His house, too, was different from those about him. Behind the full white curtains stood a pot of flowers, sweet basil or gillyflowers, and the furniture was carefully waxed and polished; and Rondic was delighted, when he returned home at night, to find so carefully arranged a home, and a wife as neatly dressed as if it were Sunday. He never asked himself why Clarisse, after the house was in order for the day, took her seat at the window with folded hands, instead of occupying herself with needlework, like other women whose days were far too short for all their duties.

He supposed, innocently enough, that his wife thought only of him while adorning herself; but the whole village of Indret could have told him that another occupied all her thoughts, and in this gossip the names of Madame Rondic and Chariot were never separated. They said that the two had known each other before Madame Rondic's marriage, and that if the nephew had wished he could have married the lady, instead of his uncle.

But the young fellow had no such desire. He merely thought that Clarisse was charmingly pretty, and that it would be very nice to have her for his aunt. But later, when they were thrown so much together, while Father Rondic slept in the arm-chair and Zenaide sewed at the chateau, these two natures were irresistibly attracted toward each other. But no one had a right to make any invidious remark; they had, besides, always watching over them a pair of frightfully suspicious eyes, those of Zenaide. She had a way of interrupting their interviews, of appearing suddenly, when least expected; and, however fatigued she might be by her day's work, she took her seat in the chimney-corner with her knitting. Zenaide, in fact, played the part of the jealous and suspicious husband. Picture to yourself, if you please, a husband with all the instincts and clearsightedness of a woman!

The warfare between herself and Chariot was incessant, and the little outbursts served to conceal the real antipathy; but while Father Rondic smiled contentedly, Clarisse turned pale as if at distant thunder.

Zenaide had triumphed: she had so managed at the chateau that the Director had decided to send Chariot to Guerigny, to study a new model of a machine there. Months would be necessary for him to perfect his work. Clarisse understood very well that Zenaide was at the bottom of this movement, but she was not altogether displeased at Chariot's departure; she flung herself on Zenaide's stronger nature, and entreated her protection.

Jack had understood for some time that between these two women there was a secret. He loved them both: Zenaide won his respect and his admiration, while Madame Rondic, more elegant and more carefully dressed, seemed to be a remnant of the refinements of his former life. He fancied that she was like his mother; and yet Ida was lively, gay, and talkative, while Madame Rondic was always languid and silent. They had not a feature alike, nor was there any similarity in the color of their hair. Nevertheless, they did resemble each other, but it was a resemblance as vague and indefinite as would result from the same perfume among the clothing, or of something more subtile still, which only a skilful chemist of the human soul could have analyzed.

Sometimes on Sunday, Jack read aloud to the two women and to Rondic. The parlor was the room in which they assembled on these occasions. The apartment was decorated with a highly colored view of Naples, some enormous shells, vitrified sponges, and all those foreign curiosities which their vicinity to the sea seemed naturally to bring to them. Handmade lace trimmed the curtains, and a sofa and an arm-chair of plush made up the furniture of the apartment. In the arm-chair Father Rondic took his seat to listen to the reading, while Clarisse sat in her usual place at the window, idly looking out. Zenaide profited by her one day at home to mend the house-bold linen, disregarding the fact of the day being Sunday. Among the books given to Jack by Dr. Rivals was Dante's Inferno. The book fascinated the child, for it described a spectacle that he had constantly before his eyes. Those half naked human forms, those flames, those deep ditches of molten metal, all seemed to him one of the circles of which the poet wrote.

One Sunday he was reading to his usual audience from his favorite book; Father Rondic was asleep, according to his ordinary custom, but the two women listened with fixed attention. It was the episode of Francesca da Rimini. Clarisse bowed her head and shuddered. Zenaide frowned until her heavy eyebrows met, and drove her needle through her work with mad zeal.

Those grand sonorous lines filled the humble roof with music. Tears stood in the eyes of Clarisse as she listened. Without noticing them, Zenaide spoke abruptly as the voice of the reader ceased.

"What a wicked, impudent woman," she cried, "not only to relate her crime, but to boast of it!"

"It is true that she was guilty," said Clarisse, "but she was also very unhappy."

"Unhappy! Don't say that, mamma; one would think that you pitied this Francesca."

"And why should I not, my child? She loved him before her marriage, and she was driven to espouse a man whom she did not love."

"Love him or not makes but little difference. From the moment she married him she was bound to be faithful. The story says that he was old, and that seems to me an additional reason for respecting him more, and for preventing other people from laughing at him. The old man did right to kill them,—it was only what they deserved!"

She spoke with great violence. Her affection as a daughter, her honor as a woman, influenced her words, and she judged and spoke with that cruel candor that belongs to youth, and which judges life from the ideal it has itself created, without comprehending in the least any of the terrible exigencies which may arise.

Clarisse did not answer. She turned her face away, and was looking out of the window. Jack, with his eyes on his book, thought of what he had been reading. Here, amid these humble surroundings, this immortal legend of guilty love had echoed "through the corridors of time," and after four hundred years had awakened a response. Suddenly through the open casement came a cry, "Hats! hats to sell!" Jack started to his feet and ran into the street; but quick as he was, Clarisse had preceded him, and as he went out, she came in, crushing a letter into her pocket.

The pedler was far down the street.

"Belisaire!" shouted Jack.

The man turned. "I was sure it was you," continued Jack, breathlessly. "Do you come here often?"

"Yes, very often;" and then Belisaire added, after a moment, "How happens it, Master Jack, that you are here, and have left that pretty house?"

The boy hesitated, and the pedler seeing this, continued,—

"That was a famous ham, was it not? And that lovely lady, who had such a gentle face, she was your mother, was she not?"

Jack was so happy at hearing her name mentioned that he would have lingered there at the corner of the street for an hour, but Belisaire said he was in haste, that he had a letter to deliver, and must go.

When Jack entered the house, Madame Rondic met him at the door. She was very pale, and said, in a low voice, with trembling lips,—

"What did you want of that man?"

The child answered that he had known him at Etiolles, and that they had been talking of his parents.

She uttered a sigh of relief. But that whole evening she was even quieter than usual, and her head seemed bowed by more than the weight of her blonde braids.



CHAPTER XIV.~~A MIDNIGHT INTERVIEW.

"Chateau des Aulnettes.

"I am not pleased with you, my child. M. Rondic has written to his brother a long letter, in which he says, that in the year that you have been at Indret you have made no progress. He speaks kindly of you, nevertheless, but does not seem to think you adapted for your present life. We are all grieved to hear this, and feel that you are not doing all that you might do. M. Rondic also says that the air of the workshops is not good for you, that you are pale and thin, and that at the least exertion the perspiration rolls down your face. I cannot understand this, and fear that you are imprudent, that you go out in the evening uncovered, that you sleep with your windows open, and that you forget to tie your scarf around your throat. This must not be; your health is of the first importance.

"I admit that your present occupation is not as pleasant as running wild in the forest would be, but remember what M. D'Argenton told you, that 'life is not a romance.' He knows this very well, poor man!—better, too, to-day, than ever before. You have no conception of the annoyances to which this great poet is exposed. The low conspiracies that have been formed against him are almost incredible. They are about to bring out a play at the Theatre Francais called 'La Fille de Faust' It is not D'Argenton's play, because his is not written, but it is his idea, and his title! We do not know whom to suspect, for he is surrounded with faithful friends. Whoever the guilty party may be, our friend has been most painfully affected, and has been seriously ill. Dr. Hirsch fortunately was here, for Dr. Rivals still continues to sulk. That reminds me to tell you that we hear that you keep up your correspondence with the doctor, of which M. d'Argenton entirely disapproves. It is not wise, my child, to keep up any association with people above your station; it only leads to all sorts of chimerical aspirations. Your friendship for little Cecile M. d'Argenton regards also as a waste of time. You must, therefore, relinquish it, as we think that you would then enter with more interest into your present life. You will understand, my child, that I am now speaking entirely in your interest. You are now fifteen. You are safely launched in an enviable career. A future opens before you, and you can make of yourself just what you please.

"Your loving mother,

"Charlotte."

"P. S. Ten o'clock at night.

"Dearest,—I am alone, and hasten to add a good night to my letter, to say on paper what I would say to you were you here with me now. Do not be discouraged. You know just what he is. He is very determined, and has resolved that you shall be a machinist, and you must be. Is he right? I cannot say. I beg of you to be careful of your health; it must be damp where you are; and if you need anything, write to me under cover to the Archambaulds. Have you any more chocolate? For this, and for any other little things you want, I lay aside from my personal expenses a little money every month. So you see that you are teaching me economy. Remember that some day I may have only you to rely upon.

