JACK’S DEPARTURE.
The only sincere grief for the negro boy was felt by little Jack. The
death of his comrade had impressed him to an extraordinary degree, and
the lonely deathbed he had witnessed haunted him for days. Jack knew
too that now he must bear alone all Moronval’s whims and caprices, for
the other pupils all had some one who came occasionally to see them,
and who would report any brutalities of which they were the victims.
Jack’s mother never wrote to him nowadays, and no one at the Institute
knew even where she was. Ah! had he but been able to ascertain, how
quickly would the child have gone to her, and told her all his sorrows.
Jack thought of all this as they returned from the cemetery.
Labassandre and Dr. Hirsch were in front of him, talking to each other.
“She is in Paris,” said Labassandre, “for I saw her yesterday.”
Jack listened eagerly.
“And was he with her?”
She—he. These designations were certainly somewhat vague, and yet Jack
knew of whom they were speaking. Could his mother be in Paris and yet
not have hastened to him? All the way back to the Institute he was
meditating his escape.
Moronval, surrounded by his professors and friends, walked at the head
of the procession, and turned occasionally to look back upon them with
a rallying gesture. This gesture was repeated by Said to the little
boys, whose legs were very weary with the distance they had walked.
They would increase their speed for a few rods, and then gradually drop
off again. Jack contrived to linger more and more among the last.
“Come!” cried Moronval.
“Come, come!” repeated Said.
At the entrance of the Champs Elysées Saïd turned for the last time,
gesticulating violently to hasten the little group. Suddenly the
Egyptian’s arms fell at his side in amazement, for Jack was missing!
At first the child did not run, he was sagacious enough to avoid any
look of haste. He affected, on the contrary, a lounging air. But as he
drew nearer the Boulevard Haussmann, a mad desire to run took
possession of him, and his little feet, in spite of himself, went
faster and faster. Would the house be closed? And if Labassandre were
mistaken, and his mother not in Paris, what would become of him? The
alternative of a return to the academy never occurred to him. Indeed,
if he had thought of it, the remembrance of the heavy blows and
heartfelt sobs that he had heard all one afternoon would have filled
him with terror.
“She is there,” cried the child, in a transport of joy, as he saw all
the windows of the house open, and the door also as it was always when
his mother was about going out. He hastened on, lest the carriage
should take her away before he could arrive. But as he entered the
vestibule, he was struck by something extraordinary in its appearance.
It was full of people all busily talking. Furniture was being carried
away: sofas and chairs, covered for a boudoir in such faint and
delicate hues that in the broad light of day they looked faded. A
mirror, framed in silver, and ornamented with cupids, was leaning
against one of the stone pillars; a jardinière without flowers, and
curtains that had been taken down and thrown over a chair, were near
by. Several women richly dressed were talking together of the merits of
a crystal chandelier.
Jack, in great astonishment, made his way through the crowd, and could
hardly recognize the well-known rooms, such was their disorder. The
visitors opened the drawers wide, tapped on the wood of the sideboard,
felt of the curtains, and sometimes, as she passed the piano, a lady,
without stopping or removing her gloves, would lightly strike a chord
or two. The child thought himself dreaming. And his mother, where was
she? He went toward her room, but the crowd surged at that moment in
the same direction. The child was too little to see what attracted
them, but he heard the hammer of the auctioneer, and a voice that
said,—
“A child’s bed, carved and gilded, with curtains!”
And Jack saw his own bed, where he had slept so long, handled by rough
men. He wished to exclaim,
“The bed is mine—my very own—I will not have it touched;” but a certain
feeling of shame withheld him, and he went from room to room looking
for his mother, when suddenly his arm was seized.
“What! Master Jack, are you no longer at the school?”
It was Constant, his mother’s maid—Constant, in her Sunday dress,
wearing pink ribbons, and with an air of great importance.
“Where is mamma?” asked the child, in a low voice, a voice that was so
pitiful and troubled that the woman’s heart was touched.
“Your mother is not here, my poor child,” she said.
“But where is she? And what are all these people doing?”
“They have come for the auction. But come with me to the kitchen,
Master Jack, we can talk better there.”
