Jack (18 page)

At this moment Charlotte came in, her eyes red with weeping. For the first time she seemed to have lost all consciousness of self, and had laid aside her rτle of the coquettish, pretty woman. The tears she had shed had been those that age a mother’s face, and leave ineffaceable marks upon it.

“Listen to me, Jack,” she said, tenderly. “You have made me very unhappy. You have been impertinent and ungrateful to your best friends. I know, my child, that you will be happy in your new life. I acknowledge that at first I was troubled at the idea; but you heard what they said, did you not? ΐ mechanic is very different nowadays from what it was once. And, besides, at your age you should rely on the judgment of those older than yourself, who have only your interests at heart.”

A sob from the child interrupted her.

“Then you, too, send me away!”

The mother snatched him to her heart, and kissed him passionately. “I send you away, my darling! You know that if the matter rested with me, you should never leave me; but, my child, we must both of us be reasonable, and think a little of the future, which is dreary enough for us.” And then Charlotte hesitatingly continued, “You know, dear, you are very young, and there are many things you cannot understand. Some day, when you are older, I will tell you the secret of your birth. It is an absolute romance: some day you shall learn your father’s name. But now all that is necessary for you to understand is, that we have not a penny in the world, and are absolutely dependent on—D’Argenton.” This name the poor woman uttered with shame and hesitation, accompanied, at the same time, with a touching look of appeal to her son. “I cannot,” she continued, “ask him to do anything more for us; he has already done so much. Besides, he is not rich. What am I to do between you both? Ah, if I could only go in your place to Indret and earn my bread! And yet you would refuse an opening that gives you a certainty of earning your livelihood, and of becoming your own master.”

By the sparkle in her boy’s eyes the mother saw that these words had struck home, and in a caressing tone she continued, “Do this for me, Jack; do this for your mother. The time may come when I shall have to look to you as my sole support.” Did she really believe her own words? Was it a presentiment, one of those momentary flashes of light that illuminate the future’s dark horizon? or had she simply talked for effect?

At all events, she could have found no better way to conquer this generous nature. The effect was instantaneous. The idea that his mother some day would lean on him suddenly decided him to yield at once. He looked her straight in the eyes. “Promise me that you will never be ashamed of me when my hands are black, and that you will always love me.”

She covered her boy with kisses, concealing in this way her trouble and remorse, for from this time henceforward the unhappy woman was a prey to remorse, and never thought of her child without an agonized contraction of the heart.

But he, supposing that her embarrassment came from anxiety, and possibly from shame, tore himself away, and ran toward the stairs.

“Come, mama, I will tell him that I accept.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the little fellow to D’Argenton, as he opened the door; “I was very wrong in refusing your kindness. I accept it with thanks.”

“I am happy to find that reflection has taught you wisdom. But now express your gratitude to M. Labassandre: it is he to whom you are indebted.”

The child extended his hand, which was quickly ingulfed in the enormous paw of the artist.

This last week Jack spent in his former haunts he was more anxious than sad, and the responsibility he felt made itself seen in two little wrinkles on his childish brow. He was determined not to go away without seeing Cιcile.

“But, my dear, after the scene here the other day, it would not be suitable,” remonstrated his mother. But the night before Jack’s departure, D’Argenton, full of triumph at the success of his plans, consented that the boy should take leave of his friends. He went there in the evening. The house was dark, save a streak of light coming from the library—if library it could be called—a mere closet, crammed with books. The doctor was there, and exclaimed, as the door opened, “I was afraid they would not let you come to say good-bye, my boy! It was partially my fault. I was too quick-tempered by far. My wife scolded me well. She has gone away, you know, with Cιcile, to pass a month in the Pyrenees with my sister. The child was not well; I think I told her of your impending departure too abruptly. Ah, these children! we think they do not feel, but we are mistaken, and they feel quite as deeply as we ourselves.” He spoke to Jack as one man to another. In fact, every one treated him in the same way at present. And yet the little fellow now burst into a violent passion of tears at the thought of his little friend having gone away without his seeing her.

“Do you know what I am doing now, my lad?” asked the old man. “Well, I am selecting some books that you must read carefully. Employ in this way every leisure moment. Remember that books are our best friends. I do not think you will understand this just yet, but one day you will do so, I am sure. In the mean time, promise me to read them,”—the old man kissed the boy twice,—“for Cιcile and myself,” he said, kindly; and, as the door closed, the child heard him say, “Poor child, poor child!”

The words were the same as at the Jesuits’ College; but by this time Jack had learned why they pitied him. The next morning they started, Labassandre in a most extraordinary costume, dressed, in fact, for an expedition across the Pampas,—high gaiters, a green velvet vest, a knapsack, and a knife in his girdle. The poet was at once solemn and happy: solemn, because he felt that he had accomplished a great duty; happy, because this departure filled him with joy.

Charlotte embraced Jack tenderly and with tears. “You will take good care of him, M. Labassandre?”

“As of my best note, madame.”

Charlotte sobbed. The boy sought to hide his emotion, for the thought of working for his mother had given him courage and strength. At the end of the garden path he turned once more, that he might carry away in his memory a last picture of the house, and the face of the woman who smiled through her tears.

“Write often!” cried the mother.

And the poet shouted, in stentorian tones, “Remember, Jack, life is not a romance!”

Life is not a romance; but was it not one for him? The selfish egotist! He stood on the threshold of his little home, with one hand on Charlotte’s shoulder, the roses in bloom all about him, and he himself in a pose pretentious enough for a photograph, and so radiant at having won the day, that he forgot his hatred, and waved a paternal adieu to the child he had driven from the shelter of his roof.

CHAPTER XIII.~~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. ΐ 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 chβteau 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, Pθre 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 Zιnaοde 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 tonight, 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.