Jack - Alphonse Daudet (inspirational books .TXT) 📗

"Master Jack," or "My boy,"--his two months in the hospital, his three years of alcoholic indulgence, the atmosphere of the engine-room, and the final tempestuous conclusion, had caused him such profound exhaustion, such a desire for quiet, that he sat with his pipe between his teeth, silent and half asleep.
"He is intoxicated," said D'Argent on sometimes.
This was not the case; but the young man found his only pleasure in the society of his mother on the rare occasions when the poet was absent. Then he drew his chair close to hers, and listened to her rather than talk himself. Her voice made a delicious murmur in his ears like that of the first bees on a warm spring day.
Once, when they were alone, he said to Charlotte, very slowly, "When I was a child I went on a long voyage--did I not?"
She looked at him a little troubled. It was the first time in his life that he had asked a question in regard to his history.
"Why do you wish to know?"
"Because, three years ago, the first day that I was on board a steamer, I had a singular sensation. It seemed to me that I had seen it all before; the cabins, and the narrow ladders, impressed me as familiar; it seemed to me that I had once played on those very stairs."
She looked around to assure herself that they were entirely alone.
"It was not a dream, Jack. You were three years old when we came from Algiers. Your father died suddenly, and we came back to Tours."
"What was my father's name?"
She hesitated, much agitated, for she was not prepared for this sudden curiosity; and yet she could not refuse to answer these questions.
"He was called by one of the grandest names in France, my child--by a name that you and I would bear to-day if a sudden and terrible catastrophe had not prevented him from repairing his fault. Ah, we were very young when we met! I must tell you that at that time I had a perfect passion for the chase. I remember a little Arabian horse called Soliman--"
She was gone, at full speed, mounted on this horse, and Jack made no effort to interrupt her--he knew that it was useless. But when she stopped to take breath, he profited by this brief halt to return to his fixed idea.
"What was my father's name?" he repeated.
How astonished those clear eyes looked! She had totally forgotten of whom they had been speaking. She answered quickly,--"He was called the Marquis de l'Epau." Jack certainly had but little of his mother's respect for high birth, its rights and its prerogatives, for he received with the greatest tranquillity the intelligence of his illustrious descent. What mattered it to him that his father was a marquis, and bore a distinguished name? This did not prevent his son from earning his bread as a stoker on the Cydnus.
"Look here, Charlotte," said D'Argenton impatiently, one day, "something must be done! A decided step must be taken with this boy. He cannot remain here forever without doing anything. He is quite well again; he eats like an ox. He coughs a little still, to be sure, but Dr. Hirsch says that is nothing,--that he will always cough. He must decide on something. If the life in the engine-room of a steamer is too severe for him, let him try a railroad."
Charlotte ventured to say, timidly, "If you could see how he loses his breath when he climbs the stairs, and how thin he is, you would still feel that he is far from well. Can you not employ him on some of the office work?"
"I will speak to Moronval," was the reply.
The result of this was, that Jack for some days did everything in the office except sweep the rooms. With his usual imperturbability, Jack fulfilled these various duties, enduring the contemptuous remarks of Moronval with the same indifference that he opposed to D'Argenton's cold contempt. Moronval had a certain fixed salary on the magazine; it was small, to be sure, but he added to it by supplementary labors, for which he was paid certain sums on account. The subscription books lay open on the desk, expenses went on, but no receipts came in. In fact, there was but one subscriber, Charlotte's friend at Tours, and but one proprietor, and he, with a glue-pot and brush, was at work in a corner. Neither Jack nor any one else realized this; but D'Argenton knew it and felt it hourly, and soon hated more strongly than ever the youth upon whose money he was living.
At the end of a week it was announced that Jack was useless in the office.
"But, my dear," said Charlotte, "he does all he can!"
"And what is that? He is lazy and indifferent; he knows not how to sit nor how to stand, and he falls asleep over his plate at dinner; and since this great, shambling fellow has appeared here, you have grown ten years older, my love. Besides, he drinks, I assure you that he drinks."
Charlotte bowed her head and wept; she knew that her son drank, but whose fault was it? Had they not thrown him into the gulf?
"I have an idea, Charlotte! Suppose we send him to Etiolles for change of air. We will give him a little money, and it will be a good thing for him."
She thanked him enthusiastically, and it was decided that she would go the next day to install her son at Aulnettes.
