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

my little friend," said the kind woman; "your mother, perhaps, is not so ill as you think, and the sight of you will make her well."
At the last house the carriage stopped.
"Yes, this is it," said Jack, sadly. The good people said a kind good-bye. "How lucky you are to have finished your journey," said the woman; "we have four good leagues before us."
Little Jack had the same, but durst not say so. He went toward the garden-gate. "Good night," said his new friends, "good night."
He answered in a voice choked by tears, and the carriage turned toward the right. Then the child, overwhelmed with vain regrets, ran after it with all his speed; but his limbs, weakened instead of strengthened by inadequate repose, refused all service. At the end of a few rods he could go no further, but sank on the roadside with a burst of passionate tears, while the hospitable proprietors of the carriage rolled comfortably on, without an idea of the despair they had left behind them.
He was cold, the earth was wet. No matter for that; he was too weary to think or to feel. The wind blows violently, and soon the poor little boy sleeps quietly. A frightful noise awakens him. Jack starts up and sees something monstrous--a howling, snorting beast, with two fiery eyes that send forth a shower of sparks. The creature dashed past, leaving behind him a train like a comet's tail. A grove of trees, quite unsuspected by Jack, suddenly flashed out clearly; each leaf could have been counted. Not until this apparition was far away, and nothing of it was visible save a small green light, did Jack know that it was the express train.
What time was it? How long had he slept? He knew not, but he felt ill and stiff in every limb. He had dreamed of Madou,--dreamed that they lay side by side in the cemetery; he saw Madou's face, and shivered at the thought of the little icy fingers touching his own. To get away from this idea Jack resumed his weary journey. The damp earth had stiffened in the cold night wind, and his own footfall sounded in his ears so unnaturally heavy, that he fancied Madou was at his side or behind him.
The child passes through a slumbering village; a clock strikes two. Another village, another clock, and three was sounded. Still the boy plods on, with swimming head and burning feet. He dares not stop. Occasionally he meets a huge covered wagon, driver and horses sound asleep. He asks, in a timid, tired voice, "Is it far now to Etiolles?" No answer comes save a loud snore.
Soon, however, another traveller joins the child--a traveller whose praises are sung by the cheery crowing of the cocks, and the gurgles of the frogs in the pond. It is the dawn. And the child shares the anxiety of expectant nature, and breathlessly awaits the coming of the new-born day.
Suddenly, directly in front of him, in the direction in which lay the town where his mother was, the clouds divide--are torn apart suddenly, as it were; a pale line of light is first seen; this line gradually broadens, with a waving light like flames. Jack walks toward this light with a strength imparted by incipient delirium.
Something tells him that his mother is waiting there for him, waiting to welcome him after this horrible night. The sky was now clear, and looked like a large blue eye, dewy with tears and full of sweetness. The road no longer dismayed the child. Besides, it was a smooth highway, without ditch or pavement, intended, it seemed, for the carriages of the wealthy. Superb residences, with grounds carefully kept, were on both sides of this road. Between the white houses and the vineyards were green lawns that led down to the river, whose surface reflected the tender blue and rosy tints of the sky above. O sun, hasten thy coming; warm and comfort the little child, who is so weary and so sad!
"Am I far from Etiolles?" asked Jack of some laborers who were going to their work.
"No, he was not far from Etiolles; he had but to follow the road straight on through the wood."
The wood was all astir now, resounding with the chirping of birds and the rustling of squirrels. The refrain of the birds in the hedge of wild roses was repeated from the topmost branches of the century-old oak-trees; the branches shook and bent under the sudden rush of winged creatures; and while the last of the shadows faded away, and the night-birds with silent, heavy flight hurried to their mysterious shelters, a lark suddenly rises from the field with its wings wide-spread, and flies higher and higher until it is lost in the sky above. The child no longer walks, he crawls; an old woman meets him, leading a goat; mechanically he asks if it is far to Etiolles.
The ragged creature looks at him ferociously, and then points out a little stony path. The sunshine warms the little fellow, who stumbles over the pebbles, for he has no strength to lift his feet. At last he sees a steeple and a cluster of houses; one more effort, and he will reach them. But he is dizzy and falls; through his half-shut eyes he sees close at hand a little house covered with vines and roses. Over the door, between the wavering shadows of a lilac-tree already in flower, he saw an inscription in gold letters:--
PARVA DOMUS, MAGNA QUIES.
How pretty the house was, bathed in the fresh morning light! All the blinds are still closed, although the dwellers in the cottages are awake, for he hears a woman's voice singing,--singing, too, his own cradle-song, in a fresh, gay voice. Was he dreaming? The blinds were thrown open, and a woman appeared in a white negligee, with her hair lightly twisted in a simple knot.
