MÂDOU’S FLIGHT.
Some time after this a letter arrived at the academy from D’Argenton.
The poet wrote to announce that the death of a relative had so 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 laughed aloud as he
penned these words? Did he not know perfectly well the child’s fate at
the academy as soon as it was understood that his mother had left
Paris, and that nothing more was to be expected from her?
The arrival of this letter threw Moronval into a terrible fit of rage,
which rage shook the equilibrium of the academy as a violent tornado
might have done in the tropics.
The countess gone! and gone too, apparently, with that brainless
fellow, who had neither wit nor imagination. Was it not shameful that a
woman of her years—for she 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 the Review, his cherished
project, he was more indignant that D’Argenton and Ida should have made
use of him and his house to advance their own plans. He hurried off to
the Boulevard Haussmann to learn all he could; but the mystery was no
nearer elucidation.
Constant was expecting a letter from her mistress, and knew only that
she had broken entirely with all past relations; that the house was to
be given up, and the furniture sold.
“Ah! 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next quarter Jack would be withdrawn from the school.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 determined
to put an end to all the indulgences with which he had been treated.
Poor Jack after this day sat at the table no longer as an equal, but 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 château in the mountains, of which he discoursed so
fluently, existed only in his imagination. These fierce attacks on the
man whom he detested, amused the child; but something prevented 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 sure, rarely caught their full
meaning, but he saw by the contemptuous laughter that they were far
from kindly. Madame Moronval would sometimes interrupt the conversation
by a 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 understand.” Perhaps he did not
fully, but he comprehended enough to make his heart very sore.
He had known for a long time that he had a father whose name was not
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 Mâdou, who was at this time very unhappy.
The pleasant weather, and the day at the _Jardin d’Aclimation_, had
given him a terrible fit of homesickness. His melancholy at first took
the form of a sullen revolt against his exacting masters. Suddenly all
this was changed, the boy’s eyes grew bright, and he seemed 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, Mâdou?”
“I am not singing, sir; I’m talking negro talk!” and Mâdou 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 Kérika. If Jack would go with him,
they would go to Marseilles on foot, and then go on board some vessel.
Nothing could happen to them, for he had his amulet all safe. Jack 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 Mâdou; “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 Mâdou busily scrubbing the floor, and concluded that he had
relinquished his project.
The classes were busy for an hour or two, when Moronval appeared.
“Where is Mâdou?” he asked abruptly. “He has gone to market,” answered
madame. Jack, however, said to himself that Mâdou would not return.
In a little while Moronval came back and asked the same question. His
wife answered, uneasily, that she could not understand the boy’s
prolonged absence.
Dinner-time came, but no Mâdou, no vegetables, and no meat.
“Something must have happened,” said Madame Moronval, more indulgent
than her impatient husband, 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 Mâdou’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! Then it is certain he has run away!”
“But where has he gone?” asked the doctor; “he could hardly reach
Dahomey with that 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 wholesome
fear of Monsieur 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 the police office, he
stated that Mâdou had carried away a large sum. “But,” he added,
assuming an air of indifference, “the money part of the matter is 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 quietly 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 description of Mâdou. Then the party repaired
to the police court, for Moronval had the singular idea that in this
way his pupils might learn something of Parisian life. The children,
fortunately, were too young to understand all they saw, but they
carried away with them a most sinister impression. Jack especially, who
was the most intelligent of the boys, returned 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 Mâdou 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 Mâdou’s journey: the weather, that had been so fine the day of his
departure, 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 clothing 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 me
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 this news with a wild hurrah. Jack did not speak,
but sighed as he said to himself, “Poor Mâdou!”
Mâdou had been, in fact, at the station-house since the evening before.
It was there, amid criminals of all grades, that the presumptive heir
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, on 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 one teacher who
loves his pupils!” Mâdou, however, displayed the utmost indifference.
His face was positively without expression; not a ray of shame or of
apprehension was visible. His eyes were wide open, but he seemed to see
nothing; his face was pale—and the pallor of a negro is something
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 had 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 Mâdou during their long drive to the academy. The boy was so worn
out and crushed that he sank into a corner, while Moronval 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. Mâdou, as he passed, said good
morning in so mournful a tone that Jack’s eyes filled with tears. The
children saw nothing more of the black boy that day. Recitations went
on in their usual routine, and at intervals the sound of a lash was
heard, and heavy groans from Moronval’s private study. Madame Moronval
turned pale, and the book she held trembled. Even when all was again
silent, Jack fancied that he still heard the groans.
