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

sky set thick with stars. Suddenly he heard a long, shivering sigh and a sob, and found that Madame Rondic was looking out into the night, and weeping like himself, at a window below.
In the morning, Father Rondic called him; he swallowed a tumbler of wine and ate a crust of bread, and hurried to the machine-shop. And there, could his foolish mother have seen him, how quickly would she have taken her child from his laborious task, for which he was so totally unfitted by nature and education. The regulations for, lack of punctuality were very strict. The first offence was a fine, and the third absolute dismissal. Jack was generally at the door before the first sound of the bell; but one day, two or three months after his arrival on the island, he was delayed by the ill-nature of others. His hat had been blown away by a sudden gust of wind just as he reached the forge. "Stop it!" cried the child, running after it. Just as he reached it, an apprentice coming up the street gave the hat a kick and sent it on; another did the same, and then another. This was very amusing to all save Jack, who, out of breath and angry, felt a strong desire to weep, for he knew that a positive hatred toward him was hidden under all this apparent jesting. In the meantime the bell was sounding its last strokes, and the child was compelled to relinquish the useless pursuit. He was utterly wretched, for it was no small expense to buy a new cap; he must write to his mother for money, and D'Argenton would read the letter. This was bad enough; but the consciousness that he was disliked among his fellow-workmen troubled him still more.
Some persons need tenderness as plants need heat to sustain life. Jack was one of these, and he asked himself sadly why no one loved him in his new abiding-place. Just as he arrived at the open door, he heard quick breathing behind him, a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, and turning, he saw a smiling, hideous face, while a rough hand extended the missing cap.
Where had he seen that face? "I have it!" he cried at last; but at that moment there was no time to renew his acquaintance with the pedler, to whom, and to whose fragile stock of goods, he had given such timely shelter on that showery summer's day.
The child's spirits rose, he was less sad, less lonely. While his hands were busy with his monotonous toil, his mind was occupied with thoughts of the past: he saw again the lovely country road near his mother's house; he heard the low rumbling of the doctor's gig, and felt the fresh breeze from the river, even there in the stifling atmosphere of the machine-shop.
That evening he searched for Belisaire, but in vain; again the next day, but could learn nothing of him; and by degrees the uncouth face that had revived so many beautiful memories, in the child's sick heart faded and died away, and he was again left alone.
The boy was far from a favorite among the men; they teased, and played practical jokes upon him. Sunday was his only day of rest and relaxation. Then, with one of Dr. Rivals' books, Jack sought a quiet nook on the bank of the river. He had found a deep fissure in the rocks, where he sat quite concealed from view, his book open on his knee, the rush, the magic, and the extent of the water before him. The distant church-bells rang out praises to the Lord, and all was rest and peace. Occasionally a vessel drifted past, and from afar came the laughter of children at play.
He read, but his studies were often too deep for him, and he would lift his eyes from the pages, and listen dreamily to the soft lapping of the water on the pebbles of the shore, while his thoughts wandered to his mother and his little friend.
At last autumnal rains came, and then the child passed his Sundays at the Rondics, who were all very kind to him, Zenaide in particular. The old man felt a certain contempt for Jack's physical delicacy, and said the boy stunted his growth by his devotion to books, but "he was a good little fellow all the same!" In reality, old Rondic felt a great respect for Jack's attainments, his own being of the most superficial description. He could read and write, to be sure, but that was all; and since he had married the second Madame Rondic, he had become painfully conscious of his deficiencies. His wife was the daughter of a subordinate artillery officer, the belle and beauty of a small town. She was well brought up,--one of a numerous family, where each took her share of toil and economy. She accepted Rondic, notwithstanding the disparity of years and his lack of education, and entertained for her husband the greatest possible affection. He adored his wife, and would make any sacrifice for her happiness or her gratification. He thought her prettier than any of the wives of his friends,--who were all, in fact, stout Breton peasants, more occupied with their household cares than with anything else. Clarisse had a certain air about her, and dressed and arranged her hair in a way that offered the greatest contrast to the monastic aspect of the women of the country, who covered their hair with thick folds of linen, and concealed their figures with the clumsy fullness of their skirts.
His house, too, was different from those about him. Behind the full white curtains stood a pot of flowers, sweet basil or gillyflowers, and the furniture was carefully waxed and polished; and Rondic was delighted, when he returned home at night, to find so carefully arranged a home, and a wife as neatly dressed as if it were Sunday. He never asked himself why Clarisse, after the house was in order for the day, took her seat at the window with folded hands, instead of occupying herself with needlework, like other women whose days were far too short for all their duties.
