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

up his basket, cast one look of distress at the tempest out-of-doors, and another of gratitude toward little Jack--who sighed as he heard the rain falling like hail on the Panamas,--and hurried down the garden walk. No sooner had the man reached the highway, than his melancholy voice resumed the cry, "Hats! Hats to sell!"
In the dining-room profound silence reigned; the servant was kindling a fire, and Charlotte was shaking the poet's coat, while he sulkily strode up and down the room.
As he passed the table he caught sight of the ham on which the pedler's knife had made sad havoc. D'Argenton turned pale. Remember that the ham was sacred, like his wine, his mustard, and mineral water. "What! the ham, too!" he exclaimed.
Charlotte, utterly stupefied by such audacity, could only mechanically repeat his words.
"I said, madame, that they ought not to cut the ham, that such pork was too good for such a vagabond. But the little fellow does not know much yet, he is so young."
Jack by this time was quite alarmed at what he had done, and could only beg pardon in a troubled tone.
"Pardon, indeed!" cried the poet, giving way, as it must be admitted he rarely did, to his temper, and shaking the boy violently, exclaimed, "What right had you to touch that ham? You knew it was not yours. You know that nothing here is yours; for the bed you sleep on, for the food you eat, you are indebted to my bounty. And why should I care for you? I know not even your name!" Here an imploring gesture from Charlotte stopped the torrent of words. Mother Archambauld was still in the room, and listening with eagerness. The poet turned away suddenly, and rushed up stairs, banging the door after him.
Jack remained, looking at his mother in consternation. She wrung her pretty hands, and again implored heaven to tell her what she had done to merit such a hard fate.
This was her only resource in the serious perplexities of life; and, naturally, her question remained unanswered.
To add the finishing touch to the discomfort of the house, D'Argenton was now taken with one of "his attacks," a form of bilious fever.
Charlotte petted and soothed him, and waited upon him by inches. The sister-of-charity spirit, that lies in the depths of every womanly nature, made her love her poet the more because he was suffering. How tenderly she protected his nerves! She laid a woollen cloth on the table under the white one to soften the noise of the plates and the silver. She piled the Henry II. chair with cushions, and had her rolls of hot flannels and her tisanes in readiness at all hours of the day and night.
Sometimes the poor little woman was fearfully rebuffed and mortified by a fretful exclamation from the poet. "Do be quiet, Charlotte; you talk too much!"
This illness brought the good-natured doctor to the house once more. Charlotte met him in the hall. "Come quick, doctor, our dear poet is suffering," she said, anxiously.
"Nonsense, my dear; he only wants a little amusement."
In fact, D'Argenton, who greeted the physician in the most languid tones, soon forgot to keep up the farce in the pleasure of seeing a new face, which made a pleasant break in his monotonous life, and a few moments later beheld him launched on some dazzling episode of his Parisian life. The doctor saw no reason to doubt the truth of these narrations told in such measured and careful phrases, and was always pleased with the appearance of the family,--the intellectual husband, the pretty gay wife, and the amusing child; and no intuition gave him a hint, as might have been the case with a more delicate organization, of the peculiarity and bitterness of the ties which bound the household together.
Often, therefore, on these bright midsummer days, the doctor's horse was fastened to the palisades, while the old man drank the cool glass carefully mixed for him by Charlotte herself, and as he drank, he told of his wonderful adventures in India. Jack listened with eyes and ears wide open.
"Jack!" said D'Argenton, peremptorily, and pointed to the door.
"Let him stay, I beg of you; I like to have children around me. I am quite sure that your boy has discovered that I have a grandchild;" and the old man talked of his little Cecile, who was two years younger than Jack.
"Bring her to see us, doctor," said Charlotte; "the two children would be so happy together."
"Thank you, dear madame; but her grandmother would never consent. She never trusts the child to any one; and she herself never goes anywhere since our great sorrow."
This sorrow, of which the old doctor often spoke, was the loss of his daughter and his son-in-law within a year after their marriage. Some mystery surrounded this double catastrophe. Even Mother Archambauld, who knew everything, contented herself with saying, "Yes, poor things! they have had a great deal of trouble."
The only prescription given by the doctor was a verbal one, "Keep him amused, madame; keep him amused!"
How could poor Charlotte do this? They went off together in a little carriage; breakfast, books, and a butterfly-net accompanied them to the forest; but he was bored to death. They bought a boat, but a tete-a-tete in the middle of the Seine was worse than one on shore; and the little boat soon lay moored at the landing, half full of water and dead leaves.
Then the poet took to building; he planned a new staircase and an Italian terrace: but even this did not amuse him.
