Jack (34 page)

THE PARTING.

A POEM.

By the Vicomte Amacry d’Abgentoh.

And commenced thus:—

“TO ONE WHO HAS GONE.

“What! with out one word of farewell, Without a turn of the head…”

Two hundred lines followed these. That there might be no mistake, the name of Charlotte occurred several times. Jack flung down the magazine with a shrug of the shoulders. “And he dared to send you this?”

“Yes; two or three days ago.”

Ida was dying to pick up the book from the floor, but dared not. After a while she stooped, carelessly.

“You do not intend to keep those verses, do you? They are simply absurd.”

“But I do not think them so.”

“He simply beats his wings and crows, mother dear; his words touch no human heart.”

“Be more just, Jack,”—her voice trembled,—“heaven knows that I know M. D’Argenton better than any one, his faults and the defects of his nature, because I have suffered from them. The man I give up to you; as to the poet, it is a different thing. In the opinion of every one, the peculiarity of M. D’Argenton’s genius is the sympathetic quality of his verses. Musset had it irksome degree; and I think that the beginning of this poem, ‘The Parting,’ is very touching: the young woman who goes away in the morning fog in her ball-dress without one word of farewell.”

Jack could not restrain himself. “But the woman is yourself,” he cried, “and you know under what circumstances you left.”

She answered, coldly,—

“Is it kind in you, my son, to recall such humiliations? Had M. D’Argenton treated me a thousand times worse than he has, I should be able, I hope, to recognize the fact that he stands at the head of the poets of France. More than one person who speaks of him with contempt to-day, will yet be proud of having known him and of having sat at his table!” And as she finished she left the room with great dignity. Jack took his seat at his desk, but his heart was not in his work. He felt that “the enemy,” as in his childish days he had called the vicomte, was gradually making his approaches. In fact Amaury d’Argenton was as unhappy apart from Charlotte as she was herself. Victim and executioner, indispensable to each other, he felt profoundly the emptiness of divided lives. From the first hour of their separation the poet had adopted a dramatic and Byronic tone as of a broken heart. He was seen in the restaurants at night, surrounded by a group of flatterers who talked of her; he wished to have every one know his misery and its details; he wished to have people think that he was drowning his sorrows in dissipation. When he said, “Waiter! bring me some pure absinthe,” it was that some one at the next table might whisper, “He is killing himself by inches—all for a woman!”

D’Argenton succeeded simply in disordering his stomach and injuring his constitution. His “attacks” were more frequent, and Charlotte’s absence was extremely inconvenient. What other woman would ever have endured his perpetual complaints? Who would administer his powders and tisanes. He was afraid, too, to be alone, and made some one, Hirsch or another, sleep on a sofa in his room. The evenings were dreary because he was environed by disorder and dust, which all women, even that foolish Ida, contrive to get rid of in some way. Neither the fire nor the lamp would burn, and currents of air whistled under all the doors; and in the depths of his selfish nature D’Argenton sincerely regretted his companion, and became seriously unhappy. Then he decided to take a journey, but that did him no good, to judge from the melancholy tone of his letters to his friends.

One idea tormented him, that the woman whom he so regretted was happy away from him, and in the society of her son. Moronval said, “Write a poem about it,” and D’Argenton went to work. Unfortunately, instead of being calmed by this composition, he was more excited than ever, and the separation became more and more intolerable. As soon as the Review appeared, Hirsch and Labassandre were bidden to carry a copy at once to the Rue des Panoyeaux.

This done, D’Argenton decided that it was time to make a grand coup. He dressed with great care, took a fiacre, and presented himself at Charlotte’s door at an hour that he knew Jack must be away. D’Argenton was very pale, and the beating of his heart choked him. One of the greatest mysteries in human nature is that such persons have a heart, and that that heart is capable of beating. It was not love that moved him, but he saw a certain romance in the affair, the carriage stationed at the corner as for an elopement, and above all the hope of gratifying his hatred of Jack. He pictured to himself the disappointment of the youth on his return to find that the bird had flown. He meant to appear suddenly before Charlotte, to throw himself at her feet, and, giving her no time to think, to carry her away with him at once. She must be very much changed since he last saw her if she could resist him. He entered her room without knocking, saying in a low voice, “It is I.”

