AMAURY D’ARGENTON.
Amaury d’Argenton belonged to one of those ancient provincial families
whose castles resembled great farms. Impoverished for the three last
generations, they had finally sold their property, and come to Paris to
seek their fortunes; with little change for the better, however; and
for the last thirty years they had dropped the _De_, which Amaury
ventured to resume on adopting his literary career. He meant to make it
famous, and even was audacious enough to announce this intention aloud.
The childhood of the poet had been one of gloom and privation;
surrounded by anxieties and by tears, by sordid cares, and that
constant lack of money which imbitters the lives of so many of us, he
had never laughed nor played like other children. A scholarship that
was obtained for him enabled him to complete his studies, and his only
recreation was obtained through the kindness of an aunt who resided in
the Marais, and who gave him gloves and other trifles, which the poet
very early in life learned to regard as essentials.
Such a childhood ripens early into bitter maturity. Infinite prosperity
is needed to efface such early impressions, and we often see men who
have attained to high honors, who are rich and powerful, and yet who
have never conquered the timidity born of their early deprivations.
D’Argenton’s bitterness was not without reason: at twenty-five he had
succeeded in nothing; he had published a volume at his own expense, and
had lived on bread and water in consequence for at least six months. He
was industrious as well as ambitious; but something more than these
qualities are essential to a poet, whose imagination and genius must be
endowed with wings. These D’Argenton had not; he felt merely that vague
uneasiness which indicates a missing limb, but that was all, and he
lost both time and trouble in ineffectual efforts; his aunt aided him
by a small allowance, but his life bore not the shadow of a resemblance
to the picture drawn by Ida. In fact, D’Argenton had never been
entangled in any serious love affair; his nature was cold and prudent,
and yet he had been beloved by more than one woman. To D’Argenton,
however, their society had always seemed a waste of time. Ida de
Barancy was the first who had made upon him any real impression. Of
this fact Ida had no idea, and whenever she met the poet on her very
frequent visits to Jack, it was always with the same deprecating air
and timid voice. The poet, while adopting an air of utter indifference,
cultivated the affection and society of little Jack, whom he induced to
talk freely of his mother.
Jack being extremely flattered, gladly gave every information in his
power, and talked freely of the kind friend who was so good to mamma.
The mention of this person cost the poet a strange pang. “He is so
kind,” babbled Jack, “he comes to see us every day; or, if he does not
come, he sends us great baskets of fruit, and playthings for me.”
“And is your mother very fond of him, too?” continued D’Argenton,
without looking up from his writing.
“Yes, indeed, sir,” answered the little fellow, innocently.
But are we quite sure that he spoke so innocently. The minds of
children are not always so transparent as we believe; and it is
difficult to say when they understand matters that go on about them,
and when they do not. That mysterious growth that is constantly going
on within them, has unexpected seasons of bursting into flower, and
they suddenly mass together the disconnected fragments of information
they have acquired and intuitively attain the result.
Had Jack, therefore, no perception of the hidden rage that filled the
heart of his professor when he questioned him in regard to their kind
friend? Jack did not like D’Argenton; in addition to his first dislike,
he was now actuated by strong jealousy. His mother was too much
occupied by this man. When he passed the day with her, she in her turn
plied him with questions, and asked if his teacher never spoke to him
of her.
“Never,” said Jack, calmly. And yet that very day D’Argenton had
desired him to present his compliments to the countess, with a copy of
his poems; but Jack at first forgot the volume, and finally lost it, as
much from cunning as from heedlessness.
Thus, while these two dissimilar natures were attracted toward each
other, the child stood between them suspicious and defiant, as if he
already foresaw what the future would bring about.
Every two weeks Jack dined with his mother, sometimes alone with her,
sometimes with their friend. They went to the theatre in the evening,
or to a concert, and Jack was sent back to school with his pockets full
of dainties, in which the other children shared.
One evening, as he entered his mother’s house, he saw the dining-table
laid for three, and a gorgeous display of flowers and crystal. His
mother met him, exquisitely dressed, wearing in her hair sprays of
white lilacs, like those that filled the vases. The blazing fire alone
lighted the salon, into which she gayly drew the boy, as she said,
“Guess who is here!”
“O, I know very well!” exclaimed Jack in delight; “it is our good
friend.”
