INDRET.
The opera-singer stood upright in the boat and cried, “Is not the scene
beautiful, Jack?”
It was about four o’clock—a July evening; the waves glittered in the
sunlight, and the air palpitated with heat. Large sails, that in the
golden atmosphere looked snowy white, passed by from time to time; they
were boats from Noirmoutiers, loaded to the brim with sparkling white
salt. Peasants in their picturesque costumes were crowded in, and the
caps of the women were as white as the salt Other boats were laden with
grain. Occasionally a three-masted vessel came slowly up the stream,
arriving, perhaps, from the end of the world after a two years’ voyage,
and bearing with it something of the poetry and mystery of other lands.
A fresh breeze came from the sea, and made one long for the deep blue
of the ocean.
“And Indret—where is it?” asked Jack.
“There, that island opposite.”
Through the silvery mists that enveloped the island, Jack saw dimly a
row of poplar-trees, and some high chimneys from which poured out a
thick black smoke; at the same time he heard loud blows of hammers on
iron, and a continual whistling and puffing, as if the island itself
had been an enormous steamer. As the boat slowly made her way to the
wharf, the child saw long, low buildings on every side, and close at
the river-side a row of enormous furnaces, which were filled from the
water by coal barges.
“There is Rondic!” cried the opera-singer, and from his stupendous
chest sent forth a hurrah so formidable that it was heard above all the
clatter of machinery.
The boat stopped, and the brothers met with effusion. The two resembled
each other very much, though Rondic was older and not so stout. His
face was closely shaven, and he wore a sailor’s hat that shaded a true
Breton peasant face tanned by the sea, and a pair of eyes as keen as
steel.
“And how are you all?” asked Labassandre.
“Well enough, well enough, thank Heaven! And this is our new
apprentice?—he looks very small and not over-strong.”
“Strong as an ox, my dear; and warranted by all the physicians in
Paris!”
“So much the better, for it is a hard life here. But now hasten, for we
must present ourselves to the Director at once.”
They turned into a long avenue lined by fine trees. The avenue
terminated in a village street, with white houses on both sides,
inhabited by the master and head-workmen. At this hour all was silent;
life and movement were concentrated at the factory; and, but for the
linen drying in the yards, an occasional cry of an infant, and a pot of
flowers at the window, one would have supposed the place uninhabited.
“Ah, the flag is lowered!” said the singer, as they reached the door.
“Once that terrified me!” and he explained to Jack that when the flag
was dropped from the top of the staff, it meant that the doors of the
factory were closed. So much the worse for late comers; they were
marked as absent, and at the third offence dismissed. They were now
admitted by the porter. There was a frightful tumult pervading the
large halls which were crossed by tramways. Iron bars and rolls of
copper were piled between old cannons brought there to be recast.
Rondic pointed out all the different branches of the establishment; he
could not make himself understood save by gestures, for the noise was
deafening.
Jack was able to see the interiors of the various workshops, the doors
being set widely open on account of the heat; he saw rapid movements of
arms and blackened faces; he saw machines in motion, first in shadow,
and then with a red light playing over their polished surface.
Puffs of hot air, a smell of oil and of iron, accompanied by an
impalpable black dust, a dust that was as sharp as needles and sparkled
like diamonds,—all this Jack felt; but the peculiar characteristic of
the place was a certain jarring, something like the effort of an
enormous beast to shake off the chains that bound him in some
subterranean dungeon.
They had now reached an old château of the time of the League.
“Here we are,” said Rondic; and addressing his brother, “Will you go up
with us?”
“Indeed I will; I am, besides, by no means unwilling to see ‘the
monkey’ once more, and to show him that I have become somebody and
something.”
He pulled down his velvet vest, and glanced at his yellow boots and
knapsack. Rondic made no remark, but seemed somewhat annoyed.
They passed through the low postern; on either side of the hall were
small and badly lighted rooms, where clerks were very busy writing. In
the inner room, a man with a stern and haughty face sat writing under a
high window.
“Ah, it is you, Père Rondic!”