One day a man, who came to tune the pianoforte, extolled the merits of an AEolian harp. D'Argenton immediately ordered one made on a gigantic scale, and placed it on his roof. From that moment poor little Jack's life was a burden to him. The melancholy wail of the instrument, like a soul in purgatory, pursued him in his dreams. To the child's great relief, the poet was equally disturbed, and the harp was ordered to the end of the garden; but its shrieks and moans were still heard. D'Argenton fiercely commanded that the instrument should be buried, which was done, and the earth heaped upon it as over some mad animal. All these various occupations failing to amuse her poet, Charlotte reluctantly decided to invite some of his old friends, but was repaid for her sacrifice by witnessing D'Argenton's joy on being told that Dr. Hirsch and Labassandre were soon to visit them.
When Jack entered the house, a few days later, he heard the voices of his old professors. The child felt an emotion of sick terror, for the sounds recalled the memory of so many wretched hours. He slipped quietly into the garden, there to await the dinner-bell.
"Come, gentlemen," said Charlotte, smilingly, as she appeared on the terrace,--her large white apron indicating that au a good housekeeper she by no means disdained on occasion to lay aside her lace ruffles and take an active part.
The professors promptly obeyed this summons to dinner, and greeted Jack as he took his seat with every appearance of cordiality. Two large doors opened on the lawn, beyond which lay the forest.
"You are a lucky fellow," said Labassandre. "Tomorrow I shall be in that hot, dusty town, eating a miserable dinner."
"It is a good thing to be certain of having even a miserable dinner," grumbled Dr. Hirsch.
"Why not remain here for a time?" said D'Argen-ton, cordially. "There is a room for each of you; the cellar has some good wine in it--"
"And we can make excursions," interrupted Charlotte, gayly.
"But what would become of my rehearsals?" said Labassandre.
"But you, Dr. Hirsch," continued Charlotte, "you are tied down to the opera-house!"
"Certainly not; and my patients are nearly all in the country at this season."
The idea of Dr. Hirsch having any patients was very funny, and yet no one laughed.
"Well, decide!" cried the poet, "In the first place, you would be doing me a favor, and could prescribe for me."
"To be sure. The physician here knows nothing of your constitution, while I can soon set you on your feet again. I am sick of the Institute and of Moron-val, and never wish to see either more." Thereupon the doctor launched forth in a philippic against the school which supported him. Moronval was a thorough humbug, he never paid anybody, and every one was giving him up; the affair of Madou had done him great injury; and finally Dr. Hirsch went so far as to compliment Jack on his energetic departure.
At this moment Dr. Rivals was shown into the dining-room; he was overjoyed at finding so gay and talkative a circle. "You see, madame, I was right: our invalid only needed a little excitement."
"There I differ from you!" cried Dr. Hirsch, fiercely, snuffing the battle from afar.
Old Rivals examined this singular person with some distrust. "Dr. Hirsch," said D'Argenton, "allow me to present you to Dr. Rivals." They bowed like two duellists on the field who salute each other before crossing their swords. The country physician concluded his new acquaintance to be some famous Parisian practitioner, full of eccentricities and hobbies. D'Argenton's illness was the occasion of a long discussion between the physicians.
It was droll to see the poet's expression. He was inclined to take offence that Dr. Rivals should consider him a mere hypochondriac, and again to be equally annoyed when Dr. Hirsch insisted upon his having a hundred diseases, each one with a worse name than the others.
Charlotte listened with tears in her eyes.
"But this is utter nonsense," cried Rivals, who had listened impatiently; "there are no such diseases, in the first place, and if there were, our friend has no such symptoms."
This was too much for Dr. Hirsch, and the battle began in earnest. They hurled at each other titles of books in every language, names of every drug known and unknown to the faculty. The scene was more laughable than terrific, and was very much like one from "Moliere." Jack and his mother escaped to the piazza, Where Labassandre was already trying his voice. The winged inhabitants of the forest twittered in terror; the peacocks in the neighboring chateau answered by those alarmed cries with which they greet the approach of a thunder-shower; the neighboring peasants started from their sleep, and old Mother Archambauld wondered what was going on in the little house, where the moon shone so whitely on the legend in gold characters over the door:
PARVA DOMUS, MAGNA QUIES.


CHAPTER XI.~~CECILE.
"Where are you going so early?" asked Dr. Hirsch, indolently, as he saw Charlotte, gayly dressed, prayer-book in hand, come slowly down the stairs, followed by Jack, who was once more clad in the pet costume of Lord Pembroke.
"To church, my dear sir. Has not D'Argenton told you that I have an especial duty to perform there this morning? Come with us, will you not?"
It was Assumption Day, and Charlotte had been much flattered by being asked to distribute the bread. She, with her child, took the seats reserved for them on a bench close to the choir. The church was adorned with flowers. The choir-boys were in surplices freshly ironed, and on a rustic table the loaves of bread were piled high. To complete the picture, all the foresters, in their green costumes, with their knives in their belts and their carbines in their hands, had come to join in the Te Deum of this official fete.
Ida de Barancy would have been certainly much astonished had some one told her a year before, that she would one day assist at a religious festival in a village church, under the name of the Vicomtesse D'Argenton,