Jack - Alphonse Daudet (inspirational books .TXT) 📗

was at first some talk of the marriage taking place in Paris with great pomp, but Nadine reflected that it was not wise to brave the paternal authority on this point, so the ceremony took place at Etiolles, in the little church where to this very day are to be seen the records of an irreparable falsehood. How happy I was that morning as I entered the church with my daughter trembling on my arm, feeling that she owed all her happiness to me!
"Then, after mass, breakfast at the house, and the departure of the bridal couple in a post-chaise--I can see them now as they drove away.
"The ones who go are generally happy; those who stay are sad enough. When we took our seats at the table that night, the empty chair at our side was dreary enough. I had business which took me out-of-doors; but the poor mother was alone the greater part of the time, and her heart was devoured by her regrets. Such is the destiny of women; all their sorrows and their griefs come from within, and are interwoven with their daily lives and employments.
"The letters that we soon began to receive from Pisa, and Florence, were radiant with happiness. I began to build a little house by the side of our own; we chose the furniture and the wall papers. 'They are here--they are there,' we said; and at last we expected the final letters we should receive before they returned.
"One evening I came in late; my wife had gone to her room; I supped alone; when suddenly I heard a step in the garden. The door opened, my daughter appeared; but she was no longer the fair young girl whom I had parted with a month before. She looked thin and ill, was poorly dressed, and carried in her hand a little travelling-bag.
"'It is I,' she whispered hoarsely; 'I have come.'
"'Good heavens! what has happened? Where is Nadine?'
"She did not answer; her eyes closed, and she trembled violently from head to foot. You may imagine my suspense.
"'Speak to me, my child. What has happened? Where is your husband?'
"'I have none--I have never had one;' and suddenly, without looking at me, she began to tell me, in a low voice, her horrible history.
"He was not a count, his name was not Nadine. He was a Russian Jew by the name of Roesh, a miserable adventurer. He was married at Riga, married at St. Petersburg. All his papers were false, manufactured by himself. His resources he owed to his skill in counterfeiting bills on the Russian bank. At Turin he had been arrested on an order of extradition. Think of my little girl alone in this foreign town, separated violently from her husband, learning abruptly that he was a forger and a bigamist,--for he made a full confession of his crimes. She had but one thought, that of seeking refuge with us. Her brain was so bewildered, that, as she told us afterwards, when she was asked where she was going, she simply answered 'To mamma.' She left Turin hastily, without her luggage, and at last she was safe with us, and weeping for the first time since the catastrophe.
"I said, 'Restrain yourself, my love, you will awaken your mother!' but my tears fell as fast as her own. The next day my wife learned all; she did not reproach me. 'I knew,' she said, 'from the beginning that there was some misfortune in this marriage.' And, in fact, she had certain presentiments of evil from the hour that the man came under our roof. What is the diagnosis of a physician compared to the warning and confidences whispered by destiny into the ear of certain women? In the neighborhood the arrival of my child was quickly known. 'Your travellers have returned,' they said. They asked few questions, for they readily saw that I was unhappy. They noticed that the count was not with us, that Madeleine and her mother never went out; and very soon I found myself met with compassionate glances that were harder to bear than anything else. My daughter had not confided to me that a child would be born from this disastrous union, but sat sewing day after day, ornamenting the dainty garments, which are the joy and pride of mothers, with ribbons and lace; I fancied, however, that she looked at them with feelings of shame, for the least allusion to the man who had deceived her made her turn pale. But my wife, who saw things with clearer vision than my own, said, 'You are mistaken: she loves him still.'
"Yes, she loved, and strong as was her contempt and distrust, her love was stronger still. It was this that killed her, for she died soon after Cecile's birth. We found under her pillow a letter, worn in all its folds, the only one she had ever received from Nadine, written before their marriage. She had read it often, but she died without once pronouncing the name that I am sure trembled all the time on her lips.
"You are astonished that in a tranquil village like this a complicated drama could have been enacted, such as would seem possible only in the crowded cities of London and Paris. When fate thus attacks, by chance as it were, a little corner so sheltered by hedges and trees, I am reminded of those spent balls which during a battle kill a laborer at work in the fields, or a child returning from school. I think if we had not had little Cecile, my wife would have died with her daughter. Her life from that hour was one long silence, full of regrets and self-reproach.