“Yes, sir; I come to present the new apprentice, and to thank you for—”
“This is the prodigy, then, is it? It seems, young man, that you have
an absolute talent for mechanics. But, Rondic, he does not look very
strong. Is he delicate?”
“No, sir; on the contrary, I have been assured that he is remarkably
robust.”
“Remarkably,” repeated Labassandre, coming forward, and, in reply to
the astonished glance of the Director, proceeded to say that he left
the manufactory six years before to join the opera in Paris.
“Ah, yes, I remember,” answered the Director, coldly enough, rising at
the same time as if to indicate that the conversation was at an end.
“Take away your apprentice, Rondic, and try and make a good workman of
him. Under you he must turn out well.”
The opera-singer, vexed at having produced no effect, went away
somewhat crestfallen. Rondic lingered and said a few words to his
master, and then the two men and the child descended the stairs
together, each with a different impression. Jack thought of the words
“he does not look very strong,” while Labassandre digested his own
mortification as he best might. “Has anything gone wrong?” he suddenly
asked his brother,—“the Director seems even more surly now than in my
day.”
“No; he spoke to me of Chariot, our poor sister’s son, who is giving us
a great deal of trouble.”
“In what way?” asked the artist.
“Since his mother’s death he drinks and gambles, and has contracted
debts. He is a wonderful draughtsman, and has high wages, but spends
them before he has them. He has promised us all to reform, but he
breaks his promises as fast as he makes them. I have paid his debts for
him several times, but I can never do it again. I have my own family,
you see, and Zénaïde is growing up, and she must be established. Poor
girl! Women have more sense than we. I wanted her to marry her cousin,
but she would not consent. Now we are trying to separate him from his
bad acquaintances here, and the Director has found a situation at
Nantes; but I dare say the obstinate fellow will object. You will
reason with him to-night, can’t you? He will, perhaps, listen to you.”
“I will see what I can do,” answered Labassandre, pompously.
As they talked they reached the main street, crowded at this hour with
all classes of people, some in mechanics’ blouses, others wearing
coats. Jack was struck with the contrast presented by a crowd like this
to one in Paris, composed of similar classes.
Labassandre was greeted with enthusiasm. The whisper went about that he
received a hundred thousand francs per year for merely singing. His
theatrical costume won universal admiration, and his bland smile shone
first on one side and then on the other, as he nodded patronizingly to
first one and then another of his old friends.
At the door of Rondic’s house stood a young woman talking to a youth
two or three steps below. Jack thought she must be the old man’s
daughter, and then remembered that he had married a second time. She
was tall and slender, young and pretty, with a gentle face, white
throat, and a graceful head which bent slightly forward as if bowed by
its rich weight of hair. Unlike the Breton peasants, she wore no cap;
her light dress and black apron were totally unlike the costume of a
working woman.
“Is she not pretty?” asked Rondic of his brother. “She has been giving
a lecture to her nephew.”
Madame Rondic turned at that moment, and greeted them warmly. “I hope,”
she said to the child, “that you will be happy with us.”
They entered the house, and as they took their seats at the table,
Labassandre said with a theatrical start, “And where is Zénaïde?”
“We will not wait for her,” answered Rondic; “she will be here
presently. She is at work now at the château, for she has become a
famous seamstress.”
“Indeed! Then she must have learned also to keep her temper well under
control, if she can work at the Director’s,” said Labassandre, “for he
is such an arrogant, haughty person—”
“You are very much mistaken,” interrupted Rondic; “he is, on the
contrary, a most excellent man; strict, perhaps, but when a master has
to manage two thousand operatives, he must be somewhat of a
disciplinarian. Is not that so, Clarisse?” and the old man turned to
his wife, who, seemingly occupied with her dinner, paid no attention to
him. A certain preoccupation was very evident.
