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Jack, a novel by Alphonse Daudet |
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Chapter 6. Amaury D'argenton |
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_ CHAPTER VI. AMAURY D'ARGENTON Amaury d'Argenton belonged to one of those ancient provincial families whose castles resembled great farms. Impoverished for the three last generations, they had finally sold their property, and come to Paris to seek their fortunes; with little change for the better, however; and for the last thirty years they had dropped the _De_, which Amaury ventured to resume on adopting his literary career. He meant to make it famous, and even was audacious enough to announce this intention aloud. The childhood of the poet had been one of gloom and privation; surrounded by anxieties and by tears, by sordid cares, and that constant lack of money which imbitters the lives of so many of us, he had never laughed nor played like other children. A scholarship that was obtained for him enabled him to complete his studies, and his only recreation was obtained through the kindness of an aunt who resided in the Marais, and who gave him gloves and other trifles, which the poet very early in life learned to regard as essentials. Such a childhood ripens early into bitter maturity. Infinite prosperity is needed to efface such early impressions, and we often see men who have attained to high honors, who are rich and powerful, and yet who have never conquered the timidity born of their early deprivations. D'Argenton's bitterness was not without reason: at twenty-five he had succeeded in nothing; he had published a volume at his own expense, and had lived on bread and water in consequence for at least six months. He was industrious as well as ambitious; but something more than these qualities are essential to a poet, whose imagination and genius must be endowed with wings. These D'Argenton had not; he felt merely that vague uneasiness which indicates a missing limb, but that was all, and he lost both time and trouble in ineffectual efforts; his aunt aided him by a small allowance, but his life bore not the shadow of a resemblance to the picture drawn by Ida. In fact, D'Argenton had never been entangled in any serious love affair; his nature was cold and prudent, and yet he had been beloved by more than one woman. To D'Argenton, however, their society had always seemed a waste of time. Ida de Barancy was the first who had made upon him any real impression. Of this fact Ida had no idea, and whenever she met the poet on her very frequent visits to Jack, it was always with the same deprecating air and timid voice. The poet, while adopting an air of utter indifference, cultivated the affection and society of little Jack, whom he induced to talk freely of his mother. Jack being extremely flattered, gladly gave every information in his power, and talked freely of the kind friend who was so good to mamma. The mention of this person cost the poet a strange pang. "He is so kind," babbled Jack, "he comes to see us every day; or, if he does not come, he sends us great baskets of fruit, and playthings for me." "And is your mother very fond of him, too?" continued D'Argenton, without looking up from his writing. "Yes, indeed, sir," answered the little fellow, innocently. But are we quite sure that he spoke so innocently. The minds of children are not always so transparent as we believe; and it is difficult to say when they understand matters that go on about them, and when they do not. That mysterious growth that is constantly going on within them, has unexpected seasons of bursting into flower, and they suddenly mass together the disconnected fragments of information they have acquired and intuitively attain the result. Had Jack, therefore, no perception of the hidden rage that filled the heart of his professor when he questioned him in regard to their kind friend? Jack did not like D'Argenton; in addition to his first dislike, he was now actuated by strong jealousy. His mother was too much occupied by this man. When he passed the day with her, she in her turn plied him with questions, and asked if his teacher never spoke to him of her. "Never," said Jack, calmly. And yet that very day D'Argenton had desired him to present his compliments to the countess, with a copy of his poems; but Jack at first forgot the volume, and finally lost it, as much from cunning as from heedlessness. Thus, while these two dissimilar natures were attracted toward each other, the child stood between them suspicious and defiant, as if he already foresaw what the future would bring about. Every two weeks Jack dined with his mother, sometimes alone with her, sometimes with their friend. They went to the theatre in the evening, or to a concert, and Jack was sent back to school with his pockets full of dainties, in which the other children shared. One evening, as he entered his mother's house, he saw the dining-table laid for three, and a gorgeous display of flowers and crystal. His mother met him, exquisitely dressed, wearing in her hair sprays of white lilacs, like those that filled the vases. The blazing fire alone lighted the salon, into which she gayly drew the boy, as she said, "Guess who is here!" "O, I know very well!" exclaimed Jack in delight; "it is our good friend." But it was