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

surroundings, this immortal legend of guilty love had echoed "through the corridors of time," and after four hundred years had awakened a response. Suddenly through the open casement came a cry, "Hats! hats to sell!" Jack started to his feet and ran into the street; but quick as he was, Clarisse had preceded him, and as he went out, she came in, crushing a letter into her pocket.
The pedler was far down the street.
"Belisaire!" shouted Jack.
The man turned. "I was sure it was you," continued Jack, breathlessly. "Do you come here often?"
"Yes, very often;" and then Belisaire added, after a moment, "How happens it, Master Jack, that you are here, and have left that pretty house?"
The boy hesitated, and the pedler seeing this, continued,--
"That was a famous ham, was it not? And that lovely lady, who had such a gentle face, she was your mother, was she not?"
Jack was so happy at hearing her name mentioned that he would have lingered there at the corner of the street for an hour, but Belisaire said he was in haste, that he had a letter to deliver, and must go.
When Jack entered the house, Madame Rondic met him at the door. She was very pale, and said, in a low voice, with trembling lips,--
"What did you want of that man?"
The child answered that he had known him at Etiolles, and that they had been talking of his parents.
She uttered a sigh of relief. But that whole evening she was even quieter than usual, and her head seemed bowed by more than the weight of her blonde braids.


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 title! 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 association with people above your station; it only leads to all sorts of chimerical aspirations. Your friendship 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 nobility 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 titles 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 illustrations. 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 passed between the lovers. Many a time Jack had seen him drop one into Madame Rondic's apron 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 astonishing. But Zenaide, where was she? Of what was she thinking?
Zenaide 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 Zenaide 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 Zenaide and the seven thousand francs, for the girl loves him!"
Zenaide 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 Zenaide 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. Zenaide 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