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Jack, a novel by Alphonse Daudet |
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Chapter 16. Clarisse |
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_ CHAPTER XVI. CLARISSE This was what had happened. The day after he had written to Jack's mother, the superintendent was in his office alone, when Madame Rondic entered, pale and agitated. Paying little attention to the coolness with which she was received, her conduct having for a long time habituated her to the silent contempt of all who respected themselves, she refused to sit down, and, standing erect, said slowly, attempting to conceal her emotion,-- "I have come to tell you that the apprentice is not guilty; that it is not he who has stolen my stepdaughter's dowry." The Director started from his chair. "But, ma-dame, every proof is against him." "What proofs? The most important is that, my husband being away, Jack was alone with us in the house. It is just this proof that I have come to destroy, for there was another man there that night." "What man? Chariot?" She made a sign of assent. Ah, how pale she was! "Then he took the money?" There was a moment's hesitation. The white lips parted, and an almost inaudible reply was whispered, "No, it was not he who took it; I gave it to him!" "Unhappy woman!" "Yes, most unhappy. He said that he needed it for two days only, and I bore for that time the sight of my husband's despair and of Zenaide's tears, and the fear of seeing an innocent person condemned. Nothing came from Chariot. I wrote to him that if by the next day at eleven I heard nothing, I should denounce myself,--and here I am." "But what am I to do?" "Arrest the real criminals, now that you know who they are." "But your husband--it will kill him!" "And me, too," she replied, with haughty bitterness. "To die is a very simple matter; to live is far more difficult." She spoke of death with a tone of feverish longing in her voice. "If your death could repair your fault," returned the Director, gravely; "if it could restore the money to the poor girl, I could understand why you should wish to die. But--" "What shall be done, then," she asked, plaintively; and all at once she became the Clarisse of old. Her unwonted courage and determination failed her. "First, we must know what has become of this money; he must have some of it still." Clarisse shook her head. She knew too well how madly that gambler played. She knew that he had thrust her aside, almost walked over her, to procure this money, and that he would play until he had lost his last sou. The superintendent touched his bell. A gendarme entered: "Go at once to Saint Nazarre," said his chief; "say to Chariot that I require his presence here at once. You will wait for him." "Chariot is here, sir; I just saw him come out from Madame Rondic's; he cannot be far off." "That is all right. Go after him quickly. Do not tell him, however, that Madame Rondic is here." The man hurried away. Neither the superintendent nor Clarisse spoke. She stood leaning against the corner of the desk. The jar of the machinery, the wild whistling of the steam, made a fitting accompaniment to the tumult of her soul. The door opened. "You sent for me," said Chariot, in a gay voice. The presence of Clarisse, her pallor, and the stern look of his chief, told the story. She had kept her word. For a moment his bold face lost its color, and he looked like an animal driven into a corner. "Not a word," said the Director; "we know all that you wish to say. This woman has robbed her husband and her daughter for you. You promised to return her the money in two days. Where is it?" Chariot turned beseechingly toward Clarisse. She did not look at him; she had seen him too well that terrible night. "Where is the money?" repeated the superintendent. "Here--I have brought it." What he said was true. He had kept his promise to Clarisse, but not finding her at home, had only too gladly carried it away again. His chief took up the bills. "Is it all here?" "All but eight hundred francs," the other answered, with some hesitation; "but I will return them." "Now sit down and write at my dictation," said the superintendent, sternly. Clarisse looked up quickly. This letter was a matter of life and death to her. "Write: 'It is I who, in a moment of insane folly, took six thousand francs from the wardrobe in the Rondic house.'" Chariot internally rebelled at these words, but he was afraid that Clarisse would establish the facts in all their naked cruelty. The superintendent continued: "'I return the money; it burns me. Release the poor fellows who have been suspected, and entreat my uncle to forgive me. Tell him that I am going away, and shall return only when, through labor and penitence, I shall have acquired the right to shake an honest man's hand.' Now sign it." Seeing that Chariot hesitated, the superintendent said, peremptorily, "Take care, young man! I warn you that if you do