The boy was in despair. The skies grew grayer and grayer, the rain seemed to fall more persistently, and the snow was colder than ever.

O Kerika! Aunt Kerika! so haughty and so tender, where are you? Come and see what they are doing with your little king! How he is treated, how scantily he is fed, how ragged are his clothes, and how cold he is! He has but one suit now, and that a livery—a red coat and striped vest! Now, when he goes out with his master, he does not walk at his side—he follows him.

Madou's honesty and ingenuity had, however, so won the confidence of Madame Moronval, that she sent him to market. Behold, therefore, this last descendant of the powerful Tocodonon, the founder of the Dahomian dynasty, staggering daily from the market under the weight of a huge basket, half fed and half clothed, cold to the very heart; for nothing warms him now, neither violent exercise, nor blows, nor the shame of having become a servant; nor even his hatred of "the father with a stick," as he called Moronval.

And yet that hatred was something prodigious; and Madou confided to Jack his projects of vengeance.

"When Madou goes home to Dahomey, he will write a little letter to the father with the stick; he will tell him to come to Dahomey, and he will cut off his head into the copper basin, and afterwards will cover a big drum with his skin, and I will then march against the Ashantees,—Boum! boum! boum!"

Jack could just see in the shadow the gleam of the negro's white eyes, and heard the raps upon the footboard of the bed, that imitated the drum, and was frightened. He fancied that he heard the whizzing of the sabres, and the heavy thud of the falling heads; he pulled the blanket over his head, and held his breath.

Madou, who was excited by his own story, wished to talk on, but he thought his solitary auditor asleep. But when Jack drew a long breath, Madou said gently, "Shall we talk some more, sir?"

"Yes," answered Jack; "only don't let us say any more about that drum, nor the copper basin." The negro laughed silently. "Very well, sir; Madou won't talk—you must talk now. What is your name?"

"Jack, with a k. Mamma thinks a great deal about that—"

"Is your mamma very rich?"

"Rich! I guess she is," said Jack, by no means unwilling to dazzle Madou in his turn. "We have a carriage, a beautiful house on the boulevard, horses, servants, and all. And then you will see, when mamma comes here, how beautiful she is. Everybody in the street turns to look at her, she has such beautiful dresses and such jewels. We used to live at Tours; it was a pretty place. We walked in the Rue Royale, where we bought nice cakes, and where we met plenty of officers in uniform. The gentlemen were all good to me. I had Papa Leon, and Papa Charles,—not real papas, you know, because my own father died when I was a little fellow. When we first went to Paris I did not like it; I missed the trees and the country; but mamma petted me so much, and was so good to me, that I was soon happy again. I was dressed like the little English boys, and my hair was curled, and every day we went to the Bois. At last my mamma's old friend said that I ought to learn something; so mamma took me to the Jesuit College—"

Here Jack stopped suddenly. To say that the Fathers would not receive him, wounded his self-love sorely. Notwithstanding the ignorance and innocence of his age, he felt that there was something humiliating to his mother in this avowal, as well as to himself; and then this recital, on which he had so heedlessly entered, carried him back to the only serious trouble of his life. Why had they not been willing to receive him? why did his mother weep? and why did the Superior pity him?

"Say, then, little master," asked the negro suddenly, "what is a cocotte?"

"A cocotte?" asked Jack in astonishment. "I don't know. Is it a chicken?"

"I heard the father with a stick say to Madame Moronval that your mother was a cocotte."

"What an ideal. You misunderstood," and at the thought of his mother being a hen, with feathers, wings, and claws, the boy began to laugh; and Madou, without knowing why, followed his example.

This gayety soon obliterated the painful impressions of their previous conversation, and the two little, lonely fellows, after having confided to each other all their sorrows, fell asleep with smiles on their lips.



CHAPTER IV.~~THE REUNION.

Children are like grown people,—the experiences of others are never of any use to them.

Jack had been terrified by Madou's story, but he thought of it only as a frightful tale, or a bloody battle seen at the theatre. The first months were so happy at the academy, every one was so kind, that he forgot that Madou for a time had been equally happy.

At table he occupied the next seat to Moronval, drank his wine, shared his dessert; while the other children, as soon as the cakes and fruit appeared, rose abruptly from the table. Opposite Jack sat Dr. Hirsch, whose finances, to judge from his appearance, were in a most deplorable condition. He enlivened the repast by all sorts of scientific jokes, by descriptions of surgical operations, by accounts of infectious diseases, and, in fact, kept his hearers au courant with all the ailments of the day; and, if he heard of a case of leprosy, of elephantiasis, or of the plague, in any quarter of the globe, he would nod his head with delight, and say, "It will be here before long—before long!"

As a neighbor at the table he was not altogether satisfactory: first, his near-sightedness made him very awkward; and, next, he had a way of dropping into your plate, or glass, a pinch of powder, or a few drops from a vial in his pocket The contents of this vial were never the same, for the doctor made new scientific discoveries each week, but in general bicarbonate, alkalies, and arsenic (in infinitesimal doses fortunately) made the base of these medicaments. Jack submitted to these preventives, and did not venture to say that he thought they tasted very badly. Occasionally the other professors were invited, and everybody drank the health of the little De Barancy, every one was enthusiastic over his sweetness and cleverness. The singing teacher, Labassandre, at the least joke made by the child, threw himself back in his chair with a loud laugh, pounded the table with his fist, and wiped his eyes with a corner of his napkin.

Even D'Argenton, the handsome D'Argenton, relaxed, a pale smile crossed his big moustache, and his cold blue eyes were turned on the child with haughty approval. Jack was delighted. He did not understand, nor did he wish to understand, the signs made to him by Madou, as he waited upon the table, with a napkin in one hand and a plate in the other. Madou knew better than any one else the real value of these exaggerated praises and the vanity of human greatness.

He too had occupied the seat of honor, had drunk of his master's wine, flavored by the powder from the doctor's bottle; and the tunic, with its silver chevrons, was it not too large for Jack only because it had been made for Madou? The story of the little negro should have been a warning to the small De Barancy against the sin of pride, for the installation of both boys in the Moronval Academy had been precisely of the same character.

The holiday instituted in honor of Jack was insensibly prolonged into weeks. Lessons were few and far between, except from Madame Moronval, who snatched every opportunity of testing her method.

As to Moronval himself, he professed a great weakness for his new pupil. He had made inquiries in regard to the little hotel on the Boulevard Hauss-mann, and had fully acquainted himself with the resources of the lady there. When, therefore, Madame de Barancy came to see Jack, which was very often, she met with a warm reception, and had an attentive audience for all the vain and foolish stories she saw fit to tell. At first Madame Moronval wished to preserve a certain dignified coolness toward such a person, but her husband soon changed that idea, and she saw herself obliged to lay aside her womanly scruples in favor of her interests.

"Jack! Jack! here comes your mother," some one would cry as the door opened, and Ida would sail in beautifully dressed, with packages of cakes and bonbons in her hands and her muff. It was a festival for every one; they all shared the delicacies, and Madame de Barancy ungloved her hand, the one on which were the most rings, and condescended to take a portion. The poor creature was so generous, and money slipped so easily through her fingers, that she generally brought with her cakes all sorts of presents, playthings, &c., which she distributed as the fancy struck her. It is easy to imagine the enthusiastic praises lavished upon this inconsiderate, reckless generosity. Moronval alone had a smile of pity and of envy at seeing money so wasted, which should have gone to the assistance of some brave, generous soul like himself, for example. This was his fixed idea. And as he sat looking at Ida and gnawing his finger-nails, he had an absent, anxious air like that of a man who comes to ask a loan, and has his petition on the end of his lips. Moronval's dream for some time had been to establish a Review consecrated to colonial interests, in this way hoping to satisfy his political aspirations by recalling himself regularly to his compatriots; and, finally, who knows he might be elected deputy. But, as a commencement, the journal seemed indispensable, and he had a vague notion that the mother of his new pupil might be induced to defray the expenses of this Review, but he did not wish to move too rapidly lest he should frighten the lady away; he intended to prepare the way gently. Unfortunately, Madame de Barancy, on account of her very fickleness of nature, was difficult to reach. She would continually change the conversation just at the important point, because she found it very uninteresting.

"If she could be inspired with an idea of writing!" said Moronval to himself, and immediately insinuated to her that between Madame de Sevigne and George Sand there was a vacant niche to fill; but he might as well have attempted to carry on a conversation with a bird that was fluttering about his head.