"If you knew how sad I am sometimes in thinking of the future! Life is not very gay here, and I am not always happy. But then, as you know, my sad moments do not last long. I laugh and cry at the same time without knowing why. I have no reason to complain, either. He is nervous like all artists, but I comprehend the real generosity and nobility of his nature. Farewell! I finish my letter for Mere Archambauld to mail as she goes home. We shall not keep the good woman long. M. d'Argenton distrusts her. He thinks she is paid by his enemies to steal his ideas and titles for books and plays! Good night, my dearest."

Between the lines of this lengthy letter Jack saw two faces,—that of D'Argenton, dictatorial and stern,—and his mother's, gentle and tender. How under subjection she was! How crushed was her expansive nature! A child's imagination supplies his thoughts with illustrations. It seemed to Jack, as he read, that his Ida—she was always Ida to her boy—was shut up in a tower, making signals of distress to him.

Yes, he would work hard, he would make money, and take his mother away from such tyranny; and as a first step he put away all his books.

"You are right," said old Rondic; "your books distract your attention."

In the workshop Jack heard constant allusions made to the Rondic household, and particularly to the relations existing between Clarisse and Chariot.

Every one knew that the two met continually at a town half-way between Saint Nazarre and Indret. Here Clarisse went under pretence of purchasing provisions that could not be procured on the island. In the contemptuous glances of the men who met her, in their familiar nods, she read that her secret was known, and yet with blushes of shame dyeing the cheeks that all the fresh breezes from the Loire had no power to cool, she went on. Jack knew all this. No delicacy was observed in the discussion of such subjects before the child. Things were called by their right names, and they laughed as they talked. Jack did not laugh, however. He pitied the husband so deluded and deceived. He pitied also the woman whose weakness was shown in her very way of knotting her hair, in the way she sat, and whose pleading eyes always seemed to be asking pardon for some fault committed. He wanted to whisper to her, "Take care—you are watched." But to Char-lot he would have liked to say, "Go away, and let this woman alone!"

He was also indignant in seeing his friend Belisaire playing such a part in this mournful drama. The pedler carried all the letters that passed between the lovers. Many a time Jack had seen him drop one into Madame Rondic's apron while she changed some money, and, disgusted with his old ally, the child no longer lingered to speak when they met in the street.

Belisaire had no idea of the reason of this coolness. He suspected it so little, that one day, when he could not find Clarisse, he went to the machine-shop, and with an air of great mystery gave the letter to the apprentice. "It is for madame; give it to her secretly!"

Jack recognized the writing of Chariot. "No," he said at once; "I will not touch this letter, and I think you would do better to sell your hats than to meddle with such matters."

Belisaire looked at him with amazement.

"You know very well," said the boy, "what these letters are; and do you think that you are doing right to aid in deceiving that old man?"

The pedler's face turned scarlet.

"I never deceived any one; if papers are given to me to carry, I carry them, that is all. Be sure of one thing, and that is, if I were the sort of person you call me, I should be much better off than I am today!"

Jack tried to make him see the thing as he saw it, but evidently the man, however honest, was without any delicacy of perception. "And I, too," thought Jack, suddenly, "am of the people now. What right have I to any such refinements?"

That Father Rondic knew nothing of all that was going on, was not astonishing. But Zenaide, where was she? Of what was she thinking?

Zenaide was on the spot,—more than usual, too, for she had not been at the chateau for a month. Her eyes were also widely open, and were more keen and vivacious than ever, for Zenaide was about to be married to a handsome young soldier attached to the customhouse at Nantes, and the girl's dowry was seven thousand francs. Pere Rondic thought this too much, but the soldier was firm. The old man had made no provision for Clarisse. If he should die, what would become of her?

But his wife said, "You are yet young—we will be economical. Let the soldier have Zenaide and the seven thousand francs, for the girl loves him!"

Zenaide spent a great deal of time before her mirror. She did not deceive herself. "I am ugly, and M. Maugin will not marry me for my beauty, but let him marry me, and he shall love me later."

And the girl gave a little nod, for she knew the unselfish devotion of which she was capable, the tenderness and patience with which she would watch over her husband. But all these new interests had so absorbed her that Zenaide had partially forgotten her suspicions; they returned to her at intervals, while she was sewing on her wedding-dress, but she did not notice her mother's pallor nor uneasiness, nor did she feel the burning heat of those slender hands. She did not notice her long and frequent disappearances, and she heard nothing of what was rumored in the town. She saw and heard nothing but her own radiant happiness. The banns were published, the marriage-day fixed, and the little house was full of the joyous excitement that precedes a wedding. Zenaide ran up and down stairs twenty times each day with the movements of a young hippopotamus. Her friends came and went, little gifts were pouring in, for the girl was a great favorite in spite of her occasional abruptness. Jack wished to make her a present; his mother had sent him a hundred francs.

"This money is your own, my Jack," Charlotte wrote. "Buy with it a gift for M'lle Rondic, and some clothes for yourself. I wish you to make a good appearance at the wedding, and I am afraid that your wardrobe is in a pitiable condition. Say nothing about it in your letters, nor of me to the Rondics. They would thank me, which would be an annoyance, and bring me a reproof besides."

For two days Jack carried this money with pride in his pocket. He would go to Nantes and buy a new suit. What a delight it would be! and how kind his mother was! One thing troubled him: What could he purchase for Zenaide; he must first see what she had.

So thinking one dark night, as he entered the house, he ran against some one who was coming down the steps.

"Is that you, Belisaire?"

There was no reply, but as Jack pushed open the door, he saw that he was not mistaken, that Belisaire had been there.

Clarisse was in the corridor, shivering with the cold, and so absorbed by the letter she was reading in the gleam of light from the half open door of the parlor, that she did not even look up as Jack went in. The letter evidently contained some startling intelligence, and the boy suddenly remembered having that day heard that Chariot had lost a large sum of money in gambling with the crew of an English ship that had just arrived at Nantes from Calcutta.

In the parlor Zenaide and Maugin were alone.

Pere Rondic had gone to Chateaubriand and would not return until the next day, which did not prevent her future husband from dining with them. He sat in the large arm-chair, his feet comfortably extended. While Zenaide, carefully dressed, and her hair arranged by her stepmother, laid the table, this calm and reasonable lover entertained her by an estimate of the prices of the various grains, indigos, and oils that entered the port of Nantes. And such a wonderful prestidigitateur is love that Zenaide was moved to the depths of her soul by these details, and listened to them as to music.

Jack's entrance disturbed the lovers. "Ah, here is Jack I I had no idea it was so late!" cried the girl. "And mamma, where is she?"

Clarisse came in, pale but calm.

"Poor woman!" thought Jack, as he watched her trying to smile, to talk, and to eat, swallowing at intervals great draughts of water, as if to choke down some terrible emotion. Zenaide was blind to all this. She had lost her own appetite, and watched her soldier's plate, seeming delighted at the rapidity with which the delicate morsels disappeared.

Maugin talked well, and ate and drank with marvellous appetite; he weighed his words as carefully as he did the square bits into which he cut his bread; he held his wine-glass to the light, testing and scrutinizing it each time he drank. A dinner, with him, was evidently a matter of importance as well as of time. This evening it seemed as if Clarisse could not endure it; she rose from the table, went to the window, listened to the rattling of the hail on the glass, and then turning round, said,—

"What a night it is, M. Maugin I I wish you were safely at home."

"I don't, then!" cried Zenaide, so earnestly that they all laughed. But the remark made by Clarisse bore its fruit, and the soldier rose to go. But it took him some time to get off. There was his lantern to light, his gloves to button; and the girl took all these duties on herself. At last the soldier was in readiness; his hood was pulled over his eyes, a scarf wound about his throat, then Zenaide said good night, and watched her Esquimau-looking lover somewhat anxiously down the street. What perils might he not have to run in that thick darkness!

Her stepmother called her impatiently. The nervous excitement of Clarisse had momentarily increased. Jack had noticed this, and also that she looked constantly at the clock.

"How cold it must be to-night on the Loire," said Zenaide.

"Cold, indeed!" answered Clarisse, with a shiver.

"Come," she said, as the clock struck ten, "let us go to bed."

Then seeing that Jack was about to lock the outer door as usual, she stopped him, saying,—

"I have done it myself. Let us go up stairs."

But Zenaide had not finished talking of M. Maugin. "Do you like his moustache, Jack?" she asked.

"Will you go to bed?" asked Madame Rondic, pretending to laugh, but trembling nervously.

At last the three are on the narrow staircase.

"Good night," said Clarisse; "I am dying with sleep."