But it was D’Argenton, who sat in full evening dress on the sofa, near
the fire. The enemy was in Jack’s own seat, and the child was so
overwhelmed by his disappointment that he with difficulty restrained
his tears. There was a moment of restraint and discomfort felt by all
three. Just then the door was thrown open, and dinner announced by
Augustin. The dinner was long and tedious to little Jack. Have you ever
felt so entirely out of place that you would have gladly disappeared
from off the face of the globe, painfully conscious, withal, that had
you so vanished, no one would have missed you? When Jack spoke, no one
listened; his questions were unheard and his wants unheeded. The
conversation between his mother and D’Argenton was incomprehensible to
him, although he saw that his mother blushed more than once, and
hastily raised her glass to her lips as if to conceal her rising color.
Where were those gay little dinners when Jack sat close at his mother’s
side and reigned an absolute king at the table? This recollection came
to the boy’s mind just as Madame de Barancy offered a superb pear to
D’Argenton.
“That came from our friend at Tours,” said Jack, maliciously.
D’Argenton, who was about to peel the fruit, dropped it upon his plate
with a shrug of the shoulders. What an angry glance Ida threw upon her
child! She had never looked at him in that way before. Jack did not
venture to speak again, and the evening to him was but a dreary
continuation of the repast.
Ida and the poet talked in low voices, and in that confidential tone
that indicates great intimacy. He told her of his sad childhood and of
his early home. He described the ruined towers and the long corridors
where the wind raged and howled. He then depicted his early struggles
in the great city, the constant obstacles thrown in the way of the
development of his genius, of his jealous rivals and literary enemies,
and of the terrible epigrams which he had hurled upon them.
“Then I uttered these stinging words.” This time she did not interrupt
him, but listened with a smile, and her absorption was so great that
when he ceased speaking she still listened, although nothing was to be
heard in the salon save the ticking of the clock and the rustling of
the leaves of the album that Jack, half asleep, was turning over.
Suddenly she rose with a start.
“Come, Jack, my love; call Constant to take you back to school. It is
quite time.”
“O, mamma!” said the child, sadly; but he dared not say that he
generally remained much later. He did not wish to be troublesome to his
mother, nor to meet again such an expression in her ordinarily serene
and laughing eyes, as had so startled him at the dinner-table.
She rewarded him for his self-control by a most loving embrace.
“Good night, my child!” said D’Argenton, and he drew the child toward
him as if to embrace him, but suddenly, with a movement of repulsion,
turned aside as he had done at dinner from the fruit.
“I cannot! I cannot!” he murmured, throwing himself back in his
arm-chair and passing his handkerchief over his forehead.
Jack turned to his mother in amazement.
“Go, dear Jack. Take him away, Constant.” And while Madame de Barancy
sought to conciliate her poet, the child returned with a heavy heart to
his school; and in the cold dormitory, as he thought of the professor
installed in his mother’s chimney-corner, said to himself, “He is very
comfortable there. I wonder how long he means to stay!”
In D’Argenton’s exclamation and in his repugnance to Jack, there was
certainly some acting, but there was also real feeling. He was very
jealous of the child, who represented to him Ida’s past, not that the
poet was profoundly in love with the countess. He, on the contrary,
loved himself in her, and, Narcissus-like, worshipped his own image
which he saw reflected in her clear eyes. But D’Argenton would have
preferred to be the first to disturb those depths.
But these regrets were useless, though Ida shared them. “Why did I not
know him earlier?” she said to herself over and over again.
“She ought to understand by this time,” said D’Argenton, sulkily, “that
I do not wish to see that boy.”
But even for her poet’s sake Ida could not keep her child away from her
entirely. She did not, however, go so often to the academy, nor summon
Jack from school, as she had done, and this change was by no means the
smallest of the sacrifices she was called upon to make.
As to the hotel she occupied, her carriage, and the luxury in which she
lived, she was ready to abandon them all at a word from D’Argenton.
“You will see,” she said, “how I can aid you. I can work, and, besides,
I shall not be completely penniless.”
But D’Argenton hesitated. He was, notwithstanding his apparent
enthusiasm and recklessness, extremely methodical and clear-headed.
“No, we will wait a while. I shall be rich some day, and then—”
He alluded to his old aunt, who now made him an allowance and whose
heir he would unquestionably be. “The good old lady was very old,” he
added. And the two, Ida and D’Argenton, made a great many plans for the
days that were to come. They would live in the country, but not so far
away from Paris that they would be deprived of its advantages. They
would have a little cottage, over the door of which should be inscribed
this legend: _Parva domus, magna quies_. There he could work, write a
book—a novel, and later, a volume of poems. The titles of both were in
readiness, but that was all.
Then the publishers would make him offers; he would be famous, perhaps
a member of the Academy—though, to be sure, that institution was
mildewed, moth-eaten, and ready to fall.
