Jack by Alphonse Daudet (best novels for students .TXT) 📕

art had inculcated, and Madou understood and spoke nothing save his savage dialect. At this moment, another of "the children of the sun," Said, encouraged by Jack's example, followed him into the sick-room, but, startled and disturbed by the strange scene, retreated to the doorway, and stood with affrighted eyes.
Madou drew one long, shivering sigh.
"He is going to sleep, I think," whispered Said, shivering with terror; for, older than Jack, he intuitively felt the cold blast from the wings of Death, which already fanned the brow of the sick boy.
"Let us go," said Jack, pale and troubled; and they hastily ran down the garden-walk, leaving their comrade alone in the twilight. Night came on. In that silent room, which the children had left, the fire crackled cheerfully, burning brightly, and illuminating every corner as if in search of something that was hidden. The light flickered on the ceiling and was reflected on every small window-pane, glanced over the little bed, and brought out the color of Madou's red sleeve, until tired apparently of its fruitless search, discouraged and exhausted, and convinced that its heat was useless, for no one was there to warm. The fire gave one last expiring flicker, and then, like the poor little half-frozen king, who had so loved it, sank into eternal rest.
Poor Madou! The irony of destiny pursued him even after death, for Moronval hesitated whether the interment should be that of a royal prince or of a servant. On one side there were reasons of economy; on the other, vanity and policy had a word to say. After much indecision, Moronval decided to strike a great blow, thinking that, perhaps, as he had not profited much by the prince living, he might gain something from him dead. So a pompous funeral was arranged. All the daily papers published a biography of the little king of Dahomey. It was a short one, to be sure, but lengthened by a panegyric of the Moronval Institute, and of its principal. The discipline of the establishment was commended; its hygienic regulations, the peculiar skill of its medical adviser,--nothing had been forgotten, and the unanimity of the eulogiums was something quite touching.
One day in May, therefore, Paris, which, notwithstanding its innumerable occupations and its feverish excitements, has always one eye open to all that goes on,--Paris saw on its principal boulevards a singular procession. Four black boys walked by the side of a bier. Behind, a taller lad, a tone lighter in complexion, wearing a fez,--our friend Said,--carried on a velvet cushion an order or two, some royal insignia fantastic in character. Then came Moronval, with Jack and the other schoolboys. The professors followed with the habitues of the house, the literary men whom we met at the soiree. How shabby were these last! How many worn-out coats and worn-out hearts were there! How many disappointed hopes and unattainable ambitions! All these slowly marched on, embarrassed by the full light of day to which they were unaccustomed; and this melancholy escort precisely suited the little deposed king. Were not all of these persons pretendents, too, to some imaginary kingdom to which they would never succeed? Where but in Paris could such a funeral be seen? A king of Dahomey escorted to the grave by a procession of Bohemians!
To increase the dreariness of the scene, a fine cold rain began to fall, as if fate pursued the little prince, who so hated cold weather, even to the very grave. Yes, to the grave; for when the coffin had been lowered, Moronval pronounced a discourse so insincere and hard that it would not have warmed you, my poor Madou! Moronval spoke of the virtues and estimable qualities of the defunct, of the model sovereign he would one day have made had he lived. To those who had been familiar with that pitiful little face, who had seen the child abased by servitude, Moronval's discourse was at once heart-breaking and absurd.


CHAPTER VIII.~~JACK'S DEPARTURE.
The only sincere grief for the negro boy was felt by little Jack. The death of his comrade had impressed him to an extraordinary degree, and the lonely deathbed he had witnessed haunted him for days. Jack knew too that now he must bear alone all Moronval's whims and caprices, for the other pupils all had some one who came occasionally to see them, and who would report any brutalities of which they were the victims. Jack's mother never wrote to him nowadays, and no one at the Institute knew even where she was. Ah! had he but been able to ascertain, how quickly would the child have gone to her, and told her all his sorrows. Jack thought of all this as they returned from the cemetery. Labassandre and Dr. Hirsch were in front of him, talking to each other.
"She is in Paris," said Labassandre, "for I saw her yesterday."
Jack listened eagerly.
"And was he with her?"
She--he. These designations were certainly somewhat vague, and yet Jack knew of whom they were speaking. Could his mother be in Paris and yet not have hastened to him? All the way back to the Institute he was meditating his escape.
Moronval, surrounded by his professors and friends, walked at the head of the procession, and turned occasionally to look back upon them with a rallying gesture. This gesture was repeated by Said to the little boys, whose legs were very weary with the distance they had walked. They would increase their speed for a few rods, and then gradually drop off again. Jack contrived to linger more and more among the last.
"Come!" cried Moronval.
"Come, come!" repeated Said.
