Jack had listened in silence to these revelations, growing paler and paler, and so filled with shame for the woman who narrated them that he could not look at her. When she had finished, he took her hand gently, and with much sweetness, but also with much solemnity, he said,—

"I thank you for having come to me, dear mother. Only one thing was lacking to complete my happiness, and that was your presence. Now take care! I shall never allow you to leave me."

"Leave you! No, Jack; we will always live together—we two. You know I told you that the day would come when I should need you. It has come now."

Under her son's caresses she became tranquillized. There came an occasional sob, like a child who has wept for a long time.

"You see," she said, "how happy we may be. I owe you much care and tenderness. I feel now that I can breathe freely. Your room is bare and small, but it seems to me like Paradise itself."

This brief summary of the apartment regarded by Belisaire as so magnificent, disturbed Jack somewhat as to the future; but he had no time now for discussions; he had but half an hour before he must leave, and he must decide at once on something definite. He must consult Belisaire, whom he heard patiently pacing the corridor, and who would have waited until nightfall without once knocking to see if the interview was over.

"Belisaire, my mother has come to live with me; how shall we manage?"

Belisaire started as he thought, "And now the marriage must be postponed, for Jack will not be one of our little menage!"

But he concealed his disappointment, and exerted himself to suggest some plan that would relieve his friend of present embarrassment. It was decided finally that he should relinquish the room to Jack and his mother and find for himself a closet to sleep in, depositing his stock of hats and his furniture with Madame Weber.

Jack presented his friend to Belisaire, who remembered very well the fair lady at Aulnettes, and at once placed himself for the day at the service of Ida de Barancy; for "Charlotte" was no more heard of. A bed must be purchased, a couple of chairs, and a dressing-bureau. Jack took from the drawer where he kept his savings three or four gold pieces which he gave his mother.

"You know," he said, "that if marketing is disagreeable to you, good Madame Weber will attend to the dinners."

"Not at all; Belisaire will simply tell me where to go. I intend to do everything for you; you will see the nice little dinner I shall have ready for you when you come back to-night."

She had laid aside her shawl, rolled up her sleeves, and was all ready to begin her work. Jack, delighted to see her so energetic, embraced her with his whole heart, and left his room in a very joyous frame of mind. With what courage he toiled all day! The present unfortunate career and hopeless future of his mother had troubled him for some time, and marred his joys and his hopes. To what depth of degradation would D'Argenton compel her to sink! To what end was she destined! Now all was changed. Ida, tenderly protected by his filial love, would become worthy of her whom she would some day call "my daughter."

It seemed to Jack, moreover, that this event in some way diminished the distance between Cecile and himself, and he smiled to himself as he thought of it. But after his work, as he drew near his home, he was seized by a panic. Should he find his mother there? He knew with what promptitude Ida gave wings to her fancies and caprices, and he feared lest she had felt the temptation to re-tie the knot so hastily broken. But on the staircase this dread vanished. Above all the noises of the house he heard a fresh, clear voice singing like a lark. Jack stood on the threshold in mute amazement. Thoroughly freshened and cleaned, with Belisaire's goods gone, and with the addition of a pretty bed and dainty dressing-bureau, the room looked like a different place. There were flowers on the chimney, and the table was spread with a white cloth, on which stood a tempting-looking pie and a bottle of wine. Ida, in an embroidered skirt and loose sack, a little cap mounted on the top of her puffs, hardly looked like herself.

"Well!" she said, running to meet him; "and what do you think of it!"

"It is altogether charming. And how quick you have been!"

"Yes; Belisaire helped me, and his nice widow also. I have invited them to dine with us."

"But what will you do for dishes?"

"You will see. I have bought a few, and our neighbors on the other side have lent me some. They are very obliging also."

Jack, who had never thought these people particularly complaisant, opened his eyes wide.

"But this is not all. I went to buy this pie at a place where they sell them fifteen cents less than anywhere else. It was so far, however, that I had to take a carriage to return."

This was thoroughly characteristic. A carriage at two francs to save fifteen cents! She evidently knew where the best things were to be found.

The bread came from the Vienna bakery, and the coffee and dessert from the Palais Royale. Jack listened with a sinking heart. She saw that something was wrong.

"Have I spent too much?" she asked.

"No, I think not,—for one occasion," he answered, with same hesitation.

"But I have not been extravagant. Look here," she said, and she showed him a long green book; "in this I mean to keep my accounts. I will show my entries to you after dinner."

Belisaire and Madame Weber with her child now entered the room. It was truly delicious to see the airs of condescension with which Ida received them; but her manner was withal so kind that they were soon entirely at their ease.

Belisaire was somewhat out of spirits, for he saw that his marriage must be indefinitely postponed, as he had lost his "comrade." Ah, one may well compare the events of this world to the see-saws arranged by children, which lifts one of the players, while the other at the same time feels all the hardness of the earth below. Jack mounted toward the light, while his companion descended toward the implacable reality. To begin with, the person called Belisaire—who should in reality have been named Resignation, Devotion, or Patience—was now obliged to relinquish his pleasant room and sleep in a closet, the only place on that floor; not for worlds would he have gone farther from Madame Weber.

Their guests gone, and Jack and his mother alone, she was astonished to see him bring out a pile of books.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"I am going to study." And he then told her of the double life he led; of his hopes, and the reward that was held out to him at the end. Until then he had never confided them to her, fearing that she would inform D'Argenton, whom he utterly distrusted, and he feared that in some way his happiness would be compromised. But now that his mother belonged to him alone, he could speak to her of Cecile and of his supreme joy. Jack talked with enthusiasm of his love, but soon saw that his mother did not understand him. She had a certain amount of sentiment, but love had not the same signification for her that it had for him. She listened to him with the same interest that she would have felt in the third act at the Gymnase, when the Ingenue in a white dress, with rose-colored ribbons, listened to the declaration of a lover with frizzed hair. She was pleased with the spectacle as presented by her son, and said two or three times, "How nice! how very nice! It makes me think of Paul and Virginia!"

Fortunately, lovers, when speaking of their passion, listen to the echoes of their words in their own hearts, and Jack, thus absorbed, heard none of the commonplace comments of his mother.

Jack had been living a week in this way when, one evening, Belisaire came to meet him with a radiant face. "We are to be married at once! Madame Weber has found a 'comrade.'"

Jack, who had been the unintentional cause of his friend's disappointment, was equally well pleased. This pleasure, however, did not last; for, on seeing "the comrade," he received a most unpleasant impression. The man was tall and powerfully built, but the expression of his face was far from agreeable.

The great day arrived at last. Among the middle classes, a day is generally given to the civil marriage, another to the wedding at the church; but the people to whom time is money cannot afford this. So they generally take Saturday for the two ceremonies.

Belisaire's wedding, therefore, occurred on that day, and was really one of the most imposing of the many processions they met on their way to the municipality. Although the white dress of the bride was missing, Madame Weber, in her quality of widow, wore a dress of brilliant blue of that bright indigo shade so dear to persons who like solid colors; a many-hued shawl was carefully folded on her arm, and a superb cap, ornamented with ribbons and flowers, displayed her beaming peasant face. She walked by the side of Belisaire's father, a little dried-up old man, with a hooked nose and abrupt movements, and a perpetual cough that his new daughter-in-law endeavored to soothe by rubbing his back with considerable violence. These repeated frictions somewhat disturbed the dignity of the wedding procession.

Belisaire came next, giving his arm to his sister, whose nose was as hooked as her father's. Belisaire himself looked almost handsome; he led by one hand Madame Weber's little child. Then came a crowd of relatives and friends, and finally Jack, Madame de Barancy being unwilling to do more than honor the wedding-dinner with her presence. This repast was to take place at Vincennes.

When the train that brought the party reached the restaurant, the room engaged by Belisaire was still occupied. This gave them time to look at the lake and to amuse themselves with examining the crowd of merrymakers. They were dancing and singing, playing blind-man's-buff and innumerable other games; under the trees a girl was mending the flounces of a bride's dress. O, those white dresses! With what joy those girls let them drag over the lawn, imagining themselves for that one occasion women of fashion. It is precisely this illusion that the people seek in their hours of amusement: a pretence of riches, a momentary semblance of the envied and happy of this earth.

Belisaire's party were too hungry to be gay, and they hailed with joy the announcement that dinner was ready at last. The table was laid in one of those large rooms whose walls were frescoed in faded colors, and whose size was apparently increased by innumerable mirrors. At each end of the table was a huge bouquet of artificial orange blossoms, a centrepiece of pink and white sugar, and ornaments of the same, which had officiated at many a wedding-dinner in the previous six months. They took their seats in solemn silence, though Madame do Barancy had not yet arrived.

The guests were somewhat intimidated by the black-coated waiters, who disdainfully looked at these poor people who were dining at a dollar per head, a sum which each one of the guests thought of with respect, and envied Belisaire who could afford such an extravagant entertainment. The waiters were, however, filled with profound contempt, which they expressed by winks at each other, invisible however to the guests.

Belisaire had just at his side one of these gentlemen, who filled him with holy horror; another, opposite behind his wife's chair, watched him so disagreeably that the good man scarcely dared lift his eyes from the carte,—on which, among familiar words like ducks, chickens, and beans, appeared the well-known names of generals, towns, and battles—Marengo, Richelieu, and so on. Belisaire, like the others, was stupefied, the more so when two plates of soup were presented with the question, "Bisque, or Puree de Crecy?" Or two bottles: "Xeres, or Pacaset, sir?"