"I am not strong-minded nor literary," said Ida, with a half yawn, one day when he had been speaking with feverish impatience for a long time.

Moronval finally concluded that a creature so inconsequent must be dazzled, not led.

One day, when Ida was holding audience in the parlor, telling wonderful tales of her various acquaintances to whose often plebeian names she added the de as she pleased, Madame Moronval said, timidly,—

"M. Moronval would like to ask you something, but he dares not."

"O, tell me, tell me!" said the silly little woman, with a sincere wish to oblige.

The principal was sorely tempted to ask her at once for funds for the Review, but being himself very distrustful, he thought it wiser to act with great prudence; so he contented himself with asking Madame de Barancy to be present at one of their literary reunions on the following Saturday. Formerly these little fetes took place every week, but since Madou's fall they had been very infrequent. It was in vain that Moronval had extinguished a candle with every guest that left, in vain had he dried the tea-leaves from the teapot in the sun on the window-sill, and served it again the following week, the expense still was too great. But now he determined to hazard another attempt in that direction. Madame de Barancy accepted the invitation with eagerness. The idea of making her appearance in the salon as a married woman of position was very attractive to her, for it was one round of the ladder conquered, on which she hoped to ascend from her irregular and unsatisfactory life.

This was a most splendid fete at which she assisted. In the memory of all beholders no such entertainment had taken place. Two colored lanterns hung on the acacias at the entrance, the vestibule was lighted, and at least thirty candles were burning in the salon, the floor of which Madou had so waxed and rubbed for the occasion that it was as brilliant and as dangerous as ice. The negro boy had surpassed himself; and here let me say that Moronval was in a great state of perplexity as to the part that the prince should take at the soiree.

Should he be withdrawn from his domestic duties and restored for one day only to his title and ancient splendor? This idea was very tempting; but, then, who would hand the plates and announce the guests? Who could replace him? No one of the other scholars, for each had some one in Paris who might not be pleased with this system of education; and finally it was decided that the soiree must be deprived of the presence and prestige of his royal Highness. At eight o'clock, "the children of the sun" took their seats on the benches, and among them the blonde head of little De Barancy glittered like a star on the dark background.

Moronval had issued numerous invitations among the artistic and literary world—the one at least which he frequented—and the representatives of art, literature, and architecture appeared in large delegations. They arrived in squads, cold and shivering, coming from the depths of Montparnasse on the tops of omnibuses, ill dressed and poor, unknown, but full of genius, drawn from their obscurity by the longing to be seen, to sing or to recite something, to prove to themselves that they were still alive. Then, after this breath of pure air, this glimpse of the heavens above, comforted by a semblance of glory and success, they returned to their squalid apartments, having gained a little strength to vegetate. There were philosophers wiser than Leibnitz; there were painters longing for fame, but whose pictures looked as if an earthquake had shaken everything from its perpendicular; musicians—inventors of new instruments; savans in the style of Dr. Hirsch, whose brains contained a little of everything, but where nothing could be found by reason of the disorder and the dust. It was sad to see them; and if their insatiate pretensions, as obtrusive as their bushy heads, their offensive pride and pompous manners, had not given one an inclination to laugh, their half-starved air and the feverish glitter of eyes that had wept over so many lost illusions and disappointed hopes, would have awakened profound compassion in the hearts of lookers-on.

Besides these there were others, who, finding art too hard a taskmistress and too niggardly in her rewards, sought other employment.. For example, a lyric poet kept an intelligence office, a sculptor was an agent for a wine merchant, and a violinist was in a gas-office.

Others less worthy allowed themselves to be supported by their wives. These couples came together, and the poor women bore on their brave, worn faces the stamp of the penalty they paid for the companionship of men of genius. Proud of being allowed to accompany their husbands, they smiled upon them with an air of gratified maternal vanity. Then there were the habitues of the house, the three professors; Labassandre in gala costume, exercising his lungs at intervals by tremendous inspirations; and D'Argenton, the handsome D'Argenton, curled and pomaded, wearing light gloves, and his manners a charming mixture of authority, geniality, and condescension.

Standing near the door of the salon, Moronval received every one, shaking hands with all, but growing very anxious as the hour grew later and the countess did not appear; for Ida de Barancy was called the countess under that roof. Every one was uncomfortable. Little Madame de Moronval went from group to group, saying, with an amiable air, "We will wait a few moments, the countess has not yet arrived!"

The piano was open, the pupils were ranged against the wall; a small green table, on which stood a glass of eau-sucre and a reading-lamp, was in readiness. M. Moronval, imposing in his white vest; Madame, red and oppressed by all the worry of the evening; and Madotu, shivering in the wind from the door,—all are waiting for the countess. Meanwhile, as she came not, D'Argenton consented to recite a poem that all his assistants knew, for they had heard it a dozen times before. Standing in front of the chimney, with his hair thrown back from his wide forehead, the poet declaimed, in a coarse, vulgar voice, what he called his poem.

His friends were not sparing in their praises.

"Magnificent!" said one. "Sublime!" exclaimed another; and the most amazing criticism came from yet another,—"Goethe with a heart?"

Here Ida entered. The poet did not see her, for his eyes were lifted to the ceiling. But she saw him, poor woman; and from that moment her heart was gone. She had never seen him, save in the street wearing his hat: now she beheld him in the mellow light which softened still more his pale face, wearing a dress-coat and evening gloves, reciting a love poem, and, believing in love as he did in God, he produced an extraordinary effect upon her.

He was the hero of her dreams, and corresponded with all the foolish sentimental ideas that lie hidden very often in the hearts of such women.

From that very moment she was his, and he took exclusive possession of her heart. She paid no attention to her little Jack, who made frantic signs to her as he threw her kiss after kiss; nor had she eyes for Moronval, who bowed to the ground; nor for the curious glances that examined her from head to foot, as she stood before them in her black velvet dress and her little white opera hat, trimmed with black roses and ornamented with tulle strings which wrapped about her like a scarf. Years after she recalled the profound impression of that evening, and saw as in a dream her poet as she saw him first in that salon, which seemed to her, seen through the vista of years, immense and superb. The future might heap misery upon her; her past could humiliate and wound her, crush her life, and something more precious than life itself; but the recollection of that brief moment of ecstasy could never be effaced.

"You see, madame," said Moronval, with his most insinuating smile, "that we made a beginning before your arrival. M. le Vicomte Amaury d'Argenton was reciting his magnificent poem."

"Vicomte!" He was noble, then!

She turned toward him, timid and blushing as a young girl.

"Continue, sir, I beg of you," she said.

But D'Argenton did not care to do so. The arrival of the countess had injured the effect of his poem—destroyed its point; and such things are not easily pardoned. He bowed, and answered with cold haughtiness that he had finished. Then he turned away without troubling himself more about her. The poor woman felt a strange pang at her heart. She had displeased him, and the very thought was unendurable. It needed all little Jack's tender caresses and outspoken joy—all his delight at the admiration expressed for her, the attentions of everybody, the idea that she was queen of the fete—to efface the sorrow she felt, and which she showed by a silence of at least five minutes, which silence for a nature like hers was something as extraordinary as restful. The disturbance of her entrance being at last over, every one seated himself to await the next recitation.

Mademoiselle Constant, who had accompanied her mistress, took her seat majestically on the front bench next the pupils. Jack swung himself on the arm of his mother's chair, between her and M. Moronval, who smoothed the lad's hair in the most paternal way.

The assemblage was really quite imposing, and Madame Moronval took dignified possession of the little table and the shaded lamp, and proceeded to read an ethnographic composition of her husband's on the Mongolian races. It was long and tedious—one of those lucubrations that are delivered before certain scientific societies, and succeed in lulling the members to sleep. Madame Moronval took this opportunity of demonstrating the peculiarities of her method, which had the merit—if merit it were—of holding the attention as in a vice, and the words and syllables seemed to reverberate through your own brain. To see Madame Moronval open her mouth to sound her o's, to hear the r's rattle in her throat, was more edifying than agreeable. The mouths of the eight children opposite mechanically followed each one of her gestures, producing a most extraordinary effect; one absolutely fascinating to Mademoiselle Constant.

But the countess saw nothing of all this; she had eyes but for her poet leaning against the door of the drawing-room, with arms folded and eyes moodily cast down. In vain did Ida seek to attract his attention; he glanced occasionally about the salon, but her arm-chair might as well have been vacant; he did not appear to see her, and the poor woman was rendered so utterly miserable by this neglect and indifference, that she forgot to congratulate Moronval on the brilliant success of his essay, which concluded amid great applause and universal relief.

