Jack - Alphonse Daudet (inspirational books .TXT) 📗

were numerous in this part of the forest, came gentle rustlings from the long, slender, silken-coated reeds. Jack learned to distinguish all these sounds and to love them.
The little boy, however, had incurred the enmity of many of the peasants, who saw him constantly with the forester, to whom they had sworn eternal hatred. Cowardly and sulky, they touched their hats respectfully enough to Jack when they met him with Father Archambauld, but when he was alone, they shook their fists at him with horrible oaths.
There was one old woman, brown as an Indian squaw, who haunted the very dreams of the child. On his way home at sunset, he always met her with her fagots on her back. She stood in the path and assailed him with her tongue; and sometimes, merely to frighten him, ran after him for a few steps. Poor little Jack often reached his mother's side breathless and terrified, but, after all, this only added another interest to his life. Sometimes Jack found his mother in the kitchen talking in a low voice; no sound was to be heard in the house save the ticking of the great clock in the dining-room. "Hush, my dear," said his mother; "He is up-stairs. He is at work!"
Jack sat down in a corner and watched the cat lying in the sun. With the awkwardness of a child who makes a noise merely because he knows he ought not to do so, he knocked over something, or moved the table.
"Hush, dear," exclaimed Charlotte, in distress, while Mother Archambauld, laying the table, moved on the points of her big feet--moved as lightly as possible, so as not to disturb "her master who was at work."
He was heard up-stairs--pushing back his chair, or moving his table. He had laid a sheet of paper before him; on this paper was written the title of his book, but not another word. And yet he now had all that formerly he had said would enable him to make a reputation,--leisure, sufficient means, freedom from interruption, a pleasant study, and country air. When he had had enough of the forest, he had but to turn his chair, and from another window he obtained an admirable view of sky and water. All the aroma of the woods, all the freshness of the river, came directly to him. Nothing could disturb him, unless it might be the cooing and fluttering of the pigeons on the roof above.
"Now to work!" cried the poet. He opened his portfolio, and seized his pen, but not one line could he write. Think of it! To live in a pavilion of the time of Louis XV., on the edge of a forest in that beautiful country about Etiolles, to which the memory of the Pompadour is attached by knots of rose-colored ribbons and diamond buckles. To have around him every essential for poetry,--a charming woman named in memory of Goethe's heroine, a Henri II. chair in which to write, a small white goat to follow him from place to place, and an antique clock to mark the hours and to connect the prosaic Present with the romance of the Past! All these were very imposing, but the brain was as sterile as when D'Argenton had given lessons all day and retired to his garret at night, worn out in body and mind.
When Charlotte's step was heard on the stairs, he assumed an expression of profound absorption. "Come in," he said, in reply to her knock, timidly repeated. She entered fresh and gay, her beautiful arms bared to the elbows, and with so rustic an air that the rice-powder on her face seemed to be the flour from some theatrical mill in an opera bouffe.
"I have come to see my poet," she said, as she came in. She had a way of drawling out the word poet that exasperated him. "How are you getting on?" she continued. "Are you pleased?"
"Pleased? Can one ever be pleased or satisfied in this terrible profession, which is a perpetual strain on every nerve!"
"That is true enough, my friend; and yet I would like to know--"
"To know what? Have you any idea how long it took Goethe to write his _Faust?_ And yet he lived in a thoroughly artistic atmosphere. He was not condemned, as I am, to absolute solitude--mental solitude, I mean."
The poor woman listened in silence. From having so often listened to similar complaints from D'Ar-genton, she had at last learned to understand the reproaches conveyed in his words.
The poet's tone signified, "It is not you who can fill the blank around me." In fact, he found her stupid, and was bored to death when alone with her.
Without really being conscious of it, the thing that had fascinated him in this woman was the frame in which she was set. He adored the luxury by which she was surrounded. Now that he had her all to himself--transformed and rechristened her, she had lost half her charm in his eyes, and yet she was more lovely than ever. It was amusing to witness the air of business with which he opened each morning the three or four journals to which he subscribed. He broke the seals as if he expected to find in their columns something of absorbing personal interest; as, for example, a critique of his unwritten poem, or a resume of the book that he meant some day to write. He read these journals without missing one word, and always found something to arouse his contempt or anger. Other people were so fortunate: their pieces were played; and what pieces they were! Their books were printed; and such books! As for himself, his ideas were stolen before he could write them down.
"You know, Charlotte, yesterday a new play by Emile Angier was produced; it was simply my _Pommes D'Atlante_."
"But that is outrageous! I will write myself to this Monsieur Angier," said poor Lottie, in a great state of indignation.