They answered at hazard as one does in some of those society games where you are requested to select one of two flowers. In fact, the answer was of little consequence since both plates contained the same tasteless mixture. There was so much ceremony that the dinner threatened to be very dull, and interminable as well, from the indecision of the guests as to the dishes they should accept. It was Madame Weber's clear head and decided hand that cut this Gordian knot. She turned to her child. "Eat everything," she said, "it costs us enough."

These words of wisdom had their effect on the whole assembly, and after a little the table was gay enough. Suddenly the door was thrown open, and Ida de Barancy entered, smiling and charming.

"A thousand pardons, my friends, but I had a carriage that crept."

She wore her most beautiful dress, for she rarely had an opportunity nowadays of making a toilette, and produced a most extraordinary effect. The way in which she took her seat by Belisaire, and put her gloves in a wineglass, the manner in which she signed to one of the waiters to bring her the carte, overwhelmed the assembly with admiration. It was delightful to see her order about those imposing waiters. One of them she had recognized, the one who terrified Belisaire so much. "You are here then, now!" she said carelessly; and shook her bracelets, and kissed her hand to her son, asked for a footstool, some ice, and eau-de-Seltz, and soon knew the resources of the establishment.

"But, good heavens, you are not very gay here!" she cried suddenly. She rose, took her plate in one hand, her glass in the other. "I ask permission to change places with Madame Belisaire; I am quite sure that her husband will not complain."

This was done with much grace and consideration. The little Weber uttered a shout of indignation on seeing his mother rise from her chair, and all this noise and confusion soon changed the previous stiffness and restraint into laughs and gayety. The waiters went round and round the table executing marvellous feats, serving twenty persons from one duck so adroitly carved and served that each one had as much as he wanted. And the peas fell like hail on the plates; and the beans—prepared at one end of the table with salt, pepper, and butter; and such butter!—were mixed by a waiter who smiled maliciously as he stirred the fell combination.

At last the champagne came. With the exception of Ida, not one person there knew anything more of this wine than the name; and champagne signified to them riches, gay dinners, and gorgeous festivals. They talked about it in a low voice, waited and watched for it. Finally, at dessert, a waiter appeared with a silver-capped bottle that he proceeded to open. Ida, who never lost an opportunity of making a sensation and assuming an attitude, put her pretty hands over her ears, but the cork came out like any other cork; the waiter, holding the bottle high, went around the table very quickly. The bottle was inexhaustible; each person had some froth and a few drops at the bottom of the glass, which he drank with respect, and even believed that there was still more in the bottle. It did not matter: the magic of the word champagne had produced its effect, and there is so much French gayety in the least particle of its froth that an astonishing animation at once pervaded the assembly. A dance was proposed; but music costs so much!

"Ah! if we only had a piano," said Ida de Barancy, with a sigh, at the same time moving her fingers on the table as if she knew how to play. Belisaire disappeared for a few moments, but soon returned with a village musician, who was ready to play until morning. Jack and his mother at first felt out of their element in the noisy romp that ensued, but Ida finally organized a cotillon, and the rustling of her silk skirts and the jangling of her bracelets filled the souls of the younger women with admiration and jealousy. Meanwhile the night wore on, the little Weber was asleep wrapped in a shawl on a sofa in the corner. Jack had made many signs to Ida, who pretended not to understand, carried away as she was by the pleasure and happiness about her. Jack was like an old father who is anxious to take his daughter home from a ball.

"It is late," he said.

"Wait, dear," was her answer. At length, however, he seized her cloak, and wrapping it around her, drew her away. There was no train at that hour, and indeed no omnibus; fortunately a fiacre was passing, which they hailed. But the newly married pair decided to return on foot through the Bois de Vincennes. The fresh morning air was delicious after the heat of the restaurant; the child slept sweetly on Belisaire's shoulder, and did not even awake when he was placed in his bed. Madame Belisaire threw aside her wedding-dress, assumed a plainer one, and at once entered on the duties of the day.



CHAPTER XXI.~~EFFECTS OF POETRY.

The first visit of Madame de Barancy at Etoilles gave Jack great pleasure and also great anxiety. He was proud of his mother, but he knew her, nevertheless, to be weak and rash. He feared Cecile's calm judgment and intuitive perceptions, keen and quick as they sometimes are in the young. The first few moments tranquillized him a little. The emphatic tone in which Ida addressed Cecile as "my daughter" was all well enough, but when under the influence of a good breakfast Madame de Barancy dropped her serious air and began some of her extravagant stories, Jack felt all his apprehensions revive. She kept her auditors on the qui vive. Some one spoke of relatives that M. Rivals had in the Pyrenees.

"Ah, yes, the Pyrenees!" she sighed. "Gavarni, the Mer de Glace, and all that. I made that journey fifteen years ago with a friend of my family, the Duc de Casares, a Spaniard. I made his acquaintance at Biarritz in a most amusing way!"

Cecile having said how fond she was of the sea, Ida again began,—

"Ah, my love, had you seen it as I have seen it in a tempest off Palma! I was in the saloon with the captain, a coarse sort of man, who insisted on my drinking punch. I refused. Then the wretch got very angry, and opened the window, took me just at the waist, and held me above the water in the lightning and rain."

Jack tried to cut in two these dangerous recitals, but they came to life again, like those reptiles which, however mutilated, still retain life and animation.

The climax of his uneasiness was reached, however, when, just as his lessons were to begin, he heard his mother propose to Cecile to go down into the garden. What would she say when he was not there? He watched them from the window; Cecile's slender figure and quiet movements were those of a well-born, well-bred woman, while Ida, still handsome, but loud in her style and costume, affected the manners of a young girl. For the first time Jack felt his lessons to be very long, and only breathed freely again when they were all together walking in the woods. But on this day his mother's presence disturbed the harmony. She had no comprehension of love, and saw it only as something utterly ridiculous. But the worst of all was the sudden respect she entertained for les convenances. She recalled the young people, bade them "not to wander away so far, but to keep in sight," and then she looked at the doctor in a significant way. Jack saw more than once that his mother grated on the old doctor's nerves; but the forest was so lovely, Cecile so affectionate, and the few words they ex-changed were so mingled with the sweet clatter of birds and the humming of bees, that by degrees the poor boy forgot his terrible companion. But Ida wished to make a sensation, so they stopped at the forester's. Mere Archambauld was delighted to see her old mistress, paid her many compliments, but asked not a question in regard to D'Argenton, her keen personal sense telling her that she had best not. But the sight of this good creature, for a long time so intimately connected with their life at Aul-nettes, was too much for Ida. Without waiting for the lunch so carefully prepared by Mother Archambauld, she rose suddenly from her chair, as suddenly as if in answer to a summons unheard by the others, and went swiftly through the forest paths to her old home at Aulnettes.

The tower was more enshrouded than ever in its green foliage, and the blinds were closely drawn. Ida stood in lonely silence, listening to the tale told with silent eloquence by these gray stones. Then she broke a branch from the clematis that threw its sprays over the wall, and inhaled the breath of its starry white blossoms.

"What is it, dear mother?" said Jack, who had hastened to follow her.

"Ah!" she said, with rapidly falling tears, "you know I have so much buried here!"

Indeed the house, in its melancholy silence and with the Latin inscription over the door, resembled a tomb. She dried her eyes, but for that evening her gayety was gone. In vain did Cecile, who had been told that Madame D'Argenton was separated from her husband, try with minor cares to efface the painful impression of the day; in vain did Jack seek to interest her in all his projects for the future.

"You see, my child," she said, on her way home, "that it is not best for me to come here with you. I have suffered too much, and the wound is too recent."

Her voice trembled, and it was easy to see that, after all the humiliations to which she had been subjected by this man, she yet loved him.

For many Sundays after, Jack came alone to Etiolles, and relinquished what to him was the greatest happiness of the day, the twilight walk, and the quiet talk with Cecile, that he might return to Paris in time to dine with his mother. He took the afternoon train, and passed from the tranquillity of the country to the animation of a Sunday in the Faubourg. The sidewalks were covered by little tables, where families sat drinking their coffee, and crowds were standing, with their noses in the air, watching an enormous yellow balloon that had just been released from its moorings.

In remoter streets, people sat on the steps of the doors, and in the courtyard of the large, silent house the concierge was chatting with his neighbors, who had taken chairs out to breathe air a little fresher than they could obtain in their confined quarters within.

Sometimes, in Jack's absence, Ida, tired of her loneliness, went to a little reading-room kept by a certain Madame Leveque. The shop was filled with mouldy books, was literally obstructed by magazines and illustrated papers, which she let for a sou a day.

Here lived a dirty, pretentious old woman, who spent her time in making a certain kind of antiquated trimming of narrow, colored ribbons.

It seems that Madame Leveque had known better days, and that under the first empire her father was a man of considerable importance. "I am the godchild of the Duc de Dantzic," she said to Ida, with emphasis. She was one of the relics of past days, such as one finds occasionally in the secluded corners of old Paris. Like the dusty contents of her shop, her gilt-edged books torn and incomplete, her conversation glittered with stories of past splendors. That enchanting reign, of which she had seen but the conclusion, had dazzled her eyes, and the mere tone in which she pronounced the titles of that time evoked the memory of epaulettes and gold lace. And her anecdotes of Josephine, and of the ladies of the court! One especial tale Madame Leveque was never tired of telling: it was of the fire at the Austrian embassy, the night of the famous ball given by the Princess of Schwartzenberg. All her subsequent years had been lighted by those flames, and by that light she saw a procession of gorgeous marshals, tall ladies in very low dresses, with heads dressed a la Titus or a la Grecque, and the emperor, in his green coat and white trousers, carrying in his arms across the garden the fainting Madame de Schwartzenberg.