D'Argenton, who sat in full evening dress on the sofa, near the fire. The enemy was in Jack's own seat, and the child was so overwhelmed by his disappointment that he with difficulty restrained his tears. There was a moment of restraint and discomfort felt by all three. Just then the door was thrown open, and dinner announced by Augustin. The dinner was long and tedious to little Jack. Have you ever felt so entirely out of place that you would have gladly disappeared from off the face of the globe, painfully conscious, withal, that had you so vanished, no one would have missed you? When Jack spoke, no one listened; his questions were unheard and his wants unheeded. The conversation between his mother and D'Argenton was incomprehensible to him, although he saw that his mother blushed more than once, and hastily raised her glass to her lips as if to conceal her rising color. Where were those gay little dinners when Jack sat close at his mother's side and reigned an absolute king at the table? This recollection came to the boy's mind just as Madame de Barancy offered a superb pear to D'Argenton. "That came from our friend at Tours," said Jack, maliciously. D'Argenton, who was about to peel the fruit, dropped it upon his plate with a shrug of the shoulders. What an angry glance Ida threw upon her child! She had never looked at him in that way before. Jack did not venture to speak again, and the evening to him was but a dreary continuation of the repast. Ida and the poet talked in low voices, and in that confidential tone that indicates great intimacy. He told her of his sad childhood and of his early home. He described the ruined towers and the long corridors where the wind raged and howled. He then depicted his early struggles in the great city, the constant obstacles thrown in the way of the development of his genius, of his jealous rivals and literary enemies, and of the terrible epigrams which he had hurled upon them. "Then I uttered these stinging words." This time she did not interrupt him, but listened with a smile, and her absorption was so great that when he ceased speaking she still listened, although nothing was to be heard in the salon save the ticking of the clock and the rustling of the leaves of the album that Jack, half asleep, was turning over. Suddenly she rose with a start. "Come, Jack, my love; call Constant to take you back to school. It is quite time." "O, mamma!" said the child, sadly; but he dared not say that he generally remained much later. He did not wish to be troublesome to his mother, nor to meet again such an expression in her ordinarily serene and laughing eyes, as had so startled him at the dinner-table. She rewarded him for his self-control by a most loving embrace. "Good night, my child!" said D'Argenton, and he drew the child toward him as if to embrace him, but suddenly, with a movement of repulsion, turned aside as he had done at dinner from the fruit. "I cannot! I cannot!" he murmured, throwing himself back in his arm-chair and passing his handkerchief over his forehead. Jack turned to his mother in amazement. "Go, dear Jack. Take him away, Constant." And while Madame de Barancy sought to conciliate her poet, the child returned with a heavy heart to his school; and in the cold dormitory, as he thought of the professor installed in his mother's chimney-corner, said to himself, "He is very comfortable there. I wonder how long he means to stay!" In D'Argenton's exclamation and in his repugnance to Jack, there was certainly some acting, but there was also real feeling. He was very jealous of the child, who represented to him Ida's past, not that the poet was profoundly in love with the countess. He, on the contrary, loved himself in her, and, Narcissus-like, worshipped his own image which he saw reflected in her clear eyes. But D'Argenton would have preferred to be the first to disturb those depths. But these regrets were useless, though Ida shared them. "Why did I not know him earlier?" she said to herself over and over again. "She ought to understand by this time," said D'Argenton, sulkily, "that I do not wish to see that boy." But even for her poet's sake Ida could not keep her child away from her entirely. She did not, however, go so often to the academy, nor summon Jack from school, as she had done, and this change was by no means the smallest of the sacrifices she was called upon to make. As to the hotel she occupied, her carriage, and the luxury in which she lived, she was ready to abandon them all at a word from D'Argenton. "You will see," she said, "how I can aid you. I can work, and, besides, I shall not be completely penniless." But D'Argenton hesitated. He was, notwithstanding his apparent enthusiasm and recklessness, extremely methodical and clear-headed. "No, we will wait a while. I shall be rich some day, and then--" He alluded to his old aunt, who now made him an allowance and whose heir he would unquestionably be. "The good old lady was very old," he added. And the two, Ida and D'Argenton, made a great many plans for the days that were to come. They would live in the country, but not so far away from Paris that they would be deprived of its advantages. They would have a little cottage, over the door of which should be inscribed this legend: _Parva domus, magna quies_. There he could work, write a book--a novel, and later, a volume