But her eyes were very bright. Jack put his foot on his ladder, but Zenaide's room was so crowded with her gifts and purchases, that it seemed to him a most auspicious occasion to pass them in review. Friends had had them under examination, and they were still displayed on the commode: some silver spoons, a prayer-book, gloves, and all about tumbled bits of paper and the colored ribbon that had fastened these gifts from the chateau; then came the more humble presents from the wives of the employes. Zenaide showed them all with pride. The boy uttered exclamations of wonder. "But what shall I give her?" he said to himself over and over again.

"And my trousseau, Jack, you have not seen it! Wait, and I will show it to you."

With a quaint old key she opened the carved wardrobe that had been in the family for a hundred years; the two doors swung open, a delicious violet perfume filled the room, and Jack could see and admire the piles of sheets spun by the first Madame Rondic, and the ruffled and fluted linen piled in snowy masses.

In fact, Jack had never seen such a display. His mother's wardrobe held laces and fine embroideries, not household articles. Then, lifting a heavy pile, she showed Jack a casket. "Guess what is in this," Zenaide said, with a laugh; "it contains my dowry, my dear little dowry, that in a fortnight will belong to M. Maugin. Ah, when I think of it, I could sing and dance with joy!"

And the girl held out her skirts with each hand, and executed an elephantine gambol, shaking the casket she still held in her hand. Suddenly she stopped; some one had rapped on the wall.

"Let the boy go to bed," said her stepmother in an irritated tone; "you know he must be up early."

A little ashamed, the future Madame Maugin shut her wardrobe, and said good night to Jack, who ascended his ladder; and five minutes later the little house, wrapped in snow and rocked by the wind, slept like its neighbors in the silence of the night.

There is no light in the parlor of the Rondic mansion save that which comes from the fitful gleam of the dying fire in the chimney. A woman sat there, and at her feet knelt a man in vehement supplication.

"I entreat you," he whispered, "if you love me—"

If she loved him! Had she not at his command left the door open that he might enter? Had she not adorned herself in the dress and ornaments that he liked, to make herself beautiful in his eyes? What could it be that he was asking her now to grant to him? How was it that she, usually so weak, was now so strong in her denials? Let us listen for a moment.

"No, no," she answered, indignantly, "it is impossible."

"But I only ask it for two days, Clarisse. With these six thousand francs I will pay the five thousand I have lost, and with the other thousand I will conquer fortune."

She looked at him with an expression of absolute terror.

"No, no," she repeated, "it cannot be. You must find some other way."

"But there is none."

"Listen. I have a rich friend; I will write to her and ask her to lend me the money."

"But I must have it to-morrow."

"Well, then, find the Director; tell him the truth."

"And he will dismiss me instantly. No; my plan is much the best. In two days I will restore the money."

"You only say that."

"I swear it." And, seeing that his words did not convince her, he added, "I had better have said nothing to you, but have gone at once to the wardrobe and taken what I needed."

But she answered, trembling, for she feared that he would yet do this, "Do you not know that Zenaide counts her money every day? This very night she showed the casket to the apprentice."

Chariot started. "Is that so?" he asked.

"Yes; the poor girl is very happy. It would kill her to lose it. Besides, the key is not in the wardrobe."

Suddenly perceiving that she was weakening her own position, she was silent. The young man was no longer the supplicating lover, he was the spoiled child of the house, imploring his aunt to save him from dishonor.

Through her tears she mechanically repeated the words, "It is impossible."

Suddenly he rose to his feet.

"You will not? Very good. Only one thing remains then. Farewell! I will not survive disgrace."

He expected a cry. No; she came toward him.

"You wish to die! Ah, well, so do I! I have had enough of life, of shame, of falsehood, and of love—love that must be concealed with such care that I am never sure of finding it. I am ready."

He drew back. "What folly!" he said, sullenly. "This is too much," he added, vehemently, after a moment's silence, and hurried to the stairs.

She followed him. "Where are you going?" she asked.

"Leave me!" he said, roughly. She snatched his arm.

"Take care!" she whispered with quivering lips. "If you take one more step in that direction, I will call for assistance!"

"Call, then! Let the world know that your nephew is your lover, and your lover a thief."

He hissed these words, in her ear, for they both spoke very low, impressed, in spite of themselves, by the silence and repose of the house. By the red light of the dying fire he appeared to her suddenly in his true colors, just what he really was, unmasked by one of those violent emotions which show the inner workings of the soul.

She saw him with his keen eyes reddened by constant examination of the cards; she thought of all she had sacrificed for this man; she remembered the care with which she had adorned herself for this interview. Suddenly she was overwhelmed by profound disgust for herself and for him, and sank, half-fainting, on the couch; and while the thief crept up the familiar staircase, she buried her face in the pillows to stifle her cries and sobs, and to prevent herself from seeing and hearing anything.

The streets of Indret were as dark as at midnight, for it was not yet six o'clock. Here and there a light from a baker's window or a wine-shop shone dimly through the thick fog. In one of these wineshops sat Chariot and Jack.

"Another glass, my boy!"

"No more, thank you. I fear it would make me very ill."

Chariot laughed. "And you a Parisian! Waiter, bring more wine!"

The boy dared make no farther objection. The attentions of which he was the object flattered him immensely. That this man, who for eighteen months had never vouchsafed him any notice, should, meeting him by chance that morning in the streets, have invited him to the cabaret and treated him, was a matter of surprise and congratulation to himself. At first Jack was somewhat distrustful of such courtesy, for the other had such a singular way of repeating his question, "Is there nothing new at the Rondics? Really, nothing new?"

"I wonder," thought the apprentice, "if he wishes me to carry his letters, instead of Belisaire!"

But after a little while the boy became more at ease. Perhaps Chariot, he thought, may not be such a bad fellow. A good friend might induce him to relinquish play, and make him a better man.

After Jack had taken his third glass of wine, he became very cordial, and offered to become this good friend. Chariot accepting the offer with enthusiasm, the boy thought himself justified in at once offering his advice.

"Look here, M. Chariot, listen to me, and don't play any more."

The blow struck home, for the young man's lips trembled nervously, and he swallowed a glass of brandy at one gulp.

At that moment the factory-bell sounded.

"I must go," cried Jack, starting to his feet. And, as his friend had paid for the first and second wine they had drank, he considered it essential that he should now pay in his turn; so he drew a louis from his pocket, and tossed it on the table.

"Hallo! a yellow boy!" said the barkeeper, unaccustomed to seeing such in the possession of apprentices. Chariot started, but made no remark.

"Had Jack been to the wardrobe also?" he said to himself. The boy was delighted at the sensation he had created. "And I have more of the same kind," he added, tapping his pocket. And then he whispered in his companion's ear, "It is for a present that I mean to buy Zenaide."

Chariot said, mechanically, "Is it?" and turned away with a smile.

The innkeeper fingered the gold piece with some uneasiness.

"Hurry," said Jack, "or I shall be late."

"I wish, my boy," said Chariot, "that you could have remained with me until my boat left, which will not be for an hour."

And he gently drew the lad toward the Loire. It was easily done, for, coming out from the cabaret into the cold air, the wine the child had drank made him giddy. It seemed to him that his head weighed a thousand pounds. This did not last long, however. "Hark!" he said; "the bell has stopped, I think." They turned back. Jack was terrified, for it was the first time that he had ever been late at the Works. But Chariot was in despair. "It is my fault," he reiterated. He declared that he would see the Director and explain matters, and was altogether so utterly miserable, that Jack was obliged to console him by saying that it was of no great consequence, after all; that he could afford to be marked 'absent' for once. "I will go with you to the boat."

The boy was so gratified by what he believed to be the good effect of his words on Chariot, that he enlarged on the noble nature of Pere Rondic and of Clarisse.

"O, had you seen her this morning, you would have pitied her. She was so pale that she looked as if she were dead."

Chariot started.

"And she ate nothing. I am afraid she will be ill. And she never spoke."

"Poor woman!" said Chariot, with a sigh of relief which Jack took for one of sorrow.

They reached the wharf. The boat was not there. A thick fog covered the river from one shore to the other.

"Let us go in here," said Chariot It was a little wooden shed, intended as a shelter for workmen while waiting in bad weather. Clarisse knew this shed very well, and the old woman who sold brandy and coffee in the corner had seen Madame Rondic many a time when she crossed the Loire.

"Let us take a drop of brandy to keep out the cold," said Chariot. At that moment a shrill whistle was heard; it was the boat for Saint Nazarre. "Good-bye, Jack, and a thousand thanks for your good advice!"

"Don't mention it," said the lad, heartily; "but pray give up gambling."