Ida, with her passion for rank, delighted in the society of this half-crazed old creature, and while the two women sat in the dark shop, with the names of dukes and marquises gliding lightly from their tongues, a workman would come in to buy a paper for a sou, or some woman, impatient for the conclusion of some serial romance, would come in to ask if the magazine had not yet arrived, and cheerfully pay the two cents that would deprive her, if she were old, of her snuff, and, if she were young, of her radishes for breakfast.

Occasionally Madame Leveque passed a Sunday with friends, and then Ida had no other amusement than that which she derived from turning over a pile of books taken at hazard from Madame Leveque's shelves. These books were soiled and tumbled, with spots of grease and crumbs of bread upon them, showing that they had been read while eating. She sat reading by the window,—reading until her head swam. She read to escape thinking. Singularly out of place in this house, the incessant toil that she saw going on about her depressed her, instead of, as with her son, exciting her to more strenuous exertions.

The pale, sad woman who sat at her machine day after day, the other with her sing-song repetition of the words, "How happy people ought to be who can go to the country in such weather!" exasperated her almost beyond endurance. The transparent blue of the sky, the soft summer air, made all these miseries seem blacker and less endurable; in the same way that the repose of Sunday, disturbed only by church-bells and the twitter of the sparrows on the roofs, weighed painfully on her spirits. She thought of her early life, of her drives and walks, of the gay parties in the country, and above all of the more recent years at Etiolles. She thought of D'Argenton reciting one of his poems on the porch in the moonlight. Where was he? What was he doing? Three months had passed since she left him, and he had not written one word. Then the book fell from her hands, and she sat buried in thought until the arrival of her son, whom she endeavored to welcome with a smile. But he read the whole story in the disorder of the room and in the careless toilet. Nothing was in readiness for dinner.

"I have done nothing," she said, sadly. "The weather is so warm, and I am discouraged."

"Why discouraged, dear mother? Are you not with me? You want some little amusement, I fancy. Let us dine out to-day," he continued, with a tender, pitying smile. But Ida wished to make a toilet; to take out from her wardrobe some one of her pretty costumes of other days, too coquettish, too conspicuous for her present circumstances. To dress as modestly as possible, and walk through these poor streets, afforded her no amusement. In spite of her care to avoid anything noticeable in her costume, Jack always detected some eccentricity,—in the length of her skirts, which required a carriage, or in the cut of her corsage, or the trimming of her hat. Jack and his mother then went to dine at Bagnolet or Romainville, and dined drearily enough. They attempted some little conversation, but they found it almost impossible. Their lives had been so different that they really now had little in common. While Ida was disgusted with the coarse table-cloth spotted by wine, and polished, with a disgusted face, her plate and glass with her napkin, Jack hardly perceived this negligence of service, but was astonished at his mother's ignorance and indifference upon many other points.

She had certain phrases caught from D'Argenton, a peremptory tone in discussion, a didactic "I think so; I believe; I know." She generally began and finished her arguments with some disdainful gesture that signified, "I am very good to take the trouble to talk to you." Thanks to that miracle of assimilation by which, at the end of some years, husband and wife resemble each other, Jack was terrified to see an occasional look of D'Argenton on his mother's face. On her lips was often to be detected the sarcastic smile that had been the bugbear of his boy-hood, and which he always dreaded to see in D'Argenton. Never had a sculptor found in his clay more docile material than the pretentious poet had discovered in this poor woman.

After dinner, one of their favorite walks on these long summer evenings was the Square des Buttes-Chaumont, a melancholy-looking spot on the old heights of Montfaucon. The grottos and bridges, the precipices and pine groves, seemed to add to the general dreariness. But there was something artificial and romantic in the place that pleased Ida by its resemblance to a park. She allowed her dress to trail over the sand of the alleys, admired the exotics, and would have liked to write her name on the ruined wall, with the scores of others that were already there. When they were tired with walking, they took their seats at the summit of the hill, to enjoy the superb view that was spread out before them. Paris, softened and veiled by dust and smoke, lay at their feet. The heights around the faubourgs looked in the mist like an immense circle, connected by Pere la Chaise on one side, and Montmartre on the other, with Montfaucon; nearer them they could witness the enjoyment of the people. In the winding alleys and under the groups of trees young people were singing and dancing, while on the hillside, sitting amid the yellowed grass, and on the dried red earth, families were gathered together like flocks of sheep.

Ida saw all this with weary, contemptuous eyes, and her very attitude said, "How inexpressibly tiresome it is!" Jack felt helpless before this persistent melancholy. He thought he might make the acquaintance of some one of these honest, simple families, and perhaps in their society his mother might be cheered. Once he thought he had found what he wanted. It was one Sunday. Before them walked an old man, rustic in appearance, leading two little children, over whom he was bending with that wonderful patience which only grandfathers are possessed of.

"I certainly know that man," said Jack to his mother; "it is—it must be M. Rondic."

Rondic it was, but so aged and grown so thin, that it was a wonder that his former apprentice had recognized him. The girl with him was a miniature of Zenaide, while the boy looked like Maugin.

The good old man showed great pleasure in meeting Jack, but his smile was sad, and then Jack saw that he wore crape on his hat. The youth dared not ask a question until, as they turned a corner, Zenaide bore down upon them like a ship under full sail. She had changed her plaited skirt and ruffled cap for a Parisian dress and bonnet, and looked larger than ever. She had the arm of her husband, who was now attached to one of the custom-houses, and who was in uniform. Zenaide adored M. Maugin and was absurdly proud of him, while he looked very happy in being so worshipped.

Jack presented his mother to all these good people; then, as they divided into two groups, he said in a low voice to Zenaide, "What has happened? Is it possible that Madame Clarisse—"

"Yes, she is dead; she was drowned in the Loire accidentally."

Then she added, "We say 'accidentally' on father's account; but you, who knew her so well, may be quite sure that it was by no accident that she perished. She died because she could never see Chariot again. Ah, what wicked men there are in this world!"

Jack glanced at his mother, and was quite ready to agree with his companion.

"Poor father! we thought that he could not survive the shock," resumed Zenaide; "but then he never suspected the truth. When M. Maugin got his position in Paris, we made him come with us, and we live all together in the Eue des Silas at Charonne. You will come and see him, won't you, Jack? You know he always loved you; and now only the children amuse him. Perhaps you can make him talk. But let us join him; he is looking at us, and thinks we are speaking of him, and he does not like that."

Ida, who was deep in conversation with M. Maugin, stopped short as Jack approached her. He suspected that she had been talking of D'Argenton, as indeed she had, praising his genius and recounting his successes, which, had she confined herself to the truth, would not have taken long. They separated, promising to meet again soon; and Jack, not long afterward, called upon them with his mother.

He found the old ornaments on the chimney that he had learned to know so well at Indret, the sponges and corals; he recognized the big wardrobe as an old friend. The rooms were exquisitely clean, and presented a perfect picture of a Breton interior transplanted to Paris. But he soon saw that his mother was bored by Zenaide, who was too energetic and positive to suit her, and that there, as everywhere else, she was haunted by the same melancholy and the same disgust which she expressed in the brief phrase, "It smells of the work-shop."

The house, the room she lived in, the bread she ate, all seemed impregnated with one smell, one especial flavor. If she opened the window, she perceived it even more strongly; if she went out, each breath of wind brought it to her. The people she saw—even her own Jack, when he returned at night with his blouse spotted with oil—exhaled the same baleful odor, which she fancied clung even to herself—the odor of toil—and filled her with immense sadness.

One evening, Jack found his mother in a state of extraordinary excitement; her eyes were bright and complexion animated. "D'Argenton has written to me!" she cried, as he entered the room; "yes, my dear, he has actually dared to write to me. For four months he did not vouchsafe a syllable. He writes me now that he is about to return to Paris, and that, if I need him, he is at my disposal."

"You do not need him, I think," said Jack, quietly, though he was in reality as much moved as his mother herself.

"Of course I do not," she answered, hurriedly.

"And what shall you say?"

"Say! To a wretch who has dared to lift his hand to me? You do not yet know me. I have, thank Heaven, more pride than that. I have just finished his letter, and have torn it into a thousand bits. I am curious to see his house, though, now that I am not there to keep all in order. He is evidently out of spirits, and perhaps he is not well, as he has been for two months at—what is the name of the place?" and she calmly drew from her pocket the letter which she said she had destroyed. "Ah, yes, it is at the springs of Royat that he has been. What nonsense! Those mineral springs have always been bad for him."

Jack colored at her falsehood, but said not one word. All the evening she was busy, and seemed to have regained the courage and animation of her first days with her son. While at work she talked to herself. Suddenly she crossed the room to Jack.

"You are full of courage, my boy," she said, kissing him.