During these remarks, Jack said not one word; but as D'Argenton lashed himself into frenzy, his old antipathy to the child revived, and the heavy frowns with which he glanced toward the little fellow showed him very clearly that his hatred was only smothered, and would burst forth on the smallest provocation.


CHAPTER X.~~THE FIRST APPEARANCE OF BELISAIRE.
One afternoon, when D'Argenton and Charlotte had gone to drive, Jack, who was alone with Mother Archambauld, saw that he must relinquish his usual excursion to the forest on account of a storm that was coming up.
The July sky was heavy with black clouds, copper-colored on the edges; distant rumblings of thunder were heard, and the valley had that air of expectation which often precedes a storm.
Fatigued by the child's restlessness, the forester's wife looked out at the weather, and said to Jack,--
"Come, Master Jack, it does not rain; and it would be very kind of you to go and get me a little grass for my rabbits."
The child, enchanted at being of use, took a basket and went gayly off to search in a ditch for the food the rabbits liked.
The white road stretched before him, the rising wind blew the dust in clouds, when suddenly Jack heard a voice crying, "Hats! Hats to sell! Nice Panamas!"
Jack looked over the edge of the ditch, and saw a pedler carrying on his shoulders an enormous basket piled with straw hats. He walked as if he were footsore and weary.
Have you ever thought how dismal the life of an itinerant salesman must be? He knows not where he will sleep at night, or even that he can obtain the shelter of a barn; for the average peasant always regards a pedler, or any stranger, indeed, as an adventurer, and watches him with distrustful eyes.
"Hats! Hats to sell!" For whose ears did he intend this repetition of his monotonous cry? There was not a person in sight, nor a house. Was it for the benefit of the birds, who, feeling the coming of the storm, had taken shelter in the trees? The man took a seat on a pile of stones, while Jack, on the other side of the road, examined him with much curiosity. His face was forbidding to a certain extent, but expressed so much suffering in the heavy features, that Jack's kind heart was filled with pity. At that moment a thunder-clap was heard; the man looked up at the skies anxiously, and then called to Jack to ask how far off the village was.
"Half a mile exactly," answered the child.
"And the shower will be here in a few moments," said the pedler, despairingly. "All my hats will be wet, and I shall be ruined."
The child thought of his own memorable journey, and he wished to do a kind act.
"You can come to our house," he said, "and then your hats will not be injured." The pedler grasped eagerly at this permission, for his merchandise was so delicate. The two hurried on as fast as possible; the man walking, however, as if he were treading on hot iron.
"Are you in pain?" asked the child.
"Yes, indeed, I am; my shoes are too small for me; you see my feet are so big that I can never find anything large enough for them. O, if I should ever be rich, I would have a pair of shoes made to measure!"
They reached Aulnettes. The pedler deposited in the hall his scaffold of hats, and stood there humbly enough. But Jack led him into the dining-room, saying, "You must have a glass of wine and a bit of bread."
Mother Archambauld frowned, but nevertheless put on the table a big loaf and a pot of wine.
"Now a slice of ham," said Jack, in a tone of command.
"But the master does not wish any one to touch the ham," said the old woman, grumbling. In fact, D'Argenton was something of a glutton, and there were always some dainties in the pantry preserved for his especial enjoyment.
"Never mind! bring it out!" said the child, delighted at playing the part of host.
The good woman obeyed reluctantly. The ped-ler's appetite was of the most formidable description, and while he supped he told his simple story. His name was Belisaire, and he was the eldest of a large family, and spent the summer wandering from town to town.--A violent thunder-clap shook the house, the rain fell in torrents, and the noise was terrific. At that moment some one knocked. Jack turned pale. "They have come!" he said with a gasp.
It was D'Argenton who entered, accompanied by Charlotte. They were not to have returned until late, but seeing the approach of the storm, they had given up their plan. They were, however, wet to the skin, and the poet was in a fearful rage with himself and every one else. "A fire in the parlor," he said, in a tone of command.
But while they were taking off their wraps in the hall; D'Argenton perceived the formidable pile of hats.
"What is that?" he asked. Ah! if Jack could but have sunk a hundred feet under ground with his stranger guest and the littered table! The poet entered the room, looked about, and understood everything. The child stammered a word or two of apology, but the other did not listen.
"Come here, Charlotte. Master Jack receives his friends to-day, it seems."
"O, Jack! Jack!" cried the mother in a horrified tone of reproach.
"Do not scold him, madame," stammered Belisaire. "I only am in fault!"
Here D'Argenton, out of all patience, threw open the door with a most imposing gesture. "Go at once," he said, violently; "how dare you come into this house?"
Belisaire, to whom no manner of humiliation was new, offered no word of remonstrance, but snatched