There was quite a party in the kitchen,—the old cook, Augustin, and
several servants in the neighborhood. They were drinking champagne
around the same table where Jack’s future had been one evening decided.
The child’s arrival made quite a sensation. He was caressed by them
all, for the servants were really attached to his kind-hearted mother.
As he was afraid that they would take him back to the Institute, Jack
took good care not to say that he had run away, and merely spoke of an
imaginary permission he had received to enable him to visit his mother.
“She is not here, Master Jack,” said Constant, “and I really do not
know whether I ought—” Then, interrupting herself, Constant exclaimed,
“O! it is too bad. I cannot keep this child from his mother!”
Then she informed little Jack that madame was at Etiolles.
The child repeated the name over and over again to himself. “Is it far
from here?” he asked.
“Eight good leagues,” answered Augustin.
But the cook disputed this point; and then followed an animated
discussion as to the route to be taken to reach _Etiolles_. Jack
listened eagerly, for he had already decided to attempt the journey
alone and on foot.
“Madame lives in a pretty little cottage just at the edge of a wood,”
said Constant.
Jack understood by this time which side of Paris he should go out. This
and the name of the village were the two distinct ideas he had. The
distance did not frighten him. “I can walk all night,” he said to
himself, “even if my legs are little.” Then he spoke aloud. “I must go
now,” he said, “I must go back to school.” One question, however,
burned on his lips. Was Argenton at Etiolles? Should he find this
powerful barrier between his mother and himself? He dared not ask
Constant, however. Without understanding the truth precisely, he yet
felt very keenly that this was not the best side of his mother’s life,
and he avoided all mention of it.
The servants said “good-bye,” the coachman shook hands with him, and
then the boy found himself in the vestibule among a bustling crowd. He
did not linger in this chaos, for the house had no longer any interest
for him, but hurried into the street, eager to start on the journey
that would end by placing him with his mother.
Bercy! Yes, Bercy was the name of the village the cook had mentioned as
the first after leaving Paris. The way was not difficult to find,
although it was a good distance off, but the fear of being caught by
Moronval spurred him on. An inquisitive look from a policeman startled
him, a shadow on the wall, or a hurried step behind, made his heart
beat, and over and above the noise and confusion of the streets he
seemed to hear the cry of “Stop him! Stop him!” At last he climbed over
the bank and began to run on the narrow path by the water’s edge. The
day was coming to an end. The river was very high and yellow from
recent rains, the water rolled heavily against the arches of the
bridge, and the wind curled it in little waves, the tops of which were
just touched by the level rays of the setting sun. Women passed him
bearing baskets of wet linen, fishermen drew in their lines, and a
whole river-side population, sailors and bargemen, with their rounded
shoulders and woollen hoods, hurried past him. With these there was
still another class, rough and ferocious of aspect, who were quite
capable of pulling you out of the Seine for fifteen francs, and of
throwing you in again for a hundred sous. Occasionally one of these men
would turn to look at this slender schoolboy who seemed in such a
hurry.
The appearance of the shore was continually changing. In one place it
was black, and long planks were laid to boats laden with charcoal.
Farther on, similar boats were crowded with fruit, and a delicious odor
of fresh orchards was wafted on the air. Suddenly there was a look of a
great harbor; steamboats were loading at the wharves; a few rods more,
and a group of old trees bathed their distorted roots in a limpid
stream, and one could easily fancy one’s self twenty leagues from
Paris, and in an earlier century.
But night was close at hand.
The arches of the bridges vanished in darkness; the bank was deserted,
and illuminated only by that vague light which comes from even the very
darkest body of water.
But still the child toiled on, and at last found himself on a long
wharf, covered with warehouses and piled with merchandise. He had
reached Bercy, but it was night, and he was filled with terror lest he
should be stopped at the gate; but the little fugitive was hardly
noticed. He passed the barrier without hindrance, and soon found
himself in a long, narrow street, solitary and dimly lighted. While the
child was in the life and motion of the city, he was terrified only by
one thought, and that was that Moronval would find him. Now he was
still afraid, but his fear was of another character—born of silence and
solitude.