Then followed another brief poem by Argenton, to which Ida listened breathlessly.

"Ah, how beautiful!" she cried; "how beautiful!" and she turned to Moronval, who sat with a forced smile on his lips. "Present me to M. d'Argenton, if you please."

She spoke to the poet in a low voice and with great courtesy. He, however, bowed very coldly, apparently careless of her implied admiration.

"How happy you are," she said, "in the possession of such a talent!"

Then she asked where she could obtain his poems.

"They are not to be procured, madame," answered D'Argenton, gravely.

Without knowing it, she had again wounded his sensitive pride, and he turned away without vouchsafing another syllable.

But Moronval profited by this opening. "Think of it!" he said; "think that such verses as those cannot find a publisher! That such genius as that is buried in obscurity! If we only could publish a magazine!"

"And why can you not?" asked Ida, quickly.

"Because we have not the funds."

"But they can easily be procured. Such talent should not be allowed to languish!"

She spoke with great earnestness; and Moronval saw at once that he had played his cards well, and proceeded to take advantage of the lady's weakness by talking to her of D'Argenton, whom he painted in glowing colors.

He spoke of him as Lara, or Manifred, a proud and independent nature, one which could not be conquered by the hardships of his lot.

Here Ida interrupted him to ask if the poet was not of noble birth.

"Most assuredly, madame. He is a viscount, and descended from one of the noblest families in Auvergne. His father was ruined by the dishonesty of an agent."

This was his text, which he proceeded to enlarge upon, and illustrate by many romantic incidents. Ida drank in the whole story; and while these two were absorbed in earnest conversation, Jack grew jealous, and made various efforts to attract his mother's attention. "Jack, do be quiet!" and "Jack, you are insufferable!" finally sent him off, with tearful eyes and swollen lips, to sulk in the corner of the salon. Meanwhile the literary entertainments of the evening went on, and finally Labassandre, after numerous entreaties, was induced to sing. His voice was so powerful, and so pervaded the house, that Madou, who was in the kitchen preparing tea, replied by a frightful war-cry. The poor fellow worshipped noise of all kinds and at all times.

Moronval and the comtesse continued their conversation; and D'Argenton, who by this time understood that he was the subject, stood in front of them, apparently absorbed in conversation with one of the professors. He appeared to be out of temper—and with whom? With the whole world; for he was one of that very large class who are at war against society, and against the manners and customs of their day.

At this very moment he was declaiming violently, "You have all the vices of the last century, and none of its amenities. Honor is a mere name. Love is a farce. You have accomplished nothing intellectually."

"Pardon me, sir," interrupted his hearer. But the other went on more vehemently and more aggressively. He wished, he said, that all France could hear what he thought. The nation was abased, crushed beyond all hope of recuperation. As for himself, he had determined to emigrate to America.

All this time the poet was vaguely conscious of the admiring gaze that was bent upon him. He experienced something of the same sensation that one has in the fields in the early evening, when the moon suddenly rises behind you and compels you to turn toward its silent presence. The eyes of this woman magnetized him in the same way. The words she caught in regard to leaving France struck a chill to her heart. A funereal gloom settled over the room. Additional dismay overwhelmed her as D'Argenton wound up with a vigorous tirade against French women,—their lightness and coquetry, the insincerity of their smiles, and the venality of their love.

The poet no longer conversed; he declaimed, leaning against the chimney, and careless who heard either his voice or his words.

Poor Ida, intensely absorbed as she was in him, could not realize that he was indifferent, and fancied that his invectives were addressed to herself.

"He knows who I am," she said, and bowed her head in shame.

Moronval said aloud, "What a genius!" and in a lower voice to himself, "What a boaster!" But Ida needed nothing more; her heart was gone. Had Dr. Hirsch, who was always so interested in pathological singularities, been then at leisure, he might have made a curious study of this case of instantaneous combustion.

An hour before, Madame Moronval had dispatched Jack to bed, with two or three of the younger children; the others were gaping in silent wretchedness, stupefied by all they saw and heard. The Chinese lanterns swung in the wind each side of the garden-gate; the lane was unlighted, and not even a policeman enlivened its muddy sidewalk; but the disputative little group that left the Moronval Academy cared little for the gloom, the cold, or the dampness.

When they reached the avenue they found that the hour for the omnibus had passed. They accepted this as they did the other disagreeables of life—in the same brave spirit.

Art is a great magician. It creates a sunshine from which its devotees, as well as the poor and the ugly, the sick and the sorry, can each borrow a little, and with it gain a grace to suffer, and a calm serenity that may well be envied.



CHAPTER V.~~A DINNER WITH IDA.

The next day the Moronvals received from Madame de Barancy an invitation for the following Monday; at the bottom of the note was a postscript, expressing the pleasure she should have in receiving also M. d'Argenton.

"I shall not go," said the poet, dryly, when Moron-val handed him the coquettish perfumed note. Then the principal grew very angry, as he saw his plans frustrated. "Why would not D'Argenton accept the invitation?"

"Because," was the answer, "I never visit such women."

"You make a great mistake," said Moronval; "Madame de Barancy is not the kind of person you imagine. Besides, to serve a friend, you should lay aside your scruples. You see that I need the countess, that she is disposed to look favorably on my Colonial Review, and you should do all that lies in your power to favor my views. Come, now, think better of it."

D'Argenton, after being properly entreated, finished by accepting the invitation.

On the following Monday, therefore, Moronval and his wife left the academy under the supervision of Dr. Hirsch, and presented themselves in the Boulevard Haussmann, where the poet was to join them.

Dinner was at seven; D'Argenton did not arrive until half an hour past the time. Ida was in a state of great anxiety. "Do you think he will come?" she asked; "perhaps he is ill. He looks very delicate."

At last he appeared with the air of a conquering hero, making some indifferent excuse for his lack of punctuality. His manner, however, was less disdainful than usual, for the hotel had impressed him. Its luxury, the flowers, and thick carpets; the little boudoir with its bouquets of white lilacs; the commonplace salon, like a dentist's waiting-room, a blue ceiling and gilded mouldings, the ebony furniture, cushioned with gold color, and the balcony exposed to the dust of the boulevard,—all charmed the attache of the Moronval Academy, and gave him a favorable impression of wealth and high life.

The table equipage, the imposing effect produced by Augustin, in short, all the luxurious details of the house, appealed to his senses, and D'Argenton, without flattering the countess as openly as did Moronval; yet succeeded in doing so in a more subtile manner, by thawing under her influence to a very marked extent.

He was an interminable talker, and submitted with a very bad grace to any interruption. He was arbitrary and egotistical, and rang the changes on the I and the my for a whole evening, without allowing any one else to speak.

Unhappily, to be a good listener is a quality far above natures like that of the countess; and the dinner was characterized by some unfortunate incidents. D'Argenton was particularly fond of repeating the replies he had made to the various editors and theatrical managers who had declined his articles, and refused to print his prose or his verse. His mots on these occasions had been clever and caustic; but with Madame de Barancy he was never able to reach that point, preceded as it must necessarily be with lengthy explanations. At the critical moment Ida would invariably interrupt him,—always, to be sure, with some thought for his comfort.

"A little more of this ice, M. d'Argenton, I beg of you."

"Not any, madame," the poet would answer with a frown, and continue, "Then I said to him—"

"I am afraid you do not like it," urged the lady.

"It is excellent, madame,—and I said these cruel words—"

Another interruption from Ida; who, later, when she saw her poet in a fit of the sulks, wondered what she had done to displease him. Two or three times during dinner she was quite ready to weep, but did her best to hide her feelings by urging all the delicacies of her table upon M. and Madame Moronval. Dinner over, and the guests established in the well warmed and lighted salon, the principal fancied he saw his way clear, and said suddenly, in a half indifferent tone, to the countess,—

"I have thought much of our little matter of business. It will cost less than I fancied."

"Indeed!" she answered absently,

"If, madame, you would accord to me a few moments of your attention—"

But madame was occupied in looking at her poet, who was walking up and down the salon silent and preoccupied.

"Of what can he be thinking?" she said to herself.

Of his digestion only, dear reader. Suffering somewhat from dyspepsia, and always anxious in regard to his health, he never failed, on leaving the table, to walk for half an hour, no matter where he might chance to be.