"Of course I will," answered the other, hurrying on board to hide his amusement. When Jack was again alone he felt no desire to return to the Works; he was in a state of unusual excitement. Even the heavy fog hanging over the Loire interested him. Suddenly he said to himself, "Why do I not go to Nantes and buy Zenaide's gift to-day?" A few moments saw him on the way; but as there was no train until noon, he must wait for some time, and was compelled to pass that time in a room where there were several of the old employes of the Works, who had been discharged for various misdemeanors. They received the lad civilly enough, and listened attentively when he took up some remark that was made, and uttered some platitudes, stolen from D'Ar-genton, on the rights of labor.

"Listen!" they said to each other; "it is easy to see that the boy comes from Paris."

Jack, excited by this applause and sympathy, talked fast and freely. Suddenly the room swam around—all grew dark. A fresh breeze restored him to consciousness. He was seated on the bank of the river, and a sailor was bathing his forehead.

"Are you better?" said the man.

"Yes, much better," answered Jack, his teeth chattering.

"Then go on board."

"Go where?" said the apprentice, in amazement.

"Why, have you forgotten that you hired a boat, and sent for provisions? And here comes the man with them."

Jack was stupefied with amazement, but he was too weak to argue any point; he embarked without remonstrance. He had a little money left, with which he could buy some little souvenir for Zenaide, so that his trip to Nantes would not be thrown away absolutely. He breakfasted with a poor enough appetite, and sat at the end of the boat, wrapped in thought. He dreamily recalled books that he had read—tales of strange adventures on the sea; but why did a certain old volume of Robinson Crusoe persistently come before him? He saw the rubbed and yellowed page, the vignette of Robinson in his hammock surrounded by drunken sailors, and above it the inscription, "And in a night of debauch I forgot all my good resolutions."

He was brought back to real life by the songs of his companions, and by a pair of keen bright eyes that were fixed upon his own. Jack was annoyed by this gaze, and leaned forward with a bottle in his hand.

"Drink with me, captain!" he said.

The man declined abruptly. The younger sailor whispered to Jack, "Let him alone; he did not wish to take you on board; his wife settled things for him; he thought you had more money than you ought to have!"

Jack was indignant at being treated like a thief. He exclaimed that his money was his own, that it had been given him by———. Here he stopped, remembering that his mother had forbidden him to mention her name. "But," he continued, "I can have more money when I wish it, and I am going to buy a wedding present for Zenaide."

He talked on, but no one listened, for a grand dispute between the two men was well under way as to the place where they should land.

At last they entered the harbor of Nantes. Old houses, with carved fronts and stone balconies, met his eyes, crowded as it were among the shipping at the wharves. Large vessels lay at anchor in the harbor, looking to the boy like captives who panted for liberty, sunshine, and space. Then he thought of Madou, of his flight and concealment among the cargo in the hold. But this thought was gone in a moment, and he found himself on shore between his two companions, whom he soon loses and finds again. They cross one bridge, and then another, and wander with neither end nor aim. They drink at intervals; night comes, and the boy accompanies the sailors to a low dance-house, still in the strange excitement in which he has been all day. Finally, he finds himself alone on a bench, in a public square, in a state of exhaustion that is far from sleep. The profound solitude terrifies him, when suddenly he hears the well-known cry,—

"Hats! hats! Hats to sell!"

"Belisaire!" called the boy.

It was Belisaire. Jack made a futile effort at explanation. The man scolded the boy gently, lifted him up, and led him away.

Where are they going? And who comes here? and what do they want of him? Rough men accost him; they shake him and put irons on his wrists, and he cannot resist, for he is still more than half asleep. He sleeps in the wagon into which he is thrust; in the boat, where he lies utterly inert; and how happy he is after being thus buffeted about to finally throw himself on a straw pallet, shut out from all further disturbance by huge locks and bolts.

In the morning a frightful noise over his head awoke Jack suddenly. Ah, what a dismal awakening is that of drunkenness! The nervous trembling in every limb, the intense thirst and exhaustion, the shame and inexpressible anguish of the human being seeing himself reduced to the level of a beast, and so disgusted with his tarnished existence that he feels incapable of beginning life again.

It was still too dark to distinguish objects, but he knew that he was not in his little attic. He caught a glimpse of the coming dawn in the white light from two high windows. Where was he? In the corner he began to see a confused mass of cords and pulleys. Suddenly he heard the same noise that had awakened him: it was a clock, and one that he well knew. He was at Indret, then, but where?

Could it be that he was shut in the tower where refractory apprentices were occasionally put? And what had he done? He tried to recall the events of the day before, and, confused as his mind still was, he remembered enough to cover him with shame. He groaned heavily. The groan was answered by a sigh from the corner. He was not alone, then!

"Who is there?" asked Jack, uneasily; "is it Belisaire?" he added. But why should Belisaire be there with him?

"Yes, it is I," answered the man, in a tone of desperation.

"In the name of heaven tell me why we are shut up here like two criminals?"

"What other people have been doing I can't tell," muttered the old man; "I only speak for myself, and I have done no harm to any one. My hats are ruined,—and I, too, for that matter!" continued Belisaire, dolefully.

"But what have I done?" asked Jack, for he could not imagine that among the many follies of which he had been guilty there was one more grave than another.

"They say—But why do you make me tell you? You know well enough what they say."

"Indeed, I do not; pray, go on."

"Well, they say that you have stolen Zenaide's dowry."

The boy uttered an exclamation of horror. "But you do not believe this, Belisaire?"

The old man did not answer. Every one at Indret thought Jack guilty. Every circumstance was against the boy. On the first report of the robbery, Jack was looked for, but was not to be found. Chariot had very well managed matters. All along the road there were traces of the robbery in the gold pieces displayed so liberally. Only one thing disturbed the belief of the boy's guilt in the minds of the villagers: what could he have done with the six thousand francs? Neither Belisaire's pocket nor his own displayed any indication that such a sum of money had been in their possession.

Soon after daybreak the superintendent sent for the prisoners. They were covered with mud, and were unwashed and unshorn; yet Jack had a certain grace and refinement in spite of all this; but Belisaire's naturally ugly countenance was so distorted by grief and anxiety, that, as the two appeared, the spectators unanimously decided that this gentle-looking child was the mere instrument of the wretched being with whom he was unfortunately connected. As Jack looked about he saw several faces which seemed like those of some terrible nightmare, and his courage deserted him. He recognized the sailors, and the proprietors of several of the wineshops, with many others of those whom he had seen on that disastrous yesterday. The child begged for a private interview with the superintendent, and was admitted to the office, where he found Father Rondic, whom Jack went forward at once to greet with extended hand. The old man drew back sadly but resolutely.

"Out of regard for your youth, Jack," said the Director, "and from respect to your parents, and in consideration of your hitherto good behavior, I have begged that, instead of being carried to Nantes and placed in prison, you shall remain here. I now tell you that it is for you to decide what will be done. Tell me the truth. Tell Father Rondic and myself what you have done with the money, give him back what is left, and—no, do not interrupt me," continued the Director, with a frown. "Return the money, and I will then send you to your parents."

Here Belisaire attempted to speak. "Be quiet, fellow!" said the superintendent; "I cannot understand how you can have the audacity to speak. We believe you to be in reality the guilty party, and that this child has simply been your tool."

Jack wished to protest against this condemnation of his friend; but old Rondic gave him no time.

"You are quite right, sir, it is bad company that has led the lad astray. Everybody loved him in my house; we had every confidence in him until he met this miserable wretch."

Belisaire looked so heart-broken at this wholesale condemnation that Jack rushed boldly forward in his defence. "I assure you, air, that I met Belisaire late in the day."

"Do you mean," said the superintendent, "that you committed this robbery all alone?"

"I have done no wrong, sir."

"Take care, my lad—you are going down hill with rapidity. Your guilt is very evident, and it is useless to deny it. You were alone with the Rondic women in their house all night. Zenaide showed you the casket, and even showed you where it was kept. In the night she heard some one moving in your attic; she spoke; naturally you made no reply. She knew that it must be you, for there was no one else in the house. Then you must remember that we know how much money you threw away yesterday."

Jack was about to say, "My mother sent it to me," when he remembered that she had forbidden him to mention this. So he hesitatingly murmured that he had been saving his money for some time.

"What nonsense!" cried the Director. "Do you think you can make us believe that with your small wages you could have laid aside the amount you squandered yesterday? Tell the truth, my lad, and repair the evil you have done as well as possible."

Then Father Rondic spoke. "Tell us, my boy, where this money is. Remember that it is Zenaide's dowry, that I have toiled day and night to lay it aside for her, feeling that with it I might make her happy. You did not think of all this, I am sure, and were led away by the temptation of the moment. But now that you have had time to reflect, you will tell us the truth. Remember, Jack, that I am old, that time may not be given me to replace this money. Ah, my good lad, speak!"

