Jack, Alphonse Daudet [books to read as a couple TXT] 📗

or not, the Superior found himself compelled to follow her through an obscure recital, whose connecting thread she broke at every step, without looking to see how she should ever get back again to the light.
The name of Barancy was not hers, but if she should tell him her name, he would be astonished. The honor of one of the oldest families in France was concerned, and she would rather die than speak.
The Superior hastened to assure her that he had no intention of questioning her, but she would not listen to him. She was started, and a wind-mill under full sail would have been more easily arrested than her torrent of words, of which probably not one was true, for she contradicted herself perpetually throughout her incoherent discourse, yet withal there was something sincere, something touching even in this love between mother and child. They had always been together. He had been taught at home by masters, and she wished now to separate from him only because of his intelligence and his eyes that saw things that were not intended for his vision.
"The best thing to do, it seems to me," said the priest, gravely, "would be to live such a life that you need fear neither the scrutiny of your child nor of any one else."
"That was my wish, sir," she answered. "As Jack grew older, I wished to make his home all that which it ought to be. Besides, before long, my position will be assured. For some time I have been thinking of marrying, but to do this it was necessary to send my boy away for a time that he might obtain the education worthy of the name he ought to bear. I thought that nowhere could he do as well as here, but at one blow you repulse him and discourage his mother's good resolutions."
Here the Superior arrested her with an exclamation of astonishment. He hesitated a moment; then looking her straight in her eyes, said,--
"So be it, madame. I yield to your wishes. Little Jack pleases me very much; I consent to receive him among our pupils."
"My dear sir!"
"But on two conditions."
"I am ready to accept all."
"The first is, that until the day that your position is assured, the child shall spend his vacations under this roof, and shall not return to yours."
"But he will die, my poor Jack, if he does not see his mother!"
"Oh, you can come here whenever you please; only--and this is my second condition--you will not see him in the parlor, but always here in my private room, where I shall take care that you are not interfered with and that no one sees you."
She rose in indignation.
The idea that she could never enter the parlor, or be present on the reception-days, when she could astonish the other guests with the beauty of her child, with the richness of her toilette, that she could never say to her friends, "I met at the school, yesterday, Madame de C------, or Madame de V------," that she must meet Jack in secret, all this revolted her.
The astute priest had struck well.
"You are cruel with me, sir. You oblige me to refuse the favor for which I have so earnestly entreated, but I must protect my dignity as woman and mother. Your conditions are impossible. And what would my child think--"
She stopped, for outside the glass she saw the fair, curly head of the child, with eyes brightened by the fresh air and by his anxiety. Upon a sign from his mother, he entered quickly.
"Ah, mamma, how good you are! I was afraid you were gone!"
She took his hand hastily.
"You will go with me," she answered; "we are not wanted here."
And she sailed out erect and haughty, leading the boy, who was stupefied by this departure which so strongly resembled a flight. She hardly acknowledged the respectful salute of the good father, who had also risen hastily from his chair; but quickly as she moved, it was not too quick for Jack to hear a gentle voice murmur, "Poor child! poor child!" in a tone of compassion that went to his heart. He was pitied--and why? For a long time he pondered over this.
The Superior was not mistaken. Madame la Comtesse Ida de Barancy was not a comtesse at all. Her name was not Barancy, and possibly not even Ida. Whence came she? Who was she? No one could say. These complicated existences have fortunes so diverse, a past so long and so varied, that one never knows the last shape they assume. One might liken them to those revolving lighthouses that have long intervals of shadow between their gleams of fire. Of one thing only was there any certainty: she was not a Parisian, but came from some provincial town whose accent she still retained. It was said that at the Gymnase, one evening, two Lyons merchants thought they recognized in her a certain Melanie Favrot, who formerly kept an establishment of "gloves and perfumery;" but these merchants were mistaken.
Again, an officer in the Hussars insisted that he had seen her eight years before at Orleans. He also was mistaken. And we all know that resemblances are often impertinences.
Madame de Barancy had however travelled much, and made no concealment of the fact, but an absolute sorcerer would have been needed to evolve any facts from the contradictory accounts she gave of her origin and her life. One day Ida was born in the colonies, spoke of her mother, a charming creole, of her plantation and her negroes. Another time she had passed her childhood in a great chateau on the Loire. She seemed utterly indifferent as to the manner in which her hearers would piece together these dislocated bits of her existence.
As may be imagined, in these fantastic recitals, vanity reigned triumphant, the vanity of a chattering paroquet. Bank and money, titles and riches, were the texts of her discourse. Rich she certainly was. She had a small hotel on the Boulevard Haussmann; she had horses and carriages, gorgeous furniture in most questionable taste, three or four servants, and led a most indolent existence, trifling away her life among women like herself, less confident in her bearing, perhaps, than they, from her provincial birth and breeding. This, and a certain freshness, the result of a childhood passed in the open air, all kept her somewhat out of the current of Parisian life, where, too, being so newly arrived, she had not yet found her place.
Once each week, a man of middle age, and of distinguished appearance, came to see her. In speaking of him, Ida always said "Monsieur" with an air of such respect that one would have supposed him to be at the court of France in the days when the brother of the king was so denominated. The child spoke of him 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 coupe 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 coupe 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