Ida watched him silently. For the first time in her life she loved, really and passionately, and felt her heart beat as it had never beat before. Foolish and ignorant, while at the same time credulous and romantic; very near that fatal age—thirty years—which is almost certain to create in woman a great transformation; she now, aided by the memory of every romance she had ever read, created for herself an ideal who resembled D'Argenton. The expression of her face so changed in looking at him, her laughing eyes assumed so tender an expression, that her passion soon ceased to be a mystery to any one.

Moron val, who looked on, shrugged his shoulders, with a glance at his wife. "She is simply crazy," he said to himself.

She certainly was crazed in a degree; and, after dinner, she tormented herself to find some way of returning to the good graces of D'Argenton, and, as he approached her in his walk, she said,—

"If M. d'Argenton wished to be very amiable, he would recite to us that beautiful poem which created such a sensation the other evening. I have thought of it all the week. There is one verse that haunts me, especially the final line:

'And I believe in love, As I believe in a good God above.'"

"As I believe in God above," said the poet, making as horrible a grimace as if his finger had been caught in a vice.

The countess, who had but a vague idea of prosody, understood simply that she had again incurred the displeasure of D'Argenton. The fact is that he had begun to affect her in a manner quite beyond her own control, and which, in its unreasoning terror, was somewhat like the timid worship offered by the Japanese to their hideous idols.

Under the influence of his presence she was more foolish by far than nature had made her; her piquancy forsook her, and the versatility that rendered her so charmingly absurd was quite gone. But D'Argenton relented, and suspended his hygienic exercise for a moment.

"I shall be most happy to recite anything, madame, at your command; but what?"

Here Moronval interposed. "Recite the 'Credo,' my dear fellow," he said.

"Very well, then; I am satisfied to obey you."

The poem commenced gently enough with the words,—

"Madame, your toilette is charming."

Then irony deepened to bitterness, bitterness to fury, and concluded in these terrific words:

"Good Lord, deliver me from this woman so terrible, Who drains from my heart its life-blood."

As if these extraordinary words had aroused in his memory most painful recollections, D'Argenton relapsed into silence, and said not another word the whole evening. Poor Ida was also thoughtful, haunted by vague fears of the noble ladies who had so warped the gentle spirit of her poet, so drained his heart that there was not a drop left for her.

"You know, my dear fellow," said Moronval, as they strolled through the empty boulevards, arm-inarm, that night, little Madame Moronval pattering on in front of them,—"you know if I can succeed in the establishment of my Review, that I shall make you editor-in-chief!"

Moronval threw the half of his cargo overboard in order to save his ship, for he saw that unless the poet was enlisted, the countess would take no interest in the scheme. D'Argenton made no reply, for he was absorbed in thoughts of Ida.

No man can play the part of a lyric poet, a martyr to love, without being conscious of, and touched by, that silent adoration which appeals to his vanity, both as a man of letters and a man of the world. Since he had seen Ida in her luxurious home, about which there was the same suspicion of vulgarity that clung about herself, the rigidity of his principles had amazingly softened.



CHAPTER VI.~~AMAURY D'ARGENTON.

Amaury d'Argenton belonged to one of those ancient provincial families whose castles resembled great farms. Impoverished for the three last generations, they had finally sold their property, and come to Paris to seek their fortunes; with little change for the better, however; and for the last thirty years they had dropped the De, which Amaury ventured to resume on adopting his literary career. He meant to make it famous, and even was audacious enough to announce this intention aloud.

The childhood of the poet had been one of gloom and privation; surrounded by anxieties and by tears, by sordid cares, and that constant lack of money which imbitters the lives of so many of us, he had never laughed nor played like other children. A scholarship that was obtained for him enabled him to complete his studies, and his only recreation was obtained through the kindness of an aunt who resided in the Marais, and who gave him gloves and other trifles, which the poet very early in life learned to regard as essentials.

Such a childhood ripens early into bitter maturity. Infinite prosperity is needed to efface such early impressions, and we often see men who have attained to high honors, who are rich and powerful, and yet who have never conquered the timidity born of their early deprivations. D'Argenton's bitterness was not without reason: at twenty-five he had succeeded in nothing; he had published a volume at his own expense, and had lived on bread and water in consequence for at least six months. He was industrious as well as ambitious; but something more than these qualities are essential to a poet, whose imagination and genius must be endowed with wings. These D'Argenton had not; he felt merely that vague uneasiness which indicates a missing limb, but that was all, and he lost both time and trouble in ineffectual efforts; his aunt aided him by a small allowance, but his life bore not the shadow of a resemblance to the picture drawn by Ida. In fact, D'Argenton had never been entangled in any serious love affair; his nature was cold and prudent, and yet he had been beloved by more than one woman. To D'Argenton, however, their society had always seemed a waste of time. Ida de Barancy was the first who had made upon him any real impression. Of this fact Ida had no idea, and whenever she met the poet on her very frequent visits to Jack, it was always with the same deprecating air and timid voice. The poet, while adopting an air of utter indifference, cultivated the affection and society of little Jack, whom he induced to talk freely of his mother.

Jack being extremely flattered, gladly gave every information in his power, and talked freely of the kind friend who was so good to mamma. The mention of this person cost the poet a strange pang. "He is so kind," babbled Jack, "he comes to see us every day; or, if he does not come, he sends us great baskets of fruit, and playthings for me."

"And is your mother very fond of him, too?" continued D'Argenton, without looking up from his writing.

"Yes, indeed, sir," answered the little fellow, innocently.

But are we quite sure that he spoke so innocently. The minds of children are not always so transparent as we believe; and it is difficult to say when they understand matters that go on about them, and when they do not. That mysterious growth that is constantly going on within them, has unexpected seasons of bursting into flower, and they suddenly mass together the disconnected fragments of information they have acquired and intuitively attain the result.

Had Jack, therefore, no perception of the hidden rage that filled the heart of his professor when he questioned him in regard to their kind friend? Jack did not like D'Argenton; in addition to his first dislike, he was now actuated by strong jealousy. His mother was too much occupied by this man. When he passed the day with her, she in her turn plied him with questions, and asked if his teacher never spoke to him of her.

"Never," said Jack, calmly. And yet that very day D'Argenton had desired him to present his compliments to the countess, with a copy of his poems; but Jack at first forgot the volume, and finally lost it, as much from cunning as from heedlessness.

Thus, while these two dissimilar natures were attracted toward each other, the child stood between them suspicious and defiant, as if he already foresaw what the future would bring about.

Every two weeks Jack dined with his mother, sometimes alone with her, sometimes with their friend. They went to the theatre in the evening, or to a concert, and Jack was sent back to school with his pockets full of dainties, in which the other children shared.

One evening, as he entered his mother's house, he saw the dining-table laid for three, and a gorgeous display of flowers and crystal. His mother met him, exquisitely dressed, wearing in her hair sprays of white lilacs, like those that filled the vases. The blazing fire alone lighted the salon, into which she gayly drew the boy, as she said, "Guess who is here!"

"O, I know very well!" exclaimed Jack in delight; "it is our good friend."

But it was D'Argenton, who sat in full evening dress on the sofa, near the fire. The enemy was in Jack's own seat, and the child was so overwhelmed by his disappointment that he with difficulty restrained his tears. There was a moment of restraint and discomfort felt by all three. Just then the door was thrown open, and dinner announced by Augustin. The dinner was long and tedious to little Jack. Have you ever felt so entirely out of place that you would have gladly disappeared from off the face of the globe, painfully conscious, withal, that had you so vanished, no one would have missed you? When Jack spoke, no one listened; his questions were unheard and his wants unheeded. The conversation between his mother and D'Argenton was incomprehensible to him, although he saw that his mother blushed more than once, and hastily raised her glass to her lips as if to conceal her rising color. Where were those gay little dinners when Jack sat close at his mother's side and reigned an absolute king at the table? This recollection came to the boy's mind just as Madame de Barancy offered a superb pear to D'Argenton.

"That came from our friend at Tours," said Jack, maliciously.

D'Argenton, who was about to peel the fruit, dropped it upon his plate with a shrug of the shoulders. What an angry glance Ida threw upon her child! She had never looked at him in that way before. Jack did not venture to speak again, and the evening to him was but a dreary continuation of the repast.

Ida and the poet talked in low voices, and in that confidential tone that indicates great intimacy. He told her of his sad childhood and of his early home. He described the ruined towers and the long corridors where the wind raged and howled. He then depicted his early struggles in the great city, the constant obstacles thrown in the way of the development of his genius, of his jealous rivals and literary enemies, and of the terrible epigrams which he had hurled upon them.