“That is nothing!” said Ida; “you must be a member!” and she saw
herself already in a corner on a reception-day, modestly and quietly
dressed, as befitted the wife of a man of letters. While they waited,
however, they regaled themselves on the pears sent by “the kind friend,
who was certainly the best and least suspicious of men.”
D’Argenton found these pears, with their satiny skins, very delicious;
but he ate them with so many expressions of discontent, and with so
many little cutting remarks to Ida, that she spent much of her time in
tears.
Weeks and months passed on in this way without any other change in
their lives than that which naturally grew out of an increasing
estrangement between Moronval and his professor of literature. The
principal, daily expecting a decision from Ida on the subject of the
Review, suspected D’Argenton of influencing her against the project,
and this belief he ended by expressing to the poet.
One morning, Jack, who now went out but rarely, looked out of the
windows with longing eyes. The spring sunshine was so bright, the sky
so blue, that he longed for liberty and out-door life.
The leaf-buds of the lilacs were swelling, and the flower-beds in the
garden were gently upheaved, as if with the movements of invisible
life.
From the lane without came the sounds of children at play, and of
singing-birds, all revelling in the sunshine. It was one of those days
when every window is thrown open to let in the light and air, and to
drive away all wintry shadows, all that blackness imparted by the
length of the nights and the smoke of the fires.
While Jack was longing for wings, the door-bell rang, and his mother
entered in great haste and much agitated, although dressed with great
care. She came for him to breakfast with her in the Bois, and would not
bring him back until night. He must ask Moronval’s permission first;
but as Ida brought the quarterly payment, you may imagine that
permission was easily granted.
“How jolly!” cried Jack; “how jolly!” and while his mother casually
informed Moronval that M. d’Argenton had told her the evening previous
that he was summoned to Auvergne, to his aunt who was dying, the boy
ran to change his dress. On his way he met Mâdou, who, sad and lonely,
was busy with his pails and brooms, and had not had time to find out
that the air was soft and the sunshine warm. On seeing him, Jack had a
bright idea.
“O, mamma, if we could take Mâdou!”
This permission was a little difficult to procure, so multifarious were
the duties of the prince; but Jack was so persistent that kind Madame
Moronval agreed for that day to assume the black boy’s place.
“Mâdou! Mâdou!” cried the child, rushing toward him. “Quick, dress
yourself and come out in the carriage with us; we are going to
breakfast in the Bois!”
There was a moment of confusion. Mâdou stood still in amazement, while
Madame Moronval borrowed a tunic that would be suitable for him in this
emergency. Little Jack danced with joy, while Madame de Barancy,
excited like a canary by the noise, chattered on to Moronval, giving
him details in regard to the illness of D’Argenton’s aunt.
At last they started, Jack and his mother seated side by side in the
victoria, and Mâdou on the box with Augustin. The progress would hardly
be regarded as a royal one, but Mâdou was satisfied. The drive itself
was charming, the Avenue de l’Imperatrice was filled with people
driving, riding, and walking. Children of all ages enlivened the scene.
Babies, in their long white skirts, gazing about with the sweet
solemnity of infancy, and older children fancifully dressed, with their
tutors or nurses, crowded the pavements. Jack, in an ecstasy of
delight, kissed his mother, and pulled Mâdou by the sleeve.
“Are you happy, Mâdou?”
“Yes, sir, very happy,” was the answer. They reached the Bois, in
places quite green and fresh already. There were some spots where the
tops of the trees were in leaf, but the foliage was so minute that it
looked like smoke. The holly, whose crisp, stiff leaves had been
covered with snow half the winter, jostled the timid and distrustful
lilacs whose leaf-buds were only beginning to swell. The carriage drew
up at the restaurant, and while the breakfast ordered by Madame de
Barancy was in course of preparation, she and the children took a walk
to the lake. At this early hour there were few of those superb
equipages to be seen that appeared later in the day. The lake was
lovely, with white swans dotting it here and there, and now and then a
gentle ripple shook its surface, and miniature waves dashed against the
fringe of old willows on one side.
What a walk! And what a breakfast served at the open windows! The
children attacked it with the vigor of schoolboys. They laughed
incessantly from the beginning to the end of the repast.
When breakfast was over, Ida proposed that they should visit the
_Jardin d’Acclimation_.
“That is a splendid idea,” said Jack, “for Mâdou has never been there,
and won’t he be amused!”
They drove through _La Grande Allée_ in the almost deserted garden,
which to the children was full of interest. They were fascinated by the
animals, who, as they passed, looked at them with sleepy or inquisitive
eyes, or smelled with pink nostrils at the fresh bread they had brought
from the restaurant.
