Let us look in upon the D'Argenton menage. We find them installed in a charming little room, filled with the aroma of green tea and of Havana cigars. Charlotte is preparing her writing-table, arranging her pens, and straightening the ream of thick paper. D'Argenton is in excellent vein; he is in the humor to dictate all night, and twists his moustache, where glitter many silvery hairs. He waits to be inspired. Charlotte, however, as is often the case in a household, is very differently disposed: a cloud is on her face, which is pale and anxious; but notwithstanding her evident fatigue, she dips her pen in the inkstand.

"Let us see—we are at chapter first. Have you written that?"

"Chapter first," repeated Charlotte, in a low, sad voice.

The poet looked at her with annoyance; then, with an evident determination not to question her, he continued,—

"In a valley among the Pyrenees, those Pyrenees so rich in legendary lore—"

He repeated these words several times, then turning to Charlotte, he said, "Have you written this?"

She made an effort to repeat the words, but stopped, her voice strangled with sobs. In vain did she try to restrain herself, her tears flowed in torrents.

"What on earth is the matter?" said D'Argenton. "Is it this news of the Cydnus? It is a mere flying report, I am sure, and I attach no importance to it. Dr. Hirsch was to call at the office of the Company to-day, and he will be here directly."

He spoke in a satirical tone, slightly disdainful, as the weak, children, fools, and invalids are often addressed. Was she not something of all these?

"Where were we?" he continued, when she was calmer. "You have made me lose the thread. Read me all you have written."

Charlotte wiped her tears away.

"In a valley among the Pyrenees, those Pyrenees so rich in legendary lore—"

"Go on."

"It is all," she answered.

The poet was very much surprised; it seemed to him that he had dictated much more. The terrible advantage thought has over expression bewildered him. All that he dreamed, all that was in embryo within his brain, he fancied was already in form and on the page, and he was aghast at the disproportion between the dream and the reality. His delusion was like that of Don Quixote,—he believed himself in the Empyrean, and took the vapors from the kitchen for the breath of heaven, and, seated on his wooden horse, felt all the shock of an imaginary fall.. Had he been in such a state of mental exaltation merely to produce those two lines? Were these the only result of that frantic rubbing of his dishevelled hair, of that weary pacing to and fro?'

He was furious, for he felt that he was ridiculous. "It is your fault," he said to Charlotte. "How can a man work in the face of a crying woman? It is always the same thing—nothing is accomplished. Years pass away and the places are filled. Do you not know how small a thing disturbs literary composition? I ought to live in a tower a thousand feet above all the futilities of life, instead of being surrounded by caprices, disorder, and childishness." As he speaks he strikes a furious blow upon the table, and poor Charlotte, with the tears pouring from her eyes, gathers up the pens and papers that have flown about the room in wild confusion.

The arrival of Dr. Hirsch ends this deplorable scene, and after a while tranquillity is restored. The doctor is not alone; Labassandre comes with him, and both are grave and mysterious in their manner.

Charlotte turns hastily. "What-news, doctor?" she asks.

"None, madame; no news whatever."

But Charlotte detected a covert glance at D'Argenton, and knew that the physician's words were false.

"And what do the officers of the Company say?" continued the mother, determined to learn the truth.

Labassandre undertook to answer, and while he spoke, the doctor contrived to convey to D'Argenton that the Cydnus had gone to the bottom",—"a collision at sea—every soul was lost."

D'Argenton's face never changed, and it would have been difficult to form any idea of his feelings.

"I have been at work," he said. "Excuse me, I need the fresh air."

"You are right," said Charlotte; "go out for a walk;" and the poor woman, who usually detained her poet in the house lest the high-born ladies of the Faubourg St. Germain should entrap him, is this evening delighted to see him leave her, that she may weep in peace—that she may yield to all the wild terror and mournful presentiments that assail her. This is why even the presence of the servant annoys her, and she sends her to her attic.

"Madame wishes to be alone! Is not madame afraid? The noise of the wind is very dismal on the balcony."

"No, I am not afraid; leave me."

At last she was alone. She could think at her ease, without the voice of her tyrant saying, "What are you thinking about?" Ever since she had read in the Journal the brief words, "There is no intelligence of the Cydnus," the image of her child had pursued her. Her nights had been sleepless, and she listened to the wind with singular terror. It seemed to blow from all quarters, rattling the windows and wailing through the chimneys. But whether it whispered or shrieked, it spoke to her, and said what it always says to the mothers and wives of sailors, who turn pale as they listen. The wind comes from afar, but it comes quickly and has met with many adventures. With one gust it has torn away the sails of a vessel, set fire to a quiet home, and carried death and destruction on its wings. This it is that gives to its voice such melancholy intonations.

This night it was dreary enough: it rattles the windows and whistles under the doors; it wishes to come in, for it bears a message to this poor mother, and it sounds like an appeal or a warning. The ticking of the clock, the distant noise of a locomotive, all take the same plaintive tone and beseeching accent. Charlotte knows only too well what the wind wishes to tell her. It is a story of a ship rolling on the broad ocean, without sails or rudder—of a maddened crowd on the deck, of cries and shrieks, curses and prayers. Her hallucination is so strong that she even hears from the ship a beseeching cry of "Mamma!" She starts to her feet; she bears it again. To escape it, she walks about the room, opens the door and looks down the corridor. She sees nothing, but she hears a sigh, and, raising her lamp higher, discovers a dark shadow crouched in the corner.

"Who is that?" she cried, half in terror, half in hope.

"It is I, dear mother!" said a weak voice.

She ran toward him. It is her boy—a tall, rough sailor—rising as she approached him, with the aid of a pair of crutches. And this is what she has made of her child! Not a word, not an exclamation, not a caress. They look at each other, and tears fill the eyes of both.

A certain fatality attaches itself to some people, which renders them and all that they do absolutely ridiculous. When D'Argenton returned that night, he came with the determination to disclose the fatal news to Charlotte, and to have the whole affair concluded. The manner in which he turned the key in the lock announced this solemn determination. But what was his surprise to find the parlor a blaze of light! Charlotte—and on the table by the fire the remains of a meal. She came to him in a terrible state of agitation.

"Hush! Pray make no noise—he is here and asleep."

"Who is here?"

"Jack, of course. He has been shipwrecked, and is severely injured. He has been saved as by a miracle. He has just come from Rio Janeiro, where he spent two months in a hospital."

D'Argenton forced a smile, which Charlotte endeavored to believe was one of satisfaction. It must be acknowledged that he behaved very well, and said at once that Jack must stay there until he was entirely recovered. In fact, he could do no less for the actual proprietor of his Review.

The first excitement over, the ordinary life of the poet and Charlotte was resumed, changed only by the presence of the poor lame fellow, whose legs were badly burned by the explosion of a boiler, and had not yet healed. He was clothed in a jacket of blue cloth. His light moustache, the color of ripe wheat, was struggling into sight through the thick coating of tan that darkened his face; his eyes were red and inflamed, for the lashes had been burned off; and in a state of apathy painful to witness, the son of Ida de Barancy dragged himself from chair to chair, to the irritation of D'Argenton and to the great shame of his mother. When some stranger entered the house and cast an astonished glance at this figure, which offered so strange a contrast to the quiet, luxurious surroundings, she hastened to say, "It is my son, he has been very ill," in the same way that the mothers of deformed children quickly mention the relationship, lest they should surprise a smile or a compassionate look. But if she was pained in seeing her darling in this state, and blushed at the vulgarity of his manners or his awkwardness at the table, she was still more mortified at the tone of contempt with which her husband's friends spoke of her son.

Jack saw little difference in the habitues of the house, save that they were older, had less hair and fewer teeth; in every other respect they were the same. They had attained no higher social position, and were still without visible means of support.

They met every day to discuss the prospects of the Review, and twice each week they all dined at D'Argenton's table. Moronval generally brought with him his two last pupils. One was a young Japanese prince of an indefinite age, and who, robbed of his floating robes, seemed very small and slender. With his little cane and hat, he looked like a figure of yellow clay fallen from an etagere upon the Parisian sidewalk. The other, with narrow slits of eyes and a black beard, recalled certain vague remembrances to Jack, who at last recognized his old friend Said who had offered him cigar ends on their first interview.

The education of this unfortunate youth had been long since finished, but his parents had left him with Moronval to be initiated into the manners and customs of fashionable society. All these persons treated Jack with a certain air of condescension. He remained Master Jack to but one person—that was that most amiable of women, Madame Moronval, who wore the same silk dress that he had seen her in years before. He cared little whether he was called "Master Jack," or "My boy,"—his two months in the hospital, his three years of alcoholic indulgence, the atmosphere of the engine-room, and the final tempestuous conclusion, had caused him such profound exhaustion, such a desire for quiet, that he sat with his pipe between his teeth, silent and half asleep.