"Then I uttered these stinging words." This time she did not interrupt him, but listened with a smile, and her absorption was so great that when he ceased speaking she still listened, although nothing was to be heard in the salon save the ticking of the clock and the rustling of the leaves of the album that Jack, half asleep, was turning over. Suddenly she rose with a start.

"Come, Jack, my love; call Constant to take you back to school. It is quite time."

"O, mamma!" said the child, sadly; but he dared not say that he generally remained much later. He did not wish to be troublesome to his mother, nor to meet again such an expression in her ordinarily serene and laughing eyes, as had so startled him at the dinner-table.

She rewarded him for his self-control by a most loving embrace.

"Good night, my child!" said D'Argenton, and he drew the child toward him as if to embrace him, but suddenly, with a movement of repulsion, turned aside as he had done at dinner from the fruit.

"I cannot! I cannot!" he murmured, throwing himself back in his arm-chair and passing his handkerchief over his forehead.

Jack turned to his mother in amazement.

"Go, dear Jack. Take him away, Constant." And while Madame de Barancy sought to conciliate her poet, the child returned with a heavy heart to his school; and in the cold dormitory, as he thought of the professor installed in his mother's chimney-corner, said to himself, "He is very comfortable there. I wonder how long he means to stay!"

In D'Argenton's exclamation and in his repugnance to Jack, there was certainly some acting, but there was also real feeling. He was very jealous of the child, who represented to him Ida's past, not that the poet was profoundly in love with the countess. He, on the contrary, loved himself in her, and, Narcissus-like, worshipped his own image which he saw reflected in her clear eyes. But D'Argenton would have preferred to be the first to disturb those depths.

But these regrets were useless, though Ida shared them. "Why did I not know him earlier?" she said to herself over and over again.

"She ought to understand by this time," said D'Argenton, sulkily, "that I do not wish to see that boy."

But even for her poet's sake Ida could not keep her child away from her entirely. She did not, however, go so often to the academy, nor summon Jack from school, as she had done, and this change was by no means the smallest of the sacrifices she was called upon to make.

As to the hotel she occupied, her carriage, and the luxury in which she lived, she was ready to abandon them all at a word from D'Argenton.

"You will see," she said, "how I can aid you. I can work, and, besides, I shall not be completely penniless."

But D'Argenton hesitated. He was, notwithstanding his apparent enthusiasm and recklessness, extremely methodical and clear-headed.

"No, we will wait a while. I shall be rich some day, and then—"

He alluded to his old aunt, who now made him an allowance and whose heir he would unquestionably be. "The good old lady was very old," he added. And the two, Ida and D'Argenton, made a great many plans for the days that were to come. They would live in the country, but not so far away from Paris that they would be deprived of its advantages. They would have a little cottage, over the door of which should be inscribed this legend: Parva domus, magna quies. There he could work, write a book—a novel, and later, a volume of poems. The titles of both were in readiness, but that was all.

Then the publishers would make him offers; he would be famous, perhaps a member of the Academy—though, to be sure, that institution was mildewed, moth-eaten, and ready to fall.

"That is nothing!" said Ida; "you must be a member!" and she saw herself already in a corner on a reception-day, modestly and quietly dressed, as befitted the wife of a man of letters. While they waited, however, they regaled themselves on the pears sent by "the kind friend, who was certainly the best and least suspicious of men."

D'Argenton found these pears, with their satiny skins, very delicious; but he ate them with so many expressions of discontent, and with so many little cutting remarks to Ida, that she spent much of her time in tears.

Weeks and months passed on in this way without any other change in their lives than that which naturally grew out of an increasing estrangement between Moronval and his professor of literature. The principal, daily expecting a decision from Ida on the subject of the Review, suspected D'Argenton of influencing her against the project, and this belief he ended by expressing to the poet.

One morning, Jack, who now went out but rarely, looked out of the windows with longing eyes. The spring sunshine was so bright, the sky so blue, that he longed for liberty and out-door life.

The leaf-buds of the lilacs were swelling, and the flower-beds in the garden were gently upheaved, as if with the movements of invisible life.

From the lane without came the sounds of children at play, and of singing-birds, all revelling in the sunshine. It was one of those days when every window is thrown open to let in the light and air, and to drive away all wintry shadows, all that blackness imparted by the length of the nights and the smoke of the fires.

While Jack was longing for wings, the door-bell rang, and his mother entered in great haste and much agitated, although dressed with great care. She came for him to breakfast with her in the Bois, and would not bring him back until night. He must ask Moronval's permission first; but as Ida brought the quarterly payment, you may imagine that permission was easily granted.

"How jolly!" cried Jack; "how jolly!" and while his mother casually informed Moronval that M. d'Argenton had told her the evening previous that he was summoned to Auvergne, to his aunt who was dying, the boy ran to change his dress. On his way he met Madou, who, sad and lonely, was busy with his pails and brooms, and had not had time to find out that the air was soft and the sunshipe warm. On seeing him, Jack had a bright idea.

"O, mamma, if we could take Madou!"

This permission was a little difficult to procure, so multifarious were the duties of the prince; but Jack was so persistent that kind Madame Moronval agreed for that day to assume the black boy's place.

"Madou! Madou!" cried the child, rushing toward him. "Quick, dress yourself and come out in the carriage with us; we are going to breakfast in the Bois!"

There was a moment of confusion. Madou stood still in amazement, while Madame Moronval borrowed a tunic that would be suitable for him in this emergency. Little Jack danced with joy, while Madame de Barancy, excited like a canary by the noise, chattered on to Moronval, giving him details in regard to the illness of D'Argenton's aunt.

At last they started, Jack and his mother seated side by side in the victoria, and Madou on the box with Augustin. The progress would hardly be regarded as a royal one, but Madou was satisfied. The drive itself was charming, the Avenue de l'Imperatrice was filled with people driving, riding, and walking. Children of all ages enlivened the scene. Babies, in their long white skirts, gazing about with the sweet solemnity of infancy, and older children fancifully dressed, with their tutors or nurses, crowded the pavements. Jack, in an ecstasy of delight, kissed his mother, and pulled Madou by the sleeve.

"Are you happy, Madou?"

"Yes, sir, very happy," was the answer. They reached the Bois, in places quite green and fresh already. There were some spots where the tops of the trees were in leaf, but the foliage was so minute that it looked like smoke. The holly, whose crisp, stiff leaves had been covered with snow half the winter, jostled the timid and distrustful lilacs whose leaf-buds were only beginning to swell The carriage drew up at the restaurant, and while the breakfast ordered by Madame de Barancy was in course of preparation, she and the children took a walk to the lake. At this early hour there were few of those superb equipages to be seen that appeared later in the day. The lake was lovely, with white swans dotting it here and there, and now and then a gentle ripple shook its surface, and miniature waves dashed against the fringe of old willows on one side.

What a walk! And what a breakfast served at the open windows! The children attacked it with the vigor of schoolboys. They laughed incessantly from the beginning to the end of the repast.

When breakfast was over, Ida proposed that they should visit the Jardin d'Acclimation.

"That is a splendid idea," said Jack, "for Madou has never been there, and won't he be amused!"

They drove through La Grande Allee in the almost deserted garden, which to the children was full of interest. They were fascinated by the animals, who, as they passed, looked at them with sleepy or inquisitive eyes, or smelled with pink nostrils at the fresh bread they had brought from the restaurant.

Madou, who at first had made a pretence of interest only to gratify Jack, now became absorbed in what he saw. He did not need to examine the blue ticket over the little inclosures to recognize certain animals from his own land. With mingled pain and pleasure he looked at the kangaroos, and seemed to suffer in seeing them in the limited space which they covered in three leaps.

He stood in silence before the light grating where the antelopes were inclosed. The birds, too, awakened his compassion. The ostriches and cassowaries looked mournful enough in the shade of their solitary exotic; but the parrots and smaller birds in a long cage, without even a green leaf or twig, were absolutely pitiful, and Madou thought of the Academy Moronval and of himself. The plumage of the birds was dull and torn; they told a tale of past battles, of dismal flutterings against the bars of their prison-house. Even the rose-colored flamingoes and the long-billed ibex, who seem associated with the Nile and the desert and the immovable sphinx, all assumed a thoroughly commonplace aspect among the white peacocks and the little Chinese ducks that paddled at ease in their miniature pond.

By degrees the garden filled up with people, and there suddenly appeared at the end of the avenue so strange and fantastic a spectacle that Madou stood still in silent ecstasy. He saw the heads of two elephants, who were slowly approaching, waving their trunks slowly, and bearing on their broad backs a crowd of women with light umbrellas, of children with straw hats and colored ribbons. Following the elephant came a giraffe carrying his small and haughty head very high. This singular caravan wound through the circuitous road, with many nervous laughs and terrified cries.