Yet the place where he now found himself was not the country. The
street was bordered with houses on both sides, but as the child slowly
toiled on, these buildings became farther and farther apart, and
considerably lower in height. Although barely eight o’clock, this road
was almost deserted. Occasional pedestrians walked noiselessly over the
damp ground, while the dismal howling of a dog added to the
cheerlessness of the scene. Jack was troubled. Each step that he took
led him further from Paris, its light and its noise. He reached the
last wineshop. A broad circle of light barred the road, and seemed to
the child the limits of the inhabited world.
After he had passed that shop, he must go on in the dark. Should he go
into the shop and ask his way? He looked in. The proprietor was seated
at his desk; around a small table sat two men and a woman, drinking and
talking. When Jack lifted the latch, they looked up; the three had
hideous faces—such faces as he had seen at the police stations the day
they were looking for Mâdou. The woman, above all, was frightful.
“What does he want?” said one of the men.
The other rose; but little Jack with one bound leaped the stream of
light from the open door, hearing behind him a volley of abuse. The
darkness now seemed to the child a refuge, and he ran on quickly until
he found himself in the open country. Before him stretched field after
field; a few small, scattered houses, white cubes, alone varied the
monotony of the scene. Below was Paris, known by its long line of
reddish vapor, like the reflection of a blacksmith’s forge. The child
stood still. It was the first time that he had ever been alone out of
doors at night. He had neither eaten nor drank all day, and was now
suffering from intense thirst. He was also beginning to understand what
he had undertaken.
Had he strength enough to reach his mother?
He finally decided to lie down in a furrow in the bank on the side of
the road, and sleep there until daybreak. But as he went toward the
spot he had selected, he heard heavy breathing, and saw that a man was
stretched out there, his rags making a confused mass of dark shadow
against the white stones.
Jack stood petrified, his heart in his mouth, unable to take a step
forward or back. At this instant the sleeping figure began to move, and
to talk, still without waking. The child thought of the woman in the
wine-shop, and feared that this creature was she, or some other equally
repulsive.
The shadows all about were now to his fancy peopled with these
frightful beings. They climbed over the bank, they barred his further
progress. If he extended his hand to the right or the left, he felt
certain that he should touch them. A light and a voice aroused the
child from this stupor. An officer, accompanied by his orderly, bearing
a lantern, suddenly appeared.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said the child, gently, breathless with
emotion.
The soldier who carried the lantern raised it in the direction of the
voice.
“This is a bad hour to travel, my boy,” remarked the officer; “are you
going far?”
“O, no, sir; not very far,” answered Jack, who did not care to tell the
truth.
“Ah, well! we can go on together as far as Charenton.”
What a delight it was to the child to walk for an hour at the side of
these two honest soldiers, to regulate his steps by theirs, and to see
the cheerful light from the lantern! From the soldier, too, he casually
learned that he was on the right road.
“Now we are at home,” said the officer, halting suddenly. “Good night.
And take my advice, my lad, and don’t travel alone again at night—it is
not safe.” And with these parting words, the men turned up a narrow
lane, swinging the lantern, leaving Jack alone at the entrance of the
principal street in Charenton. The child wandered on until he found
himself on the quay; he crossed a bridge which seemed to him to be
thrown over an abyss, so profound were the depths below. He lingered
for a moment, but rough voices singing and laughing so startled him
that he took to his heels and ran until he was out of breath, and was
again in the open fields. He turned and looked back; the red light of
the great city was still reflected on the horizon. Afar off he heard
the grinding of wheels. “Good!” said the child; “something is coming.”
But nothing appeared. And the invisible wagon, whose wheels moved
apparently with difficulty, turned down some unseen lane.
Jack toiled on slowly. Who was that man that stood waiting for him at
the turning of the road? One man! Nay, there were two or three. But
they were trees,—tall, slender poplars,—or a clump of elms—those lovely
old elms which grow to such majestic beauty in France; and Jack was
environed by the mysteries of nature,—nature in the springtime of the
year, when one can almost hear the grass grow, the buds expand, and the
earth crackle as the tender herbage shoots forth. All these faint,
vague noises bewildered little Jack, who began to sing a nursery rhyme
with which his mother formerly rocked him to sleep.
It was pitiful to hear the child, alone in the darkness, encouraging
himself by these reminiscences of his happy, petted infancy. Suddenly
the little trembling voice stopped.