At this moment the youth, with whom Madame Rondic had been talking at
the door, came in and shook hands with his uncle Labassandre, who
replied coldly to his greeting; thinking, possibly, of the
remonstrances he had promised to lavish upon him. Zénaïde quickly
followed: a plump little girl, red and out of breath; not pretty, and
square in face and figure, she looked like her father. She wore a white
cap, and her short skirts, and small shawl pinned over her shoulders,
increased her general clumsiness. But her heavy eyebrows and square
chin indicated an unusual amount of firmness and decision, offering the
strongest possible contrast to the gentle, irresolute expression of her
stepmother’s sweet face. Without a moment’s delay, not waiting to
detach the enormous shears that hung at her side, or to disembarrass
herself of the needles and pins which glittered on her breast like a
cuirass, the girl slipped into a seat next to Jack. The presence of the
strangers did not abash her in the least. Whatever she had to say she
said, simply and decidedly; but when she spoke to her cousin Chariot,
it was in a vexed tone.
He did not appear to notice this, but replied with jests which left
more than one scar.
“And I wished them to marry each other,” said Father Rondic, in a
despairing, complaining tone, as he heard them dispute.
“And I made no objection,” said the young man with a laugh, as he
looked at his cousin.
“But I did, then,” answered the girl abruptly, frowning and unabashed.
“And I am glad of it. Had I married you, my handsome cousin, I should
have drowned myself by this time!”
These words were said with so much unction that for a few moments the
handsome cousin was silent and discomfited.
Clarisse was startled, and turned to her daughter-in-law with a timid
look of appeal.
“Listen, Chariot,” said Rondic, anxious to change the conversation: “to
prove to you that the Director is a good man. He has found a splendid
place at Guérigny for you. You will have a better salary there than
here, and “—here Rondic hesitated, glanced at the irresponsive face of
the youth, then at his daughter and at his wife, as if at a loss to
finish his phrase.
“And, it is better to go away, uncle, than to be dismissed!” answered
Chariot, roughly. “But I do not agree with you. If the Director does
not want me, let him say so,—and I will then look out for myself!”
“He is right!” cried Labassandre, thumping loud applause on the table.
A hot discussion now arose; but Chariot was firm in his refusal.
Zénaïde did not open her lips, but she never took her eyes from her
stepmother, who was busy about the table.
“And you, mamma,” said she at last, “is it not your opinion that
Chariot should go to Guérigny?”
“Certainly, certainly,” answered Madame Rondic, quickly, “I think he
ought to accept the offer.”
Chariot rose quickly from his chair.
“Very well,” he said, moodily, “since every one wishes to get rid of me
here, it is easy for me to decide. I shall leave in a week; in the
meantime I do not wish to hear any more about it.”
The men now adjourned to a table in the garden, neighbors came in, and
to each as he entered Rondic offered a measure of wine; they smoked
their pipes, and talked and laughed loudly and roughly.
Jack listened to them sadly. “Must I become like these?” he said to
himself, with a thrill of horror.
During the evening Rondic presented the lad to the foreman of the
workshops. Labescam, a heavy Cyclops, opened his eyes wide when he saw
his future apprentice, dressed like a gentleman, with such dainty white
hands. Jack was very delicate and girlish in his appearance. His curls
were cut, to be sure, but the short hair was in crisp waves, and the
air of distinction characteristic of the boy, and which so irritated
D’Argenton, was more apparent in his present surroundings than in his
former home. Labescam muttered that he looked like a sick chicken.
“O,” said Rondic, “it is only the fatigue of his journey and these
clothes that give him that look;” and then turning to his wife, the
good man said,
“You must find a blouse for the apprentice; and now send him to bed, he
is half asleep, and to-morrow the poor lad must be up at five o’clock!”
The two women took Jack into the house: it was small and of two
stories, the first floor divided into two rooms—one called the parlor,
which had a sofa, armchairs, and some large shells on the
chimney-piece.
One of the rooms above was nearly filled by a very large bed hung with
damask curtains trimmed with heavy ball fringe. In Zénaïde’s room the
bed was in the wall, in the old Breton style. A wardrobe of carved oak
filled one side of the room; a crucifix and holy images, hung over by
rosaries of all kinds, made of ivory, shells, and American corn,
completed the simple arrangements. In a corner, however, stood a screen
which concealed the ladder that led to the loft where the apprentice
was to sleep.
