the gratitude
of the king as soon as the fortunes and chances of war should restore
him to his throne. Would the principal oblige M. Bonfils by at once
signifying his intentions? Moronval promptly and nobly said, “I will
keep the child.” Observe that it was no longer “his Royal Highness.”
And the boy at once became like all the other scholars, and was scolded
and punished as they were,—more, in fact, for the professors were out
of temper with him, feeling apparently, that they had been deluded by
false pretences. The child could understand little of this, and tried
in vain all the gentle ways that had seemed to win so much affection
before. It was worse still the next quarter, when Moronval, receiving
no money, realized that Mâdou was a burden to him. He dismissed the
servant, and installed Mâdou in his place, not without a scene with the
young prince. The first time a broom was placed in his hands and its
use explained to him, Mâdou obstinately refused. But M. Moronval had an
irresistible argument ready, and after a heavy caning the boy gave up.
Besides, he preferred to sweep rather than to learn to read. The
prince, therefore, scrubbed and swept with singular energy, and the
salon of the Moronvals was scrupulously clean; but Moronval’s heart was
not softened. In vain did the little fellow work; in vain did he seek
to obtain a kindly word from his master; in vain did he hover about him
with all the touching humility of a submissive hound: he rarely
obtained any other recompense than a blow.
The boy was in despair. The skies grew grayer and grayer, the rain
seemed to fall more persistently, and the snow was colder than ever.
O Kérika! Aunt Kérika! so haughty and so tender, where are you? Come
and see what they are doing with your little king! How he is treated,
how scantily he is fed, how ragged are his clothes, and how cold he is!
He has but one suit now, and that a livery—a red coat and striped vest!
Now, when he goes out with his master, he does not walk at his side—he
follows him.
Mâdou’s honesty and ingenuity had, however, so won the confidence of
Madame Moronval, that she sent him to market. Behold, therefore, this
last descendant of the powerful _Tocodonon_, the founder of the
Dahomian dynasty, staggering daily from the market under the weight of
a huge basket, half fed and half clothed, cold to the very heart; for
nothing warms him now, neither violent exercise, nor blows, nor the
shame of having become a servant; nor even his hatred of “the father
with a stick,” as he called Moronval.
And yet that hatred was something prodigious; and Mâdou confided to
Jack his projects of vengeance.
“When Mâdou goes home to Dahomey, he will write a little letter to the
father with the stick; he will tell him to come to Dahomey, and he will
cut off his head into the copper basin, and afterwards will cover a big
drum with his skin, and I will then march against the Ashantees,—Boum!
boum! boum!”
Jack could just see in the shadow the gleam of the negro’s white eyes,
and heard the raps upon the footboard of the bed, that imitated the
drum, and was frightened. He fancied that he heard the whizzing of the
sabres, and the heavy thud of the falling heads; he pulled the blanket
over his head, and held his breath.
Mâdou, who was excited by his own story, wished to talk on, but he
thought his solitary auditor asleep. But when Jack drew a long breath,
Mâdou said gently, “Shall we talk some more, sir?”
“Yes,” answered Jack; “only don’t let us say any more about that drum,
nor the copper basin.” The negro laughed silently. “Very well, sir;
Mâdou won’t talk—you must talk now. What is your name?”
“Jack, with a _k_. Mamma thinks a great deal about that—”
“Is your mamma very rich?”
“Rich! I guess she is,” said Jack, by no means unwilling to dazzle
Mâdou in his turn. “We have a carriage, a beautiful house on the
boulevard, horses, servants, and all. And then you will see, when mamma
comes here, how beautiful she is. Everybody in the street turns to look
at her, she has such beautiful dresses and such jewels. We used to live
at Tours; it was a pretty place. We walked in the Rue Royale, where we
bought nice cakes, and where we met plenty of officers in uniform. The
gentlemen were all good to me. I had Papa Leon, and Papa Charles,—not
real papas, you know, because my own father died when I was a little
fellow. When we first went to Paris I did not like it; I missed the
trees and the country; but mamma petted me so much, and was so good to
me, that I was soon happy again. I was dressed like the little English
boys, and my hair was curled, and every day we went to the Bois. At
last my mamma’s old friend said that I ought to learn something; so
mamma took me to the Jesuit College—”
Here Jack stopped suddenly. To say that the Fathers would not receive
him, wounded his self-love sorely. Notwithstanding the ignorance and
innocence of his age, he felt that there was something humiliating to
his mother in this avowal, as well as to himself; and then this
recital, on which he had so heedlessly entered, carried him back to the
only serious trouble of his life. Why had they not been willing to
receive him? why did his mother weep? and why did the Superior pity
him?
“Say, then, little master,” asked the negro suddenly, “what is a
cocotte?”
“A cocotte?” asked Jack in astonishment. “I don’t know. Is it a
chicken?”
“I heard the father with a stick say to Madame Moronval that your
mother was a cocotte.”
“What an ideal. You misunderstood,” and at the thought of his mother
being a hen, with feathers, wings, and claws, the boy began to laugh;
and Mâdou, without knowing why, followed his example.
This gayety soon obliterated the painful impressions of their previous
conversation, and the two little, lonely fellows, after having confided
to each other all their sorrows, fell asleep with smiles on their lips.