He supposed, innocently enough, that his wife thought only of him while adorning herself; but the whole village of Indret could have told him that another occupied all her thoughts, and in this gossip the names of Madame Rondic and Chariot were never separated. They said that the two had known each other before Madame Rondic's marriage, and that if the nephew had wished he could have married the lady, instead of his uncle.
But the young fellow had no such desire. He merely thought that Clarisse was charmingly pretty, and that it would be very nice to have her for his aunt. But later, when they were thrown so much together, while Father Rondic slept in the arm-chair and Zenaide sewed at the chateau, these two natures were irresistibly attracted toward each other. But no one had a right to make any invidious remark; they had, besides, always watching over them a pair of frightfully suspicious eyes, those of Zenaide. She had a way of interrupting their interviews, of appearing suddenly, when least expected; and, however fatigued she might be by her day's work, she took her seat in the chimney-corner with her knitting. Zenaide, in fact, played the part of the jealous and suspicious husband. Picture to yourself, if you please, a husband with all the instincts and clearsightedness of a woman!
The warfare between herself and Chariot was incessant, and the little outbursts served to conceal the real antipathy; but while Father Rondic smiled contentedly, Clarisse turned pale as if at distant thunder.
Zenaide had triumphed: she had so managed at the chateau that the Director had decided to send Chariot to Guerigny, to study a new model of a machine there. Months would be necessary for him to perfect his work. Clarisse understood very well that Zenaide was at the bottom of this movement, but she was not altogether displeased at Chariot's departure; she flung herself on Zenaide's stronger nature, and entreated her protection.
Jack had understood for some time that between these two women there was a secret. He loved them both: Zenaide won his respect and his admiration, while Madame Rondic, more elegant and more carefully dressed, seemed to be a remnant of the refinements of his former life. He fancied that she was like his mother; and yet Ida was lively, gay, and talkative, while Madame Rondic was always languid and silent. They had not a feature alike, nor was there any similarity in the color of their hair. Nevertheless, they did resemble each other, but it was a resemblance as vague and indefinite as would result from the same perfume among the clothing, or of something more subtile still, which only a skilful chemist of the human soul could have analyzed.
Sometimes on Sunday, Jack read aloud to the two women and to Rondic. The parlor was the room in which they assembled on these occasions. The apartment was decorated with a highly colored view of Naples, some enormous shells, vitrified sponges, and all those foreign curiosities which their vicinity to the sea seemed naturally to bring to them. Handmade lace trimmed the curtains, and a sofa and an arm-chair of plush made up the furniture of the apartment. In the arm-chair Father Rondic took his seat to listen to the reading, while Clarisse sat in her usual place at the window, idly looking out. Zenaide profited by her one day at home to mend the house-bold linen, disregarding the fact of the day being Sunday. Among the books given to Jack by Dr. Rivals was Dante's _Inferno_. The book fascinated the child, for it described a spectacle that he had constantly before his eyes. Those half naked human forms, those flames, those deep ditches of molten metal, all seemed to him one of the circles of which the poet wrote.
One Sunday he was reading to his usual audience from his favorite book; Father Rondic was asleep, according to his ordinary custom, but the two women listened with fixed attention. It was the episode of Francesca da Rimini. Clarisse bowed her head and shuddered. Zenaide frowned until her heavy eyebrows met, and drove her needle through her work with mad zeal.
Those grand sonorous lines filled the humble roof with music. Tears stood in the eyes of Clarisse as she listened. Without noticing them, Zenaide spoke abruptly as the voice of the reader ceased.
"What a wicked, impudent woman," she cried, "not only to relate her crime, but to boast of it!"
"It is true that she was guilty," said Clarisse, "but she was also very unhappy."
"Unhappy! Don't say that, mamma; one would think that you pitied this Francesca."
"And why should I not, my child? She loved him before her marriage, and she was driven to espouse a man whom she did not love."
"Love him or not makes but little difference. From the moment she married him she was bound to be faithful. The story says that he was old, and that seems to me an additional reason for respecting him more, and for preventing other people from laughing at him. The old man did right to kill them,--it was only what they deserved!"
She spoke with great violence. Her affection as a daughter, her honor as a woman, influenced her words, and she judged and spoke with that cruel candor that belongs to youth, and which judges life from the ideal it has itself created, without comprehending in the least any of the terrible exigencies which may arise.
Clarisse did not answer. She turned her face away, and was looking out of the window. Jack, with his eyes on his book, thought of what he had been reading. Here, amid these humble