They arrived there on one of those soft autumnal mornings which have all the beauty of summer without its excessive heat. There was not a breath in the air; the birds sang loudly, the fallen leaves rustled gently, and a perfume of rich maturity of ripened grain and fruit filled the air. The paths through the woods were still green and fresh; Jack recognized them all, and, seeing them, regained a portion of his lost youth. Nature herself seemed to welcome him with open arms, and he was soothed and comforted. Charlotte left her son early the next morning, and the little house, with its windows thrown wide open to the soft air and sunlight, had a peaceful aspect.


CHAPTER XIX.~~THE CONVALESCENT.
"And to think that for five years I have been allowed to remain in the belief that my Jack was a thief!"
"But, Dr. Rivals--"
"And that if I had not happened to ask for a glass of milk at the Archambaulds, I should have continued to think so!"
It was, on feet, at the forester's cottage that Jack and his old friend had met.
For ten days the youth had been living in solitude at Aulnettes. Each day he had become more like the Jack of his childhood. The only persons with whom he held any communication were the old forester and his wife, who had served Charlotte faithfully for so long a time. She watched over his health, purchased his provisions, and often cooked his dinner over her own fire, while he sat and smoked at the door. These people never asked a question, but when they saw his thin figure and heard his constant cough, they shook their heads.
The interview between Dr. Rivals and Jack was at first embarrassing to both, but after a little conversation, and as soon as the doctor understood the truth, the awkwardness passed away.
"And now," said the old gentleman, gayly, "I hope we shall see you often. You have been sent out to grass, apparently, like an old horse, but you need more than that. You require great care, my boy, great care,--particularly in the coming season. Etiolles is not Nice, you understand. Our house is changed, for my poor wife died four years ago,--died of absolute grief. My granddaughter does her best to take her place; she keeps my books and makes up my prescriptions. How glad she will be to see you! Now when will you come?"
Jack hesitated, as if he read his thoughts. The doctor added,--
"Cecile knows nothing of all your troubles; so come without any feeling of restraint. It is too cold for you to be out late to-night; this fog is not good for you; but I shall expect you at breakfast to-morrow. Now in with you quickly; you must not be out after the dews begin to fall. If you do not appear I shall come for you."
As Jack closed the door of the house, he had a singular impression. It seemed to him that he had just come home from one of those long drives with the doctor; that he should find his mother in the dining-room, while the poet was above in the tower.
He passed the evening in the chimney-corner, before a fire made of dried grape-vines, for life in the engine-room had made him very chilly. As of old, when he returned from his country excursions with the doctor, the remembrance of his kindness and affection rendered him impervious to the slights he received at home, so now did the prospect of seeing Cecile people his solitude with dear phantoms and happy visions, that remained with him even while he slept.
The next day he knocked at the Rivals' door.
"The doctor has not come in. Mademoiselle is in the office," was the reply of the little servant who had replaced the faithful old woman he had known. Jack turned to the office; he knocked hurriedly, impatient to behold his former companion.
"Come in, Jack," said a sweet voice.
Instead of obeying, he was seized with a strange emotion of fear.
The door opened suddenly, and Jack asked himself if the charming apparition on the threshold, in her blue dress and clustering blonde hair, was not the sun itself. How intimidated he would have been had not the little hand slipped into his own recalled so many sweet recollections of their common child-hood!
"Life has been very hard for you, my grandfather tells me," she said. "I have had much sorrow, too. Dear grandmamma is dead; she loved you, and often spoke of you."
He sat opposite to her, looking at her. She was tall and graceful; as she stood leaning against the corner of an old bookcase, she bent her head slightly to talk to her friend, and reminded him of a bird.
Jack remembered that his mother was beautiful also; but in Cecile there was something indefinable--an aroma of some divine spring-time, something fresh and pure, to which Charlotte's mannerisms and graces bore little resemblance.
Suddenly, while he sat in this ecstasy before her, he caught sight of his own hand. It seemed enormous to him; it was black and hardened, and the nails were broken and deformed,--irretrievably injured by contact with fire and iron. He was ashamed, but could not conceal them even by putting them in his pocket. But he saw himself now with the eyes of others, dressed in shabby clothes and an old vest of D'Argenton's, that was too small for him and too short in the sleeves. In addition to this physical awkwardness, poor Jack was overwhelmed by the memory of all the disgraceful scenes through which he had passed. The drunken orgies, the hours of beastly intoxication, all returned to his recollection, and it seemed to him that Cecile knew them, too. The slight cloud that hung on her fair young brow, the compassion he read in her eyes, all told him that she understood his shame and humiliation. He wished to run away and shut himself into a room at Aulnettes, and never leave it again.
Fortunately, some one came into the office, and Cecile, busy at her scales, writing the labels as her grandmother had done, gave Jack time to recover his equanimity.
How good and patient she was! These