Jack Part 34

"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 hoa.r.s.ely; '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 compa.s.sionate 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 p.r.o.nouncing 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 b.a.l.l.s 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 circ.u.mstances 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 a.s.sociated 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 pa.s.s 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 circ.u.mstances. 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sumed 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 pa.s.sed, 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 appet.i.te 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 was.h.i.+ng 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."