The poor man's lips trembled. It must have been a hardened criminal who could have resisted such a touching appeal. Belisaire was so moved that he made ar series of the most extraordinary gestures. "Give him the money, Jack, I beg of you!" he whispered.

Alas I if the child had had the money, how gladly he would have placed it in the hands of old Rondic, but he could only say,—

"I have stolen nothing—I swear I have not!"

The superintendent rose from his chair impatiently. "We have had enough of this. Your heart must be of adamant to resist such an appeal as has been made to you. I shall send you up-stairs again, and give you until to-night to reflect. If you do not then make a full confession, I shall hand you over to the proper tribunal."

The boy was then left all the long day in solitude. He tried to sleep, but the knowledge that every one thought him guilty, that his own shameful conduct had given ample reason for such a judgment, overwhelmed him with sorrow. How could he prove his innocence? By showing his mother's letter. But if D'Argenton should know of it? No, he could not sacrifice his mother! What, then, should he do? And the boy lay on the straw bed, turning over in his bewildered brain the difficulties of his position. Around him went on the business of life; he heard the workmen come and go. It was evening, and he would be sent to prison. Suddenly he heard the stairs creak under a heavy tread, then the turning of the key, and Zenaide entered hastily.

"Good heavens," she cried, "how high up you are!"

She said this with a careless air, but she had wept so much that her eyes were red and inflamed, her hair was roughened and carelessly put up. The poor girl smiled at Jack. "I am ugly, am I not? I have no figure nor complexion. I have a big nose and small eyes; but two days ago I had a handsome dowry, and I cared but little if some of the malicious young girls said, 'It is only for your money that Maugin wishes to marry you,' as if I did not know this! He wanted my money, but I loved him! And now, Jack, all is changed. To-night he will come and say farewell, and I shall not complain. Only, Jack, before he comes, I thought I would have a little talk with you."

Jack had hidden his face, and was crying. Zenaide felt a ray of hope at this.

"You will give me back my money, Jack, will you not?" she added entreatingly.

"But I have not got it, I assure you."

"Do not say that. You are afraid of me, but I will not reproach you. If you have spent a little you are quite welcome, but tell me where the rest is!"

"Listen to me, Zenaide: this is horrible. Why should every one think me guilty?"

She went on as if he had not spoken. "Do you understand that without this money I shall be miserable? In your mother's name I entreat you here on my knees!"

She threw herself on the floor by the side of the bed where the boy sat, and gave way to tears and sobs. Jack, who was as unhappy as she, tried to take her hand. Suddenly she started up. "You will be punished. No one will ever love you because your heart is bad!" and she left the room. She ran hastily down the stairs to the superintendent's room, whom she found with her father. She could not speak, for her tears choked her.

"Be comforted, my child!" said the Director. "Your father tells me that the mother of this boy is married to a very rich man. We will write to them. If they are good people, your dowry will be restored to you."

He wrote the following letter:—

"Madame: Your son has stolen a sum of money from the honest and hard-working man with whom he lived. This sum represents the savings of years. I have not yet handed him over to the authorities, hoping that he might be induced to restore at least a portion of this money. But I am afraid that it has all been squandered among drunken companions. If that is the case, you should indemnify the Rondics for their loss. The amount is six thousand francs. I await your decision before taking any further steps."

And he signed his name.

"Poor things—it is terrible news for them!" said Pere Rondic, who amid his own sorrows could still think of those of others.

Zenaide looked up indignantly. "Why do you pity these people? If the boy has taken my money, let them replace it."

How pitiless is youth! The girl gave not one thought to the mother's despair when she should hear of her son's crime. Old Rondic, on the contrary, said to himself, "She will die of shame!"

In due time this letter written by the superintendent reached its destination, as letters which contain bad news generally do.



CHAPTER XV.~~CHARLOTTE'S JOURNEY.

One gray morning Charlotte was cutting the last bunches from the vines; the poet was at work, and Dr. Hirsch was asleep, when the postman reached Aulnettes.

"Ah! a letter from Indret!" said D'Argenton, slowly opening his newspapers,—"and some verses by Hugo!"

Why did the poet watch this unopened letter as a dog watches a bone that he does not wish himself, and is yet determined that no one else shall touch? Simply because Charlotte's eyes had kindled at the sight of it, and because this most selfish of beings felt that for a moment he had become a secondary object in the mother's eyes.

From the hour of Jack's departure, his mother's love for him had increased. She avoided speaking of him, however, lest she should irritate her poet He divined this, and his hatred and jealousy of the child increased. And when the early letters of Ron-die contained complaints of Jack, he was very much delighted. But this was not enough. He wished to mortify and degrade the boy still more. His hour had come. At the first words of the letter, for he finally opened it, his eyes flamed with malicious joy. "Ah! I knew it!" he cried, and he handed the sheet to Charlotte.

What a terrible blow for her! Wounded in her maternal pride before the poet, wounded, too, by his evident satisfaction, the poor woman was still more overwhelmed by the reproaches of her own conscience. "It is my own fault!" she said to herself, "why did I abandon him?"

Now he must be saved, and at all hazards. But where should she find the money? She had nothing. The sale of her furniture had brought in some millions of francs, but they had been quickly spent. The trifles of jewelry she had would not bring half the necessary sum. She never thought of appealing to D'Argenton. First, he hated the boy; and next, he was very miserly. Besides, he was far from rich. They lived with great economy in the winter, the better to keep up their hospitality during the summer.

"I have always felt," said D'Argenton, after leaving her time to finish the letter, "that this boy was bad at heart!"

She made no reply; indeed she hardly heard what he said. She was thinking that her child would go to prison if she could not obtain the money.

He continued, "What a disgrace this is to me!" The mother was still saying to herself, "The money, where shall I get it?"

He determined to prevent her asking him the question he saw on her lips.

"We are not rich enough to do anything!"

"Ah! if you could," she murmured.

He became very angry. "If I could!" he cried. "I expected that! You know better than any one else how enormous our expenses are here. It is enough that for two years I have supported that boy without paying for the thefts he has committed. Six thousand francs! where shall I find them?"

"I did not think of you," she answered, slowly.

"Of whom, then?" he questioned, sternly.

With heightened color, and with lips quivering with shame, she uttered a name, expecting from her poet an explosion of wrath.

He was silent for a moment.

"I can but make one more sacrifice for you, Charlotte," he said, pompously.

"Thanks! thanks! How good you are!" she cried.

And they lowered their voices, for Dr. Hirsch was heard descending the stairs.

It was a most singular conversation—syllabic and disjointed—he affecting great repugnance, she great brevity. "It was impossible to trust to a letter," Charlotte said. Then, terrified at her own audacity, she added, "Suppose I go to Tours myself."

With the utmost tranquillity he answered, "Very well, we will go."

"How good you are, dear!" she cried: "you will go with me there, and then to Indret with the money!" and the foolish creature kissed his hands with tears. The truth was that he did not care for her to go to Tours without him; he knew that she had lived there and been happy. Suppose she should never return to him! She was so weak, so shallow, so inconsistent! The sight of her old lover, of the luxury she had relinquished—the influence of her child, might decide her to cast aside the heavy chains with which he had loaded her. In addition, he was by no means averse to this little journey, nor to playing his part in the drama at Indret.

He told Charlotte that he would never abandon her, that he was ready to share her sorrows as well as her joys; and, in short, convinced Charlotte that he loved her more than ever.

At dinner he said to Doctor Hirsch, "We are obliged to go to Indret, the child has got into trouble, and you must keep house in our absence." They left by the night express and reached Tours early in the morning. The old friend of Ida de Barancy lived in one of those pretty chateaux overlooking the Loire. He was a widower without children, an excellent man, and a man of the world. In spite of her infidelity, he had none but the kindest recollection of the light-hearted woman who for a time had brightened his solitude. He consequently replied to a little note sent by Charlotte that he was ready to receive her.

D'Argenton and she took a carriage from the hotel, and as they approached the chateau, Charlotte began to grow uneasy. "It cannot be," she said to herself, "that he intends to go in with me!" She sat in the corner of the carriage, looking out at the fields where she had so often wandered with the boy, who was now wearing a workman's blouse.

D'Argenton watched her from the corner of his eyes, gnawing his moustache with fury. She was very pretty that morning, a little pale from emotion and from a night of travel. D'Argenton was uneasy and restless; he began to regret having accompanied her, and felt embarrassed by the part he was playing.