"But it was necessary to bring up this child, and to keep her in ignorance of the circumstances of her birth. This was a matter of difficulty; it is true that we were relieved of her father, who died a few months after his condemnation. Unfortunately, several persons knew the whole story; and we wished to preserve Cecile from all the gossip she would hear if she associated with other children. You saw how solitary her life was. Thanks to this precaution, she to-day knows nothing of the tempest that surrounded her birth; for not one of the kind people about us would utter one word which would give her reason to suspect that there was any mystery. My wife, however, was always in dread of some childish questions from Cecile. But I had other fears: who could be certain that the child of my child did not inherit from her father some of his vices? I acknowledge to you, Jack, that for years I dreaded seeing her father's characteristics in Cecile; I dreaded the discovery of deceit and falsehood; but what joy it has been to me to find that the child is the perfected image of her mother! She has the same tender and half-sad smile, the same candid eyes, and lips that can say No.
"Meanwhile the future alarmed me: my granddaughter must some day learn the truth, and that truth must be divulged if she should ever marry.
"'She must never love any one,' said her grandmother.
"If this were possible, would it be wise to pass through life without a protector? Her destiny must be united with a fate as exceptional as her own. Such a one could hardly be found in our village, and in Paris we knew no one. It was about the time when these anxieties occupied our minds that your mother came to this place. She was supposed to be the wife of D'Argenton, but the forester's wife told me the real circumstances. I said to myself instantly, 'This boy ought to be Cecile's husband;' and from that time I attended to your education.
"I looked forward to the time that you, a man grown, would come to me and ask her hand. This was the reason, of course, that I was so indignant when D'Argenton sent you to Indret. I said to myself, however, Jack may emerge from this trial in triumph. If he studies, if he works with his head as well as his hands, he may still be worthy of the wife I wish to give him. The letters that we received from you were all that they should be, and I ventured to indulge the hope I have named. Suddenly came the intelligence of the robbery. Ah, my friend, how terrified I was! how I bemoaned the weakness of your mother, and the tyranny of the monster who had driven you to evil courses! I respected, nevertheless, the tender affection that existed toward you in the heart of my little girl, I had not the courage to undeceive her. We talked of you constantly until the day when I told her that I had seen you at the forester's. If you could have seen the light in her eyes, and how busy she was all day! a sign with her always of some excitement, as if her heart beating too quickly needed something, either a pen or a needle, to regulate its movements.
"Now, Jack, you love my child. I have watched you for two months, and I am satisfied that the future is in your own hands. I wish you to study medicine and take my place at Etiolles. I first thought of keeping you here, but I concluded that it would take four years to complete your studies, and that your residence with us for that length of time would not be advisable. In Paris you can study in the evening, and work all day, and come to us on Sundays. I will examine your week's work and advise you, and Cecile will encourage you. Velpeau and others have done this, and you can do the same. Will you try? Cecile is the reward."
Jack was utterly overwhelmed, and could only heartily shake the hand of the old man. But perhaps Cecile's affection was only that of a sister: and four years was a long time: would she consent to wait?
"Ah, my boy, I cannot answer these questions," said M. Rivals, gayly; "but I authorize you to ask them at headquarters. Cecile is up-stairs; go and speak to her."
That was rather a difficult matter, with a heart going like a trip-hammer, and a voice choked with emotion. Cecile was writing in the office.
"Cecile," he said, as he entered the room, "I am going away." She rose from her seat, very pale. "I am going to work," he continued. "Your grandfather has given me permission to tell you that I love you, and that I hope to win you as my wife."
He spoke in so low a voice that any other person than Cecile would have failed to understand him. But she understood him very well. And in this room, lighted by the level rays of the setting sun, the young girl stood listening to this declaration of love as to an echo of her own thoughts. She was perfectly unabashed and undisturbed, a tender smile on her lips, and her eyes full of tears. She understood perfectly that their life would be no holiday, that they would be racked by separations and long years of waiting.
"Jack," she said, after he had explained all his plans, "I will wait for you, not only four years, but forever."
Jack went to Paris in search of employment, found it in the house of Eyssendeck, at six francs a day; then tried to procure lodgings not too far removed from the manufactory. He was happy, full of hope and courage, impatient to begin his double work as mechanic and student. The crowd pushed against him, and he did not feel them; nor was he conscious of the cold of this December night; nor did he hear the young