Mâdou, who at first had made a pretence of interest only to gratify
Jack, now became absorbed in what he saw. He did not need to examine
the blue ticket over the little inclosures to recognize certain animals
from his own land. With mingled pain and pleasure he looked at the
kangaroos, and seemed to suffer in seeing them in the limited space
which they covered in three leaps.
He stood in silence before the light grating where the antelopes were
inclosed. The birds, too, awakened his compassion. The ostriches and
cassowaries looked mournful enough in the shade of their solitary
exotic; but the parrots and smaller birds in a long cage, without even
a green leaf or twig, were absolutely pitiful, and Mâdou thought of the
Academy Moronval and of himself. The plumage of the birds was dull and
torn; they told a tale of past battles, of dismal flutterings against
the bars of their prison-house. Even the rose-colored flamingoes and
the long-billed ibex, who seem associated with the Nile and the desert
and the immovable sphinx, all assumed a thoroughly commonplace aspect
among the white peacocks and the little Chinese ducks that paddled at
ease in their miniature pond.
By degrees the garden filled up with people, and there suddenly
appeared at the end of the avenue so strange and fantastic a spectacle
that Mâdou stood still in silent ecstasy. He saw the heads of two
elephants, who were slowly approaching, waving their trunks slowly, and
bearing on their broad backs a crowd of women with light umbrellas, of
children with straw hats and colored ribbons. Following the elephant
came a giraffe carrying his small and haughty head very high. This
singular caravan wound through the circuitous road, with many nervous
laughs and terrified cries.
Under the glowing sunlight every tint of color was thrown out in relief
upon the thick and rugged skin of the elephants, who extended their
trunks either toward the tops of the trees or to the pockets of the
spectators, shaking their long ears when gently touched by some child,
or by the umbrella of some laughing girl on their backs.
“What is the matter, Mâdou; you tremble. Are you ill?” asked Jack.
Mâdou was absolutely faint with emotion, but when he learned that he
too could mount the clumsy animals, his grave face became almost tragic
in expression. Jack refused to accompany him, and remained with his
mother, whom he considered too grave for this fête-day. He liked to
walk close at her side, or linger behind her in the dust of her long
silken skirts, which she disdained to lift. They seated themselves, and
watched the little black boy climb on the back of the elephant. Once
there, the child seemed in his native place. He was no longer an exile,
nor the awkward schoolboy, nor the little servant, humiliated by his
menial duties and by his master’s tyranny. He seemed imbued with new
life, and his eyes sparkled with energy and determination. Happy little
king! Two or three times he went around the garden. “Again! again!” he
cried, and over the little bridge, between the inclosures of the
kangaroos and other animals, he went to and fro, excited almost to
madness by the heavy long strides of the elephant. Kérika, Dahomey,
war-like scenes, and the hunt, all returned to his memory. He spoke to
the elephant in his native tongue, and as he heard the sweet African
voice, the huge creature shut his eyes with delight and trumpeted his
pleasure. The zebras neighed, and the antelopes started in terror,
while from the great cage of tropical birds, where the sun shone most
fully, came warblings and flutterings of wings, discordant screams, and
an enraged chatter, all the tumult, in short, on a small scale, of a
primeval forest in the tropics.
But it was growing late. Mâdou must awaken from this beautiful dream.
Besides, as soon as the sun dropped behind the horizon, the wind rose
keen and cold, as so often happens in the early spring. This wintry
chill affected the spirits of the children, and they grew strangely
quiet and sad. Madame de Barancy for a wonder was also very silent. She
had something she wished to say, and she probably found some difficulty
in selecting her words, for she left them unsaid until the last moment.
Then she took Jack’s hand in hers. “Listen, child, I have some bad news
to tell you!”
He understood at once that some great misfortune was impending, and he
turned his supplicating eyes toward his mother. She continued in a low,
quick voice,—
“I am going away, my son, on a long journey; I am obliged to leave you
behind, but I will write to you. Do not cry, dear, for it hurts me; I
shall not be gone long, and we shall soon see each other again. Yes,
very soon, I promise you.” And she threw out mysterious hints of a
fortune to come, and money affairs, and other things that were not at
all interesting to the child, who in reality paid little attention to
her words, for he was weeping silently but chokingly. The gay streets
seemed no longer the Paris of the morning, the sunshine was gone, the
flowers on the corner-stands were faded, and all was very dreary, for
he saw through eyes dim with tears, and the child was about to lose his
mother.