When he saw the chateau, with its grounds and fountains, its air of wealth, he reproached himself for his own imprudence. "She will never return to Aulnettes," he thought. At the end of the avenue he stopped the carriage. "I will wait here," he said, abruptly; and added, with a sad smile, "Do not be long."

Ten minutes later he saw Charlotte on the terrace with a tall and elegant-looking man. Then began for him a terrible anguish. What were they saying? Should he ever see her again? And it was that detestable boy that had given him all this disturbance. The poet sat on the fallen trunk of a tree, watching feverishly the distant door. Before him was outspread a charming landscape—wooded hills, sloping vineyards, and meadows overhung with willows; on one side a ruin of the time of Louis IX., and on the other, one of those chateaux common enough on the shores of the Loire. Just below him a sort of canal was in process of building. He watched the workmen in a mechanical sort of way; they were clothed in uniform, and seemed an organized body. He rose and sauntered toward them. The laborers were only children, and their reddened eyes and pale faces told the story of their confinement to the poorer quarters of the town.

"Who are these children?" questioned the poet.

"They belong to the penitentiary," was the answer from the official who superintended them.

D'Argenton asked question after question, saying that he was intimately connected with a family whose only son had just plunged them into deep affliction.

"Send him to us," was the curt reply, "as soon as he leaves the prison."

"But I doubt if he goes to prison," said D'Argen-ton, with a shade of regret in his voice; "the parents have paid the amount."

"Well, then, we have another establishment—the Maison Paternelle. I have some of the circulars here in my pocket, and perhaps you would glance over them, sir."

D'Argenton took the papers and turned back toward the house. The carriage was coming down the avenue, and soon Charlotte, her color heightened and her eyes bright with hope for her child, appeared.

"I have succeeded," she cried, as the poet entered the carriage.

"Ah!" he answered, dryly, relapsing into silence, turning over his circulars with an air of affected interest. Charlotte, too, was silent, supposing his pride wounded; and finally he was obliged to say, "You succeeded, then?"

"Completely. It has always been his intention to give Jack, on his coming of age, a present of ten thousand francs. He has given it to me now. Six thousand will repay the money, and the other four thousand I am to employ as I think best for my child's advantage."

"Employ it, then, in placing him in the Maison Paternelle, at Mertray, for two or three years. It is there only that one can learn to make an honest man from out of a thief."

She started, for the harsh word recalled her to reality. We know that in that poor little brain impressions are very transitory.

"I am ready to do whatever you choose," she said, "you have been so good and generous!"

The poet was enchanted; he was still master, and he proceeded to read Charlotte a long lecture. Her maternal weakness was the cause of all that had happened. The master-hand of a man was absolutely essential. She did not answer, being occupied with joy at the thought of her child not being sent to prison.

It was on Sunday morning that they reached Basse Indret. The poet went at once to the superintendent's, while Charlotte remained alone at the inn, for hotel there was none at the village. The rain beating against the windows, and the loud talking in the house, gave her the first clear impression she had received of the exile to which she had condemned her boy. However guilty he might be, he was still her child—her Jack. She remembered him as a little fellow, bright, intelligent, and sensitive, and the idea that he would presently appear before her as a thief and in a workman's blouse, seemed almost incredible. Ah! had she kept her child with her, or had she sent him with other boys of his age to school, he would have been kept from temptation. The old doctor was right, after all. And Jack had lived with these people for two years! All the prejudices of her superficial nature revolted against her surroundings. She was incapable of comprehending the grandeur of a task accomplished, of a life purchased by the fatigue of the body and the labor of the hands. To change the current of her thoughts, she took up the prospectus of which we have spoken—"Maison Paternelle." The system adopted was absolute isolation. The mother's heart swelled with anguish, and she closed the book and went to the window, where she stood with her eyes fixed on a small bit of the Loire that she saw at the foot of a street, where the water was as rough as the sea itself.

D'Argenton, in the meantime, was accomplishing his mission. He would not have relinquished the duty for any amount of money. He was fond of attitudes and scenes. He prepared in advance the terms in which he should address the criminal.

An old woman pointed out the house of the Rondics, but when he reached it he hesitated. Must he not have made a mistake? From the wide open windows came the sound of gay music, and heavy feet were heard keeping time to it. "No, this cannot be it," said D'Argenton, who naturally expected to find a desolate house.

"Come, Zenaide, it is your turn," called some one.

"Zenaide"—why, that was Rondic's daughter! These people certainly did not take this affair much to heart. All at once a crowd of white-capped women passed the window, singing loudly.

"Come, Brigadier I come, Jack!" said some one.

Somewhat mystified, the poet pushed open the door, and amid the dust and crowd he saw Jack, radiant with happiness, dancing with a stout girl, who smiled with her whole heart at a good-looking fellow in uniform. In a corner sat a gray-haired man, much amused by all that was going on; with him was a tall, pale, young woman, who looked very sad.



CHAPTER XVI.~~CLARISSE.

This was what had happened. The day after he had written to Jack's mother, the superintendent was in his office alone, when Madame Rondic entered, pale and agitated. Paying little attention to the coolness with which she was received, her conduct having for a long time habituated her to the silent contempt of all who respected themselves, she refused to sit down, and, standing erect, said slowly, attempting to conceal her emotion,—

"I have come to tell you that the apprentice is not guilty; that it is not he who has stolen my stepdaughter's dowry."

The Director started from his chair. "But, ma-dame, every proof is against him."

"What proofs? The most important is that, my husband being away, Jack was alone with us in the house. It is just this proof that I have come to destroy, for there was another man there that night."

"What man? Chariot?"

She made a sign of assent. Ah, how pale she was!

"Then he took the money?"

There was a moment's hesitation. The white lips parted, and an almost inaudible reply was whispered, "No, it was not he who took it; I gave it to him!"

"Unhappy woman!"

"Yes, most unhappy. He said that he needed it for two days only, and I bore for that time the sight of my husband's despair and of Zenaide's tears, and the fear of seeing an innocent person condemned. Nothing came from Chariot. I wrote to him that if by the next day at eleven I heard nothing, I should denounce myself,—and here I am."

"But what am I to do?"

"Arrest the real criminals, now that you know who they are."

"But your husband—it will kill him!"

"And me, too," she replied, with haughty bitterness. "To die is a very simple matter; to live is far more difficult."

She spoke of death with a tone of feverish longing in her voice.

"If your death could repair your fault," returned the Director, gravely; "if it could restore the money to the poor girl, I could understand why you should wish to die. But—"

"What shall be done, then," she asked, plaintively; and all at once she became the Clarisse of old. Her unwonted courage and determination failed her.

"First, we must know what has become of this money; he must have some of it still."

Clarisse shook her head. She knew too well how madly that gambler played. She knew that he had thrust her aside, almost walked over her, to procure this money, and that he would play until he had lost his last sou.

The superintendent touched his bell. A gendarme entered:

"Go at once to Saint Nazarre," said his chief; "say to Chariot that I require his presence here at once. You will wait for him."

"Chariot is here, sir; I just saw him come out from Madame Rondic's; he cannot be far off."

"That is all right. Go after him quickly. Do not tell him, however, that Madame Rondic is here."

The man hurried away. Neither the superintendent nor Clarisse spoke. She stood leaning against the corner of the desk. The jar of the machinery, the wild whistling of the steam, made a fitting accompaniment to the tumult of her soul. The door opened.

"You sent for me," said Chariot, in a gay voice.

The presence of Clarisse, her pallor, and the stern look of his chief, told the story. She had kept her word. For a moment his bold face lost its color, and he looked like an animal driven into a corner.

"Not a word," said the Director; "we know all that you wish to say. This woman has robbed her husband and her daughter for you. You promised to return her the money in two days. Where is it?"

Chariot turned beseechingly toward Clarisse. She did not look at him; she had seen him too well that terrible night.

"Where is the money?" repeated the superintendent.

"Here—I have brought it."

What he said was true. He had kept his promise to Clarisse, but not finding her at home, had only too gladly carried it away again.

His chief took up the bills. "Is it all here?"

"All but eight hundred francs," the other answered, with some hesitation; "but I will return them."

"Now sit down and write at my dictation," said the superintendent, sternly.

Clarisse looked up quickly. This letter was a matter of life and death to her.

"Write: 'It is I who, in a moment of insane folly, took six thousand francs from the wardrobe in the Rondic house.'"

Chariot internally rebelled at these words, but he was afraid that Clarisse would establish the facts in all their naked cruelty.

The superintendent continued: "'I return the money; it burns me. Release the poor fellows who have been suspected, and entreat my uncle to forgive me. Tell him that I am going away, and shall return only when, through labor and penitence, I shall have acquired the right to shake an honest man's hand.' Now sign it."