of poems. The titles of both were in readiness, but that was all. Then the publishers would make him offers; he would be famous, perhaps a member of the Academy--though, to be sure, that institution was mildewed, moth-eaten, and ready to fall. "That is nothing!" said Ida; "you must be a member!" and she saw herself already in a corner on a reception-day, modestly and quietly dressed, as befitted the wife of a man of letters. While they waited, however, they regaled themselves on the pears sent by "the kind friend, who was certainly the best and least suspicious of men." D'Argenton found these pears, with their satiny skins, very delicious; but he ate them with so many expressions of discontent, and with so many little cutting remarks to Ida, that she spent much of her time in tears. Weeks and months passed on in this way without any other change in their lives than that which naturally grew out of an increasing estrangement between Moronval and his professor of literature. The principal, daily expecting a decision from Ida on the subject of the Review, suspected D'Argenton of influencing her against the project, and this belief he ended by expressing to the poet. One morning, Jack, who now went out but rarely, looked out of the windows with longing eyes. The spring sunshine was so bright, the sky so blue, that he longed for liberty and out-door life. The leaf-buds of the lilacs were swelling, and the flower-beds in the garden were gently upheaved, as if with the movements of invisible life. From the lane without came the sounds of children at play, and of singing-birds, all revelling in the sunshine. It was one of those days when every window is thrown open to let in the light and air, and to drive away all wintry shadows, all that blackness imparted by the length of the nights and the smoke of the fires. While Jack was longing for wings, the door-bell rang, and his mother entered in great haste and much agitated, although dressed with great care. She came for him to breakfast with her in the Bois, and would not bring him back until night. He must ask Moronval's permission first; but as Ida brought the quarterly payment, you may imagine that permission was easily granted. "How jolly!" cried Jack; "how jolly!" and while his mother casually informed Moronval that M. d'Argenton had told her the evening previous that he was summoned to Auvergne, to his aunt who was dying, the boy ran to change his dress. On his way he met Madou, who, sad and lonely, was busy with his pails and brooms, and had not had time to find out that the air was soft and the sunshipe warm. On seeing him, Jack had a bright idea. "O, mamma, if we could take Madou!" This permission was a little difficult to procure, so multifarious were the duties of the prince; but Jack was so persistent that kind Madame Moronval agreed for that day to assume the black boy's place. "Madou! Madou!" cried the child, rushing toward him. "Quick, dress yourself and come out in the carriage with us; we are going to breakfast in the Bois!" There was a moment of confusion. Madou stood still in amazement, while Madame Moronval borrowed a tunic that would be suitable for him in this emergency. Little Jack danced with joy, while Madame de Barancy, excited like a canary by the noise, chattered on to Moronval, giving him details in regard to the illness of D'Argenton's aunt. At last they started, Jack and his mother seated side by side in the victoria, and Madou on the box with Augustin. The progress would hardly be regarded as a royal one, but Madou was satisfied. The drive itself was charming, the Avenue de l'Imperatrice was filled with people driving, riding, and walking. Children of all ages enlivened the scene. Babies, in their long white skirts, gazing about with the sweet solemnity of infancy, and older children fancifully dressed, with their tutors or nurses, crowded the pavements. Jack, in an ecstasy of delight, kissed his mother, and pulled Madou by the sleeve. "Are you happy, Madou?" "Yes, sir, very happy," was the answer. They reached the Bois, in places quite green and fresh already. There were some spots where the tops of the trees were in leaf, but the foliage was so minute that it looked like smoke. The holly, whose crisp, stiff leaves had been covered with snow half the winter, jostled the timid and distrustful lilacs whose leaf-buds were only beginning to swell The carriage drew up at the restaurant, and while the breakfast ordered by Madame de Barancy was in course of preparation, she and the children took a walk to the lake. At this early hour there were few of those superb equipages to be seen that appeared later in the day. The lake was lovely, with white swans dotting it here and there, and now and then a gentle ripple shook its surface, and miniature waves dashed against the fringe of old willows on one side. What a walk! And what a breakfast served at the open windows! The children attacked it with the vigor of schoolboys. They laughed incessantly from the beginning to the end of the repast. When breakfast was over, Ida proposed that they should visit the _Jardin d'Acclimation_. "That is a splendid idea," said Jack, "for Madou has never been there, and won't he be amused!" They drove through _La Grande Allee_ in the almost deserted garden, which to the children was full of interest. They were fascinated by the