At the entrance of the Champs Elysees Said turned for the last time, gesticulating violently to hasten the little group. Suddenly the Egyptian's arms fell at his side in amazement, for Jack was missing!
At first the child did not run, he was sagacious enough to avoid any look of haste. He affected, on the contrary, a lounging air. But as he drew nearer the Boulevard Haussmann, a mad desire to run took possession of him, and his little feet, in spite of himself, went faster and faster. Would the house be closed? And if Labassandre were mistaken, and his mother not in Paris, what would become of him? The alternative of a return to the academy never occurred to him. Indeed, if he had thought of it, the remembrance of the heavy blows and heartfelt sobs that he had heard all one afternoon would have filled him with terror.
"She is there," cried the child, in a transport of joy, as he saw all the windows of the house open, and the door also as it was always when his mother was about going out. He hastened on, lest the carriage should take her away before he could arrive. But as he entered the vestibule, he was struck by something extraordinary in its appearance. It was full of people all busily talking. Furniture was being carried away: sofas and chairs, covered for a boudoir in such faint and delicate hues that in the broad light of day they looked faded. A mirror, framed in silver, and ornamented with cupids, was leaning against one of the stone pillars; a jardiniere without flowers, and curtains that bad been taken down and thrown over a chair, were near by. Several women richly dressed were talking together of the merits of a crystal chandelier.
Jack, in great astonishment, made his way through the crowd, and could hardly recognize the well-known rooms, such was their disorder. The visitors opened the drawers wide, tapped on the wood of the sideboard, felt of the curtains, and sometimes, as she passed the piano, a lady, without stopping or removing her gloves, would lightly strike a chord or two. The child thought himself dreaming. And his mother, where was she? He went toward her room, but the crowd surged at that moment in the same direction. The child was too little to see what attracted them, but he heard the hammer of the auctioneer, and a voice that said,--
"A child's bed, carved and gilded, with curtains!"
And Jack saw his own bed, where he had slept so long, handled by rough men. He wished to exclaim,
"The bed is mine--my very own--I will not have it touched;" but a certain feeling of shame withheld him, and he went from room to room looking for his mother, when suddenly his arm was seized.
"What! Master Jack, are you no longer at the school?"
It was Constant, his mother's maid--Constant, in her Sunday dress, wearing pink ribbons, and with an air of great importance.
"Where is mamma?" asked the child, in a low voice, a voice that was so pitiful and troubled that the woman's heart was touched.
"Your mother is not here, my poor child," she said.
"But where is she? And what are all these people doing?"
"They have come for the auction. But come with me to the kitchen, Master Jack, we can talk better there."
There was quite a party in the kitchen,--the old cook, Augustin, and several servants in the neighborhood. They were drinking champagne around the same table where Jack's future had been one evening decided. The child's arrival made quite a sensation. He was caressed by them all, for the servants were really attached to his kind-hearted mother. As he was afraid that they would take him back to the Institute, Jack took good care not to say that he had run away, and merely spoke of an imaginary permission he had received to enable him to visit his mother.
"She is not here, Master Jack," said Constant, "and I really do not know whether I ought--" Then, interrupting herself, Constant exclaimed, "O! it is too bad. I cannot keep this child from his mother!"
Then she informed little Jack that madame was at Etiolles.
The child repeated the name over and over again to himself. "Is it far from here?" he asked.
"Eight good leagues," answered Augustin.
But the cook disputed this point; and then followed an animated discussion as to the route to be taken to reach _Etiolles_. Jack listened eagerly, for he had already decided to attempt the journey alone and on foot.
"Madame lives in a pretty little cottage just at the edge of a wood," said Constant.
Jack understood by this time which side of Paris he should go out. This and the name of the village were the two distinct ideas he had. The distance did not frighten him. "I can walk all night," he said to himself, "even if my legs are little." Then he spoke aloud. "I must go now," he said, "I must go back to school." One question, however, burned on his lips. Was Argenton at Etiolles? Should he find this powerful barrier between his mother and himself? He dared not ask Constant, however. Without understanding the truth precisely, he yet felt very keenly that this. Was not the best side of his mother's life, and he avoided all mention of it.
The servants said "good-bye," the coachman shook hands with him, and then the boy found himself in the vestibule among a bustling crowd. He did not linger in this chaos, for the house had no longer any interest for him, but hurried into the street, eager to start on the journey that would end by placing him with his mother.
Bercy! Yes, Bercy was the name of the village the cook had mentioned as the first after leaving Paris. The way was not difficult to find, although it was a good distance off, but the fear of being caught by Moronval spurred him on. An inquisitive look from a policeman startled him, a shadow on the wall, or a hurried step behind, made his heart beat, and over and above the noise and confusion of the streets he seemed to