Under the glowing sunlight every tint of color was thrown out in relief upon the thick and rugged skin of the elephants, who extended their trunks either toward the tops of the trees or to the pockets of the spectators, shaking their long ears when gently touched by some child, or by the umbrella of some laughing girl on their backs.

"What is the matter, Madou; you tremble. Are you ill?" asked Jack. Madou was absolutely faint with emotion, but when he learned that he too could mount the clumsy animals, his grave face became almost tragic in expression. Jack refused to accompany him, and remained with his mother, whom he considered too grave for this fete-day. He liked to walk close at her side, or linger behind her in the dust of her long silken skirts, which she disdained to lift. They seated themselves, and watched the little black boy climb on the back of the elephant. Once there, the child seemed in his native place. He was no longer an exile, nor the awkward schoolboy, nor the little servant, humiliated by his menial duties and by his master's tyranny. He seemed imbued with new life, and his eyes sparkled with energy and determination. Happy little king! Two or three times he went around the garden. "Again! again!" he cried, and over the little bridge, between the inclosures of the kangaroos and other animals, he went to and fro, excited almost to madness by the heavy long strides of the elephant. Kerika, Dahomey, war-like scenes, and the hunt, all returned to his memory. He spoke to the elephant in his native tongue, and as he heard the sweet African voice, the huge creature shut his eyes with delight and trumpeted his pleasure. The zebras neighed, and the antelopes started in terror, while from the great cage of tropical birds, where the sun shone most fully, came warblings and flutterings of wings, discordant screams, and an enraged chatter, all the tumult, in short, on a small scale, of a primeval forest in the tropics.

But it was growing late. Madou must awaken from this beautiful dream. Besides, as soon as the sun dropped behind the horizon, the wind rose keen and cold, as so often happens in the early spring. This wintry chill affected the spirits of the children, and they grew strangely quiet and sad. Madame de Barancy for a wonder was also very silent. She had something she wished to say, and she probably found some difficulty in selecting her words, for she left them unsaid until the last moment. Then she took Jack's hand in hers. "Listen, child, I have some bad news to tell you!"

He understood at once that some great misfortune was impending, and he turned his supplicating eyes toward his mother. She continued in a low, quick voice,—

"I am going away, my son, on a long journey; I am obliged to leave you behind, but I will write to you. Do not cry, dear, for it hurts me; I shall not be gone long, and we shall soon see each other again. Yes, very soon, I promise you." And she threw out mysterious hints of a fortune to come, and money affairs, and other things that were not at all interesting to the child, who in reality paid little attention to her words, for he was weeping silently but chokingly. The gay streets seemed no longer the Paris of the morning, the sunshine was gone, the flowers on the corner-stands were faded, and all was very dreary, for he saw through eyes dim with tears, and the child was about to lose his mother.



CHAPTER VII.~~MADOU'S FLIGHT.

Some time after this a letter arrived at the academy from D'Argenton.

The poet wrote to announce that the death of a relative had so changed the position of his private affairs that he must offer his resignation as Professor of Literature. In a somewhat abrupt postscript he added that Madame de Barancy was obliged to leave Paris for an indefinite time, and that she confided her little Jack to M. Moronval's paternal care. In case of illness or accident to the child, a letter could be forwarded to the mother under cover to D'Argenton.

"The paternal care of Moronval!" Had the poet laughed aloud as he penned these words? Did he not know perfectly well the child's fate at the academy as soon as it was understood that his mother had left Paris, and that nothing more was to be expected from her?

The arrival of this letter threw Moronval into a terrible fit of rage, which rage shook the equilibrium of the academy as a violent tornado might have done in the tropics.

The countess gone! and gone too, apparently, with that brainless fellow, who had neither wit nor imagination. Was it not shameful that a woman of her years—for she was by no means in her earliest youth—should be so heartless as to leave her child alone in Paris, among strangers.

But even while he pitied Jack, Moronval said to himself, "Wait a while, young man, and I will show you how paternally I shall manage you."

But if he was enraged when he thought of the Review, his cherished project, he was more indignant that D'Argenton and Ida should have made use of him and his house to advance their own plans. He hurried off to the Boulevard Haussmann to learn all he could; but the mystery was no nearer elucidation.

Constant was expecting a letter from her mistress, and knew only that she had broken entirely with all past relations; that the house was to be given up, and the furniture sold.

"Ah! sir," said Constant, mournfully, "it was an unfortunate day for us when we set foot in your old barracks!"

The preceptor returned home convinced that at the termination of the next quarter Jack would be withdrawn from the school. Deciding, therefore, that the child was no longer a mine of wealth, he determined to put an end to all the indulgences with which he had been treated. Poor Jack after this day sat at the table no longer as an equal, but as the butt for all the teachers. No more dainties, no more wine for him. There were constant allusions made to D'Argenton: he was selfish and vain, a man totally without genius; as to his noble birth, it was more than doubtful; the chateau in the mountains, of which he discoursed so fluently, existed only in his imagination. These fierce attacks on the man whom he detested, amused the child; but something prevented him from joining in the servile applause of the other children, who eagerly laughed at each one of Moronval's witticisms. The fact was, that Jack dreaded the veiled allusions to his mother with which these remarks invariably terminated. He, to be sure, rarely caught their full meaning, but he saw by the contemptuous laughter that they were far from kindly. Madame Moronval would sometimes interrupt the conversation by a friendly word to Jack, or by sending him on some trifling errand. During his absence, she administered a reproof to her husband and his friends.

"Pshaw!" said Labassandre, "he does not understand." Perhaps he did not fully, but he comprehended enough to make his heart very sore.

He had known for a long time that he had a father whose name was not the same as his own, that his mother had no husband; and, one day, when one of the schoolboys made some taunting allusion, he flew at him in a rage. The boy was nearly choked; his cries summoned Moronval to the scene, and Jack for the first time was severely flogged.

From that day the charm was broken, and Jack's daily life did not greatly differ from that of Madou, who was at this time very unhappy. The pleasant weather, and the day at the Jardin d'Aclimation, had given him a terrible fit of homesickness. His melancholy at first took the form of a sullen revolt against his exacting masters. Suddenly all this was changed, the boy's eyes grew bright, and he seemed to go about the house and the garden as if in a dream.

One night the black boy was undressing, and Jack heard him singing to himself in a language that was strange.

"What are you singing, Madou?"

"I am not singing, sir; I'm talking negro talk!" and Madou confided to his friend his intention of running away from school. He had thought of it for some time, and was only waiting for pleasant weather; and now he meant to go to Dahomey, and find Kerika. If Jack would go with him, they would go to Marseilles on foot, and then go on board some vessel. Nothing could happen to them, for he had his amulet all safe. Jack made many objections. Dahomey had no charms for him. He thought of the copper basin, and the terrible heads, with an emotion of sick horror; and, besides, how could he go so far from his mother?

"Good," said Madou; "you can remain here, and I will go alone."

"And when?"

"To-morrow," answered the negro, resolutely closing his eyes as if he knew that he would need all the strength that sleep could give him.

The next morning, when Jack passed through the large recitation-room, he saw Madou busily scrubbing the floor, and concluded that he had relinquished his project.

The classes were busy for an hour or two, when Moronval appeared. "Where is Madou?" he asked abruptly. "He has gone to market," answered madame. Jack, however, said to himself that Madou would not return.

In a little while Moronval came back and asked the same question. His wife answered, uneasily, that she could not understand the boy's prolonged absence.

Dinner-time came, but no Madou, no vegetables, and no meat.

"Something must have happened," said Madame Moronval, more indulgent than her impatient husband, who paced up and down the corridor with his rod in his hand, while the hungry schoolboys were quite ready to devour each other. Finally, Madame Moronval sallied forth herself to buy some provisions; and on her return, burdened with packages, she was greeted by an enthusiastic shout from the children, who, when the fierceness of their hunger abated, ventured on surmises as to Madou's whereabouts. Moronval shrewdly suspected the truth. "How much money did he have?" he asked.

"Fifteen francs," was his wife's timid answer.

"Fifteen francs! Then it is certain he has run away!"

"But where has he gone?" asked the doctor; "he could hardly reach Dahomey with that amount."