He was occupied in watching all that was going on within his mother's mind. "It is not I whom she kisses," he said, shrewdly; and his suspicions were confirmed by a trifle that proved how completely the past had taken possession of the poor woman's mind. She never ceased humming the words of a little song of D'Argenton's, which the poet was in the habit of singing himself at the piano in the twilight. Over and over again she sang the refrain, and the words revived in Jack's mind only sad and shameful memories. Ah, if he had dared, what words he would have said to the woman before him! But she was his mother; he loved her, and wished by his own respect to teach her to respect herself. He therefore kept strict guard over his lips. This first warning of coming danger, however, awoke in him all the jealous foreboding of a man who was about to be betrayed. He studied her way of saying good-bye to him when he left in the morning, and he analyzed her smile of greeting on his return. He could not watch her himself, nor could he confide to any other person the distrust with which she inspired him. He knew how often a woman surrounds the man whom she deceives in an atmosphere of tender attentions,—the manifestations of hidden remorse. Once, on his way home, he thought he saw Hirsch and Labassandre turning a distant corner.

"Has any one been here?" he said to the concierge; and by the way he was answered he saw that some plot was already organized against him. The Sunday after on his return from Etiolles he found his mother so completely absorbed in her book that she did not even hear him come in. He would not have noticed this, knowing her mania for romances, had not Ida made an attempt to conceal the book.

"You startled me," she said, half pouting.

"What are you reading?" he asked.

"Nothing,—some nonsense. And how are our friends?" But as she spoke, a blush covered her face and glowed under her fine transparent skin. It was one of the peculiarities of this childish nature that she was at once prompt and unskilful in falsehood. Annoyed by his earnest gaze, she rose from her chair. "You wish to know what I am reading! Look, then." He saw once more the glossy cover of the Review that he had read for the first time in the engine-room of the Cydnus; only it was thinner and smaller. Jack would not have opened it if the following title on the outer page had not met his eyes:—

THE PARTING.

A POEM.

By the Vicomte Amacry d'Abgentoh.

And commenced thus:—

"TO ONE WHO HAS GONE.

"What! with out one word of farewell, Without a turn of the head..."

Two hundred lines followed these. That there might be no mistake, the name of Charlotte occurred several times. Jack flung down the magazine with a shrug of the shoulders. "And he dared to send you this?"

"Yes; two or three days ago."

Ida was dying to pick up the book from the floor, but dared not. After a while she stooped, carelessly.

"You do not intend to keep those verses, do you? They are simply absurd."

"But I do not think them so."

"He simply beats his wings and crows, mother dear; his words touch no human heart."

"Be more just, Jack,"—her voice trembled,—"heaven knows that I know M. D'Argenton better than any one, his faults and the defects of his nature, because I have suffered from them. The man I give up to you; as to the poet, it is a different thing. In the opinion of every one, the peculiarity of M. D'Argenton's genius is the sympathetic quality of his verses. Musset had it irksome degree; and I think that the beginning of this poem, 'The Parting,' is very touching: the young woman who goes away in the morning fog in her ball-dress without one word of farewell."

Jack could not restrain himself. "But the woman is yourself," he cried, "and you know under what circumstances you left."

She answered, coldly,—

"Is it kind in you, my son, to recall such humiliations? Had M. D'Argenton treated me a thousand times worse than he has, I should be able, I hope, to recognize the fact that he stands at the head of the poets of France. More than one person who speaks of him with contempt to-day, will yet be proud of having known him and of having sat at his table!" And as she finished she left the room with great dignity. Jack took his seat at his desk, but his heart was not in his work. He felt that "the enemy," as in his childish days he had called the vicomte, was gradually making his approaches. In fact Amaury d'Argenton was as unhappy apart from Charlotte as she was herself. Victim and executioner, indispensable to each other, he felt profoundly the emptiness of divided lives. From the first hour of their separation the poet had adopted a dramatic and Byronic tone as of a broken heart. He was seen in the restaurants at night, surrounded by a group of flatterers who talked of her; he wished to have every one know his misery and its details; he wished to have people think that he was drowning his sorrows in dissipation. When he said, "Waiter! bring me some pure absinthe," it was that some one at the next table might whisper, "He is killing himself by inches—all for a woman!"

D'Argenton succeeded simply in disordering his stomach and injuring his constitution. His "attacks" were more frequent, and Charlotte's absence was extremely inconvenient. What other woman would ever have endured his perpetual complaints? Who would administer his powders and tisanes. He was afraid, too, to be alone, and made some one, Hirsch or another, sleep on a sofa in his room. The evenings were dreary because he was environed by disorder and dust, which all women, even that foolish Ida, contrive to get rid of in some way. Neither the fire nor the lamp would burn, and currents of air whistled under all the doors; and in the depths of his selfish nature D'Argenton sincerely regretted his companion, and became seriously unhappy. Then he decided to take a journey, but that did him no good, to judge from the melancholy tone of his letters to his friends.

One idea tormented him, that the woman whom he so regretted was happy away from him, and in the society of her son. Moronval said, "Write a poem about it," and D'Argenton went to work. Unfortunately, instead of being calmed by this composition, he was more excited than ever, and the separation became more and more intolerable. As soon as the Review appeared, Hirsch and Labassandre were bidden to carry a copy at once to the Rue des Panoyeaux.

This done, D'Argenton decided that it was time to make a grand coup. He dressed with great care, took a fiacre, and presented himself at Charlotte's door at an hour that he knew Jack must be away. D'Argenton was very pale, and the beating of his heart choked him. One of the greatest mysteries in human nature is that such persons have a heart, and that that heart is capable of beating. It was not love that moved him, but he saw a certain romance in the affair, the carriage stationed at the corner as for an elopement, and above all the hope of gratifying his hatred of Jack. He pictured to himself the disappointment of the youth on his return to find that the bird had flown. He meant to appear suddenly before Charlotte, to throw himself at her feet, and, giving her no time to think, to carry her away with him at once. She must be very much changed since he last saw her if she could resist him. He entered her room without knocking, saying in a low voice, "It is I."

There was no Charlotte; but instead, Jack stood before him. Jack, on account of the occurrence of his mother's birthday, had a holiday, and was at work with his books. Ida was asleep on her bed in the alcove. The two men looked at each other in silence. This time the poet had not the advantage. In the first place, he was not at home; next, how could he treat as an inferior this tall, proud-looking fellow, in whose intelligent face appeared, as if still more to exasperate the lover, something of his mother's beauty.

"Why do you come here?" asked Jack.

The other stammered and colored. "I was told that your mother was here."

"So she is; but I am with her, and you shall not see her."

This was said rapidly and in a low voice; then Jack took D'Argenton by the shoulder and wheeled him back into the corridor. The poet with some difficulty preserved his footing.

"Jack," he said, endeavoring to be dignified,—"there has been a misunderstanding for some time between us, but now that you are a man, all this should cease. I offer you my hand, my child."

Jack shrugged his shoulders. "Of what use are these theatricals between us, sir? You detest me, and I return the compliment!"

"And since when have we been such enemies, Jack?"

"Ever since we knew each other! My earliest recollection is of absolute hatred toward you. Besides, why should we not hate each other like the bitterest of foes? By what other name should I call you? Who and what are you? Believe me that if ever in my life I have thought of you without anger, it has never been without a blush of shame."

"It is true, Jack, that our position toward each other has been entirely false. But, my dear friend, life is not a romance."

But Jack cut short this discourse.

"You are right, sir, life is not a romance: it is, on the contrary, a very serious and positive matter. In proof of which, permit me to say that every instant of my time is occupied, and that I cannot lose one of them in useless discussions. For ten years my mother has been your slave. All that I suffered in this time my pride will never let you know. My mother now belongs to me, and I mean to keep her. What do you want of her? Her hair is gray, and your treatment of her has made great wrinkles on her forehead. She is no longer a pretty woman, but she is my mother!"

They looked each other straight in the face as they stood in that narrow, squalid corridor. It was a fitting frame for a scene so humiliating.

"You strangely mistake the sense of my words," said the poet, deadly pale. "I know that your resources must be very moderate; I come, as an old friend, to see if I can serve you in any way."

"We need nothing. The work of my hands supplies us with all we require."

"You are very proud, my dear Jack; you were not so always."

"That is very true, sir, and also that your presence, that I once was forced to endure, has now become odious to me."

The attitude of the young man was so determined and so insulting, his looks so thoroughly carried out his words, that the poet dared not add one word, and descended the stairs, where his careful costume was strangely out of place. When Jack heard his last footfall, he returned to his room: on the threshold stood Ida, strangely white, her eyes swollen with tears and sleep.

"I was there," she said in a low voice; "I heard everything, even that I was old and had wrinkles."

He approached her, took her hands, and looked into the depths of her eyes.

"He is not far away. Shall I call him?"

She disengaged her hands, threw her arms around his neck, and with one of those sudden impulses that prevented her from being utterly unworthy, exclaimed, "You are right, Jack; I am your mother, and only your mother!"

Some days after this scene, Jack wrote the following letter to M. Rivals:—

"My Dear Friend: She has left me, and gone back to him. It all happened in such an unexpected manner that I have not yet recovered from the blow. Alas! she of whom I must complain is my mother. It would be more dignified to keep silence, but I cannot. I knew in my childhood a negro lad who said, 'If the world could not sigh, the world would stifle!' I never fully understood this until to-day, for it seems to me that if I do not write you this letter, that I could not live. I could not wait until Sunday because I could not speak before Cecile. I told you of the explanation that man and I had, did I not? Well, from that time my mother was so very sad, and seemed so worn out by the scene she had gone through, that I resolved to change our residence. I understood that a battle was being fought, and that, if I wished her to be victorious, if I wished to keep my mother with me, that I must employ all means and devices. Our street and house displeased her. I wanted something gayer and more airy. I hired then at Charonne Rue de Silas three rooms newly papered. I furnished these rooms with great care. All the money I had saved—pardon me these details—I devoted to this purpose. Belisaire aided me in moving, while Zenaide was in the same street, and I counted on her in many ways. All these arrangements were made secretly, and I hoped a great surprise and pleasure was in store for my mother. The place was as quiet as a village street, the trees were well grown and green, and I fancied that she would, when established there, have less to regret in the country-life she had so much enjoyed.