animals, who, as they passed, looked at them with sleepy or inquisitive eyes, or smelled with pink nostrils at the fresh bread they had brought from the restaurant. Madou, who at first had made a pretence of interest only to gratify Jack, now became absorbed in what he saw. He did not need to examine the blue ticket over the little inclosures to recognize certain animals from his own land. With mingled pain and pleasure he looked at the kangaroos, and seemed to suffer in seeing them in the limited space which they covered in three leaps. He stood in silence before the light grating where the antelopes were inclosed. The birds, too, awakened his compassion. The ostriches and cassowaries looked mournful enough in the shade of their solitary exotic; but the parrots and smaller birds in a long cage, without even a green leaf or twig, were absolutely pitiful, and Madou thought of the Academy Moronval and of himself. The plumage of the birds was dull and torn; they told a tale of past battles, of dismal flutterings against the bars of their prison-house. Even the rose-colored flamingoes and the long-billed ibex, who seem associated with the Nile and the desert and the immovable sphinx, all assumed a thoroughly commonplace aspect among the white peacocks and the little Chinese ducks that paddled at ease in their miniature pond. By degrees the garden filled up with people, and there suddenly appeared at the end of the avenue so strange and fantastic a spectacle that Madou stood still in silent ecstasy. He saw the heads of two elephants, who were slowly approaching, waving their trunks slowly, and bearing on their broad backs a crowd of women with light umbrellas, of children with straw hats and colored ribbons. Following the elephant came a giraffe carrying his small and haughty head very high. This singular caravan wound through the circuitous road, with many nervous laughs and terrified cries. Under the glowing sunlight every tint of color was thrown out in relief upon the thick and rugged skin of the elephants, who extended their trunks either toward the tops of the trees or to the pockets of the spectators, shaking their long ears when gently touched by some child, or by the umbrella of some laughing girl on their backs. "What is the matter, Madou; you tremble. Are you ill?" asked Jack. Madou was absolutely faint with emotion, but when he learned that he too could mount the clumsy animals, his grave face became almost tragic in expression. Jack refused to accompany him, and remained with his mother, whom he considered too grave for this fete-day. He liked to walk close at her side, or linger behind her in the dust of her long silken skirts, which she disdained to lift. They seated themselves, and watched the little black boy climb on the back of the elephant. Once there, the child seemed in his native place. He was no longer an exile, nor the awkward schoolboy, nor the little servant, humiliated by his menial duties and by his master's tyranny. He seemed imbued with new life, and his eyes sparkled with energy and determination. Happy little king! Two or three times he went around the garden. "Again! again!" he cried, and over the little bridge, between the inclosures of the kangaroos and other animals, he went to and fro, excited almost to madness by the heavy long strides of the elephant. Kerika, Dahomey, war-like scenes, and the hunt, all returned to his memory. He spoke to the elephant in his native tongue, and as he heard the sweet African voice, the huge creature shut his eyes with delight and trumpeted his pleasure. The zebras neighed, and the antelopes started in terror, while from the great cage of tropical birds, where the sun shone most fully, came warblings and flutterings of wings, discordant screams, and an enraged chatter, all the tumult, in short, on a small scale, of a primeval forest in the tropics. But it was growing late. Madou must awaken from this beautiful dream. Besides, as soon as the sun dropped behind the horizon, the wind rose keen and cold, as so often happens in the early spring. This wintry chill affected the spirits of the children, and they grew strangely quiet and sad. Madame de Barancy for a wonder was also very silent. She had something she wished to say, and she probably found some difficulty in selecting her words, for she left them unsaid until the last moment. Then she took Jack's hand in hers. "Listen, child, I have some bad news to tell you!" He understood at once that some great misfortune was impending, and he turned his supplicating eyes toward his mother. She continued in a low, quick voice,-- "I am going away, my son, on a long journey; I am obliged to leave you behind, but I will write to you. Do not cry, dear, for it hurts me; I shall not be gone long, and we shall soon see each other again. Yes, very soon, I promise you." And she threw out mysterious hints of a fortune to come, and money affairs, and other things that were not at all interesting to the child, who in reality paid little attention to her words, for he was weeping silently but chokingly. The gay streets seemed no longer the Paris of the morning, the sunshine was gone, the flowers on the corner-stands were faded, and all was very dreary, for he saw through eyes dim with tears, and the child was about to lose his mother. _ |
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