Moronval scowled fiercely, and went to report to the police, for it was very essential to him that the child should be found, or, at all events, prevented from reaching Marseilles. Moronval was in wholesome fear of Monsieur Bonfils. "The world is so wicked, you know," he said to his wife; "the boy might make some complaints which would injure the school." Consequently, in making his report at the police office, he stated that Madou had carried away a large sum. "But," he added, assuming an air of indifference, "the money part of the matter is of very little importance, compared to the dangers that the poor child runs—this dethroned king without country or people;" and Moronval dashed away a tear.

"We will find him, my good sir," said the official; "have no anxiety."

But Moronval was anxious, nevertheless, and so agitated, that, instead of awaiting quietly at home the result of the investigations, as he had been advised to do, he started out himself, with all the children to join in the search.

They went to each one of the gates, interrogated the custom-house officers, and gave them a description of Madou. Then the party repaired to the police court, for Moronval had the singular idea that in this way his pupils might learn something of Parisian life. The children, fortunately, were too young to understand all they saw, but they carried away with them a most sinister impression. Jack especially, who was the most intelligent of the boys, returned to the academy with a heavy heart, shocked at the glimpse he had caught of this under-current of life. Over and over again he said to himself, "Where can Madou be?"

Then the child consoled himself with the thought that the negro was far on the road to Marseilles; which road little Jack pictured to himself as running straight as an arrow, with the sea at its termination, and the vessel lying ready to sail. Only one thing disturbed him in regard to Madou's journey: the weather, that had been so fine the day of his departure, had suddenly changed; and now the rain fell in torrents,—hail too, and even snow; and the wind blew around their frail dwelling, causing the poor little children of the sun to shiver in their sleep, and dream of a rocking ship and a heavy sea. Curled up under his blankets one night, listening to the howling of the fierce wind, Jack thought of his friend, imagined him half frozen lying under a tree, his thin clothing thoroughly wet. But the reality was worse than this.

"He is found!" cried Moronval, rushing into the dining-room, one morning. "He is found; I have just been notified by the police. Give me my hat and my cane!"

He was in a state of great excitement. As much from the desire to flatter the master, as from the love of noise that characterizes boys, the children hailed this news with a wild hurrah. Jack did not speak, but sighed as he said to himself, "Poor Madou!"

Madou had been, in fact, at the station-house since the evening before. It was there, amid criminals of all grades, that the presumptive heir of the kingdom of Dahomey was found by his excellent tutor.

"Ah, my unfortunate child! have I found you at last?"

The worthy Moronval could say no more; and, on seeing him throw his long arms eagerly about the neck of the little black boy, the inspector of police could not help thinking: "At last I have seen one teacher who loves his pupils!" Madou, however, displayed the utmost indifference. His face was positively without expression; not a ray of shame or of apprehension was visible. His eyes were wide open, but he seemed to see nothing; his face was pale—and the pallor of a negro is something appalling. He was covered with mud from head to foot, and looked like some amphibious animal who, after swimming in the water, had rolled in the mud on the shore. No hat, and no shoes. What had happened to him? He alone could have told you, and he would not speak. The policeman said, that, making his rounds the evening before, he had found the boy hidden in a lime-kiln, that he was half-starved, and stupefied by the excessive heat. Why had he lingered in Paris?

This question Moronval did not ask; nor, indeed, did he speak one word to Madou during their long drive to the academy. The boy was so worn out and crushed that he sank into a corner, while Moronval glanced at him occasionally with an expression of rage that at any other time would have terrified him.

Moronval's glance was like a keen rapier, with a flash like lightning, crossing a poor little broken blade, shivered and rusty.

When Jack saw the pitiful black face, the rags and the dirt, he could hardly recognize the little king. Madou, as he passed, said good morning in so mournful a tone that Jack's eyes filled with tears. The children saw nothing more of the black boy that day. Recitations went on in their usual routine, and at intervals the sound of a lash was heard, and heavy groans from Moronval's private study. Madame Moronval turned pale, and the book she held trembled. Even when all was again silent, Jack fancied that he still heard the groans.

At dinner the principal was radiant, though seemingly exhausted by fatigue. "The little wretch!" he said to Dr. Hirsch and his wife. "The little wretch! Just, see the state he has put me into!"

That night Jack found the bed next to his occupied. Poor Madou had put his master into such a state that he himself had not been able to go to bed without assistance. Madame Moronval and Dr. Hirsch were there watching the lad, whose sleep was broken by those heavy sighs and sobs common to children after a day of painful excitement.

"Then, Dr. Hirsch, you don't think him ill?" asked Madame Moronval, anxiously.

"Not in the least, madame; that race has a covering like a monitor!"

When they were alone, Jack took Madou's hand and found it as burning hot as a brick from the furnace. "Dear Madou," he whispered. Madou half opened his eyes and looked at his friend with an expression of utter discouragement.

"It's all over with Madou," he murmured; "Madou has lost his Gri-gri, and will never see Dahomey again."

This was the reason, then, that he had not left Paris. Two hours after he had run away from the academy, the fifteen francs of market-money and his medal had been stolen from him. Then, relinquishing all idea of Marseilles, of the ship and of the sea, knowing that without his Gri-gri Dahomey was unattainable, Madou had spent eight days and nights in the lowest depths of Paris, looking for his amulet. Fearing that Moronval would discover his whereabouts, he hid during the day and ventured into the streets only after nightfall. He slept by the side of piles of bricks and mortar, which partly protected him from the wind; or crawled into an open doorway, or under the arches of a bridge.

Favored by his size and by his color, Madou glided about almost unseen; he had associated with criminals of all classes, and had escaped without contamination, for he thought only of finding his amulet. He had shared a crust of bread with assassins, and drank with robbers; but the little king escaped from these dangers as he had from others in Dahomey, where, when hunting with Kerika, he had been awakened by the trumpeting of elephants and the roaring of wild beasts, and saw, under some gigantic tree, the dim shadow of some strange animal passing between himself and the bivouac fires; or caught a glimpse of some great snake slowly winding through the underbrush. But the monsters to be found in Paris are more terrible even than those in the African forests; or they would have been, had he understood the dangers he incurred. But he could not find his Gri-gri. Madou could not talk much, his exhaustion was so great; and Jack fell asleep with his curiosity but partially satisfied.

In the middle of the night he was awakened suddenly by a shout from Madou, who was singing and talking in his own language with frightful volubility. Delirium had begun.

In the morning, Dr. Hirsch announced that Madou was very ill. "A brain-fever!" he said, rubbing his hands in glee.

This Dr. Hirsch was a terrible man. His head was stuffed full of all sorts of Utopian ideas, of impracticable theories, and notions absolutely without method. His studies had been too desultory to amount to anything. He had mastered a few Latin phrases, and covered his real ignorance by a smattering of the science of medicine as practised among the Indians and the Chinese. He even had a strong leaning toward the magic arts, and when a human life was intrusted to his care he took that opportunity to try some experiments. Madame Moronval was inclined to call in another physician, but the principal, less compassionate, and unwilling to incur the additional expense, determined to leave the case solely in the hands of Dr. Hirsch. Wishing to have no interference, this singular physician pretended that the disease was contagious, and ordered Madou's bed to be placed at the end of the garden in an old hot-house. For a week he tried on his little victim every drug he had ever heard of, the child making no more resistance than a sick dog would have done. When the doctor, armed with his bottles and his powders, entered the hot-house, the "children of the sun," to whose minds a physician was always more or less of a magician, gathered about the door and listened, saying to each other in awed tones, "What is he going to do now to Madou?" But the doctor locked the door, and peremptorily ordered the children from its vicinity, telling them that they would be ill too, that Madou's illness was contagious; and this last idea added additional mystery to that corner of the garden.

Jack, nevertheless, desired to see his friend so much that he alone of all the boys would have gladly passed the threshold, had it not been too closely guarded. One day, however, he seized an occasion when the doctor had gone in search of some forgotten drug, and crept softly into the improvised infirmary.

It was one of those half rustic buildings which are used as a shelter for rakes and hoes, or even to house some tender plants. Close by the side of Madou's iron bed, in the corner, was a pile of earthen flowerpots; a broken trellis, some panes of glass, and a bundle of dried roots, completed the dismal picture; and in the chimney, as if for the protection of some fragile tropical plant, flickered a tiny fire.

Madou was not asleep. His poor little thin face had still the same expression of absolute indifference. His black hands, tightly clenched, lay on the outside of the bedclothes. There was a look of a sick animal in his whole attitude, and in the manner in which he turned his face toward the wall, as if an invisible road was open to his eyes through the white stones, and every chink in the wall had become a brilliant outlook toward a country known to him alone.