"Yesterday evening everything was in readiness. Belisaire was to tell her that I was waiting for her at the Rondics, and then he was to take her to our new home. I was there waiting; white curtains hung at all the windows, and great bunches of roses were on the chimney. I had made a little fire, for the evening was cool, and it gave a home look to the room. In the midst of my contentment I had a sudden presentiment. It was like an electric spark. 'She will not come.' In vain did I call myself an idiot, in vain did I arrange and rearrange her chair and her footstool. I knew that she would never come. More than once in my life I have had these intuitions. One might believe that Fate, before striking her heaviest blows, had a moment of compassion, and gave me a warning.

"She did not come, but Belisaire brought a note from her. It was very brief, merely stating that M. D'Argenton was very ill, and that she regarded it as her duty to watch at his side. As soon as he was well she would return. Ill! I had not thought of that. I might call myself ill, too, and keep her at my bedside. How well he understood her, the wretch! How thoroughly he had studied that weak but kindly nature! You remember those 'attacks' he talked of at Etiolles, and which so soon disappeared after a good dinner. It is one of those which he now has. But my mother was only too glad of an excuse, and allowed herself to be deceived. But to return to my story. Behold me alone in this little home, amid all the wasted efforts, time and money! Was it not cruel? I could not remain there; I returned to my old room. The house seemed to me as sad as a funeral-chamber. I permitted the fire to die out, and the roses wither and fall on the marble hearth below with a gentle rustle. I took the rooms for two years, and I shall keep them with something of the same superstition with which one preserves for a long time the cage from which some favorite bird has flown. If my mother returns we will go there together. But if she does not I shall never inhabit the place. I have now told you all, but do not let Cecile see this letter. Ah, my friend, will she too desert me? The treachery of those we love is terrible indeed. But of what am I thinking; I have her word and her promise, and Cecile always tells the truth."



CHAPTER XXII.~~CECILE UNHAPPY RESOLVE.

Fob a long time Jack had faith that his mother would return. In the morning, in the evening, in the silence of midday, he fancied that he heard the rustling of her dress, her light step on the threshold. When he went to the Rondics he glanced at the little house, hoping to see the windows opened and Ida installed in the refuge, the address of which, with the key, he had sent to her: "The house is ready. Come when you will." Not a word in reply. The desertion was final and absolute.

Jack was in great grief. When our mothers do us harm, it wounds and grieves us, and seems like a direct cruelty from the hand of God. But Cecile was the magician to cure him; she knew just the words to use, and her delicate tenderness defied the rough trials of destiny. A great resource to him at this time was hard work, which is one's best defence against sorrow and regrets. While his mother had been with him, she, without knowing it, had often prevented him from working. Her indecision had been at times very harassing. She sometimes was all ready to go out, with hat and shawl on, when she would suddenly decide to remain at home. Now that she was gone, he took rapid strides and regained his lost time. Each Sunday he went to Etiolles; he was at once more in love, and wiser. The doctor was delighted with the progress of his pupil; before a year was over, he said, if he went on in this way, he could take his degree.

These words thrilled Jack with joy, and when he repeated them to Belisaire, the little attic positively glowed and palpitated with happiness. Madame Belisaire was suddenly filled with a desire to learn, and her husband must teach her to read. But while M. Rivals was pleased at Jack's progress with his books, he was discontented with the state of his health; the old cough had come back, his eyes were feverish and his hands hot.

"I do not like this," said the good man; "you work too hard; you must stop; you have plenty of time: Cecile does not mean to run away."

Never had the girl been more loving and tender; she seemed to feel that she mast take his mother's place as well as her own; and it was precisely this sweetness that induced Jack to make greater exertions each day. His bodily frame was in the same condition as that of the Fakirs of India—urged to such a point of feverish excitement that pain becomes a pleasure. He was grateful to the cold of his little attic, and to the hard dry cough that kept him from sleeping. Sometimes at his writing-table he suddenly felt lightness throughout all his being—a strange clearness of perception and an extraordinary excitement of all his intellectual faculties; but this was accompanied with great physical exhaustion.

His work went like lightning, and all the difficulties of his task disappeared. He would have gone on thus to the end of his labor, had he not received a painful shock. A telegram arrived:

"Do not come to-morrow; we are going away for a week. Rivals."

Jack received that despatch just as Madame Belisaire had ironed his fine linen for the next day. The suddenness of this departure, the brevity of the despatch, and even the printed characters instead of his friend's well-known writing, affected him most painfully. He expected a letter from Cecile or the doctor to explain the mystery, but nothing came, and for a week he was a prey to suspense and anxiety. The truth was: neither Cecile nor the doctor had left home, but that M. Rivals wished for time to prepare the youth for an unexpected blow—for a decision of Cecile's so extraordinary that he hoped his granddaughter would be induced to reconsider it. One evening, on coming into the house, he had found Cecile in a state of singular agitation; her lips were pale but firmly closed. He tried to make her smile at the dinner-table, but in vain; and suddenly, in reply to some remark of his in regard to Jack's coming, she said, "I do not wish him to come."

He looked at her in amazement. She was as pale as death, but in a firm voice she repeated, "I do not wish him to come on Sunday, or ever again."

"What is the matter, my child?"

"Nothing, dear grandfather, save that I can never marry Jack."

"You frighten me, Cecile! Tell me what you mean."

"I am simply beginning to understand myself. I do not love him; I was mistaken."

"Good heavens, child, are you quite mad? You have had some childish misunderstanding."

"No, grandpapa, I assure you that I have for Jack a sister's friendship, nothing more. I cannot be his wife."

The doctor was startled. "Cecile," he said, gravely, "do you love any other person?"

She colored. "No; but I do not wish to marry;" and to all that M. Rivals said she would make no other reply.

He asked her what would be said, what would be thought by their little world. "Remember," he said, "that to Jack this will be a frightful blow; his whole future will be sacrificed."

Cecile's pale features quivered nervously. Her grandfather took her hand.

"My child," he said, "think well before you decide a question of such importance."

"No," she answered; "the sooner he knows my decision the better for us both. I know that I am going to pain him deeply, but the longer we delay the worse it will be, and I cannot see him again until he knows the truth; I am incapable of such treachery."

"Then you mean to give the boy his dismissal," said the doctor, in a rage. "Good heavens! what strange creatures women are!"

She looked at him with such an expression of despair that he stopped short.

"No, no, little girl, I am not angry with you. It is my fault more than yours. You were too young to know your own mind. I am an old fool, and shall always be one until the bitter end."

Then came the painful duty of writing to Jack. He began a dozen letters, destroyed them all, and finally sent the telegram, hoping that Cecile would have come to her senses before the week was over.

The next Saturday, when Dr. Rivals said to his granddaughter, "He will come to-morrow; is your decision irrevocable?"

"Irrevocable," she said, slowly.

Jack arrived early on Sunday. When he reached the door the servant said, "My master is waiting for you in the garden."

Jack felt chilled to the heart, and the doctor's face increased his fears, for he, though for forty years accustomed to the sight of human suffering, was as troubled as Jack.

"Cecile is here—is she not?" were the youth's first words.

"No, my friend, I left her—at—where we have been, you know; and she will remain some time."

"Dr. Rivals, tell me what is wrong. She does not wish to see me again? Is that it?"

The doctor could not answer. Jack seated himself for fear he should fall. They were at the foot of the garden. It was a fresh, bright November morning; hoar-frost lay on the lawn, a faint haze hung over the distant hills and reminded him of that day at Coudray, the vintage, and their first whisper of love. The doctor laid a paternal hand on his shoulder. "Jack," he whispered, "do not be unhappy. She is very young and will perhaps change her mind. It is a mere caprice."

"No, doctor, Cecile never has caprices. That would be horrible—to drive a knife into a man's heart merely from caprice! I am sure she has reflected for a long time before she came to this decision. She knew that her love was my life, and that in tearing it up my life would also perish. If she has done this, then it is because she knew well that it was her duty so to do. I ought to have expected it; I should have known that so great a happiness could not be for me."

He staggered to his feet. His friend took his hand. "Forgive me, my brave boy; I hoped to make you both happy."

"Do not reproach yourself. Tell her that I accept her decision. Last year," he continued, "I began the only happy season of my life. I was born on that day, and to-day I die. But these few happy months I owe to you and to Cecile;" and the youth hurried away.

"But you will breakfast with me," said the doctor.

"No; I should be too sad a guest."

He crossed the garden with a firm step, and went away without once looking back. Had he turned he would have seen, half hidden by the curtain of a window in the second story, a face as pale and agitated as his own. The girl extended her slender arms, and tears rained down her cheeks. The following days were sad enough. The little house that had for months been bright and gay, resumed its ancient mournful aspect. The doctor, much troubled, noticed that his granddaughter spent much of her time in her mother's former room. Where Madeleine had formerly wept, her child now shed in turn her tears. "Would she die as did her mother?"

