Jack Part 22

CHAPTER XIV.--A MIDNIGHT INTERVIEW.

"Chateau des Aulnettes.

"I am not pleased with you, my child. M. Rondic has written to his brother a long letter, in which he says, that in the year that you have been at Indret you have made no progress. He speaks kindly of you, nevertheless, but does not seem to think you adapted for your present life. We are all grieved to hear this, and feel that you are not doing all that you might do. M. Rondic also says that the air of the workshops is not good for you, that you are pale and thin, and that at the least exertion the perspiration rolls down your face. I cannot understand this, and fear that you are imprudent, that you go out in the evening uncovered, that you sleep with your windows open, and that you forget to tie your scarf around your throat. This must not be; your health is of the first importance.

"I admit that your present occupation is not as pleasant as running wild in the forest would be, but remember what M. D'Argenton told you, that 'life is not a romance.' He knows this very well, poor man!--better, too, to-day, than ever before. You have no conception of the annoyances to which this great poet is exposed. The low conspiracies that have been formed against him are almost incredible. They are about to bring out a play at the Theatre Francais called '_La Fille de Faust_' It is not D'Argenton's play, because his is not written, but it is his idea, and his t.i.tle! We do not know whom to suspect, for he is surrounded with faithful friends. Whoever the guilty party may be, our friend has been most painfully affected, and has been seriously ill. Dr. Hirsch fortunately was here, for Dr. Rivals still continues to sulk. That reminds me to tell you that we hear that you keep up your correspondence with the doctor, of which M. d'Argenton entirely disapproves. It is not wise, my child, to keep up any a.s.sociation with people above your station; it only leads to all sorts of chimerical aspirations. Your friends.h.i.+p for little Cecile M. d'Argenton regards also as a waste of time. You must, therefore, relinquish it, as we think that you would then enter with more interest into your present life. You will understand, my child, that I am now speaking entirely in your interest.

You are now fifteen. You are safely launched in an enviable career.

A future opens before you, and you can make of yourself just what you please.

"Your loving mother,

"Charlotte."

"P. S. Ten o'clock at night.

"Dearest,--I am alone, and hasten to add a good night to my letter, to say on paper what I would say to you were you here with me now. Do not be discouraged. You know just what he is. _He_ is very determined, and has resolved that you shall be a machinist, and you must be. Is he right? I cannot say. I beg of you to be careful of your health; it must be damp where you are; and if you need anything, write to me under cover to the Archambaulds. Have you any more chocolate? For this, and for any other little things you want, I lay aside from my personal expenses a little money every month. So you see that you are teaching me economy.

Remember that some day I may have only you to rely upon.

"If you knew how sad I am sometimes in thinking of the future! Life is not very gay here, and I am not always happy. But then, as you know, my sad moments do not last long. I laugh and cry at the same time without knowing why. I have no reason to complain, either. He is nervous like all artists, but I comprehend the real generosity and n.o.bility of his nature. Farewell! I finish my letter for Mere Archambauld to mail as she goes home. We shall not keep the good woman long. M. d'Argenton distrusts her. He thinks she is paid by his enemies to steal his ideas and t.i.tles for books and plays! Good night, my dearest."

Between the lines of this lengthy letter Jack saw two faces,--that of D'Argenton, dictatorial and stern,--and his mother's, gentle and tender.

How under subjection she was! How crushed was her expansive nature! A child's imagination supplies his thoughts with ill.u.s.trations. It seemed to Jack, as he read, that his Ida--she was always Ida to her boy--was shut up in a tower, making signals of distress to him.

Yes, he would work hard, he would make money, and take his mother away from such tyranny; and as a first step he put away all his books.

"You are right," said old Rondic; "your books distract your attention."

In the workshop Jack heard constant allusions made to the Rondic household, and particularly to the relations existing between Clarisse and Chariot.

Every one knew that the two met continually at a town half-way between Saint Nazarre and Indret. Here Clarisse went under pretence of purchasing provisions that could not be procured on the island. In the contemptuous glances of the men who met her, in their familiar nods, she read that her secret was known, and yet with blushes of shame dyeing the cheeks that all the fresh breezes from the Loire had no power to cool, she went on. Jack knew all this. No delicacy was observed in the discussion of such subjects before the child. Things were called by their right names, and they laughed as they talked. Jack did not laugh, however. He pitied the husband so deluded and deceived. He pitied also the woman whose weakness was shown in her very way of knotting her hair, in the way she sat, and whose pleading eyes always seemed to be asking pardon for some fault committed. He wanted to whisper to her, "Take care--you are watched." But to Char-lot he would have liked to say, "Go away, and let this woman alone!"

He was also indignant in seeing his friend Belisaire playing such a part in this mournful drama. The pedler carried all the letters that pa.s.sed between the lovers. Many a time Jack had seen him drop one into Madame Rondic's ap.r.o.n while she changed some money, and, disgusted with his old ally, the child no longer lingered to speak when they met in the street.

Belisaire had no idea of the reason of this coolness. He suspected it so little, that one day, when he could not find Clarisse, he went to the machine-shop, and with an air of great mystery gave the letter to the apprentice. "It is for madame; give it to her secretly!"

Jack recognized the writing of Chariot. "No," he said at once; "I will not touch this letter, and I think you would do better to sell your hats than to meddle with such matters."

Belisaire looked at him with amazement.

"You know very well," said the boy, "what these letters are; and do you think that you are doing right to aid in deceiving that old man?"

The pedler's face turned scarlet.