"He is intoxicated," said D'Argent on sometimes.

This was not the case; but the young man found his only pleasure in the society of his mother on the rare occasions when the poet was absent. Then he drew his chair close to hers, and listened to her rather than talk himself. Her voice made a delicious murmur in his ears like that of the first bees on a warm spring day.

Once, when they were alone, he said to Charlotte, very slowly, "When I was a child I went on a long voyage—did I not?"

She looked at him a little troubled. It was the first time in his life that he had asked a question in regard to his history.

"Why do you wish to know?"

"Because, three years ago, the first day that I was on board a steamer, I had a singular sensation. It seemed to me that I had seen it all before; the cabins, and the narrow ladders, impressed me as familiar; it seemed to me that I had once played on those very stairs."

She looked around to assure herself that they were entirely alone.

"It was not a dream, Jack. You were three years old when we came from Algiers. Your father died suddenly, and we came back to Tours."

"What was my father's name?"

She hesitated, much agitated, for she was not prepared for this sudden curiosity; and yet she could not refuse to answer these questions.

"He was called by one of the grandest names in France, my child—by a name that you and I would bear to-day if a sudden and terrible catastrophe had not prevented him from repairing his fault. Ah, we were very young when we met! I must tell you that at that time I had a perfect passion for the chase. I remember a little Arabian horse called Soliman—"

She was gone, at full speed, mounted on this horse, and Jack made no effort to interrupt her—he knew that it was useless. But when she stopped to take breath, he profited by this brief halt to return to his fixed idea.

"What was my father's name?" he repeated.

How astonished those clear eyes looked! She had totally forgotten of whom they had been speaking. She answered quickly,—"He was called the Marquis de l'Epau." Jack certainly had but little of his mother's respect for high birth, its rights and its prerogatives, for he received with the greatest tranquillity the intelligence of his illustrious descent. What mattered it to him that his father was a marquis, and bore a distinguished name? This did not prevent his son from earning his bread as a stoker on the Cydnus.

"Look here, Charlotte," said D'Argenton impatiently, one day, "something must be done! A decided step must be taken with this boy. He cannot remain here forever without doing anything. He is quite well again; he eats like an ox. He coughs a little still, to be sure, but Dr. Hirsch says that is nothing,—that he will always cough. He must decide on something. If the life in the engine-room of a steamer is too severe for him, let him try a railroad."

Charlotte ventured to say, timidly, "If you could see how he loses his breath when he climbs the stairs, and how thin he is, you would still feel that he is far from well. Can you not employ him on some of the office work?"

"I will speak to Moronval," was the reply.

The result of this was, that Jack for some days did everything in the office except sweep the rooms. With his usual imperturbability, Jack fulfilled these various duties, enduring the contemptuous remarks of Moronval with the same indifference that he opposed to D'Argenton's cold contempt. Moronval had a certain fixed salary on the magazine; it was small, to be sure, but he added to it by supplementary labors, for which he was paid certain sums on account. The subscription books lay open on the desk, expenses went on, but no receipts came in. In fact, there was but one subscriber, Charlotte's friend at Tours, and but one proprietor, and he, with a glue-pot and brush, was at work in a corner. Neither Jack nor any one else realized this; but D'Argenton knew it and felt it hourly, and soon hated more strongly than ever the youth upon whose money he was living.

At the end of a week it was announced that Jack was useless in the office.

"But, my dear," said Charlotte, "he does all he can!"

"And what is that? He is lazy and indifferent; he knows not how to sit nor how to stand, and he falls asleep over his plate at dinner; and since this great, shambling fellow has appeared here, you have grown ten years older, my love. Besides, he drinks, I assure you that he drinks."

Charlotte bowed her head and wept; she knew that her son drank, but whose fault was it? Had they not thrown him into the gulf?

"I have an idea, Charlotte! Suppose we send him to Etiolles for change of air. We will give him a little money, and it will be a good thing for him."

She thanked him enthusiastically, and it was decided that she would go the next day to install her son at Aulnettes.

They arrived there on one of those soft autumnal mornings which have all the beauty of summer without its excessive heat. There was not a breath in the air; the birds sang loudly, the fallen leaves rustled gently, and a perfume of rich maturity of ripened grain and fruit filled the air. The paths through the woods were still green and fresh; Jack recognized them all, and, seeing them, regained a portion of his lost youth. Nature herself seemed to welcome him with open arms, and he was soothed and comforted. Charlotte left her son early the next morning, and the little house, with its windows thrown wide open to the soft air and sunlight, had a peaceful aspect.



CHAPTER XIX.~~THE CONVALESCENT.

"And to think that for five years I have been allowed to remain in the belief that my Jack was a thief!"

"But, Dr. Rivals—"

"And that if I had not happened to ask for a glass of milk at the Archambaulds, I should have continued to think so!"

It was, on feet, at the forester's cottage that Jack and his old friend had met.

For ten days the youth had been living in solitude at Aulnettes. Each day he had become more like the Jack of his childhood. The only persons with whom he held any communication were the old forester and his wife, who had served Charlotte faithfully for so long a time. She watched over his health, purchased his provisions, and often cooked his dinner over her own fire, while he sat and smoked at the door. These people never asked a question, but when they saw his thin figure and heard his constant cough, they shook their heads.

The interview between Dr. Rivals and Jack was at first embarrassing to both, but after a little conversation, and as soon as the doctor understood the truth, the awkwardness passed away.

"And now," said the old gentleman, gayly, "I hope we shall see you often. You have been sent out to grass, apparently, like an old horse, but you need more than that. You require great care, my boy, great care,—particularly in the coming season. Etiolles is not Nice, you understand. Our house is changed, for my poor wife died four years ago,—died of absolute grief. My granddaughter does her best to take her place; she keeps my books and makes up my prescriptions. How glad she will be to see you! Now when will you come?"

Jack hesitated, as if he read his thoughts. The doctor added,—

"Cecile knows nothing of all your troubles; so come without any feeling of restraint. It is too cold for you to be out late to-night; this fog is not good for you; but I shall expect you at breakfast to-morrow. Now in with you quickly; you must not be out after the dews begin to fall. If you do not appear I shall come for you."

As Jack closed the door of the house, he had a singular impression. It seemed to him that he had just come home from one of those long drives with the doctor; that he should find his mother in the dining-room, while the poet was above in the tower.

He passed the evening in the chimney-corner, before a fire made of dried grape-vines, for life in the engine-room had made him very chilly. As of old, when he returned from his country excursions with the doctor, the remembrance of his kindness and affection rendered him impervious to the slights he received at home, so now did the prospect of seeing Cecile people his solitude with dear phantoms and happy visions, that remained with him even while he slept.

The next day he knocked at the Rivals' door.

"The doctor has not come in. Mademoiselle is in the office," was the reply of the little servant who had replaced the faithful old woman he had known. Jack turned to the office; he knocked hurriedly, impatient to behold his former companion.

"Come in, Jack," said a sweet voice.

Instead of obeying, he was seized with a strange emotion of fear.

The door opened suddenly, and Jack asked himself if the charming apparition on the threshold, in her blue dress and clustering blonde hair, was not the sun itself. How intimidated he would have been had not the little hand slipped into his own recalled so many sweet recollections of their common child-hood!

"Life has been very hard for you, my grandfather tells me," she said. "I have had much sorrow, too. Dear grandmamma is dead; she loved you, and often spoke of you."

He sat opposite to her, looking at her. She was tall and graceful; as she stood leaning against the corner of an old bookcase, she bent her head slightly to talk to her friend, and reminded him of a bird.

Jack remembered that his mother was beautiful also; but in Cecile there was something indefinable—an aroma of some divine spring-time, something fresh and pure, to which Charlotte's mannerisms and graces bore little resemblance.

Suddenly, while he sat in this ecstasy before her, he caught sight of his own hand. It seemed enormous to him; it was black and hardened, and the nails were broken and deformed,—irretrievably injured by contact with fire and iron. He was ashamed, but could not conceal them even by putting them in his pocket. But he saw himself now with the eyes of others, dressed in shabby clothes and an old vest of D'Argenton's, that was too small for him and too short in the sleeves. In addition to this physical awkwardness, poor Jack was overwhelmed by the memory of all the disgraceful scenes through which he had passed. The drunken orgies, the hours of beastly intoxication, all returned to his recollection, and it seemed to him that Cecile knew them, too. The slight cloud that hung on her fair young brow, the compassion he read in her eyes, all told him that she understood his shame and humiliation. He wished to run away and shut himself into a room at Aulnettes, and never leave it again.