The doctor asked himself, day after day, If she did not love Jack, why was she so sad? If she did love him, why had she refused him? The old man was sure that there was some mystery, something that he ought to know; but at the least question, Cecile ran away as if in fear.

One night the bell rang a summons from a dying man. It was the husband of old Sale, who had met with an accident. These people lived near Aul-nettes, in a miserable little hole, and on a straw bed in the corner lay the sick man. When Dr. Rivals entered the place he was nearly suffocated by the odor of burning herbs.

"What have you been doing here, Mother Sale?" he said. The old woman hesitated, and wished to tell a falsehood; he gave her no time, however. "So Hirsch is here again, is he?" he continued. "Open the doors and windows, you will be suffocated."

While M. Rivals bent over the sick man, he half opened his eyes. "Tell him, wife, tell him," he muttered.

The old woman paid no attention, and the man began again: "Tell him, I say, tell him."

The doctor looked at Mother Sale, who turned a deep scarlet. "I am sure I am very sorry if I said anything to hurt the feelings of such a good young lady," she muttered.

"What young lady? Of whom do you speak?" asked the doctor, turning hastily around.

"Well, sir, I will tell you the truth. The mad doctor gave me twenty francs to tell Mamselle Cecile the story of her father and mother."

M. Rivals seized the old peasant woman and shook her violently.

"And you dared to do that?" he cried, in a furious rage.

"It was for twenty francs. I could never have opened my lips but for the twenty francs, sir. In the first place, I knew nothing about it until he told me, so that I could repeat it."

"The wretch! But who could have told him?"

A groan from the sick-bed recalled the physician to his duty. All the long night he watched there, and when all was over he returned in haste to Etiolles and went directly in search of Cecile. Her room was empty, and the bed had not been slept in. His heart stood still. He ran to the office, still he found no one. But the door of Madeleine's old room stood open, and there among the relics of the dear dead, prostrate on the Prie-Dieu, was Cecile asleep, in an attitude that told of a night of prayer and tears. She opened her eyes as her grandfather touched her.

"And the wretches told you the secret that we have taken so much pains to hide from you! And strangers and enemies told you, my poor little darling, the sad tale we concealed."

She hid her face on his shoulder. "I am so ashamed," she whispered.

"And this is the reason that you did not wish to marry? Tell me why?"

"Because I did not wish to acknowledge my mother's dishonor, and my conscience compelled me to have no secrets from my husband. There was but one thing to do, and I did it."

"But you love him?"

"With my whole heart; and I believe he loves me so well that he would marry me in spite of my shameful history; but I would never consent to such a sacrifice. A man does not marry a girl who has no father—who has no name, or, if she had one, it would be that of a robber and forger."

"But you are mistaken, my child; Jack was proud and happy to marry you with a thorough knowledge of your history. I told it all to him, and if you had had more confidence in me, you would have avoided this trial to us all."

"And he was willing to marry me!"

"Child! he loves you. Besides, your destinies are similar. He has no father, and his mother has never been married. The only difference between you is that your mother was a saint, and his is a sinner."

Then the doctor, who had told Jack Cecile's history, now related to her the long martyrdom of the youth she loved. He told her of his exile from his mother's arms—of all that he had endured. "I understand it all now," he cried; "it is she who has told Hirsch of your mother's marriage."

While the doctor was talking, Cecile was overwhelmed with despair to think that she had caused Jack, already so unhappy, so much needless sorrow. "O, how he has suffered!" she sobbed. "Have you heard anything from him?"

"No; but he can come and tell you himself all that you wish to know," answered her grandfather, with a smile.

"But he may not wish to come."

"Well, then, we will go to him. It is Sunday; let us find him and bring him home with us."

An hour or two later, M. Rivals and his granddaughter were on their way to Paris. Just after they left, a man stopped before the house. He looked at the little door. "This is the place," he said, and he rang. The servant opened the door, but seeing before her one of those dangerous ped-lers that wander through the country, she attempted to close it again.

"What do you want?"

"The gentleman of the house."

"He is not at home."

"And the young lady?"

"She is not at home, either."

"When will they be back?"

"I have no idea!" And she closed the door.

"Good heavens!" said Belisaire, in a choked voice; "and must he be permitted to die without any help?"



CHAPTER XXIII.~~A MELANCHOLY SPECTACLE.

That evening there was a great literary entertainment at the editors of the Review; a fete had been arranged to celebrate Charlotte's return, at which it was proposed that D'Argenton should read his new poem.

But was there not something rather ridiculous in deploring the absence of a person who was then present? And how could he describe the sufferings of a deserted lover, he who was supposed at the moment to be at the summit of bliss, by reason of the return of the beloved object? Never had the apartments been so luxuriously arranged; flowers were there in profusion. The toilet of Charlotte was in exquisite taste, white with clusters of violets, and all the surroundings breathed an atmosphere of riches. Yet nothing could have been more deceptive. The Review was in a dying condition; the numbers appearing at longer intervals, and growing small by degrees and beautifully less. D'Argenton had swallowed up in it the half of his fortune, and now wished to sell it. It was this unfortunate situation, added to an attack skilfully managed, that had induced the foolish Charlotte to return to him. He had only to assume before her the air of a great man crushed by unmerited misfortune, for her to reply that she would serve him always.

D'Argenton was foolish and conceited, but he understood the nature of this woman in a most wonderful degree. She thought him handsomer and more fascinating than he was twelve years before, when she saw him for the first time, under the chandeliers of the Moronval salon. Many of the same persons were there also: Labassandre in bottle-green velvet, with the high boots of Faust; and Dr. Hirsch with his coat-sleeves spotted by various chemicals; and Moronval in a black coat very white in the seams, and a white cravat very black in the folds; several "children of the sun,"—the everlasting Japanese prince, and the Egyptian from the banks of the Nile. What a strange set of people they were! They might have been a band of pilgrims on the march toward some unknown Mecca, whose golden lamps retreat before them. During the twelve years that we have known them, many have fallen from the ranks, but others have risen to take their places; nothing discourages them, neither cold nor heat, nor even hunger. They hurry on, but they never arrive. Among them D'Argenton, better clothed and better fed, resembled a rich Hadji with his harem, his pipes, and his riches; on this evening he was especially radiant, for he had triumphed.

During the reading of the poem Charlotte sat in an attitude of feigned indifference, blushing occasionally at veiled allusions to herself. Near her was Madame Moronval, who, small as she was, seemed quite tall because of the extraordinary height of her forehead and the length of her chin. The poem went on and on, the fire crackled on the hearth, and the wind rattled against the glass doors of the balcony, as it did on a certain night of which Charlotte apparently had but little remembrance. Suddenly, during a most pathetic passage, the door opened suddenly; the servant appeared, and with a terrified air summoned her mistress.

"Madame, madame!" she cried.

Charlotte went to her. "What is it?" she asked.

"A man insists on seeing you. I told him that it was impossible; but he said he would wait for you, and he seated himself on the stairs."

"I will see him," said Charlotte, much moved; for she guessed at the purport of the message.

But D'Argenton objected, and turning toward Labassandre, he said, "Will you have the goodness to see who this intruder is?" and the poet turned back to the table to resume his reading. But the door opened again wide enough to admit the head and arm of Labassandre, who beckoned earnestly.

"What is it?" said D'Argenton, impatiently, when he reached the ante-room.

"Jack is very ill," said the tenor.

"I don't believe it," answered the poet.

"This man swears that it is so."

D'Argenton looked at the man, whose face was not absolutely unknown to him.

"Did you come from the gentleman,—that is to say, did he send you?"

"No; he is too sick to send any one. It is three weeks since he has been in his bed, and very, very ill."

"What is his disease?"

"Something on the lungs, and the doctors say that he cannot live; so I thought I had better come and tell his mother."

"What is your name?"

"Belisaire, sir; but the lady knows me."

"Very well, then," said the poet, "you will say to the one who sent you, that the game is a good one, though rather old, and he had better try something else."

"Sir?" said the pedler, interrogatively, for he did not comprehend these sarcastic words.

But D'Argenton had left the room, and Belisaire stood in silent amazement, having caught a glimpse of the lighted salon and its crowd of people.

"It is nothing, only a mistake," said the poet on his entrance; and while he majestically resumed his reading, the pedler hurried home through the dark streets, through the sharp hail and fierce wind, eager to reach Jack, who lay in a high fever, on the narrow iron bed in the attic-room.

He had been taken ill on his return from Etiolles; he lay there, almost without speaking, a victim to fever and a severe cold, so serious, that the physicians warned his friends that they had everything to fear. Belisaire wished to summon M. Rivals, but to this Jack refused to consent. This was the only energy he had shown since his illness, and the only time he had spoken voluntarily, save when he told his friend to take his watch, and a ring he owned, and sell them.

All Jack's savings had been absorbed in furnishing the rooms at Charonne, and the Belisaire household was equally impoverished through their recent marriage. But it mattered very little; the pedler and his wife were capable of every sacrifice for their friend; they carried to the Mont de Piete the greater part of their furniture, piece by piece—for medicines were so dear. They were advised to send Jack to the hospital. "He would be better off; and, besides, he would then cost you nothing," was the argument employed. The good people were now at the end of their resources, and decided to inform Charlotte of her son's danger.