"I never deceived any one; if papers are given to me to carry, I carry them, that is all. Be sure of one thing, and that is, if I were the sort of person you call me, I should be much better off than I am today!"

Jack tried to make him see the thing as he saw it, but evidently the man, however honest, was without any delicacy of perception. "And I, too," thought Jack, suddenly, "am of the people now. What right have I to any such refinements?"

That Father Rondic knew nothing of all that was going on, was not astonis.h.i.+ng. But Zenade, where was she? Of what was she thinking?

Zenade was on the spot,--more than usual, too, for she had not been at the chateau for a month. Her eyes were also widely open, and were more keen and vivacious than ever, for Zenade was about to be married to a handsome young soldier attached to the customhouse at Nantes, and the girl's dowry was seven thousand francs. Pere Rondic thought this too much, but the soldier was firm. The old man had made no provision for Clarisse. If he should die, what would become of her?

But his wife said, "You are yet young--we will be economical. Let the soldier have Zenade and the seven thousand francs, for the girl loves him!"

Zenade spent a great deal of time before her mirror. She did not deceive herself. "I am ugly, and M. Maugin will not marry me for my beauty, but let him marry me, and he shall love me later."

And the girl gave a little nod, for she knew the unselfish devotion of which she was capable, the tenderness and patience with which she would watch over her husband. But all these new interests had so absorbed her that Zenade had partially forgotten her suspicions; they returned to her at intervals, while she was sewing on her wedding-dress, but she did not notice her mother's pallor nor uneasiness, nor did she feel the burning heat of those slender hands. She did not notice her long and frequent disappearances, and she heard nothing of what was rumored in the town. She saw and heard nothing but her own radiant happiness. The banns were published, the marriage-day fixed, and the little house was full of the joyous excitement that precedes a wedding. Zenade ran up and down stairs twenty times each day with the movements of a young hippopotamus. Her friends came and went, little gifts were pouring in, for the girl was a great favorite in spite of her occasional abruptness.

Jack wished to make her a present; his mother had sent him a hundred francs.

"This money is your own, my Jack," Charlotte wrote. "Buy with it a gift for M'lle Rondic, and some clothes for yourself. I wish you to make a good appearance at the wedding, and I am afraid that your wardrobe is in a pitiable condition. Say nothing about it in your letters, nor of me to the Rondics. They would thank me, which would be an annoyance, and bring me a reproof besides."

For two days Jack carried this money with pride in his pocket. He would go to Nantes and buy a new suit. What a delight it would be! and how kind his mother was! One thing troubled him: What could he purchase for Zenade; he must first see what she had.

So thinking one dark night, as he entered the house, he ran against some one who was coming down the steps.

"Is that you, Belisaire?"

There was no reply, but as Jack pushed open the door, he saw that he was not mistaken, that Belisaire had been there.

Clarisse was in the corridor, s.h.i.+vering with the cold, and so absorbed by the letter she was reading in the gleam of light from the half open door of the parlor, that she did not even look up as Jack went in. The letter evidently contained some startling intelligence, and the boy suddenly remembered having that day heard that Chariot had lost a large sum of money in gambling with the crew of an English s.h.i.+p that had just arrived at Nantes from Calcutta.

In the parlor Zenade and Maugin were alone.

Pere Rondic had gone to Chateaubriand and would not return until the next day, which did not prevent her future husband from dining with them. He sat in the large arm-chair, his feet comfortably extended.

While Zenade, carefully dressed, and her hair arranged by her stepmother, laid the table, this calm and reasonable lover entertained her by an estimate of the prices of the various grains, indigos, and oils that entered the port of Nantes. And such a wonderful prestidigitateur is love that Zenade was moved to the depths of her soul by these details, and listened to them as to music.

Jack's entrance disturbed the lovers. "Ah, here is Jack I I had no idea it was so late!" cried the girl. "And mamma, where is she?"

Clarisse came in, pale but calm.

"Poor woman!" thought Jack, as he watched her trying to smile, to talk, and to eat, swallowing at intervals great draughts of water, as if to choke down some terrible emotion. Zenade was blind to all this. She had lost her own appet.i.te, and watched her soldier's plate, seeming delighted at the rapidity with which the delicate morsels disappeared.

Maugin talked well, and ate and drank with marvellous appet.i.te; he weighed his words as carefully as he did the square bits into which he cut his bread; he held his wine-gla.s.s to the light, testing and scrutinizing it each time he drank. A dinner, with him, was evidently a matter of importance as well as of time. This evening it seemed as if Clarisse could not endure it; she rose from the table, went to the window, listened to the rattling of the hail on the gla.s.s, and then turning round, said,--

"What a night it is, M. Maugin I I wish you were safely at home."

"I don't, then!" cried Zenade, so earnestly that they all laughed. But the remark made by Clarisse bore its fruit, and the soldier rose to go.

But it took him some time to get off. There was his lantern to light, his gloves to b.u.t.ton; and the girl took all these duties on herself. At last the soldier was in readiness; his hood was pulled over his eyes, a scarf wound about his throat, then Zenade said good night, and watched her Esquimau-looking lover somewhat anxiously down the street. What perils might he not have to run in that thick darkness!

Her stepmother called her impatiently. The nervous excitement of Clarisse had momentarily increased. Jack had noticed this, and also that she looked constantly at the clock.

"How cold it must be to-night on the Loire," said Zenade.

"Cold, indeed!" answered Clarisse, with a s.h.i.+ver.

"Come," she said, as the clock struck ten, "let us go to bed."