“This is my room,” said Zénaïde, “and you, my boy, will be up there
just over my head. But never mind that; you may dance as much as you
please, I sleep too soundly to be disturbed.”
A lantern was given to him. He said good-night, and climbed to his
loft, which even at that hour of the night was stifling. A narrow
window in the roof was all there was. The dormitory at Moronval had
prepared Jack for strange sleeping-places; but there he had
companionship in his miseries: here he had no Mâdou, here he had
nobody. The child looked about him. On the bed lay his costume for the
next day; the large pantaloons of blue cloth and the blouse looked as
if some person had thrown himself down exhausted with fatigue.
Jack said half aloud, “It is I lying there!” and while he stood, sadly
enough, he heard the confused noise of the men in the garden, and at
the same time an earnest discussion in the room below between Zénaïde
and her stepmother.
The young girl’s voice was easily distinguished, heavy like a man’s;
Madame Rondic’s tones, on the contrary, were thin and flute-like, and
seemed at times choked by tears.
“And he is going!” she cried, with more passion than her ordinary
appearance would have led one to suppose her capable of.
Then Zénaïde spoke—remonstrating, reasoning.
Jack felt himself in a new world; he was half afraid of all these
people, but the memory of his mother sustained him. He thought of her
as he looked at the sky set thick with stars. Suddenly he heard a long,
shivering sigh and a sob, and found that Madame Rondic was looking out
into the night, and weeping like himself, at a window below.
In the morning, Father Rondic called him; he swallowed a tumbler of
wine and ate a crust of bread, and hurried to the machine-shop. And
there, could his foolish mother have seen him, how quickly would she
have taken her child from his laborious task, for which he was so
totally unfitted by nature and education. The regulations for lack of
punctuality were very strict. The first offence was a fine, and the
third absolute dismissal. Jack was generally at the door before the
first sound of the bell; but one day, two or three months after his
arrival on the island, he was delayed by the ill-nature of others. His
hat had been blown away by a sudden gust of wind just as he reached the
forge. “Stop it!” cried the child, running after it. Just as he reached
it, an apprentice coming up the street gave the hat a kick and sent it
on; another did the same, and then another. This was very amusing to
all save Jack, who, out of breath and angry, felt a strong desire to
weep, for he knew that a positive hatred toward him was hidden under
all this apparent jesting. In the meantime the bell was sounding its
last strokes, and the child was compelled to relinquish the useless
pursuit. He was utterly wretched, for it was no small expense to buy a
new cap; he must write to his mother for money, and D’Argenton would
read the letter. This was bad enough; but the consciousness that he was
disliked among his fellow-workmen troubled him still more.
Some persons need tenderness as plants need heat to sustain life. Jack
was one of these, and he asked himself sadly why no one loved him in
his new abiding-place. Just as he arrived at the open door, he heard
quick breathing behind him, a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, and
turning, he saw a smiling, hideous face, while a rough hand extended
the missing cap.
Where had he seen that face? “I have it!” he cried at last; but at that
moment there was no time to renew his acquaintance with the pedler, to
whom, and to whose fragile stock of goods, he had given such timely
shelter on that showery summer’s day.
The child’s spirits rose, he was less sad, less lonely. While his hands
were busy with his monotonous toil, his mind was occupied with thoughts
of the past: he saw again the lovely country road near his mother’s
house; he heard the low rumbling of the doctor’s gig, and felt the
fresh breeze from the river, even there in the stifling atmosphere of
the machine-shop.
That evening he searched for Bélisaire, but in vain; again the next
day, but could learn nothing of him; and by degrees the uncouth face
that had revived so many beautiful memories, in the child’s sick heart
faded and died away, and he was again left alone.
The boy was far from a favorite among the men; they teased, and played
practical jokes upon him. Sunday was his only day of rest and
relaxation. Then, with one of Dr. Rivals’ books, Jack sought a quiet
nook on the bank of the river. He had found a deep fissure in the
rocks, where he sat quite concealed from view, his book open on his
knee, the rush, the magic, and the extent of the water before him. The
distant church-bells rang out praises to the Lord, and all was rest and
peace. Occasionally a vessel drifted past, and from afar came the
laughter of children at play.