Jack whispered, "It is I, Madou,—little Jack."

The child looked at him vacantly; he no longer understood the French language. In his fever, all recollection of it had vanished. Instinct had effaced all that 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 hear the cry of "Stop him! Stop him!" At last he climbed over the bank and began to run on the narrow path by the water's edge. The day was coming to an end. The river was very high and yellow from recent rains, the water rolled heavily against the arches of the bridge, and the wind curled it in little waves, the tops of which were just touched by the level rays of the setting sun. Women passed him bearing baskets of wet linen, fishermen drew in their lines, and a whole river-side population, sailors and bargemen, with their rounded shoulders and woollen hoods, hurried past him. With these there was still another class, rough and ferocious of aspect, who were quite capable of pulling you out of the Seine for fifteen francs, and of throwing you in again for a hundred sous. Occasionally one of these men would turn to look at this slender schoolboy who seemed in such a hurry.

The appearance of the shore was continually changing. In one place it was black, and long planks were laid to boats laden with charcoal. Farther on, similar boats were crowded with fruit, and a delicious odor of fresh orchards was wafted on the air. Suddenly there was a look of a great harbor; steamboats were loading at the wharves; a few rods more, and a group of old trees bathed their distorted roots in a limpid stream, and one could easily fancy one's self twenty leagues from Paris, and in an earlier century.

But night was close at hand.

The arches of the bridges vanished in darkness; the bank was deserted, and illuminated only by that vague light which comes from even the very darkest body of water.

But still the child toiled on, and at last found himself on a long wharf, covered with warehouses and piled with merchandise. He had reached Bercy, but it was night, and he was filled with terror lest he should be stopped at the gate; but the little fugitive was hardly noticed. He passed the barrier without hindrance, and soon found himself in a long, narrow street, solitary and dimly lighted. While the child was in the life and motion of the city, he was terrified only by one thought, and that was that Moronval would find him. Now he was still afraid, but his fear was of another character—born of silence and solitude.

Yet the place where he now found himself was not the country. The street was bordered with houses on both sides, but as the child slowly toiled on, these buildings became farther and farther apart, and considerably lower in height. Although barely eight o'clock, this road was almost deserted. Occasional pedestrians walked noiselessly over the damp ground, while the dismal howling of a dog added to the cheerlessness of the scene. Jack was troubled. Each step that he took led him further from Paris, its light and its noise. He reached the last wineshop. A broad circle of light barred the road, and seemed to the child the limits of the inhabited world.

After he had passed that shop, he must go on in the dark. Should he go into the shop and ask his way? He looked in. The proprietor was seated at his desk; around a small table sat two men and a woman, drinking and talking. When Jack lifted the latch, they looked up; the three had hideous faces—such faces as he had seen at the police stations the day they were looking for Madou. The woman, above all, was frightful.

"What does he want?" said one of the men.

The other rose; but little Jack with one bound leaped the stream of light from the open door, hearing behind him a volley of abuse. The darkness now seemed to the child a refuge, and he ran on quickly until he found himself in the open country. Before him stretched field after field; a few small, scattered houses, white cubes, alone varied the monotony of the scene. Below was Paris, known by its long line of reddish vapor, like the reflection of a blacksmith's forge. The child stood still. It was the first time that he had ever been alone out of doors at night. He had neither eaten nor drank all day, and was now suffering from intense thirst. He was also beginning to understand what he had undertaken.

Had he strength enough to reach his mother?

He finally decided to lie down in a furrow in the bank on the side of the road, and sleep there until daybreak. But as he went toward the spot he had selected, he heard heavy breathing, and saw that a man was stretched out there, his rags making a confused mass of dark shadow against the white stones.

Jack stood petrified, his heart in his mouth, unable to take a step forward or back. At this instant the sleeping figure began to move, and to talk, still without waking. The child thought of the woman in the wine-shop, and feared that this creature was she, or some other equally repulsive.

The shadows all about were now to his fancy peopled with these frightful beings. They climbed over the bank, they barred his further progress. If he extended his hand to the right or the left, he felt certain that he should touch them. A light and a voice aroused the child from this stupor. An officer, accompanied by his orderly, bearing a lantern, suddenly appeared.

"Good evening, gentlemen," said the child, gently, breathless with emotion.

The soldier who carried the lantern raised it in the direction of the voice.

"This is a bad hour to travel, my boy," remarked the officer; "are you going far?"

"O, no, sir; not very far," answered Jack, who did not care to tell the truth.

"Ah, well! we can go on together as far as Charenton."

What a delight it was to the child to walk for an hour at the side of these two honest soldiers, to regulate his steps by theirs, and to see the cheerful light from the lantern! From the soldier, too, he casually learned that he was on the right road.

"Now we are at home," said the officer, halting suddenly. "Good night. And take my advice, my lad, and don't travel alone again at night—it is not safe." And with these parting words, the men turned up a narrow lane, swinging the lantern, leaving Jack alone at the entrance of the principal street in Charenton. The child wandered on until he found himself on the quay; he crossed a bridge which seemed to him to be thrown over an abyss, so profound were the depths below. He lingered for a moment, but rough voices singing and laughing so startled him that he took to his heels and ran until he was out of breath, and was again in the open fields. He turned and looked back; the red light of the great city was still reflected on the horizon. Afar off he heard the grinding of wheels. "Good!" said the child; "something is coming." But nothing appeared. And the invisible wagon, whose wheels moved apparently with difficulty, turned down some unseen lane.

Jack toiled on slowly. Who was that man that stood waiting for him at the turning of the road? One man! Nay, there were two or three. But they were trees,—tall, slender poplars,—or a clump of elms—those lovely old elms which grow to such majestic beauty in France; and Jack was environed by the mysteries of nature,—nature in the springtime of the year, when one can almost hear the grass grow, the buds expand, and the earth crackle as the tender herbage shoots forth. All these faint, vague noises bewildered little Jack, who began to sing a nursery rhyme with which his mother formerly rocked him to sleep.

It was pitiful to hear the child, alone in the darkness, encouraging himself by these reminiscences of his happy, petted infancy. Suddenly the little trembling voice stopped.

Something was coming—something blacker than the darkness itself, sweeping down on the child as if to swallow him up. Cries were heard; human voices, and heavy blows. Then came a drove of enormous cattle, which pressed against little Jack on all sides; he feels the damp breath from their nostrils; their tails switch violently, and the heat of their bodies, and the odor of the stable, is almost stifling. Two boys and two dogs are in charge of these animals; the dogs bark, and the uncouth peasants yell, until the noise is appalling.

As they pass on, the child is absolutely stupefied by terror. These animals have gone, but will there not be others? It begins to rain, and Jack, in despair, fails on his knees, and wishes to die. The sound of a carriage, and the sight of two lamps like friendly eyes coming quickly toward him, revives him suddenly. He calls aloud.

The carriage stops. A head, with a travelling cap drawn closely down over the ears, bends forward to ascertain the whereabouts of the shrill cry.

"I am very tired," pleaded Jack; "would you be so kind as to let me come into your carriage?"

The man hesitated, but a woman's voice came to the child's assistance. "Ah, what a little fellow I Let him come in here."

"Where are you going?" asked the traveller.

The child hesitated. Like all fugitives, he wished to hide his destination. "To Villeneuve St George," he answered, nervously.

"Come on, then," said the man, with gruff kindness.

The child was soon curled up under a comfortable travelling rug, between a stout lady and gentleman, who both examined him curiously by the light of the little lamp.

Where was he going so late, and all alone, too? Jack would have liked to tell the truth, but he was in too great fear of being carried back to the Institute. Then he invented a story to suit the occasion. His mother was very ill in the country, where she was visiting. He had been told of this the night before, and he had at once started off on foot, because he had not patience to wait for the next day's train.

"I understand," said the lady. And the gentleman looked as if he understood also, but made many wise observations as to the imprudence of running about the country alone, there were so many dangers. Then he was asked in what house in Villeneuve his mother's friends resided.

"At the end of the town," answered Jack, promptly,—"the last house on the right."

It was lucky that his rising color was hidden by the darkness. His cross-examination, however, was by no means over. The husband and wife were great talkers, and, like all great talkers, extremely curious, and could not be content until they had learned the private affairs of all those persons with whom they came in contact. They kept a little store, and each Saturday went into the country to get rid of the dust of the week; but they were making money, and some day would live altogether at Soisy-sous-Etiolles.