"Mamma, mamma!" cried Jack, in a weak voice.
The lady turned quickly, shaded her eyes from the sun, and saw the poor little worn and travel-stained lad.
She screamed "Jack!" and in a moment more was beside him, warming him in her arms, caressing and soothing the little fellow, who sobbed out the anguish of that terrible night on her shoulder.


CHAPTER IX.~~PARVA DOMUS, MAGNA QUIES.
"No, no, Jack; no, dear child; do not be alarmed, you shall never go back to that school. Did they dare to strike you? Cheer up, dear. I tell you that you shall never go there again, but shall always be with me. I will arrange a little room for you to-day, and you will see how nice it is to be in the country. We have cows and chickens, and that reminds me the poultry has not yet been fed. Lie down, dear, and rest a while. I will wake you at dinner-time, but first drink this soup. It is good, is it not? And to think that while I was calmly sleeping, you were alone in the cold and dark night. I must go. My chickens are calling me;" and with a loving kiss Ida went off on tiptoe, happy and bright, browned somewhat by the sun, and dressed with rather a theatrical idea of the proprieties. Her country costume had a great deal of black velvet about it, and she wore a wide-brimmed Leghorn hat, trimmed with poppies and wheat.
Jack could not sleep, but his bath and the soup prepared by Mere Archambauld, his mother's cook, had restored his strength to a very great degree, and he lay on the couch, looking about him with calm, satisfied eyes.
There was but little of the old luxury. The room he was in was large, furnished in the style of Louis XVI., all gray and white, without the least gilding. Outside, the rustling of the leaves, the cooing of the pigeons on the roof, and his mother's voice talking to her chickens, lulled him to repose.
One thing troubled him: D'Argenton's portrait hung at the foot of the bed, in a pretentious attitude, his hand on an open book.
The child said to himself, "Where is he? Why have I not seen him?" Finally, annoyed by the eyes of the picture, which seemed to pursue him either with a question or a reproach, he rose and went down to his mother.
She was busy in the farm-yard; her gloves reached above her elbows, and her dress, looped on one side, showed her wide striped skirt and high heels.
Mere Archambauld laughed at her awkwardness. This woman was the wife of an employe in the government forests, who attended to the culinary department at Aulnettes, as the house was called where Jack's mother lived.
"Heavens! how pretty your boy is!" said the old woman, delighted by Jack's appearance.
"Is he not, Mere Archambauld? What did I tell you?"
"But he looks a good deal more like you, madame, than like his papa. Good day, my dear! May I give you a kiss?"
At the word papa, Jack looked up quickly.
"Ah, well! if you can't sleep, let us go and look at the house," said his mother, who quickly wearied of every occupation. She shook down her skirts, and took the child over this most original house, which was situated a stone's throw from the village, and realized better than most poets' dreams those of D'Argenton. The house had been originally a shooting-box belonging to a distant chateau. A new tower had been added, and a weathercock, which last gave an aspect of intense respectability to the place. They visited the stable and the orchard, and finished their examination by a visit to the tower.
A winding staircase, lighted by a skylight of colored glass, led to a large, round room containing four windows, and furnished by a circular divan covered with some brilliant Eastern stuff. A couple of curious old oaken chests, a Venetian mirror, some antique hangings, and a high carved chair of the time of Henri II., drawn up in front of an enormous table covered with papers, composed the furniture of the apartment. A charming landscape was visible from the windows, a valley and a river, a fresh green wood, and some fair meadow-land.
"It is here that HE works," said his mother, in an awed tone.
Jack had no need to ask who this HE might be.
In a low voice, as if in a sanctuary, she continued, without looking at her son,--
"At present he is travelling. He will return in a few days, however. I shall write to him that you are here; he will be very glad, for he is very fond of you, and is the best of men, even if he does look a little severe sometimes. You must learn to love him, little Jack, or I shall be very unhappy."
As she spoke she looked at D'Argenton's picture hung at the end of this room, a picture of which the one in her room was a copy; in fact, a portrait of the poet was in every room, and a bronze bust in the entrance-hall, and it was a most significant fact that there was no other portrait than his in the whole house. "You promise me, Jack, that you will love him?"
Jack answered with much effort, "I promise, dear mamma."
This was the only cloud on that memorable day. The two were so happy in that quaint old drawing-room. They heard Mere Archambauld rattling her dishes in the kitchen. Outside of the house there was not a sound. Jack sat and admired his mother. She thought him much grown and very large for his age, and they laughed and kissed each other every few minutes. In the evening they had some visitors. Pere Archambauld came for his wife,