Seeing that Chariot hesitated, the superintendent said, peremptorily, "Take care, young man! I warn you that if you do not sign this letter, and address it to me, this woman will be at once arrested."

Chariot signed.

"Now go," resumed the superintendent, "to Guerigny, if you will, and try to behave well. Remember, moreover, that if I hear of you in the neighborhood of Indret, you will be arrested at once."

As Chariot left the room, he cast one glance at Clarisse. But the charm was broken; she turned her head away resolutely, and when the door closed tried to express her gratitude to the superintendent.

"Do not thank me, madame," he said; "it is for your husband's sake that I have acted, with the hope of sparing him the most horrible torture that can overwhelm a man."

"It is in my husband's name that I thank you. I am thinking of him, and of the sacrifice I must make for him."

"What sacrifice?"

"That of living, sir, when death would be so sweet. I am so weary."

And in fact the woman looked so ill, so prostrated, that the superintendent feared some catastrophe. He answered compassionately, "Keep up your courage, madame, and remember that your husband loves you."

And Jack? Ah, he had his day of triumph! The superintendent ordered a placard to be put up in all the buildings, announcing the boy's innocence. He was feted and caressed. One thing only was lacking, and that was news of Belisaire.

When the prison-doors were thrown open, the pedler disappeared. Jack was greatly distressed at this, but nevertheless breakfasted merrily with Zenaide and her soldier, and had forgotten all his woes, when D'Argenton appeared, majestic and clothed in black. It was in vain that they explained the finding of the money, the innocence of Jack, and that a second letter had been sent narrating all these facts; in vain did these good people treat Jack with familiar kindness: D'Argenton's manner did not relax; he expressed in the choicest terms his regret that Jack had given so much trouble.

"But it is I who owe him every apology," cried the old man.

D'Argenton did not condescend to listen: he spoke of honor and duty, and of the abyss to which such evil conduct must always lead. Jack was confused, for he remembered his journey to Nantes, and the stall in which Zenaide's lover could testify to having seen him; he therefore listened with downcast eyes to the ponderous eloquence of the lecturer, who fairly talked Father Rondic to sleep.

"You must be very thirsty after talking so long," said Zenaide, innocently, as she brought a pitcher of cider and a fresh cake. And the cake looked so nice, so fresh and crisp, that the poet—who was, as we know, something of an epicure—made a breach in it quite as large as that in the ham made by Beli-saire at Aulnettes.

Jack had discovered one thing only from all D'Argenton's long words,—he had learned that the poet had brought the money to rescue him from disgrace, and the child began to believe that he had done the man great injustice, and that his coldness was only on the surface. The boy, therefore, had never been so respectful. This, and the cordial reception of the Rondics, put the poet into the most amiable state of mind. You should have seen him with Jack as they trod the narrow streets of Indret!

"Shall I tell him that his mother is so near?" said D'Argenton, unwilling to introduce her boy to Charlotte in the character of hero and martyr; it was more than the selfish nature of the man could support. And yet, to deprive Charlotte and her son of the joy of seeing each other once more it was necessary to be provided with some reason; and this reason Jack himself soon furnished.

The poor little fellow, deluded by such extraordinary amiability, acknowledged to M. d'Argenton that he did not like his present life; that he should not be anything of a machinist; that he was too far from his mother. He was not afraid of work, but he liked brain work better than manual labor. These words had hardly passed the boy's lips, when he saw a change in his hearer.

"You pain me, Jack, you pain me seriously; and your mother would be very unhappy did she hear you utter such opinions. You have forgotten apparently that I have said to you a hundred times that this century was no time for Utopian dreams, for idle fancies;" and on this text he wandered on for more than an hour. And while these two walked on the side of the river, a lonely woman, tired of the solitude of her room in the inn, came down to the other bank, to watch for the boat that was to bring her the little criminal,—the boy whom she had not seen for two years, and whom she dearly loved. But D'Argenton had determined to keep them apart. It was wisest—Jack was too unsettled. Charlotte would be reasonable enough to comprehend this, and would willingly make the sacrifice for her child's interest.

And thus it came to pass that Jack and his mother, separated only by the river, so near that they could have heard each other speak across its waters, did not meet that night, nor for many a long day afterwards.



CHAPTER XVII.~~IN THE ENGINE-ROOM.

How is it that days of such interminable length can be merged into such swiftly-passing years? Two have passed since Zenaide was married, and since Jack's terrible adventure. He has worked conscientiously, and loathes the thought of a wineshop. The house is sad and desolate since Zenaide's marriage; Madame Rondic rarely goes out, and occupies her accustomed seat at the window, the curtain of which, however, is never lifted, for she expects no one now. Her days and nights are all alike monotonous and dreary. Father Rondic alone preserves his former serenity.

The winter has been a cold one. The Loire has overflowed the island, part of which remained under water four months, and the air was filled with fogs and miasma. Jack has had a bad cough, and has passed some weeks in the infirmary. Occasionally a letter has come for him, tender and loving when his mother wrote in secret, didactic and severe when the poet looked over her shoulder. The only news sent by his mother was, that her poet had had a grand reconciliation with the Moronvals, who now came on Sundays, with some of their pupils, to dine at Aulnettes.

Moronval, Madou, and the academy seemed far enough away to Jack, who thought of himself in those old days as of a superior being, and could see little resemblance between his coarse skin and round shoulders, and the dainty pink and white child whose face he dimly remembered.

Thus were Dr. Rivals' words justified: "It is social distinctions that create final and absolute separations."

Jack thought often of the old doctor and of Cecile, and on the first of January each year had written them a long letter. But the two last had remained unanswered.

One thought alone sustained Jack in his sad life: his mother might need him, and he must work hard for her sake.

Unfortunately wages are in proportion to the value of the work, and not to the ambition of the workman, and Jack had no talent in the direction of his career. He was seventeen, his apprenticeship over, and yet he received but three francs per day. With these three francs he must pay for his room, his food, and his dress; that is, he must replace his coarse clothing as it was worn out; and what should he do if his mother were to write and say, "I am coming to live with you "?

"Look here," said Pere Rondic, "your parents made a great mistake in not listening to me. You have no business here; now how would you like to make a voyage? The chief engineer of the 'Cydnus' wants an assistant. You can have six francs per day, be fed, lodged, and warmed. Shall I write and say you will like the situation?"

The idea of the double pay, the love of travel that Madou's wild tales had awakened in his childish nature, combined to render Jack highly pleased at the proposed change. He left Indret one July morning, just four years after his arrival. What a superb day it was! The air became more fresh as the little steamer he was on approached the ocean. Jack had never seen the sea. The fresh salt breeze inspired him with restless longing. Saint Nazarre lay before him,—the harbor crowded with shipping. They landed at the dock, and there learned that the Cydnus, of the Compagnie Transatlantique, would sail at three o'clock that day, and was already lying outside,—this being, in fact, the only way to have the crew all on board at the moment of departure.

Jack and his companion—for Father Rondic had insisted on seeing him on board his ship—had no time to see anything of the town, which had all the vivacity of a market-day.

The wharf was piled with vegetables, with baskets of fruit, and with fowls which, tied together, were wildly struggling for liberty. Near their merchandise stood the Breton peasants waiting quietly for purchasers. They were in no hurry, and made no appeal to the passers-by. In contrast to these, there was a number of small peddlers, selling pins, cravats, and portemonnaies, who were loudly crying their wares. Sailors were hurrying to and fro, and Rondic learned from one of them that the chief engineer of the Cydnus was in a very bad humor because he had not his full number of stokers on board.

"We must hasten," said Rondic; and they hailed a boat, and rapidly threaded their way through the harbor. The enormous transatlantic steamers lay at their wharves as if asleep; the decks of two large English ships just arrived from Calcutta were covered with sailors, all hard at work. They passed between these motionless masses, where the water was as dark as a canal running through the midst of a city under high walls; then they saw the Cydnus lying, with her steam on. A wiry little man, in his shirt-sleeves, with three stripes on his cap, hailed Jack and Rondic as their boat came alongside the steamer.

His words were inaudible through the din and tumult, but his gestures were eloquent enough. This was Blanchet, the chief engineer.

"You have come, then, have you?" he shouted. "I was afraid you meant to leave me in the lurch."

"It was my fault," said Rondic; "I wished to accompany the lad, and I could not get away yesterday."

"On board with you, quick!" returned the engineer; "he must get into his place at once."