not sign this letter, and address it to me, this woman will be at once arrested." Chariot signed. "Now go," resumed the superintendent, "to Guerigny, if you will, and try to behave well. Remember, moreover, that if I hear of you in the neighborhood of Indret, you will be arrested at once." As Chariot left the room, he cast one glance at Clarisse. But the charm was broken; she turned her head away resolutely, and when the door closed tried to express her gratitude to the superintendent. "Do not thank me, madame," he said; "it is for your husband's sake that I have acted, with the hope of sparing him the most horrible torture that can overwhelm a man." "It is in my husband's name that I thank you. I am thinking of him, and of the sacrifice I must make for him." "What sacrifice?" "That of living, sir, when death would be so sweet. I am so weary." And in fact the woman looked so ill, so prostrated, that the superintendent feared some catastrophe. He answered compassionately, "Keep up your courage, madame, and remember that your husband loves you." And Jack? Ah, he had his day of triumph! The superintendent ordered a placard to be put up in all the buildings, announcing the boy's innocence. He was feted and caressed. One thing only was lacking, and that was news of Belisaire. When the prison-doors were thrown open, the pedler disappeared. Jack was greatly distressed at this, but nevertheless breakfasted merrily with Zenaide and her soldier, and had forgotten all his woes, when D'Argenton appeared, majestic and clothed in black. It was in vain that they explained the finding of the money, the innocence of Jack, and that a second letter had been sent narrating all these facts; in vain did these good people treat Jack with familiar kindness: D'Argenton's manner did not relax; he expressed in the choicest terms his regret that Jack had given so much trouble. "But it is I who owe him every apology," cried the old man. D'Argenton did not condescend to listen: he spoke of honor and duty, and of the abyss to which such evil conduct must always lead. Jack was confused, for he remembered his journey to Nantes, and the stall in which Zenaide's lover could testify to having seen him; he therefore listened with downcast eyes to the ponderous eloquence of the lecturer, who fairly talked Father Rondic to sleep. "You must be very thirsty after talking so long," said Zenaide, innocently, as she brought a pitcher of cider and a fresh cake. And the cake looked so nice, so fresh and crisp, that the poet--who was, as we know, something of an epicure--made a breach in it quite as large as that in the ham made by Beli-saire at Aulnettes. Jack had discovered one thing only from all D'Argenton's long words,--he had learned that the poet had brought the money to rescue him from disgrace, and the child began to believe that he had done the man great injustice, and that his coldness was only on the surface. The boy, therefore, had never been so respectful. This, and the cordial reception of the Rondics, put the poet into the most amiable state of mind. You should have seen him with Jack as they trod the narrow streets of Indret! "Shall I tell him that his mother is so near?" said D'Argenton, unwilling to introduce her boy to Charlotte in the character of hero and martyr; it was more than the selfish nature of the man could support. And yet, to deprive Charlotte and her son of the joy of seeing each other once more it was necessary to be provided with some reason; and this reason Jack himself soon furnished. The poor little fellow, deluded by such extraordinary amiability, acknowledged to M. d'Argenton that he did not like his present life; that he should not be anything of a machinist; that he was too far from his mother. He was not afraid of work, but he liked brain work better than manual labor. These words had hardly passed the boy's lips, when he saw a change in his hearer. "You pain me, Jack, you pain me seriously; and your mother would be very unhappy did she hear you utter such opinions. You have forgotten apparently that I have said to you a hundred times that this century was no time for Utopian dreams, for idle fancies;" and on this text he wandered on for more than an hour. And while these two walked on the side of the river, a lonely woman, tired of the solitude of her room in the inn, came down to the other bank, to watch for the boat that was to bring her the little criminal,--the boy whom she had not seen for two years, and whom she dearly loved. But D'Argenton had determined to keep them apart. It was wisest--Jack was too unsettled. Charlotte would be reasonable enough to comprehend this, and would willingly make the sacrifice for her child's interest. And thus it came to pass that Jack and his mother, separated only by the river, so near that they could have heard each other speak across its waters, did not meet that night, nor for many a long day afterwards. _ |
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