Fortunately, some one came into the office, and Cecile, busy at her scales, writing the labels as her grandmother had done, gave Jack time to recover his equanimity.

How good and patient she was! These poor peasant women were very stupid and wearisome with their long explanations. She encouraged them with her sympathy, cheered them with her words of counsel, and reproved them gently for their mistakes.

She was busy at this moment with an old acquaintance of Jack's,—the very woman who had taken so much pleasure in terrifying him when he was little. Bowed, as nearly all the peasantry are by their daily labor, burned by the sun, and powdered by the dust, old Sale yet retained a little life in her sharp eyes. She spoke of her good man, who had been sick for months,—who could not work, and yet had to eat. She said two or three things calculated to disconcert a young girl, and looked Cecile directly in the face with malicious delight. Two or three times Jack felt a strong inclination to put the wretch out of the door; but he restrained himself when he saw the cold dignity with which Cecile listened.

The old woman finally finished her discourse, and, as she passed Jack going out, recognized him.

"What!" she exclaimed, "the little Aulnettes boy come to life again? Ah, Mademoiselle Cecile, your uncle won't want you to marry him now, I fancy, though there was a time when everybody thought that was what the doctor desired;" and, chuckling, she left the room.

Jack turned pale. The old woman had finally struck the blow that, so many years ago, she had threatened him with. But Jack was not the only one who was disturbed. A fair face, bent low over a big book, was scarlet with annoyance.

"Come, Catherine, bring the soup." It was the doctor who spoke. "And you two, have you not found a word to say to each other after seven years' absence?"

At the table Jack was no more at his ease. He was afraid that some of his bad habits would show themselves; and his hands—what could he do with them? With one he must hold his fork, but with the other? The whiteness of the linen made it look appallingly black. Cecile saw his discomfort, and understanding that her watchfulness increased it, hardly glanced again in his direction.

Catherine took away the dessert, and put before the young girl hot water, sugar, and a bottle of old brandy. It was she who since her grandmother's death had mixed the doctor's grog. And the good man had not gained by the change; for she, as the doctor observed in a melancholy tone, "diminished daily the quantity of alcohol."

When she had served her grandfather, Cecile turned toward their guest.

"Do you drink brandy?" she asked.

"Does he drink brandy?" said the doctor, with a laugh, "and he in an engine-room for three years? Don't you know—ignorant little puss that you are—that that is the only way the poor fellows can live? On board a vessel where I was, one fellow drank a bottle of pure spirit at a draught. Make Jack's strong, my dear."

She looked at her old friend sadly and seriously.

"Will you have some?"

"No, mademoiselle," he answered, in a low, ashamed voice; and he withdrew his glass,—for which effort of self-denial he was rewarded by one of those eloquent looks of gratitude which some women can give, and which are only understood by those whom they address.

"Upon my word, a conversion!" said the doctor, laughing. But Jack was converted only after the fashion of savages, who consent to believe in God only to please the missionaries. The peasants of Etiolles, at work in the fields, who saw Jack on his way home that night, might have had every reason to suppose that he was crazy or intoxicated. He was talking to himself, and gesticulating wildly. "Yes," he exclaimed, "M. d'Argenton was right: I am a mere artisan and must live and die with my equals; it is useless for me to try and rise above them." It was a very long time since the young man had felt any such energy. New thoughts and ideas crowded into his mind; among them was Cecile's image. What a marvel of grace and purity she was! He sighed as he thought that had he been differently educated, he might have ventured to ask her to become his wife. At this moment, as he turned a sharp angle in the road, he found himself face to face with Mother Sale, who was dragging a fagot of wood. The old woman looked at him with a wicked smile, that in his present mood exasperated him to such a degree that his look of anger so terrified the old creature that she dropped her fagot and ran into the wood.

That evening he spent in darkness, and lighted neither fire nor lamp. Seated in a corner of the dining-room, with his eyes fixed on the glass doors that led to the garden, through which the soft mist of a superb autumnal night was visible, he thought of his childhood, and of the last years of his life.

No, Cecile would not marry him. In the first place, he was a mechanic; secondly, his birth was illegitimate. It was the first time in his life that this thought had weighed upon him, for Jack had not lived among very scrupulous people. He had never heard his father's name mentioned, and therefore rarely thought of him, being as unable to measure the extent of his loss as a deaf mute is unable to realize the blessing of the senses he lacks.

But now the question of his birth occupied him to the exclusion of all others.

He had listened calmly to the name of his father when Charlotte told it; but now he would like to learn from her every detail. Was he really a marquis? Was he certainly dead? Had not his mother said this merely to avoid the disclosure of a mortifying desertion? And if this father were still alive, would he not be willing to give his name to his son? The poor fellow was ignorant of the fact that a true woman's heart is more moved by compassion than by all the vain distinctions of the world.

"I will write to my mother," he thought. But the questions he wished to ask were so delicate and complicated, that he resolved to see her at once, and have one of those earnest conversations where eyes do the work of words, and where silence is as eloquent as speech. Unfortunately he had no money for his railroad fare. "Pshaw!" he said, "I can go on foot. I did it when I was eleven, and I can surely try it again." And he did try it the next day; and if it seemed to him less long and less lonely than it did before, it was far more sad.

Jack saw the spot where he had slept, the little gate at Villeneuve Saint-George's, where he had been dropped by the kind couple from their carriage, the pile of stones where the recumbent form of a man had so terrified him, and he sighed to think that if the Jack of his youth could suddenly rise from the dust of the highway, he would be more afraid of the Jack of to-day than of any other dismal wanderer.

He reached Paris in the afternoon. A settled, cold rain was falling; and pursuing the comparison that he had made of his souvenirs with the present time, he recalled the glow of the sunset on that May evening when his mother appeared to him, like the archangel Michael, wrapped in glory, and chasing away the shades of night.

Instead of the little house at Aulnettes where Ida sang amid her roses, Jack saw D'Argenton just issuing from the door, followed by Moronval, who was carrying a bundle of proofs.

"Here is Jack!" said Moronval.

The poet started and looked up. To see these two men, one dressed with so much care, brushed, perfumed, and gloved; the other in a velvet coat, much too short for him, shiny from wear and weather, no one would have supposed that any tie could exist between them.

Jack extended his hand to D'Argenton, who gave one finger in return, and asked if the house at Aulnettes was rented.

"Rented?" said the other, not understanding.

"To be sure. Seeing you here, I supposed that of course the house was occupied, and you were compelled to leave it."

"No," said Jack, somewhat disconcerted; "no one has even called to look at the place."

"What are you here for?"

"To see my mother."

"Filial affection is a most excellent thing. Unfortunately, however, there are travelling expenses to be thought of."

"I came on foot," said Jack, with simple dignity.

"Indeed!" drawled D'Argenton, and then added, "I am glad to see that your legs are in better order than your arms."

And pleased at this mot, the poet bowed coldly, and went on.

A week before, and these words would have scarcely been noticed by Jack, but since the previous night he had not been the same person. His pride was now so wounded that he would have returned to Aulnettes without seeing his mother, had he not wished to speak to her most seriously. He entered the salon; it was in disorder: chairs and benches were being brought in, for a great fete was in progress of arrangement, which was the reason that D'Argenton was so out of temper on seeing Jack. Charlotte did not appear pleased, but stopped in some of her preparations.

"Is it you, my dear Jack. You come for money, too, I fancy. I forgot it utterly,—that is, I begged Dr. Hirsch to hand it to you. He is going to Aulnettes in two or three days to make some very curious experiments with perfumes. He has made an extraordinary discovery."

They were talking in the centre of the room; a half dozen workmen were going to and fro, driving nails, and moving the furniture.

"I wish to speak seriously," said Jack.

"What! now? You know that serious conversation is not my forte; and to-day all is in confusion. We have sent out five hundred invitations, it will be superb! Come here, then, if it is absolutely necessary. I have arranged a veranda for smoking. Come and see if it is not convenient?"

She went with him into a veranda covered with striped cotton, furnished with a sofa and jardiniere, but rather dismal-looking with the rain pattering on the zinc roof.

Jack said to himself, "I had better have written," and did not know what to say first.

"Well?" said Charlotte, leaning her chin on her hand in that graceful attitude that some women adopt when they listen. He hesitated a moment, as one hesitates in placing a heavy load upon an etagere of trifles, for that which he had to say seemed too much for that pretty little head that leaned toward him.

"I should like—I should like to talk to you of my father," he said, with some hesitation.

On the end of her tongue she had the words, "What folly!" If she did not utter them, the expression of her face, in which were to be read amazement and fear, spoke for her.

"It is too sad for us, my child, to discuss. But still, painful as it is to me, I understand your feelings, and am ready to gratify you. Besides," she added, solemnly, "I have always intended, when you were twenty, to reveal to you the secret of your birth."