Something was coming—something blacker than the darkness itself,
sweeping down on the child as if to swallow him up. Cries were heard;
human voices, and heavy blows. Then came a drove of enormous cattle,
which pressed against little Jack on all sides; he feels the damp
breath from their nostrils; their tails switch violently, and the heat
of their bodies, and the odor of the stable, is almost stifling. Two
boys and two dogs are in charge of these animals; the dogs bark, and
the uncouth peasants yell, until the noise is appalling.
As they pass on, the child is absolutely stupefied by terror. These
animals have gone, but will there not be others? It begins to rain, and
Jack, in despair, fails on his knees, and wishes to die. The sound of a
carriage, and the sight of two lamps like friendly eyes coming quickly
toward him, revives him suddenly. He calls aloud.
The carriage stops. A head, with a travelling cap drawn closely down
over the ears, bends forward to ascertain the whereabouts of the shrill
cry.
“I am very tired,” pleaded Jack; “would you be so kind as to let me
come into your carriage?”
The man hesitated, but a woman’s voice came to the child’s assistance.
“Ah, what a little fellow! Let him come in here.”
“Where are you going?” asked the traveller.
The child hesitated. Like all fugitives, he wished to hide his
destination. “To Villeneuve St George,” he answered, nervously.
“Come on, then,” said the man, with gruff kindness.
The child was soon curled up under a comfortable travelling rug,
between a stout lady and gentleman, who both examined him curiously by
the light of the little lamp.
Where was he going so late, and all alone, too? Jack would have liked
to tell the truth, but he was in too great fear of being carried back
to the Institute. Then he invented a story to suit the occasion. His
mother was very ill in the country, where she was visiting. He had been
told of this the night before, and he had at once started off on foot,
because he had not patience to wait for the next day’s train.
“I understand,” said the lady. And the gentleman looked as if he
understood also, but made many wise observations as to the imprudence
of running about the country alone, there were so many dangers. Then he
was asked in what house in Villeneuve his mother’s friends resided.
“At the end of the town,” answered Jack, promptly,—“the last house on
the right.”
It was lucky that his rising color was hidden by the darkness. His
cross-examination, however, was by no means over. The husband and wife
were great talkers, and, like all great talkers, extremely curious, and
could not be content until they had learned the private affairs of all
those persons with whom they came in contact. They kept a little store,
and each Saturday went into the country to get rid of the dust of the
week; but they were making money, and some day would live altogether at
Soisy-sous-Etiolles.
“Is that place far from Etiolles?” asked Jack, with a start.
“O, no, close by,” answered the gentleman, giving a friendly cut with
his whip to his beast.
What a fatality for Jack! Had he not told the falsehood, he could have
gone on in this comfortable carriage, have rested his poor little weary
legs, and had a comfortable sleep, wrapped in the good woman’s shawl,
who asked him, every little while, if he was warm enough.
If he could but summon courage enough to say, “I have told you a
falsehood; I am going to the same place that you are;” but he was
unwilling to incur the contempt and distrust of these good people; yet,
when they told him that they had reached Villeneuve, the child could
not restrain a sob.
“Do not cry, my little friend,” said the kind woman; “your mother,
perhaps, is not so ill as you think, and the sight of you will make her
well.”
At the last house the carriage stopped.
“Yes, this is it,” said Jack, sadly. The good people said a kind
good-bye. “How lucky you are to have finished your journey,” said the
woman; “we have four good leagues before us.”
Little Jack had the same, but durst not say so. He went toward the
garden-gate. “Good night,” said his new friends, “good night.”
He answered in a voice choked by tears, and the carriage turned toward
the right. Then the child, overwhelmed with vain regrets, ran after it
with all his speed; but his limbs, weakened instead of strengthened by
inadequate repose, refused all service. At the end of a few rods he
could go no further, but sank on the roadside with a burst of
passionate tears, while the hospitable proprietors of the carriage
rolled comfortably on, without an idea of the despair they had left
behind them.