"Bring her back with you," said Madame Belisaire to her husband. "To see his mother would be such a comfort to the lad. He never speaks of her because he is so proud."

But Belisaire did not bring her. He returned in a very unhappy frame of mind, from the reception he had received. His wife, with her child asleep on her lap, talked in a low voice to a neighbor, in front of a poor little fire—such a one as is called a widow's fire by the people. The two women listened to Jack's painful breathing, and to the horrible cough that choked him. One would never have recognized this unfurnished, dismal room as the bright attic where cheerful voices had resounded such a short time before. There was no sign of books or studies. A pot of tisane was simmering on the hearth, filling the air with that peculiar odor which tells of a sickroom. Belisaire came in.

"Alone?" said his wife.

He told in a low voice that he had not been permitted to see Jack's mother.

"But had you no blood in your veins? You should have entered by force and called aloud, 'Madame, your son is dying!' Ah, my poor Belisaire, you will never be anything but a weak chicken!"

"But, had I undertaken such a thing, I should simply have been arrested," said the poor man, in a distressed tone.

"But what are we going to do?" resumed Madame Belisaire. "This poor boy must have better care than we can give him."

A neighbor spoke. "He must go to the hospital, as the physician said."

"Hush, hush! not so loud!" said Belisaire, pointing to the bed; "I'm afraid he heard you."

"What of that? He is not your brother, nor your son; and it would be better for you in every respect."

"But he is my friend," answered Belisaire, proudly; and in his tone was so much honest devotion that his wife's eyes filled with tears.

The neighbors shrugged their shoulders and went away. After their departure, the room looked less cold and less bare.

Jack had heard all that was said. In spite of his weakness he slept little, and lay with his face turned to the wall, with eyes wide open. If that blank surface, wrinkled and tarnished like the face of a very old woman, could have spoken, it would have said that in those pitiful eyes but one expression could have been seen, that of utter and overwhelming despair. He never complained, however; he even tried, at times, to smile at his stout nurse, when she brought him his tisanes. The long and solitary days passed away in this inaction and helplessness. Why was he not strong in health and body like the people about him, and yet for whom did he wish to labor? His mother had left him, Cecile had deserted him. The faces of these two women haunted him day and night. When Charlotte's gay and indifferent smile faded away, the delicate features of Cecile appeared before him, veiled in the mystery of her strange refusal; and the youth lay there incapable of a word or a gesture, while his pulses beat with accelerated force, and his hollow cough shook him from head to foot.

The day after this conversation at Jack's bedside, Madame Belisaire was much startled, on entering the room, to find him, tall and gaunt, sitting in front of the fire. "Why are you out of your bed?" she asked with severity.

"I am going to the hospital, my kind friend; it is impossible for me to stay here any longer. Do not attempt to detain me, for go I will."

"But, Mr. Jack, you cannot walk there, weak as you are."

"Yes, I can, if your husband will give me the help of his arm."

It was useless to resist such determination, and Jack said farewell to Madame Belisaire, and descended the stairs with one sad look of farewell at the humble home which had been illuminated by so many fair dreams and hopes. How long the walk was! They stopped occasionally, but dared not linger long, for the air was sharp. Under the lowering December skies the sick youth looked worse even than when he lay in his bed. His hair was wet with perspiration, the hurrying crowds made him dizzy and faint. Paris is like a huge battlefield where mere existence demands a struggle; and Jack seemed like a wounded soldier borne from the field by a comrade.

It was still early when they reached the hospital. Early as it was, however, they found the huge waiting-room filled with persons. An enormous stove made the air of the room almost intolerable, with its smell of hot iron. When Jack entered, assisted by Belisaire/all eyes were turned upon him. They were awaiting the arrival of the physician, who would give, or refuse, a card of admittance. Each one was describing his symptoms to some indifferent hearer, and endeavoring to show that he was more ill than any one else. Jack listened to these dismal conversations, seated between a stout man who coughed violently, and a slender young girl whose thin shawl was so tightly drawn over her head that only her wild and affrighted eyes were to be seen. Then the door opened, and a small, wiry man appeared; it was the physician. A profound silence followed all along the benches. The doctor warmed his hands at the stove, while he cast a scrutinizing glance about the room. Then he began his rounds, followed by a boy carrying the cards of admission to the different hospitals. What joy for the poor wretches when they were pronounced sick enough to receive a ticket. What disappointment, what entreaties from those who were told that they must struggle on yet a little longer! The examination was brief, and if it seemed somewhat brutal at times, it must be remembered that the number of applicants was very large, and that the poor creatures loved to linger over the recital of their woes.

Finally the physician reached the stout man next to Jack. "And what is the matter with you, sir?" he asked.

"My chest burns like fire," was the answer.

"Ah, your chest burns like fire, does it! Do you not sometimes drink too much brandy?"

"Never, sir," answered the patient indignantly.

"Well, then, if you do not drink brandy, how about wine?"

"I drink what I want of that, of course."

"Ah, yes, I understand! You drink with your friends." %

"On pay-days I do, certainly."

"That is, you get drunk once in the week. Let me see your tongue."

When the physician reached Jack, he examined him attentively, asked his age and how long he had been ill. Jack answered with much difficulty, and while he spoke, Belisaire stood behind him with a face full of anxiety.

"Stand up, my man," and the doctor applied his ear to the damp clothing of the invalid. "Did you walk here?"

"Yes, sir."

"It is most extraordinary that you were able to do so, in the state in which you are; but you must not try it again;" and he handed him a ticket and passed on to continue his inspection.

Of all the thousand rapid and confused impressions that one receives in the streets of Paris, do you remember any one more painful than the sight of one of those litters, sheltered from the sun's rays by a striped cover, and borne by two men, one behind and the other in front,—the form of a human being vaguely defined under the linen sheets? Women cross themselves when these litters pass them, as they do when a crow flies over their heads.

Sometimes, a mother, a daughter, or a sister, walks at the side of the sick man, their eyes swimming in tears at this last indignity to which the poor are subjected. Jack thus lay, consoled by the sound of the familiar tread of his faithful Belisaire, who occasionally took his hand to prove to him that he was not completely deserted.

The sick man at last reached the hospital to which he had been ordered. It was a dreary structure, looking out on one side upon a damp garden, on the other on a dark court. Twenty beds, two arm-chairs, and a stove, were the furniture of the large room to which Jack was carried. Five or six phantoms in cotton nightcaps looked up from a game of dominos to inspect him, and two or three more started from the stove as if frightened.

The corner of the room was brightened by an altar to the Virgin, decorated with flowers, candles, and lace; and near by was the desk of the matron, who came forward, and in a soft voice, the tones of which seemed half lost among the folds of her veil, said:

"Poor fellow, how sick he looks! he must go to bed at once. We have no bed yet, but the one at the end there will soon be empty. While we are waiting, we will put him on a couch."

This couch was placed close to the bed "that would soon be empty," from whence were heard long sighs, dreary enough in themselves, but made a thousand times more melancholy by the utter indifference with which they were heard by the others in the room. The man was dying, but Jack was himself too ill to notice this. He hardly heard Belisaire's "au revoir" nor the rattling of dishes as the soup was distributed, nor a whispering at his side; he was not asleep, but exhausted by fatigue. Suddenly a woman's voice, calm and clear, said, "Let us pray."

He saw the dim outline of a woman kneeling near the altar, but in vain did he attempt to follow the words that fell rapidly from her lips. The concluding sentence reached him, however.

"Protect, O God, my friends and my enemies, all prisoners and travellers, the sick and the dying."

Jack slept a feverish sleep, and his dreams were a confused mixture of prisoners rattling their chains, and of travellers wandering over endless roads. He was one of these travellers: he was on a highway, like that of Etiolles; Cecile and his mother were before him refusing to wait until he could reach them; this he was prevented from doing by a row of enormous machines, the pistons of which were moving with dizzy haste, and from whose chimneys were pouring out dark volumes of smoke. Jack determined to pass between them; he is seized by their iron arms, torn and mangled, and scalded with the hot steam; but he got through and took refuge in the Foret de Senart, amid the freshness of which Jack became once more a child and was on his way to the forester's; but there at the cross-road stood mother Sale; he turned to run, and ran for miles, with the old woman close behind him; he heard her nearer and nearer, he felt her hot breath on his shoulder; she seized him at last, and with all her weight crushed in his chest. Jack awoke with a start; he recognized the large room, the beds in a line, and heard the sighs and coughs. He dreamed no more, and yet he still felt the same weight across his body, something so cold and heavy that he called aloud in terror. The nurses ran, and lifted Something, placed it in the next bed, and drew the curtains round it closely.



CHAPTER XXIV.~~DEATH IN THE HOSPITAL.

"Come, wake up! Visitors are here."

Jack opened his eyes, and the first thing that struck him was the curtains of the next bed,—they hung in such straight and motionless folds to the very ground.

"Well, my boy, you had a pretty bad time last night. The poor fellow in the next bed had convulsions and fell over on you. I suppose you were terribly frightened. Now raise yourself a little that we may see you. But you are very weak."

The man who spoke was about forty years of age, wearing a velvet coat and a white apron. His beard was fair and his eyes bright. He feels the sick man's pulse and asks him some questions.

"What is your trade?"

"A machinist."

"Do you drink?"

"Not now; I did at one time."

Then a long silence.

"What sort of a life have you led, my poor boy?"