It was time now for him to look astonished. Had she forgotten that three months previous she had made this disclosure. Nevertheless, he uttered no protest, he wished to compare her story of to-day with an older narration. How well he knew her!

"Is it true that my father was noble?" he asked, suddenly.

"Indeed he was, my child."

"A marquis?"

"No, only a baron."

"But I supposed—in fact, you told me—"

"No, no—it was the elder branch of the Bulac family that was noble."

"He was connected then with the Bulac family?"

"Most assuredly. He was the head of the younger branch."

"And his name was—"

"The Baron de Bulac—a lieutenant in the navy."

Jack felt dizzy, and had only strength to ask, "How long since he died?"

"O, years and years!" said Charlotte, hurriedly.

That his father was dead he was sure; but had his mother told him a falsehood now, or on the previous occasion? Was he a De Bulac or a L'Epau?

"You are looking ill, child," said Charlotte, interrupting herself in the midst of a long romance she was telling, "your hands are like ice."

"Never mind, I shall get warm with exercise," answered Jack, with difficulty.

"Are you going so soon? Well, it is best that you should get back before it is late." She kissed him tenderly, tied a handkerchief around his throat, and slipped some money into his pocket. She fancied that his silence and sadness came from seeing all the preparations for a fete in which he was to have no share, and when her maid summoned her for the waiting coiffeur, she said good-bye hurriedly.

"You see I must leave you; write often, and take good care of yourself."

He went slowly down the steps, with his face turned toward his mother all the time. He was sad at heart, but not by reason of this fete from which he was excluded, but at the thought of all the happiness in life from which he had been always shut out. He thought of the children who could love and respect their parents, who had a name, a fireside, and a family. He remembered, too, that his unhappy fate would prevent him from asking any woman to share his life. He was wretched without realizing that to regret these joys was in fact to be worthy of them, and that it was only the fall perception of the sad truths of his destiny that would impart the strength to cope with them.

Wrapped in these dismal meditations, he had reached the Lyons station, a spot where the mud seems deeper, and the fog thicker, than elsewhere. It was just the hour that the manufactories closed. A tired crowd, overwhelmed by discouragement and distress, hurried through the streets, going at once to the wine-shops, some of which had as a sign the one word Consolation, as if drunkenness and forgetfulness were the sole refuge for the wretched. Jack, feeling that darkness had settled down on his life as absolutely as it had on this cold autumnal night, uttered an exclamation of despair.

"They are right; what is there left to do but to drink?" and entering one of those miserable drink-ing-shops, Jack called for a double measure of brandy. Just as he lifted his glass, amid the din of coarse voices, and through the thick smoke, he heard a flute-like voice,—

"Do you drink brandy, Jack?"

No, he did not drink it, nor would he ever touch it again. He left the shop abruptly, leaving his glass untouched and the money on the counter.

How Jack had a sharp illness of some weeks' duration after this long walk; how Dr. Hirsch experimented upon him until routed by Dr. Rivals, who carried the youth to his own house and nursed him again to health, is too long a story. We prefer also to introduce our readers to Jack seated in a comfortable arm-chair, reading at the window of the doctor's office. It was peaceful about him, a peace that came from the sunny sky, the silent house, and the gentle footfall of Cecile.

He was so happy that he rarely spoke, and contented himself with watching the movements of the dear presence that pervaded the simple home. She sewed and kept her grandfather's accounts.

"I am sure," she said, looking up from her book, "that the dear man forgets half his visits. Did you notice what he said yesterday, Jack?"

"Mademoiselle!" he answered, with a start.

He had not heard one word, although he had been watching her with all his eyes. If Cecile said, "My friend," it seemed to Jack that no other person had ever so called him; and when she said farewell, or good-night, his heart contracted as if he were never to see her again. Her slightest words were full of meaning, and her simple, unaffected ways were a delight to the youth. In his state of convalescence he was more susceptible to these influences than he would ordinarily have been.

O, the delicious days he spent in that blessed home! The office, a large, deserted room, with white curtains at the windows opening on a village street, communicated to him its healthful calm. The room was filled with the odors of plants culled in the splendor of their flowering, and he drank it in with delight.

In the scent of the balsam he heard the rushing of the clear brooks in the forest, and the woods were green and shady, when he caught the odor of the herbs gathered from the foot of the tall oaks.

With returning strength Jack tried to read; he turned over the old volumes, and found those in which he had studied so long before, and which he could now far better comprehend. The doctor was out nearly all day, and the two young people remained alone. This would have horrified many a prudent mother, and, of course, had Madame Rivals been living, it would not have been permitted; but the doctor was a child himself, and then, who knows? he may have had his own plans.

Meanwhile D'Argenton, informed of Jack's removal to the Rivals, saw fit to take great offence. "It is not at all proper," wrote Charlotte, "that you should remain there. People will think us unwilling to give you the care you need? You place us in a false position."

This letter failing to produce any effect, the poet wrote himself:—"I sent Hirsch to cure you, but you preferred a country idiot to the science of our friend! As you call yourself better, I give you now two days to return to Aulnettes. If you are not there at the expiration of that time, I shall consider that you have been guilty of flagrant disobedience, and from that moment all is over between us."

As Jack did not move, Charlotte appeared on the scene. She came with much dignity, and with a crowd of phrases that she had learned by heart from her poet. M. Rivals received her at the door, and, not in the least intimidated by her coldness, said at once, "I ought to tell you, madame, that it is my fault alone that your son did not obey you. He has passed through a great crisis. Fortunately he is at an age when constitutions can be reformed, and I trust that his will resist the rough trials to which it has been exposed. Hirsch would have killed him with his musk and his other perfumes. I took him away from the poisonous atmosphere, and now I hope the boy is out of danger. Leave him to me a while longer, and you shall have him back more healthy than ever, and capable of renewing the battle of life; but if you let that impostor Hirsch get hold of him again, I shall think that you wish to get rid of him forever."

"Ah! M. Rivals, what a thing to say! What have I done to deserve such an insult?" and Charlotte burst into tears. The doctor soothed her with a few kind words, and then let her go alone into the office to see her son. She found him changed and improved much, as if he had thrown off some outer husk, but exhausted and weakened by the transformation. He turned pale when he saw her.

"You have come to take me away," he exclaimed.

"Not at all," she answered, hastily. "The doctor wishes you to remain, and where would you be so well as with the doctor who loves you so tenderly?"

For the first time in his life Jack had been happy away from his mother, and a departure from the roof under which he was would have certainly caused him a relapse. Charlotte was evidently uncomfortable; she looked tired and troubled.

"We have a large entertainment every month, and every fortnight a reading, and all the confusion gives me a headache. Then the Japanese prince at the Moronval Academy has written a poem, M. D'Argenton has translated it into French, and we are both of us learning the Japanese tongue. I find it very difficult, and have come to the conclusion that literature is not my forte. The Review does not bring in a single cent, and has not now one subscriber. By the way, our good friend at Tours is dead. Do you remember him?"

At this moment Cecile came in and was received by Charlotte with the most flattering exclamations and much warmth of manner. She talked of D'Argenton and of their friend at Tours, which annoyed Jack intensely, for he would have wished neither person to have been mentioned in Cecile's pure presence, and over and over again he stopped the careless babble of his mother who had no such scruples. They urged Madame D'Argenton to remain to dinner, but she had already lingered too long, and was uneasily occupied in inventing a series of excuses for her delay, which should be in readiness when she encountered her poet's frowning face.

"Above all, Jack, if you write to me, be sure that you put on your letter 'to be called for,' for M. D'Argenton is much vexed with you just now. So do not be astonished if I scold you a little in my next letter, for he is always there when I write. He even dictates my sentences sometimes; but don't mind, dear, you will understand."

She acknowledged her slavery with naivete, and Jack was consoled for the tyranny by which she was oppressed by seeing her go away in excellent spirits, and with her shawl wrapped so gracefully around her, and her travelling-bag carried as lightly as she carried all the burdens of life.

Have you ever seen those water-lilies, whose long stems arise from the depths of the river, finding their way through all obstacles until they expand on the surface, opening their magnificent white cups, and filling the air with their delicate perfume? Thus grew and flowered the love of these two young hearts. With Cecile, the divine flower had grown in a limpid soul, where the most careless eyes could have discerned it. With Jack, its roots had been tangled and deformed, but when the stems reached the regions of air and light, they straightened themselves, and needed but little more to burst into flower.

"If you wish," said M. Rivals, one evening, "we will go to-morrow to the vintage at Coudray; the farmer will send his wagon; you two can go in that in the morning, and I will join you at dinner."