They descended first one ladder, then another, and another. Jack, who had never been on board a large steamer, was stupefied at the size and the depth of this one. They descended to an abyss where the eyes accustomed to the light of day could distinguish absolutely nothing. The heat was stifling, and a final ladder led to the engine-room, where the heavy atmosphere, charged with a smell of oil, was almost insupportable. Great activity reigned in this room; a general examination was being made of the machinery, which glittered with cleanliness. Jack looked on curiously at the enormous structure, knowing that it would soon be his duty to watch it day and night.

At the end of the engine-room was a long passage. "That is where the coal is kept," said the engineer, carelessly; "and on the other side the stokers sleep."

Jack shuddered. The dormitory at the academy, the garret-room at the Rondics, were palaces in comparison.

The engineer pushed open a small door. Imagine a long cave, reddened by the reflection of a dozen furnaces in full blast; men, almost naked, were stirring the fire, the sweat pouring from their faces.

"Here is your man," said Blanchet to the head workman.

"All right, sir," said the other without turning round.

"Farewell," said Rondic. "Take care of yourself, my boy!" and he was gone.

Jack was soon set to work; his task was to carry the cinders from the furnace to the deck, and there throw them into the sea. It was very hard work: the baskets were heavy, the ladders narrow, and the change from the pure air above to the stifling atmosphere below absolutely suffocating. On the third trip Jack felt his legs giving way under him. He found it impossible to even lift his basket, and sank into a corner half fainting. One of the stokers, seeing his condition, brought him a large flask of brandy.

"Thank you; I never drink anything," said Jack.

The other laughed. "You will drink here," he answered.

"Never," murmured Jack; and lifting the heavy basket, more by an effort of will than by muscular force, he ascended the ladder.

From the deck an animated spectacle was to be seen. The little steamer ran to and fro from the wharf to the ship, laden with passengers who came hurriedly on board. The passengers were representatives of all nations. Some were gay, and others were weeping, but in the faces of all was to be read an anxiety or a hope; for these displacements, these movings, are almost invariably the result of some great disturbance, and are, in general, the last quiver of the shock that throws you from one continent to the other.

This same feverish element pervaded everything, even the vessel that strained at its anchor. It animated the curious crowd on the jetty who had come, some of them, to catch a last look of some dear face. It animated the fishing-boats, whose sails were spread for a night of toil.

Jack, with his empty basket at his feet, stood looking down at the passengers,—those belonging to the cabins comfortably established, those of the steerage seated on their slender luggage. Where were they going? What wild fancy took them away? What cold and stern reality awaited them on their landing? One couple interested him especially: it was a mother and a child who recalled to him the memory of Ida and little Jack. The lady was young and in black, with a heavy wrap thrown about her, a Mexican sarape with wide stripes. She had a certain air of independence characteristic of the wives of military or naval officers, who, from the frequent absence of their husbands, are thrown on their own resources. The child, dressed in the English fashion, looked as if he might have belonged to Lord Pembroke. When they passed Jack they both turned aside, and the long silk skirts were lifted that they might not touch his blackened garments. It was an almost imperceptible movement, but Jack understood it. A rough oath and a slap on the shoulder interrupted his sad thoughts.

"What the deuce are you up here for, sir? Go down to your post!" It was the engineer making his rounds. Jack went down without a word, humiliated at the reproof.

As he put his foot on the last ladder, a shudder was felt throughout the ship: she had started.

"Stand there!" said the head stoker.

Jack took his place before one of those gaping mouths; it was his duty to fill it, and to rake it, and to keep the fire clear. This was not such an easy matter, as, being unaccustomed to the sea, the pitching of the vessel came near throwing him into the flames. He nevertheless toiled on courageously, but at the end of an hour he was blind and deaf, stifled by the blood that rushed to his head. He did as the others did, and ran to the outer air. Ah, how good it was! Almost immediately, however, an icy blast struck him between the shoulders.

"Quick, give me the brandy!" he cried with a choked voice, to the man who had previously offered it to him.

"Here it is, comrade; I knew very well that you would want it before long."

He swallowed an enormous draught; it was almost pure alcohol, but he was so cold that it seemed like water. After a moment a comfortable warmth spread over his whole system, and then began a burning sensation in his stomach. To extinguish this fire he drank again. Fire within, and fire without,—flame upon flame,—was this the way that he was to live in future?

Then began a life of toil, hardship, and drunkenness that lasted three years:—three years whose seasons were all alike in that heated room down in the bowels of that big ship.

He sailed from country to country; he heard their names, Italian, French, and Spanish, but of them all he saw nothing. The fairer the climes they visited, the hotter was his chamber of torment. When he had emptied his cinders, broken his coal, and filled his furnaces, he slept the sleep of exhaustion and intoxication; for a stoker must drink if he lives. In the darkness of his life there was but one bright spot, his mother. She was like the Madonna in a chapel where all the lights are extinguished save the one that burns before her shrine. Now that he had become a man, much of the mystery of her life had become clear to him. His respect for Charlotte was changed to tender pity, and he loved her as we love those for whom we suffer. Even in his most despairing moments he remembered the end for which he toiled, and a mechanical instinct made him carefully preserve almost every sou of his wages.

Meanwhile, distance and time weakened the intercourse between mother and son. Jack's letters became more and more rare. Those of Charlotte were frequent, but they spoke of things so foreign to his new life, that he read them only to hear their music, the far off echo of a living tenderness.

Letters from Etiolles told him of D'Argenton; later, some from Paris spoke of their having again taken up their residence there, and of the poet having founded a Review, in consequence of the solicitations of friends. This would be a way of bringing his works prominently before the public, as well as to increase his income. At Havana Jack found a large package addressed to him. It was the first number of the magazine. The stoker mechanically turned its leaves, leaving on them the traces of his blackened fingers; and suddenly, as he saw the well-known names of D'Argenton, Moronval, and Hirsch on the smooth pages, he was seized with wild rage and indignation, and he cried aloud, as he shook his fist impatiently in the air, "Wretches, wretches! what have you made of me?"

This emotion was but brief; day by day his intellect weakened, and, strangely enough, he gained in physical health; he was stronger, and better able to support the fatigues of his daily labor; he seemed hardly to recognize any difference between bis days when the ship tossed and groaned, and his nights when he slept a drunken sleep, disturbed only by an occasional nightmare.

Was that frightful shock and crash of the Cydnus one of these dreams? That rushing of water, those cries of frightened women,—was all that a dream? His comrades called him, shook him. "Jack, Jack!" they cried; he staggered out, half naked. The engine-room was already half under water, the compass broken, the fires extinguished. The men ran against each other in the darkness. "What is it?" they cried.

An American ship had run them down. The men struggled up the narrow ladder; at the head stood the chief engineer with a revolver in his hand.

"The first man that attempts to pass me I will shoot! Go to your furnaces! Land is not far off; we shall reach it yet if my orders are obeyed." Each one turned, with rage and despair in his heart. They charged the furnaces with wet coal, and volumes of gas and smoke poured out; while the water still ascending, in spite of the constant work at the pumps, was as cold as ice. The pumps refuse to work, the furnaces will not burn. The stokers are in water up to their shoulders before the voice of the chief engineer is heard: "Save yourselves, my men, if you can!"



CHAPTER XVIII.~~D'ARGENTON'S MAGAZINE.

In a narrow street, quiet and orderly, in one of those houses belonging to the last century, D'Argen-ton had established himself as editor of the new magazine; while Jack, our friend Jack, was its proprietor. Do not smile: this was really the case; his money had been used to establish it Charlotte had some little scruple at first in so employing these funds, which she wished to preserve intact for the boy on his attaining his majority; but she yielded to the poet's persuasions.

"Come, my dear, listen! Figures are figures, you' know. Can there be a better investment than this Review? It is far safer than any railroad, at least Have I not placed my own funds in it?"

Within six months D'Argenton had sacrificed thirty thousand francs, and the receipts had been nothing, while the expenses were enormous. Besides the offices of the magazine, D'Argenton had hired in the same house a large apartment, from which he had a superb view. The city, the Seine, Notre Dame, numberless spires and domes, were all spread before his eyes. He saw the carriages pass over the bridges, and the boats glide through the arches. "Here I can live and breathe," he said to himself. "It was impossible for me to accomplish anything in that dull little hole of Aulnettes! How could one work in such a lethargic atmosphere?"

Charlotte was still young and gay; she managed the house and the kitchen, which was no small matter with the number of persons who daily assembled around her table. The poet, too, had recently acquired the habit of dictating instead of writing, and as Charlotte wrote a graceful English hand, he employed her as secretary. Every evening, when they were alone, he walked up and down the large room and dictated for an hour. In the silent old house, his solemn voice, and another sweeter and fresher, awakened singular echoes. "Our author is composing," said the concierge with respect.