Jack saw in the physician's face the same sympathetic interest that he had perceived the previous day. The students surrounded the bed, and the doctor explained to them various symptoms that he observed. They were at once interesting and alarming, he said; and Jack listened with some curiosity to the words "inspiration," "expiration," "phthisis," &c., and at last understood that his was looked upon as a most critical case,—so critical that, after the physician had left the room, the good sister approached, and with gentle discretion asked if his family were in Paris, and if he could send to them.

His family! Who were they? A man and a woman who were already there at the foot of the bed. They belonged to the lower classes; but he had no other friends than these, no other relatives.

"And how are we to-day?" said Belisaire, cheerily, though he kept his tears back with difficulty. Madame Belisaire lays on the table two fine oranges she has brought, and then, after a kind remark or two, sits in silence.

Jack does not speak; his eyes are wide open and fixed. Of what is he thinking?

"Jack," said the good woman, suddenly, "I am going to find your mother;" and she smiled encouragingly.

Yes, that is what he wants; now that he knows that he must die, he forgets all the wrongs his mother has been guilty of toward him.

But Belisaire does not wish his wife to go. He knows that she holds in utter contempt "the fine lady," as she calls Jack's mother, that she detests the man with the moustache, and that she will make a scene, and perhaps—who knows but the police may be called in?

"No," she said, "that is all nonsense;" but finally yielded to the persuasions of her husband, and allowed him to go in her stead.

"I will bring her this time, never fear!" he said, with an air of confidence.

"Where are you going?" asked the concierge, stopping him at the foot of the staircase.

"To M. D'Argenton's."

"Are you the man who was here last night?"

"Precisely," answered Belisaire, innocently.

"Then you need not go up, for there is no one there; they have gone to the country, and will not return for some time."

In the country, in all this cold and snow! It seemed impossible. In vain did he insist, in vain did he say that the lady's son was very ill—dying in the hospital. The concierge held to his statement, and would not permit Belisaire to go one step further.

The poor man retreated to the street again. Suddenly a brilliant idea struck him. Jack had never told him any of the particulars of what had taken place between the Rivals and himself; he had merely stated the fact that the marriage was broken off. But at Indret and in Paris he had often spoken of the goodness and charity of the kind doctor. If he could only be induced to come to Jack's bedside, so that the poor boy could have some familiar face about him! Without further hesitation he started for Etiolles. Alas, we saw him at the end of this long walk!

During all this time, his wife sat at their friend's side, and knew not what to think of this prolonged absence, nor how to calm the agitation into which the sick youth was thrown by the expectation of seeing his mother. His excitement was unfortunately increased by the crowd that always appeared on Sundays at the hospital. Each moment some one of the doors was thrown open, and each time Jack expected to see his mother. The visitors were clean and neatly dressed who gathered about the patients they had come to see, telling them family news and encouraging them. Sometimes the voices were choked with tears, though the eyes were dry, Jack heard a constant murmur of voices, and the perfume of oranges filled the room. But what a disappointment it was, after being lifted by the aid of a little stick hung by cords, when he saw that his mother had not come! He fell back more exhausted, more despairing than ever.

With him, as with all others who are on the threshold of death, the slender thread of life that remained to him was too fragile to attach itself to the robust years of his manhood, and took him beyond them into the far away days when he was little Jack, the velvet-clad darling of Ida de Barancy.

The crowd still came, women and little children, who stood in displeased surprise at their father's emaciation and at his nightcap, and uttered exclamations of delight at the sight of the beautifully dressed altar. But Jack's mother did not appear. Madame Belisaire knows not what to say. She has hinted that M. D'Argenton may be ill, or that his mother is driving in the Bois, and now she spreads a colored handkerchief on her knees and pares an orange.

"She will not come!" said Jack. These very words he had spoken in that little home at Charonne which he had prepared with so much tender care. But his voice was now weaker, and had even a little anger in its accents. "She will not come!" he repeated; and the poor boy closed his eyes, but not in sleep. He thought of Cecile. The sister heard his sighs, and said to Madame Belisaire, whose large face was shining with tears,—

"What is the matter with him? I am afraid he is suffering more."

"It is on account of his mother, whom he expects, and he is troubled that she does not come."

"But she must be sent for."

"My husband went long ago. But she is a fine lady; she won't come to a hospital and run the risk of soiling her silk skirts."

Suddenly the woman rose in a fit of anger.

"Don't cry, dear," said she to Jack, as she would have spoken to her little child; "I am going for your mother."

Jack understood what she said, understood that she had gone, but still continued to repeat, in a harsh voice, the words, "She will not come! she will not come!"

The sister tried to soothe him. "Calm yourself, my child."

Then Jack rose in a sort of delirium. "I tell you she will not come. You do not know her, she is a heartless mother; all the misery of my miserable life has come from her! My heart is one huge wound, from the gashes she has cut in it. When he pretended to be ill, she went to him on wings, and would never again leave him; and I am dying, and she refuses to come to me. What a cruel mother! it is she who has killed me, and she does not wish to see me die!"

Exhausted by this effort, Jack let his head fall back on the pillow, and the sister bent over him in gentle pity, while the brief winter's day ended in a yellow twilight and occasional gusts of snow.

Charlotte and D'Argenton descended from their carriage. They had just returned from a fashionable concert, and were carefully dressed in velvet and furs, light gloves and laces. She was in the best of spirits. Remember that she had just shown herself in public with her poet, and had shown herself, too, to be as pretty as she was ten years before. The complexion was heightened by the sharp wintry air, and the soft wraps in which she was enveloped added to her beauty as does the satin and quilted lining of a casket enhance the brilliancy of the gems within. A woman of the people stood on the sidewalk, and rushed forward on seeing her.

"Madame, madame! come at once!"

"Madame Belisaire!" cried Charlotte, turning pale.

"Your child is very ill; he asks for you!"

"But this is a persecution," said D'Argenton. "Let us pass. If the gentleman is ill, we will send him a physician."

"He has physicians, and more than he wants, for he is at the hospital."

"At the hospital!"

"Yes, he is there just now, but not for very long. I warn you, if you wish to see him you must hurry."

"Come on, Charlotte, come on! It is a frightful lie. It is some trap laid ready for you;" and the poet drew Charlotte to the stairs.

"Madame, your son is dying! Ah, God, is it possible that a mother can have a heart like this!"

Charlotte turned toward her. "Show me where he is," she said; and the two women hurried through the streets, leaving D'Argenton in a state of rage, convinced that it was a mere device of his enemies.

Just as Madame Belisaire left the hospital, two persons hurried in,—a young girl and an old man.

A divine face bent over Jack. "It is I, my love, it is Cecile."

It was indeed she. It was her fair pale face, paler than usual by reason of her tears and her watchings; and the hand that held his was the slender one that had already brought the youth such happiness, and yet did its part in bringing him where we now see him; for fate is often cruel enough to strike you through your dearest and best. The sick youth opens his weary eyes to see that he is not dreaming. Cecile is really there; she implores his pardon, and explains why she gave him such pain. Ah, if she had but known that their destinies were so similar!

As she spoke, a great calm came to Jack, following all the bitterness and anger of the past weeks.

"Then you love me?" he whispered.

"Yes, Jack; I have always loved you."

Whispered in this alcove, that had heard so many dying groans, this word love had a most extraordinary sweetness, as if some wandering bird had taken refuge there.

"How good you are to come, Cecile! Now I shall not utter another murmur. I am ready to die, with you at my side."

"Die! Who is talking of dying?" said the old doctor in his heartiest voice. "Have no fear, my boy, we will pull you through. You do not look like the same person you were when we came."

This was true enough. He was transfigured with happiness. He pressed Cecile's hand to his cheek, and whispered an occasional word of tenderness.

"All that was lacking to me in life, you have given me, dear. You have been friend and sister, wife and mother."

But his excitement soon gave place to exhaustion, his feverish color to frightful pallor. The ravages made by disease were only too plainly visible. Cecile looked at her grandfather in fright; the room was full of shadows, and it seemed to her that she recognized a Presence more sombre, more mysterious than Night.

Suddenly Jack half lifted himself: "I hear her," he whispered; "she is coming!"

But the watchers at his side heard only the wintry wind in the corridors, the steps of the retreating crowd in the court below, and the distant noises in the street. He listened a moment, said a few unintelligible words, then his head fell back and his eyes closed. But he was right. Two women were running up the stairs. They had been allowed to enter, though the hour for the admittance of visitors had long since passed. But it was one of those occasions where rules may be broken and set aside.

When they arrived at the outer door, Charlotte stopped. "I cannot go on," she said, "I am frightened."

"Come on," the other answered, roughly; "you must. Ah, to such women as you, God should never give children!"

And she pushed Charlotte toward the staircase. The large room, the shaded lamps, the kneeling forms, the mother saw at one glance; and farther on, at the end of the apartment, were two men bending over a bed, and Cecile Rivals, pale as death, supporting a head on her breast.

"Jack, my child!"

M. Rivals turned. "Hush," he said, sternly.

Then came a sigh—a long, shivering sigh.

Charlotte crept nearer, with failing limbs and sinking heart. It was Jack indeed, with arms stiffly falling at his side, and eyes fixed on vacancy.

The doctor bent over him. "Jack, my friend; it is your mother, she is here!"

And she, unhappy woman, stretched out her arms toward him. "Jack, it is I! I am here!"

Not a movement.

The mother cried in a tone of horror, "Dead?"

"No," said old Rivals; "no,—Delivered."

THE END.