They accepted the proposition with delight. They started on a bright morning at the end of October. A soft haze hung over the landscape, retreating before them, as it seemed; upon the mown fields and on the bundles of golden grain, upon the slender plants, the last remains of the summer's brightness, long silken threads floated like particles of gray fog. The river ran on one side of the highway, bordered by huge trees. The freshness of the air heightened the spirits of the two young travellers, who sat on the rough seat with their feet in the straw, and holding on with both hands to the side of the wagon. One of the farmer's daughters drove a young ass, who, harassed by the wasps, which are very numerous at the time when the air is full of the aroma of ripening fruits, impatiently shook his long ears.

They went on and on until they reached a hill-side, where they saw a crowd at work. Jack and Cecile each snatched a wicker basket and joined the others. What a pretty sight it was! The rustic landscape seen between the vine-draped arches, the narrow stream, winding and picturesque, full of green islands, a little cascade and its white foam, and above all, the fog showing through a golden mist, and a fresh breeze that suggested long evenings and bright fires.

This charming day was very short, at least so Jack found it. He did not leave Cecile's side for a minute. She wore a broad-brimmed hat and a skirt of flowered cambric. He filled her basket with the finest of the grapes, exquisite in their purple bloom, delicate as the dust on the wings of a butterfly. They examined the fruit together; and when Jack raised his eyes, he admired on the cheeks of the young girl the same faint, powdery bloom. Her hair, blown in the wind in a soft halo above her brow, added to this effect. He had never seen a face so changed and brightened as hers. Exercise and the excitement of her pretty toil, the gayety of the vineyard, the laughs and shouts of the laborers, had absolutely transformed M. Rivals' quiet housekeeper. She became a child once more, ran down the slopes, lifted her basket on her shoulder, watched her burden carefully, and walked with that rhythmical step which Jack remembered to have seen in the Breton women as they bore on their heads their full water-jugs. There came a time in the day when these two young persons, overwhelmed by fatigue, took their seats at the entrance of a little grove where the dry leaves rustled under their feet.

And then? Ah, well, they said nothing. They let the night descend softly on the most beautiful dream of their lives; and when the swift autumnal twilight brought out in the darkness the bright windows of the simple homes scattered about, the wind freshened, and Cecile insisted on fastening around Jack's throat the scarf she had brought, the warmth and softness of the fabric, the consciousness of being cared for, was like a caress to the lover.

He took her hand, and her fingers lingered in his for a moment; that was all. When they returned to the farm the doctor had just arrived; they heard his cheery voice in the courtyard. The chill of the early autumnal evenings has a charm that both Cecile and Jack felt as they entered the large room filled with the light from the fire. At supper innumerable dusty bottles were produced, but Jack manifested profound indifference to their charms. The doctor, on the contrary, fully appreciated them, so fully that his granddaughter quietly left her seat, ordered the carriage to be harnessed, and wrapped herself in her cloak. Dr. Rivals seeing her in readiness, rose without remonstrance, leaving on the table his half-filled glass.

The three drove home, as in the olden days, through the quiet country roads; the cabriolet, which had increased in size as had its occupants, groaned a little on its well-used springs. This noise took nothing from the charm of the drive, which the stars, so numberless in autumn, seemed to follow with a golden shower.

"Are you cold, Jack?" said the doctor, suddenly.

How could he be cold? The fringe of Cecile's great shawl just touched him.

Alas! why must there be a to-morrow to such delicious days? Jack knew now that he loved Cecile, but he realized also that this love would be to him only an additional cause of sorrow. She was too far above him, and although he had changed much since he had been so near her, although he had thrown aside much of the roughness of his habits and appearance, he still felt himself unworthy of the lovely fairy who had transformed him.

The mere idea that the girl should know that he adored her was distasteful to him. Besides, as his bodily health returned, he began to grow ashamed of his hours of inaction in "the office." What would she think of him should he continue to remain there? Cost what it would, he must go.

One morning he entered M. Rivals' house to thank him for all his kindness, and to inform him of his decision.

"You are right," said the old man; "you are well now bodily and mentally, and you can soon find some employment."

There was a long silence, and Jack was disturbed by the singular attention with which M. Rivals regarded him. "You have something to say to me," said the doctor, abruptly.

Jack colored and hesitated.

"I thought," continued the doctor, "that when a youth was in love with a girl who had no other relation than an old grandfather, the proper thing was to speak to him frankly."

Jack, without answering, hid his face in his hands.

"Why are you so troubled, my boy?" continued his old friend.

"I did not dare to speak to you," answered Jack; "I am poor and without any position."

"You can remedy all this."

"But there is something else: you do not know that I am illegitimate!"

"Yes, I know—and so is she," said the doctor, calmly. "Now listen to a long story."

They were in the doctor's library. Through the open window they saw a superb autumnal landscape, long country roads bordered with leafless trees; and beyond, the old country cemetery, its yew-trees prostrated, and its crosses upheaved.

"You have never been there," said M. Rivals, pointing out to Jack this melancholy spot. "Nearly in the centre is a large white stone, on which is the one word Madeleine.

"There lies my daughter, Cecile's mother. She wished to be placed apart from us all, and desired that only her Christian name should be put upon her tomb, saying that she was not worthy to bear the name of her father and mother. Dear child, she was so proud! She had done nothing to merit this exile after death, and if any should have been punished, it was I, an old fool, whose obstinacy brought all our misfortunes upon us.

"One day, eighteen years ago this very month, I was sent for in a hurry on account of an accident that had happened at a hunt in the Foret de Senart. A gentleman had been shot in the leg. I found the wounded man on the state-bed at the Archambaulds. He was a handsome fellow, with light hair and eyes, those northern eyes that have something of the cold glitter of ice. He bore with admirable courage the extraction of the balls, and, the operation over, thanked me in excellent French, though with a foreign accent. As he could not be moved without danger, I continued to attend him at the forester's; I learned that he was a Russian of high rank,—'the Comte Nadine,' his companions called him.

"Although the wound was dangerous, Nadine, thanks to his youth and good constitution, as well as to the care of Mother Archambauld, was soon able to leave his bed, but as he could not walk at all, I took compassion on his loneliness, and often carried him in my cabriolet home to my own house to dine. Sometimes, when the weather was bad, he spent the night with us. I must acknowledge to you that I adored the man. He had great stores of information, had been everywhere, and seen everything. To my wife he gave the pharmaceutic recipes of his own land, to my daughter he taught the melodies of the Ukraine. We were positively enchanted with him all of us, and when I turned my face homeward on a rainy evening, I thought with pleasure that I should find so congenial a person at my fireside. My wife resisted somewhat the general enthusiasm, but as it was rather her habit to cultivate a certain distrust as a balance to my recklessness, I paid little attention. Meanwhile our invalid was quite well enough to return to Paris, but he did not go, and I did not ask either myself or him why he lingered.

"One day my wife said, 'M. Nadine must explain why he comes so often to the house; people are beginning to gossip about Madeleine and himself.'

"'What nonsense!' I exclaimed. I had the absurd notion that the count lingered at Etiolles on my account; I thought he liked our long talks, idiot that I was. Had I looked at my daughter when he entered the room, I should have seen her change color and bend assiduously over her embroidery all the while he was there. But there are no eyes so blind as those which will not see; and I chose to be blind. Finally, when Madeleine acknowledged to her mother that they loved each other, I went to find the comte to force an explanation.

"He loved my daughter, he said, and asked me for her hand, although he wished me to understand the obstacles that would be thrown in the way by his family. He said, however, that he was of an age to act for himself, and that he had some small income, which, added to the amount that I could give Madeleine, would secure their comfort.

"A great disproportion of fortune would have terrified me, while the very moderation of his resources attracted me. And then his air of lordly decision, his promptness in arranging everything, was singularly attractive. In short, he was installed in the house as my future son-in-law, without my asking too curiously by what door he entered. I realized that there was something a little irregular in the affair, but my daughter was very happy; and when her mother said, 'We must know more before we give up our daughter,' I laughed at her, I was so certain that all was right. One day I spoke of him to M. Vieville, one of the huntsmen.

"'Indeed, I know nothing of the Comte Nadine,' he said; 'he strikes me as an excellent fellow. I know that he bears a celebrated name, and that he is well educated. But if I had a daughter involved, I should wish to know more than this. I should write, if I were you, to the Russian embassy; they can tell you everything there.'

"You suppose, of course, that I went to the embassy. That is just what I did not do; I was too careless, too blindly confident, too busy. I have never been able in my whole life to do what I wished, for I have never had any time; my whole existence has been too short for the half of what I have wished to do. Tormented by my wife on the subject of this additional information, I finished by lying, 'Yes, yes, I went there; everything is satisfactory.' Since then I remember the singular air of the comte each time he thought I was going to Paris; but at that time I saw nothing; I was absorbed in the plans that my children were making for their future happiness. They were to live with us three months in the year, and to spend the rest of the time in St. Petersburg, where Nadine was offered a government situation. My poor wife ended in sharing my joy and satisfaction.

