Jack. Alphonse Daudet

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СКАЧАТЬ simply as “our friend.” The servants announced him as “M. le Comte,” but among themselves they called him “the old gentleman.”

      The old gentleman was very rich, for madame spared nothing, and there was an enormous expenditure going on constantly in the house. This was managed by Mademoiselle Constant, Ida’s waiting-maid. It was this woman who gave her mistress the addresses of the tradespeople, who guided her inexperience through the mazes of life in Paris; for Ida’s pet dream and hope was to be taken for a woman of irreproachable character, and of the highest fashion.

      Thus it will be seen into what state of mind the reception of Father O———had thrown her, and in what a rage she left his presence. An elegant coupé awaited her at the door of the Institution. She threw herself into it with her child, retaining only sufficient self-command to say “home,” in so loud a voice that she was heard by a group of priests who were talking together, and who quickly dispersed before this whirlwind of furs and curled hair. In fact, as soon as the carriage-door was closed, the unhappy woman sank into a corner, not in her usual coquettish position, but overwhelmed and in tears, stifling her sobs in the quilted cushions.

      What a blow! The priest had refused to take her child, and at the first glance had discovered the humiliating truth that she believed to have thoroughly disguised under the luxurious surroundings of a woman of the world and of an irreproachable mother.

      Her wounded pride recalled with renewed flushes of shame the keen eyes of the good father. She recalled all her falsehood, all her folly, and remembered his incredulous smile at almost her first words.

      Silent and motionless in the other corner of the carriage sat Jack, looking sadly at his mother, unable to comprehend her despair. He vaguely conceived himself to be in fault, the dear little fellow, and yet was secretly glad that he had not been left at the school.

      For a fortnight he had heard of it night and day; his mother had extorted a promise from him not to weep; his trunk was packed, and all was ready, and the child’s heart was full of trouble; and now at the last moment he was reprieved.

      If his mother had not been in so much trouble now, he would have thanked her; how happy would he have been curled up at her side, under her furs, in the little coupé in which they had had so many happy hours together—hours which were now to be repeated. And Jack thought of the afternoons in the Bois, of the long drives through the gay city of Paris—a city so new to both of them, and full of excitement and interest. A monument, perhaps, or even a mere street incident, delighted them.

      “Look, Jack—”

      “Look, mamma—”

      They were two children together, and together they peered from the window—the child’s head with its golden curls close to the mother’s face tightly veiled in black lace.

      A despairing cry from Madame de Barancy aroused the boy from all these sweet recollections. “Mon dieu!” she cried, wringing her hands, “what have I done to be so wretched?”

      This exclamation naturally elicited no response, and little Jack, not knowing what to say, or how to console her, timidly caressed her hand, even at last kissing it with the fervor of a lover.

      She started and looked wildly at him.

      “Ah! cruel, cruel child, what harm you have done me in this world!”

      Jack turned pale. “I? What have I done?”

      He loved but one person on the face of the earth, his mother. He thought her absolutely perfect; and without knowing it, he had injured her in some mysterious way. The poor child was now overwhelmed with despair also, but remained utterly silent, as if the noisy demonstrations of his mother had shocked him, and made him ashamed of any manifestations on his own part. He was seized with a sort of nervous spasm. His mother took him in her arms. “No, no, dear child, I was only in jest; be sensible, dear. What! must I rock my long-legged boy as if he were a baby? No, little Jack, you never did me any harm. It is I who did wrong. Come, do not weep any more. See, I am not crying.”

      And the strange creature, forgetful of her recent grief, laughed gayly, that Jack too might laugh. It was one of the privileges of this inconsequent nature never to retain impressions for any length of time. Singularly enough, too, the tears she had just shed only seemed to add new freshness and brilliancy to her youthful beauty, as a sudden shower upon a dove’s plumage seems to bring out new lustre without penetrating below the surface.

      “Where are we now?” said she, suddenly dropping the window that was covered with mist. “At the Madeleine. How quickly we have come! We must stop somewhere; at the pastry-cook’s, I think. Dry your eyes, little one, we will buy some meringues.”

      They alighted at the fashionable confectioner’s, where there was a great crowd. Rich furs and rustling silks crushed each other; and women’s faces with veils half lifted were reflected in the surrounding mirrors which were set in gilt frames and cream-colored panels; glittering glass, and a variety of cakes and dainties delighted the spectators. Madame de Barancy and her child were much looked at. This charmed her, and this small success following upon the mortification of the previous hour, gave her an appetite. She called for a quantity of meringues and nougat, and finished by a glass of wine. Jack followed her example, but with more moderation, his great grief having filled his eyes with unshed tears and his heart with suppressed sighs.

      When they left the shop the weather was so fine, although cold, and the flower-market of the Madeleine so fragrant with the sweet perfume of violets, that Ida determined to dismiss the carriage and return on foot. Briskly, and yet with a certain slowness of step, that indicated a woman accustomed to admiration, she started on her walk, leading Jack by the hand. The fresh air, the gay streets and attractive shops, quite restored Ida’s good-humor. Then suddenly, by what connection of ideas I know not, she remembered a masqued ball to which she was going that night, preceded by a restaurant dinner.

      “Mercy! I had forgotten. Hurry! little Jack—quick!” She wanted flowers, a bouquet, a dozen forgotten trifles: and the child, whose life had always been made up of just such trifles, and who felt as much as his mother the subtile charm of these elegances, followed her in high glee, delighted by the idea of the fête that he was not to see. The toilette of his mother always interested him, and he fully appreciated the admiration her beauty excited as they went through the streets and into the various shops.

      “Exquisite! exquisite! Yes, you may send it to me—Boulevard Haussmann.”

      Madame de Barancy tossed down her card, and went out, talking gayly to Jack of the beauty of her purchases. Suddenly she assumed a graver air. “Remember, Jack, what I say. Do not tell our good friend that I went to this ball; it is a great secret, It is five o’clock. How Constant will scold!”

      She was not mistaken.

      Her maid, a tall, stout person of forty years, ugly and masculine, rushed toward Ida as she entered the house.

      “The costume is here. There is no sense in being so late. Madame will not be ready in season. No one could make her toilette in such a little while.”

      “Don’t scold, Constant. If you only knew what had happened. Look!” and she pointed to Jack.

      The factotum seemed utterly out of patience. “What! Master Jack back again! That is very naughty, sir, after all you promised. The police will have to come and take you to school; your mother is too good.”

      “No, no, it was not he. The priest would not have him. Do you understand? СКАЧАТЬ