At dinner the principal was radiant, though seemingly 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 occupied. Poor Mâdou 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 covering like a monitor!”
When they were alone, Jack took Mâdou’s hand and found it as burning
hot as a brick from the furnace. “Dear Mâdou,” he whispered. Mâdou half
opened his eyes and looked at his friend with an expression of utter
discouragement.
“It’s all over with Mâdou,” he murmured; “Mâdou has lost his Gri-gri,
and will never see Dahomey again.”
This was the reason, then, that he had not left Paris. Two hours after
he had run away from the academy, the fifteen francs of market-money
and his medal had been stolen from him. Then, relinquishing all idea of
Marseilles, of the ship and of the sea, knowing that without his
Gri-gri Dahomey was unattainable, Mâdou had spent eight days and nights
in the lowest depths of Paris, looking for his amulet. Fearing that
Moronval would discover his whereabouts, 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 doorway, or under the arches of a bridge.
Favored by his size and by his color, Mâdou glided about almost unseen;
he had associated with criminals of all classes, and had escaped
without contamination, 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 Kérika, he had been awakened by the
trumpeting of elephants 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 African
forests; or they would have been, had he understood the dangers he
incurred. But he could not find his Gri-gri. Mâdou 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 suddenly by a shout from
Mâdou, who was singing and talking in his own language with frightful
volubility. Delirium had begun.
In the morning, Dr. Hirsch announced that Mâdou was very ill. “A
brain-fever!” he said, rubbing his hands in glee.
This Dr. Hirsch was a terrible man. His head was stuffed full of all
sorts of Utopian ideas, of impracticable 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 smattering of the science of medicine as practised among
the Indians and the Chinese. He even had a strong leaning toward the
magic arts, and when a human life was intrusted to his care he took
that opportunity to try some experiments. Madame Moronval was inclined
to call in another physician, but the principal, less compassionate,
and unwilling 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 Mâdou’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 physician was always more 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 Mâdou?” But the doctor locked the
door, and peremptorily ordered the children from its vicinity, telling
them that they would be ill too, that Mâdou’s illness was contagious;
and this last idea added additional mystery to that corner of the
garden.
Jack, nevertheless, desired to see his friend so much that he alone of
all the boys 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 are used as a shelter
for rakes and hoes, or even to house some tender plants. Close by the
side of Mâdou’s iron bed, in the corner, was a pile of earthen
flowerpots; 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.
Mâdou was not asleep. His poor little thin face had still the same
expression of absolute indifference. His black hands, tightly clenched,
lay on the outside 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, Mâdou,—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 effaced all that art had inculcated, and Mâdou understood and spoke
nothing save his savage dialect. At this 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 the strange scene,
retreated to the doorway, and stood with affrighted eyes.
Mâdou drew one long, shivering sigh.
“He is going to sleep, I think,” whispered Said, shivering with terror;
for, older than Jack, he intuitively felt the cold blast from the wings
of Death, which already fanned the 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 illuminating every corner as
if in search of something 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 Mâdou’s red sleeve, until
tired apparently of its fruitless search, discouraged and exhausted,
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 Mâdou! 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 policy had a word to say. After much indecision,
Moronval decided to 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
published 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 principal. The discipline of the establishment
was commended; 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 day in May, therefore, Paris, which, notwithstanding its
innumerable occupations and its feverish 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 royal
insignia fantastic in character. Then came Moronval, with Jack and the
other schoolboys. The professors followed with the habitués 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
many disappointed 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 pretendents, too, to some
imaginary kingdom to which 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 Bohemians!
To increase the dreariness of the scene, a fine cold rain began to
fall, as if fate pursued the little prince, who so hated cold weather,
even to the very grave. Yes, to the grave; for when the coffin had been
lowered, Moronval pronounced a discourse so insincere and hard that it
would not have warmed you, my poor Mâdou! 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,
Moronval’s discourse was at once heart-breaking and absurd.