He was cold, the earth was wet. No matter for that; he was too weary to
think or to feel. The wind blows violently, and soon the poor little
boy sleeps quietly. A frightful noise awakens him. Jack starts up and
sees something monstrous—a howling, snorting beast, with two fiery eyes
that send forth a shower of sparks. The creature dashed past, leaving
behind him a train like a comet’s tail. A grove of trees, quite
unsuspected by Jack, suddenly flashed out clearly; each leaf could have
been counted. Not until this apparition was far away, and nothing of it
was visible save a small green light, did Jack know that it was the
express train.
What time was it? How long had he slept? He knew not, but he felt ill
and stiff in every limb. He had dreamed of Mâdou,—dreamed that they lay
side by side in the cemetery; he saw Mâdou’s face, and shivered at the
thought of the little icy fingers touching his own. To get away from
this idea Jack resumed his weary journey. The damp earth had stiffened
in the cold night wind, and his own footfall sounded in his ears so
unnaturally heavy, that he fancied Mâdou was at his side or behind him.
The child passes through a slumbering village; a clock strikes two.
Another village, another clock, and three was sounded. Still the boy
plods on, with swimming head and burning feet. He dares not stop.
Occasionally he meets a huge covered wagon, driver and horses sound
asleep. He asks, in a timid, tired voice, “Is it far now to Etiolles?”
No answer comes save a loud snore.
Soon, however, another traveller joins the child—a traveller whose
praises are sung by the cheery crowing of the cocks, and the gurgles of
the frogs in the pond. It is the dawn. And the child shares the anxiety
of expectant nature, and breathlessly awaits the coming of the new-born
day.
Suddenly, directly in front of him, in the direction in which lay the
town where his mother was, the clouds divide—are torn apart suddenly,
as it were; a pale line of light is first seen; this line gradually
broadens, with a waving light like flames. Jack walks toward this light
with a strength imparted by incipient delirium.
Something tells him that his mother is waiting there for him, waiting
to welcome him after this horrible night. The sky was now clear, and
looked like a large blue eye, dewy with tears and full of sweetness.
The road no longer dismayed the child. Besides, it was a smooth
highway, without ditch or pavement, intended, it seemed, for the
carriages of the wealthy. Superb residences, with grounds carefully
kept, were on both sides of this road. Between the white houses and the
vineyards were green lawns that led down to the river, whose surface
reflected the tender blue and rosy tints of the sky above. O sun,
hasten thy coming; warm and comfort the little child, who is so weary
and so sad!
“Am I far from Etiolles?” asked Jack of some laborers who were going to
their work.
“No, he was not far from Etiolles; he had but to follow the road
straight on through the wood.”
The wood was all astir now, resounding with the chirping of birds and
the rustling of squirrels. The refrain of the birds in the hedge of
wild roses was repeated from the topmost branches of the century-old
oak-trees; the branches shook and bent under the sudden rush of winged
creatures; and while the last of the shadows faded away, and the
night-birds with silent, heavy flight hurried to their mysterious
shelters, a lark suddenly rises from the field with its wings
wide-spread, and flies higher and higher until it is lost in the sky
above. The child no longer walks, he crawls; an old woman meets him,
leading a goat; mechanically he asks if it is far to Etiolles.
The ragged creature looks at him ferociously, and then points out a
little stony path. The sunshine warms the little fellow, who stumbles
over the pebbles, for he has no strength to lift his feet. At last he
sees a steeple and a cluster of houses; one more effort, and he will
reach them. But he is dizzy and falls; through his half-shut eyes he
sees close at hand a little house covered with vines and roses. Over
the door, between the wavering shadows of a lilac-tree already in
flower, he saw an inscription in gold letters:—
PARVA DOMUS, MAGNA QUIES.
How pretty the house was, bathed in the fresh morning light! All the
blinds are still closed, although the dwellers in the cottages are
awake, for he hears a woman’s voice singing,—singing, too, his own
cradle-song, in a fresh, gay voice. Was he dreaming? The blinds were
thrown open, and a woman appeared in a white négligée, with her hair
lightly twisted in a simple knot.
“Mamma, mamma!” cried Jack, in a weak voice.
The lady turned quickly, shaded her eyes from the sun, and saw the poor
little worn and travel-stained lad.
She screamed “Jack!” and in a moment more was beside him, warming him
in her arms, caressing and soothing the little fellow, who sobbed out
the anguish of that terrible night on her shoulder.