He read, but his studies were often too deep for him, and he would lift
his eyes from the pages, and listen dreamily to the soft lapping of the
water on the pebbles of the shore, while his thoughts wandered to his
mother and his little friend.
At last autumnal rains came, and then the child passed his Sundays at
the Rondics, who were all very kind to him, Zénaïde in particular. The
old man felt a certain contempt for Jack’s physical delicacy, and said
the boy stunted his growth by his devotion to books, but “he was a good
little fellow all the same!” In reality, old Rondic felt a great
respect for Jack’s attainments, his own being of the most superficial
description. He could read and write, to be sure, but that was all; and
since he had married the second Madame Rondic, he had become painfully
conscious of his deficiencies. His wife was the daughter of a
subordinate artillery officer, the belle and beauty of a small town.
She was well brought up,—one of a numerous family, where each took her
share of toil and economy. She accepted Rondic, notwithstanding the
disparity of years and his lack of education, and entertained for her
husband the greatest possible affection. He adored his wife, and would
make any sacrifice for her happiness or her gratification. He thought
her prettier than any of the wives of his friends,—who were all, in
fact, stout Breton peasants, more occupied with their household cares
than with anything else. Clarisse had a certain air about her, and
dressed and arranged her hair in a way that offered the greatest
contrast to the monastic aspect of the women of the country, who
covered their hair with thick folds of linen, and concealed their
figures with the clumsy fullness of their skirts.
His house, too, was different from those about him. Behind the full
white curtains stood a pot of flowers, sweet basil or gillyflowers, and
the furniture was carefully waxed and polished; and Rondic was
delighted, when he returned home at night, to find so carefully
arranged a home, and a wife as neatly dressed as if it were Sunday. He
never asked himself why Clarisse, after the house was in order for the
day, took her seat at the window with folded hands, instead of
occupying herself with needlework, like other women whose days were far
too short for all their duties.
He supposed, innocently enough, that his wife thought only of him while
adorning herself; but the whole village of Indret could have told him
that another occupied all her thoughts, and in this gossip the names of
Madame Rondic and Chariot were never separated. They said that the two
had known each other before Madame Rondic’s marriage, and that if the
nephew had wished he could have married the lady, instead of his uncle.
But the young fellow had no such desire. He merely thought that
Clarisse was charmingly pretty, and that it would be very nice to have
her for his aunt. But later, when they were thrown so much together,
while Father Rondic slept in the arm-chair and Zénaïde sewed at the
château, these two natures were irresistibly attracted toward each
other. But no one had a right to make any invidious remark; they had,
besides, always watching over them a pair of frightfully suspicious
eyes, those of Zénaïde. She had a way of interrupting their interviews,
of appearing suddenly, when least expected; and, however fatigued she
might be by her day’s work, she took her seat in the chimney-corner
with her knitting. Zénaïde, in fact, played the part of the jealous and
suspicious husband. Picture to yourself, if you please, a husband with
all the instincts and clearsightedness of a woman!
The warfare between herself and Chariot was incessant, and the little
outbursts served to conceal the real antipathy; but while Father Rondic
smiled contentedly, Clarisse turned pale as if at distant thunder.
Zénaïde had triumphed: she had so managed at the château that the
Director had decided to send Chariot to Guérigny, to study a new model
of a machine there. Months would be necessary for him to perfect his
work. Clarisse understood very well that Zénaïde was at the bottom of
this movement, but she was not altogether displeased at Chariot’s
departure; she flung herself on Zénaïde’s stronger nature, and
entreated her protection.
Jack had understood for some time that between these two women there
was a secret. He loved them both: Zénaïde won his respect and his
admiration, while Madame Rondic, more elegant and more carefully
dressed, seemed to be a remnant of the refinements of his former life.