"The end of the winter passed in correspondence. The count's papers were long in coming, his parents utterly refused their consent. At last the papers came—a package of hieroglyphics impossible to decipher,—certificates of birth, baptism, &c. That which particularly amused us was a sheet filled with the titles of my future son-in-law, Ivanovitch Nicolaevitch Stephanovitch.

"'Have you really as many names as that?' said my poor child, laughing; 'and I am only Madeleine Rivals.'

"There was at first some talk of the marriage taking place in Paris with great pomp, but Nadine reflected that it was not wise to brave the paternal authority on this point, so the ceremony took place at Etiolles, in the little church where to this very day are to be seen the records of an irreparable falsehood. How happy I was that morning as I entered the church with my daughter trembling on my arm, feeling that she owed all her happiness to me!

"Then, after mass, breakfast at the house, and the departure of the bridal couple in a post-chaise—I can see them now as they drove away.

"The ones who go are generally happy; those who stay are sad enough. When we took our seats at the table that night, the empty chair at our side was dreary enough. I had business which took me out-of-doors; but the poor mother was alone the greater part of the time, and her heart was devoured by her regrets. Such is the destiny of women; all their sorrows and their griefs come from within, and are interwoven with their daily lives and employments.

"The letters that we soon began to receive from Pisa, and Florence, were radiant with happiness. I began to build a little house by the side of our own; we chose the furniture and the wall papers. 'They are here—they are there,' we said; and at last we expected the final letters we should receive before they returned.

"One evening I came in late; my wife had gone to her room; I supped alone; when suddenly I heard a step in the garden. The door opened, my daughter appeared; but she was no longer the fair young girl whom I had parted with a month before. She looked thin and ill, was poorly dressed, and carried in her hand a little travelling-bag.

"'It is I,' she whispered hoarsely; 'I have come.'

"'Good heavens! what has happened? Where is Nadine?'

"She did not answer; her eyes closed, and she trembled violently from head to foot. You may imagine my suspense.

"'Speak to me, my child. What has happened? Where is your husband?'

"'I have none—I have never had one;' and suddenly, without looking at me, she began to tell me, in a low voice, her horrible history.

"He was not a count, his name was not Nadine. He was a Russian Jew by the name of Roesh, a miserable adventurer. He was married at Riga, married at St. Petersburg. All his papers were false, manufactured by himself. His resources he owed to his skill in counterfeiting bills on the Russian bank. At Turin he had been arrested on an order of extradition. Think of my little girl alone in this foreign town, separated violently from her husband, learning abruptly that he was a forger and a bigamist,—for he made a full confession of his crimes. She had but one thought, that of seeking refuge with us. Her brain was so bewildered, that, as she told us afterwards, when she was asked where she was going, she simply answered 'To mamma.' She left Turin hastily, without her luggage, and at last she was safe with us, and weeping for the first time since the catastrophe.

"I said, 'Restrain yourself, my love, you will awaken your mother!' but my tears fell as fast as her own. The next day my wife learned all; she did not reproach me. 'I knew,' she said, 'from the beginning that there was some misfortune in this marriage.' And, in fact, she had certain presentiments of evil from the hour that the man came under our roof. What is the diagnosis of a physician compared to the warning and confidences whispered by destiny into the ear of certain women? In the neighborhood the arrival of my child was quickly known. 'Your travellers have returned,' they said. They asked few questions, for they readily saw that I was unhappy. They noticed that the count was not with us, that Madeleine and her mother never went out; and very soon I found myself met with compassionate glances that were harder to bear than anything else. My daughter had not confided to me that a child would be born from this disastrous union, but sat sewing day after day, ornamenting the dainty garments, which are the joy and pride of mothers, with ribbons and lace; I fancied, however, that she looked at them with feelings of shame, for the least allusion to the man who had deceived her made her turn pale. But my wife, who saw things with clearer vision than my own, said, 'You are mistaken: she loves him still.'

"Yes, she loved, and strong as was her contempt and distrust, her love was stronger still. It was this that killed her, for she died soon after Cecile's birth. We found under her pillow a letter, worn in all its folds, the only one she had ever received from Nadine, written before their marriage. She had read it often, but she died without once pronouncing the name that I am sure trembled all the time on her lips.

"You are astonished that in a tranquil village like this a complicated drama could have been enacted, such as would seem possible only in the crowded cities of London and Paris. When fate thus attacks, by chance as it were, a little corner so sheltered by hedges and trees, I am reminded of those spent balls which during a battle kill a laborer at work in the fields, or a child returning from school. I think if we had not had little Cecile, my wife would have died with her daughter. Her life from that hour was one long silence, full of regrets and self-reproach.

"But it was necessary to bring up this child, and to keep her in ignorance of the circumstances of her birth. This was a matter of difficulty; it is true that we were relieved of her father, who died a few months after his condemnation. Unfortunately, several persons knew the whole story; and we wished to preserve Cecile from all the gossip she would hear if she associated with other children. You saw how solitary her life was. Thanks to this precaution, she to-day knows nothing of the tempest that surrounded her birth; for not one of the kind people about us would utter one word which would give her reason to suspect that there was any mystery. My wife, however, was always in dread of some childish questions from Cecile. But I had other fears: who could be certain that the child of my child did not inherit from her father some of his vices? I acknowledge to you, Jack, that for years I dreaded seeing her father's characteristics in Cecile; I dreaded the discovery of deceit and falsehood; but what joy it has been to me to find that the child is the perfected image of her mother! She has the same tender and half-sad smile, the same candid eyes, and lips that can say No.

"Meanwhile the future alarmed me: my granddaughter must some day learn the truth, and that truth must be divulged if she should ever marry.

"'She must never love any one,' said her grandmother.

"If this were possible, would it be wise to pass through life without a protector? Her destiny must be united with a fate as exceptional as her own. Such a one could hardly be found in our village, and in Paris we knew no one. It was about the time when these anxieties occupied our minds that your mother came to this place. She was supposed to be the wife of D'Argenton, but the forester's wife told me the real circumstances. I said to myself instantly, 'This boy ought to be Cecile's husband;' and from that time I attended to your education.

"I looked forward to the time that you, a man grown, would come to me and ask her hand. This was the reason, of course, that I was so indignant when D'Argenton sent you to Indret. I said to myself, however, Jack may emerge from this trial in triumph. If he studies, if he works with his head as well as his hands, he may still be worthy of the wife I wish to give him. The letters that we received from you were all that they should be, and I ventured to indulge the hope I have named. Suddenly came the intelligence of the robbery. Ah, my friend, how terrified I was! how I bemoaned the weakness of your mother, and the tyranny of the monster who had driven you to evil courses! I respected, nevertheless, the tender affection that existed toward you in the heart of my little girl, I had not the courage to undeceive her. We talked of you constantly until the day when I told her that I had seen you at the forester's. If you could have seen the light in her eyes, and how busy she was all day! a sign with her always of some excitement, as if her heart beating too quickly needed something, either a pen or a needle, to regulate its movements.

"Now, Jack, you love my child. I have watched you for two months, and I am satisfied that the future is in your own hands. I wish you to study medicine and take my place at Etiolles. I first thought of keeping you here, but I concluded that it would take four years to complete your studies, and that your residence with us for that length of time would not be advisable. In Paris you can study in the evening, and work all day, and come to us on Sundays. I will examine your week's work and advise you, and Cecile will encourage you. Velpeau and others have done this, and you can do the same. Will you try? Cecile is the reward."

Jack was utterly overwhelmed, and could only heartily shake the hand of the old man. But perhaps Cecile's affection was only that of a sister: and four years was a long time: would she consent to wait?

"Ah, my boy, I cannot answer these questions," said M. Rivals, gayly; "but I authorize you to ask them at headquarters. Cecile is up-stairs; go and speak to her."

That was rather a difficult matter, with a heart going like a trip-hammer, and a voice choked with emotion. Cecile was writing in the office.

"Cecile," he said, as he entered the room, "I am going away." She rose from her seat, very pale. "I am going to work," he continued. "Your grandfather has given me permission to tell you that I love you, and that I hope to win you as my wife."

He spoke in so low a voice that any other person than Cecile would have failed to understand him. But she understood him very well. And in this room, lighted by the level rays of the setting sun, the young girl stood listening to this declaration of love as to an echo of her own thoughts. She was perfectly unabashed and undisturbed, a tender smile on her lips, and her eyes full of tears. She understood perfectly that their life would be no holiday, that they would be racked by separations and long years of waiting.

