Jack (16 page)

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 tκte-ΰ-tκte 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’Argenton, 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 Moronval, 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 Mβdou 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 “Moliθre.” 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 chβteau 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 fκte.

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, and that she would have all the consideration and prestige of a married woman. This new rτle amused and interested her. She corrected Jack, turned the pages of her prayer-book, and shook out her rustling silk skirts in the most edifying fashion.

When it was time for the offertory, the tall Swiss, armed with a halberd, came for Jack, and bending low whispered in his mother’s ear a question as to what little girl should be chosen to assist him; Charlotte hesitated, for “she knew so few persons in the church. Then the Swiss suggested Dr. Rivals’ grandchild—a little girl on the opposite side sitting next an old lady in black. The two children walked slowly behind the majestic official, Cιcile carrying a velvet bag much too large for her little fingers, and Jack bearing an enormous wax candle ornamented with floating ribbons and artificial flowers. They were both charming: he in his Scotch costume, and she simply dressed, with waves of soft brown hair parted on her childish brow, and her face illuminated by large gray eyes. The breath of fresh flowers mingled with the fumes of incense that hung in clouds throughout the church. Cιcile presented her bag with a gentle, imploring smile. Jack was very grave. The little fluttering hand in its thread glove, which he held in his own, reminded him of a bird that he had once taken from its nest in the forest. Did he dream that the little girl would be his best friend, and that, later, all that was most precious in life for him would come from her?

“They would make a pretty pair,” said an old woman, as the children passed her, and in a lower voice added, “Poor little soul, I hope she will be more fortunate than her mother!”

Their duties over, Jack returned to his place, still under the influence of the hand he had so lightly held. But additional pleasure was in store for him. As they left the church, Madame Rivals approached Madame D’Argenton and asked permission to take Jack home with her to breakfast. Charlotte colored high with gratification, straightened the boy’s necktie, and, kissing him, whispered, “Be a good child!”

From this day forth, when Jack was not at home he was at the old doctor’s, who lived in a house in no degree better than that of his neighbors, and only distinguished from them by the words Night-Bell on a brass plate above a small button at the side of the door. The walls were black with age. Here and there, however, an observant eye could see that some attempts had been made to rejuvenate the mansion; but everything of that nature had been interrupted on the day of their great sorrow, and the old people had never had the heart to go on with their improvements since; an unfinished summer-house seemed to say, with a discouraged air, “What is the use?” The garden was in a complete state of neglect. Grass grew over the walks, and weeds choked the fountain. The human beings in the house had much the same air. From Madame Rivals, who, eight years after her daughter’s death, still wore the deepest of black, down to little Cιcile, whose childish face had a precocious expression of sorrow, and the old servant who for a quarter of a century had shared the griefs and sorrows of the family,—all seemed to live in an atmosphere of eternal regret. The doctor, who kept up a certain intercourse with the outer world, was the only one who was ever cheerful.

To Madame Rivals, Cιcile was at once a blessing and a sorrow, for the child was a perpetual reminder of the daughter she had lost. To the doctor, on the contrary, it seemed that the little girl had taken her mother’s place, and sometimes, when he was with her alone, he would give way to a loud and merry laugh, which would be quickly silenced on meeting his wife’s sad eyes, full of astonished reproach.

Little Cιcile’s life was by no means a gay one. She lived in the garden, or in a large room where a door, that was always closed, led to the apartment that had once been her mother’s, and which was full of the souvenirs of that short life. Madame Rivals alone ever entered this room, but little Cιcile often stood on the threshold, awed and silent. The child had never been sent to school, and this isolation was very bad for her; she needed the association of other children. “Let us ask little D’Argenton here,” said her grandfather: “the boy is charming!”

“Yes; but who knows anything about these people? Whence do they come?” answered his wife. “Who knows them?”

“Everybody, my dear. The husband is very eccentric, certainly, but he is an artist, or a journalist rather, and they are privileged. The woman is not quite a lady, I admit, but she is well enough. I will answer for their respectability.”

Madame Rivals shook her head. She had but slight confidence in her husband’s insight into character, and sighed in an ostentatious way.

Old Rivals colored guiltily, but returned in a moment to his original idea.

“The child will be ill if she has not some change. Besides, what harm could possibly happen?”

The grandmother then consented, and Jack and Cιcile became close companions. The old lady grew very fond of the little fellow. She saw that he was neglected at home, that the buttons were off his coat, and that he had no lesson-hours.

“Do you not go to school, my dear?”

“No, madame,” was the answer; and then quickly added,—for a child’s instinct is very delicate,—“Mamma teaches me.”

“I cannot understand,” said Madame Rivals to her husband, “how they can let this child grow up in this way, idling his time from morning till night.”

“The child is not very clever,” answered the doctor, anxious to excuse his friends.

“No, it is not that; it is that his stepfather does not like him.”

Jack’s best friends were in the doctor’s house. Cιcile adored him. They played together in the garden if the weather was fair, in the pharmacy if it was stormy. Madame Rivals was always there, and as there was no apothecary’s store in Etiolles, put up simple prescriptions herself. She had done this for so many years, that she had attained considerable experience, and was often consulted in her husband’s absence. The children found vast amusement in deciphering the labels on the bottles, and pasting on new ones. Jack did this with all a boy’s awkwardness, while little Cιcile used her hands as gravely and deftly as a woman grown.

The old physician delighted in taking the children with him when he went about the country to visit his patients. The carriage was large, the children small, so that the three were stowed in very comfortably, and merrily jogged over the rough roads. Wherever they went they were warmly welcomed, and while the doctor climbed the narrow stairs, the children roamed at will through the farm-yard and fields.

Illness among these peasant homes assumes a very singular aspect. It is never allowed to interfere with the routine and labors of daily life. The animals must be fed and housed for the night, and driven out to pasture in the morning, whether the farmer be well or ill. If ill, the wife has no time to nurse him, or even to be anxious. After a hard day’s toil she throws herself on her pallet and sleeps soundly until dawn, while her good man tosses feverishly at her side, longing for morning. Every one worshipped the doctor, who they affirmed would have been very rich, had he not been so generous.

His professional visits over, the old man and the children started for home. The Seine, misty and dark with the approach of evening, had yet occasional bars of golden light crossing its surface. Slender trees, with their foliage heavily massed at the top, like palms, and the low white houses along the brink, gave a vague suggestion of an Eastern scene. “It is like Nazareth,” said little Cιcile; and the two children told each other stories while the carriage rolled slowly homeward.