He fancied that she was like his mother; and yet Ida was lively, gay,
and talkative, while Madame Rondic was always languid and silent. They
had not a feature alike, nor was there any similarity in the color of
their hair. Nevertheless, they did resemble each other, but it was a
resemblance as vague and indefinite as would result from the same
perfume among the clothing, or of something more subtile still, which
only a skilful chemist of the human soul could have analyzed.
Sometimes on Sunday, Jack read aloud to the two women and to Rondic.
The parlor was the room in which they assembled on these occasions. The
apartment was decorated with a highly colored view of Naples, some
enormous shells, vitrified sponges, and all those foreign curiosities
which their vicinity to the sea seemed naturally to bring to them.
Handmade lace trimmed the curtains, and a sofa and an arm-chair of
plush made up the furniture of the apartment. In the arm-chair Father
Rondic took his seat to listen to the reading, while Clarisse sat in
her usual place at the window, idly looking out. Zénaïde profited by
her one day at home to mend the house-hold linen, disregarding the fact
of the day being Sunday. Among the books given to Jack by Dr. Rivals
was Dante’s _Inferno_. The book fascinated the child, for it described
a spectacle that he had constantly before his eyes. Those half naked
human forms, those flames, those deep ditches of molten metal, all
seemed to him one of the circles of which the poet wrote.
One Sunday he was reading to his usual audience from his favorite book;
Father Rondic was asleep, according to his ordinary custom, but the two
women listened with fixed attention. It was the episode of Francesca da
Rimini. Clarisse bowed her head and shuddered. Zénaïde frowned until
her heavy eyebrows met, and drove her needle through her work with mad
zeal.
Those grand sonorous lines filled the humble roof with music. Tears
stood in the eyes of Clarisse as she listened. Without noticing them,
Zenaïde spoke abruptly as the voice of the reader ceased.
“What a wicked, impudent woman,” she cried, “not only to relate her
crime, but to boast of it!”
“It is true that she was guilty,” said Clarisse, “but she was also very
unhappy.”
“Unhappy! Don’t say that, mamma; one would think that you pitied this
Francesca.”
“And why should I not, my child? She loved him before her marriage, and
she was driven to espouse a man whom she did not love.”
“Love him or not makes but little difference. From the moment she
married him she was bound to be faithful. The story says that he was
old, and that seems to me an additional reason for respecting him more,
and for preventing other people from laughing at him. The old man did
right to kill them,—it was only what they deserved!”
She spoke with great violence. Her affection as a daughter, her honor
as a woman, influenced her words, and she judged and spoke with that
cruel candor that belongs to youth, and which judges life from the
ideal it has itself created, without comprehending in the least any of
the terrible exigencies which may arise.
Clarisse did not answer. She turned her face away, and was looking out
of the window. Jack, with his eyes on his book, thought of what he had
been reading. Here, amid these humble surroundings, this immortal
legend of guilty love had echoed “through the corridors of time,” and
after four hundred years had awakened a response. Suddenly through the
open casement came a cry, “Hats! hats to sell!” Jack started to his
feet and ran into the street; but quick as he was, Clarisse had
preceded him, and as he went out, she came in, crushing a letter into
her pocket.
The pedler was far down the street.
“Bélisaire!” shouted Jack.
The man turned. “I was sure it was you,” continued Jack, breathlessly.
“Do you come here often?”
“Yes, very often;” and then Bélisaire added, after a moment, “How
happens it, Master Jack, that you are here, and have left that pretty
house?”
The boy hesitated, and the pedler seeing this, continued,—
“That was a famous ham, was it not? And that lovely lady, who had such
a gentle face, she was your mother, was she not?”
Jack was so happy at hearing her name mentioned that he would have
lingered there at the corner of the street for an hour, but Bélisaire
said he was in haste, that he had a letter to deliver, and must go.
When Jack entered the house, Madame Rondic met him at the door. She was
very pale, and said, in a low voice, with trembling lips,—
“What did you want of that man?”
The child answered that he had known him at Etiolles, and that they had
been talking of his parents.
She uttered a sigh of relief. But that whole evening she was even
quieter than usual, and her head seemed bowed by more than the weight
of her blonde braids.