"Jack," she said, after he had explained all his plans, "I will wait for you, not only four years, but forever."

Jack went to Paris in search of employment, found it in the house of Eyssendeck, at six francs a day; then tried to procure lodgings not too far removed from the manufactory. He was happy, full of hope and courage, impatient to begin his double work as mechanic and student. The crowd pushed against him, and he did not feel them; nor was he conscious of the cold of this December night; nor did he hear the young apprentice girls, as they passed him, say to each other, "What a handsome man!" The great Faubourg was alive and seemed to encourage him with its gayety.

"What a pleasure it is to live!" said Jack; "and how hard I mean to work!" Suddenly he stumbled against a great square basket filled with fur hats and caps; this basket stood at the door of a shoemaker's stall. Jack looked in and saw Belisaire, as ugly as ever, but cleaner and better clothed. Jack was delighted to see him, and entered at once; but Belisaire was too deeply absorbed in the examination of a pair of shoes that the cobbler was showing him, to look up. These shoes were not for himself, but for a tiny child of four or five years of age, pale and thin, with a head much too large for his body. Belisaire was talking to the child.

"And they are nice and thick, my dear, and will keep those poor little feet warm."

Jack's appearance did not seem to surprise him.

"Where did you come from?" he asked, as calmly as if he had seen him the night before.

"How are you, Belisaire? Is this your child?"

"O, no; it belongs to Madame Weber," said the pedler, with a sigh; and when he had ascertained that the little thing was well fitted, Belisaire drew from his pocket a long purse of red wool, and took out some silver pieces that he placed in the cobbler's hand with that air of importance assumed by working people when they pay away money.

"Where are you going, comrade?" said the pedler to Jack, as they stood on the pavement, in a tone so expressive that it seemed to say, If you take this side, I shall go the other.

Jack, who felt this without being able to understand it, said, "I hardly know where I am going. I am a journeyman at Eyssendeck's, and I want to find a room not too far away."

"At Eyssendeck's?" said the pedler. "It is not easy to get in there; one must bring the best of recommendations."

The expression of his eyes enlightened Jack. Belisaire believed him guilty of the robbery,—so true it is that accusations, however unfounded and however explained away, yet leave spots and tarnishes. When Belisaire saw the letters of the superintendent at Indret, and heard the whole story, his whole face lighted up with his old smile. "Listen, Jack, it is too late to seek a lodging to-night; come with me, for I have a room where you can sleep tonight, and perhaps can suggest something that will suit you. But we will talk about that as we sup. Come now."

Behold the three—Jack, the pedler, and Madame Weber's little one, whose new shoes clattered on the sidewalk famously—were soon hurrying along the streets. Belisaire informed Jack that his sister was now a widow, and that he had gone into business with her. Occasionally, in the full tide of 'his history, he stopped to shout his old cry of "Hats! hats! Hats to sell!" But before he reached his home, he was obliged to lift into his arms Madame Weber's little boy, who had begun to weep despairingly.

"Poor little fellow!" said Belisaire, "he is not in the habit of walking. He rarely goes out, and it is merely that I may take him out with me sometimes that I have had him measured for these new shoes. His mother is away from home at work all day; she is a good, hard-working woman, and has to leave her child to the care of a neighbor. Here we are!"

They entered one of those large houses whose numerous windows are like narrow slits in the walls. The doors open on the long corridors, which serve as ante-rooms, where the poor people place their stoves and their boxes. At this hour they were at dinner. Jack, as he passed, looked in at the doors, which stood wide open.

"Good evening," said the pedler.

"Good evening," said the friendly voices from within.

In some rooms it was different: there was no fire, no light—a woman and children watching for the father, who was at the wine-shop round the corner.

The pedler's room was at the top of the house, and he seemed very proud of it. "I am going to show you how well I am established, but you must wait until I have taken this child to its mother." He looked under the door of a room opposite his own, pulled out a key and unlocked it, went directly to the stove where had simmered all day the soup for the evening meal. He lighted a candle and fastened the child into a high chair at the table, gave it a spoon and a saucepan to play with, and then said, "Come away quickly; Madame Weber will be here in a minute, and I wish to hear what she will say when she sees the child's new shoes." He smiled as he opened his room—a long attic divided in two. A pile of hats told his business, and the bare walls his poverty.

Belisaire lighted his lamp and arranged his dinner, which consisted of a fine salad of potatoes and salt herring. He took from a closet two plates, bread and wine, and placed them on a little table. "Now," he said, with an air of triumph, "all is ready, though it is not much like that famous ham you gave me in the country." The potato salad was excellent, however, and Jack did justice to it. Belisaire was delighted with the appetite of his guest, and did his duty as host with great delight, rising every two or three minutes to see if the water was boiling for the coffee.

"You have a taste for housekeeping, Belisaire," said Jack, "and have things nicely arranged."

"Not yet," answered the pedler; "I need very many articles,—in fact, these are only lent to me by Madame Weber while we are waiting."

"Waiting for what?" asked Jack.

"Until we can be married!" answered the pedler, boldly, indifferent to Jack's gay laugh. "Madame Weber is a good woman, and you will see her soon. We are not rich enough to start alone in housekeeping, but if we could find some one to share the expenses, we would lodge and feed him, do his washing and all, and it would not be a bad thing for him, any more than for us. Where there is enough for two there is always enough for three, you know! The difficulty is to find some one who is orderly and sober, and won't make too much trouble in the house."

"How should I do, Belisaire?"

"Would you like it, Jack? I have been thinking about it for an hour, but did not dare speak of it. Perhaps our table would be too simple for you."

"No, Belisaire, nothing would be too simple. I wish to be very economical, for I, too, am thinking of marrying."

"Really! But in that case we can't make our arrangements."

Jack laughed, and explained that his marriage was an affair of four years later.

"Well, then, it is all settled. What a happy chance it was that we met. Hark! I hear Madame Weber."

A heavy step mounted the stairs; the child heard it too, for it began a melancholy wail. "I am coming," cried the woman from the end of the corridor, to console the little one.

"Listen," said Belisaire. The door opened; an exclamation, followed by a laugh, was heard, and presently Madame Weber, with her child on her arm, entered Belisaire's room. She was a tall, good-looking woman, of about thirty, and she laughed as she showed him the little one's feet, but there was a tear in her eye as she said, "You are the person who has done this."

"Now," said Belisaire, with simplicity, "how could she guess so well?"

Madame Weber took a seat at the table, and a cup of coffee, and Jack was presented to her as their future associate. I must acknowledge that she received him with a certain reserve, but when she had examined the aspirant for this distinction, and learned that the two men had known each other for ten years, and that she had before her the hero of the story of the ham that she had heard so many times, her face lost its expression of distrust, and she held out her hand to Jack.

"This time Belisaire is right. He has brought me a half dozen of his comrades who were not worth the cord to hang them with. He is very innocent, because he is so good."

Then came a discussion as to arrangements. It was decided that until the marriage he should share Belisaire's room and buy himself a bed; they would share the expenses, and Jack would pay his proportion every Saturday. After the marriage, they would establish themselves more commodiously, and nearer the Eyssendeck Works. This establishment recalled to him Indret on a smaller scale. Owing to lack of space, there were in the same room three rows, one above the other, of machines. Jack was on the upper floor, where all the noise and dust of the place ascended. When he leaned over the railing of the gallery, he beheld a constant whirl of human arms, and a regular and monotonous beat of machinery.

The heat was intense, worse than at Indret, because there was less ventilation; but Jack bore up bravely under it, for his inner life supported him through all the trials of the day. His companions saw intuitively that he lived apart from them, indifferent to their petty quarrels and rivalries. Jack shared neither their pleasures nor their hatreds. He never listened to their sullen complaints, nor the muttered thunder of this great Faubourg, concealed like a Ghetto in this magnificent city. He paid no attention to the socialistic theories, the natural growth in the minds of those who live poor and suffering so near the wealthier classes.

I am not disposed to assert that Jack's companions liked him especially, but they respected him at all events. As to the workwomen, they looked upon him much as a Prince Rodolphe,—for they had all read "The Mysteries of Paris,"—and admired his tall, slender figure and his careful dress. But the poor girls threw away their smiles, for he passed their corner of the establishment with scarcely a glance. This corner was never without its excitement and drama, for most of the workwomen had a lover among the men, and this led to all sorts of jealousies and scenes.

Jack went to and fro from the manufactory alone. He was in haste to reach his lodgings, to throw aside his workman's blouse, and to bury himself in his books. Surrounded with these, many of them those he had used at school, he commenced the labors of the evening, and was astonished to find with what facility he regained all that he thought he had forever lost. Sometimes, however, he encountered an unexpected difficulty, and it was touching to see the young man, whose hands were distorted and clumsy from handling heavy weights, sometimes throw aside his pen in despair. At his side Belisaire sat sewing the straw of his summer hats, in respectful silence, the stupefaction of a savage assistant at a magician's incantations. He frowned when Jack frowned, grew impatient, and when his comrade came to the end of some difficult passage, nodded his head with an air of triumph. The noise of the pedler's big needle passing through the stiff straw, the student's pen scratching upon the paper, the gigantic dictionaries hastily taken up and thrown down, filled the attic with a quiet and healthy atmosphere; and when Jack raised his eyes he saw from the windows the light of other lamps, and other shadows courageously prolonging their labors into the middle of the night.

After her child was asleep, Madame Weber, to economize coal and oil, brought her work to the room of her friend; she sowed in silence. It had been decided that they should not marry until spring, the winter to the poor being always a season of anxiety and privation. Jack, as he wrote, thought, "How happy they are." His own happiness came on Sundays. Never did any coquette take such pains with her toilette as did Jack on those days, for he was determined that nothing about him should remind Cecile of his daily toil; well might he have been taken for Prince Rodolphe had he been seen as he started off.

Delicious day! without hours or minutes—a day of uninterrupted felicity. The whole house greeted him warmly, a bright fire burned in the salon, flowers bloomed at the windows, and Cecile and the doctor made him feel how dear he was to them both. After they had dined, M. Rivals examined the work of the week, corrected everything, and explained all that had puzzled the youth.

Then came a walk through the woods, if the day was fair, and they often passed the chalet where Dr. Hirsch still came to pursue certain experiments. So black was the smoke that poured from the chimneys, that one would have fancied that the man was burning all the drugs in the world. "Don't you smell the poison?" said M. Rivals, indignantly. But the young people passed the house in silence; they instinctively felt that there were no kindly sentiments within those walls toward them, and, in fact, feared that the fanatic Dr. Hirsch was sent there as a spy. But what had they to fear, after all? Was not all intercourse between D'Argenton and Charlotte's son forever ended? For three months they had not met. Since Jack had been engaged to Cecile, and under-stood the dignity and purity of love, he had hated D'Argenton, making him responsible for the fault of his weak mother, whose chains were riveted more closely by the violence and tyranny under which a nobler nature would have revolted. Charlotte, who feared scenes and explanations, had relinquished all hope of reconciliation between these two men. She never mentioned her son to D'Argenton, and saw him only in secret.

She had even visited the machine-shop in a fiacre and closely veiled, and Jack's fellow-workmen had seen him talking earnestly with a woman elegant in appearance and still young. They circulated all sorts of gossip in regard to the mysterious visitor, which finally reached Jack's ears, who begged his mother not to expose herself to such remarks. They then saw each other in the gardens, or in some of the churches; for, like many other women of similar characteristics, she had become devote as she grew old, as much from an overflow of idle sentimentality as from a passion for honors and ceremonies. In these rare and brief interviews Charlotte talked all the time, as was her habit, but with a worn, sad air. She said, however, that she was happy and at peace, and that she had every confidence in M. d'Argenton's brilliant future. But one day, as mother and son were leaving the church-door, she said to him, with some embarrassment, "Jack, can you let me have a little money for a few days? I have made some mistake in my accounts, and have not money enough to carry me to the end of the month, and I dare not ask D'Argenton for a penny."

He did not let her finish; he had just been paid off, and he placed the whole amount in his mother's hand. Then, in the bright sunshine he saw what the obscurity of the church had concealed: traces of tears and a look of despair on the face that was generally so smiling and fresh. Intense compassion filled his heart. "You are unhappy," he said; "come to me, I shall-be so glad to have you."

She started. "No, it is impossible," she said, in a low voice; "he has so many trials just now;" and she hurried away as if to escape some temptation.



CHAPTER XX.~~THE WEDDING-PARTY.

It was a summer morning. The pedler and his comrade were up before daybreak. One was sweeping and dusting, with as little noise as possible, careful not to disturb his companion, who was established at the open window. The sky was the cloudless one of June, pale blue with a faint tinge of rose still lingering in the east, that could be seen between the chimneys. In front of Jack was a zinc roof, which, when the sun was in mid-heaven, became a terrible mirror. At this moment it reflected faintly the tints of the sky, so that the tall chimneys looked like the masts of a vessel floating on a glittering sea. Below was heard the noise from the poultry owned by the various inhabitants of the Faubourg. Suddenly a cry was heard: "Madame Jacob! Madame Mathieu! Here is your bread."

It was four o'clock. The labors of the day had begun. The woman whose daily business it was to supply that quarter with bread from the baker's had begun her rounds. Her basket was filled with loaves of all sizes, sweet-smelling and warm. She carries them all through the corridors, placing them at the corners of the various doors; her shrill voice aroused the sleepers; doors opened and shut; childish voices uttered cries of joy, and little bare feet pattered to meet the good woman, and returned hugging a loaf as big as themselves, with that peculiar gesture that you see in the poor people who come out of the bake-shops, and which shows the thoughtful observer what that hard-earned bread signifies to them.

All the world is now astir; windows are thrown open, even those where the lamps have burned the greater part of the night. At one sits a sad-faced woman, at a sewing-machine, aided by a little girl, who hands her the several pieces of her work. At another a young girl, with hair already neatly braided, is carefully cutting a slice of bread for her slender breakfast, watching that no crumb shall fall on the floor she swept at daybreak. Further on is a window shaded by a large red curtain to keep off the reflection from the zinc roof. All these rooms open on the other side into a dark and ugly house of enormous size. But the student heeds nothing but his work. One sound only depresses him at times, and that is the voice of an old woman, who says every morning, before the noises of the street have begun, "How happy people ought to be who can go to the country on a day like this!" To whom does the poor woman utter these words, day after day? To the whole world, to herself, or only to the canary, whose cage, covered with fresh leaves, she hangs on the shutters? Perhaps she is talking to her flowers. Jack never knew, but he is much of her opinion, and would gladly echo her words; for his first waking thoughts turn toward a tranquil village street, toward a little green door, Jack has just reached this point in his reverie when a rustle of silk is heard, and the handle of his door rattles.

"Turn to the right," said Belisaire, who was making the coffee.

The handle is still aimlessly rattled. Belisaire, with the coffee-pot in his hand, impatiently throws it open, and Charlotte rushes in. Belisaire, stupefied at this inundation of flounces, feathers, and laces, bows again and again, while Jack's mother, who does not recognize him, excuses herself, and retreats toward the door.

"I beg your pardon, sir," she said; "I made a mistake."

At the sound of her voice Jack rises from his chair in astonishment

"Mother!" he cried.

She ran to him and took refuge in his arms.

"Save me, my child, save me! That man, for whom I have sacrificed everything,—my life and that of my child,—has beaten me cruelly. This morning, when he came in after two days' absence, I ventured to make some observation; I thought I had a right to speak. He flew into a frightful passion, and—"

The end of her sentence was lost in a torrent of tears and in convulsive sobs. Belisaire had retired at her first words, and discreetly closed the door after him. Jack looks at his mother, full of terror and pity. How pale and how changed she is! In the clear light of the young day the marks of time are clearly visible on her face, and the gray hairs, that she has not taken the trouble to conceal, shine like silver on her blue-veined temples. Without any attempt at controlling her emotion, she speaks without restraint, pouring forth all her wrongs.

"How I have suffered, Jack! He passes his life now at the cafes and in dissipation. Did you know that, when he went to Indret with that money, I was there in the village, and crazy to see you? He reproaches me with the bread you ate under his roof, and yet—yes, I will tell you what I never meant you to know—I had ten thousand francs of yours that were given to me for you exclusively. Well, D'Argenton put them into his Review; I know that he meant to pay you large interest, but the ten thousand francs have been swallowed up with all the others, and when I asked him if he did not intend to account to you for them, do you know what he did? He drew up a long bill of all that he has paid for you. Your board at Etiolles, that amounts to fifteen thousand francs. But he does not ask you to pay the difference; is not that very generous?" and Charlotte laughed sarcastically. "I tell you I have borne everything," she continued,—"the rages he has fallen into on your account, and the mean way in which he has talked with his friends of the affair at Indret; as if your innocence had never been fully established!

"And then to leave me in ignorance of his where-abouts, to spend his time with some countess in the Faubourg St. Germaine,—for those women are all crazy about him,—and then to receive my reproaches with such disdain, and finally to strike me! Me, Ida de Barancy! This was too much. I dressed, and put on my hat, and then I went to him. I said, 'Look at me, M. d'Argenton; look at me well; it is the last time that you will see me; I am going to my child.' And then I came away."