There was no Charlotte; but instead, Jack stood before him. Jack, on account of the occurrence of his mother’s birthday, had a holiday, and was at work with his books. Ida was asleep on her bed in the alcove. The two men looked at each other in silence. This time the poet had not the advantage. In the first place, he was not at home; next, how could he treat as an inferior this tall, proud-looking fellow, in whose intelligent face appeared, as if still more to exasperate the lover, something of his mother’s beauty.

“Why do you come here?” asked Jack.

The other stammered and colored. “I was told that your mother was here.”

“So she is; but I am with her, and you shall not see her.”

This was said rapidly and in a low voice; then Jack took D’Argenton by the shoulder and wheeled him back into the corridor. The poet with some difficulty preserved his footing.

“Jack,” he said, endeavoring to be dignified,—“there has been a misunderstanding for some time between us, but now that you are a man, all this should cease. I offer you my hand, my child.”

Jack shrugged his shoulders. “Of what use are these theatricals between us, sir? You detest me, and I return the compliment!”

“And since when have we been such enemies, Jack?”

“Ever since we knew each other! My earliest recollection is of absolute hatred toward you. Besides, why should we not hate each other like the bitterest of foes? By what other name should I call you? Who and what are you? Believe me that if ever in my life I have thought of you without anger, it has never been without a blush of shame.”

“It is true, Jack, that our position toward each other has been entirely false. But, my dear friend, life is not a romance.”

But Jack cut short this discourse.

“You are right, sir, life is not a romance: it is, on the contrary, a very serious and positive matter. In proof of which, permit me to say that every instant of my time is occupied, and that I cannot lose one of them in useless discussions. For ten years my mother has been your slave. All that I suffered in this time my pride will never let you know. My mother now belongs to me, and I mean to keep her. What do you want of her? Her hair is gray, and your treatment of her has made great wrinkles on her forehead. She is no longer a pretty woman, but she is my mother!”

They looked each other straight in the face as they stood in that narrow, squalid corridor. It was a fitting frame for a scene so humiliating.

“You strangely mistake the sense of my words,” said the poet, deadly pale. “I know that your resources must be very moderate; I come, as an old friend, to see if I can serve you in any way.”

“We need nothing. The work of my hands supplies us with all we require.”

“You are very proud, my dear Jack; you were not so always.”

“That is very true, sir, and also that your presence, that I once was forced to endure, has now become odious to me.”

The attitude of the young man was so determined and so insulting, his looks so thoroughly carried out his words, that the poet dared not add one word, and descended the stairs, where his careful costume was strangely out of place. When Jack heard his last footfall, he returned to his room: on the threshold stood Ida, strangely white, her eyes swollen with tears and sleep.

“I was there,” she said in a low voice; “I heard everything, even that I was old and had wrinkles.”

He approached her, took her hands, and looked into the depths of her eyes.

“He is not far away. Shall I call him?”

She disengaged her hands, threw her arms around his neck, and with one of those sudden impulses that prevented her from being utterly unworthy, exclaimed, “You are right, Jack; I am your mother, and only your mother!”

Some days after this scene, Jack wrote the following letter to M. Rivals:—

“My Dear Friend: She has left me, and gone back to him. It all happened in such an unexpected manner that I have not yet recovered from the blow. Alas! she of whom I must complain is my mother. It would be more dignified to keep silence, but I cannot. I knew in my childhood a negro lad who said, ‘If the world could not sigh, the world would stifle!’ I never fully understood this until to-day, for it seems to me that if I do not write you this letter, that I could not live. I could not wait until Sunday because I could not speak before Cιcile. I told you of the explanation that man and I had, did I not? Well, from that time my mother was so very sad, and seemed so worn out by the scene she had gone through, that I resolved to change our residence. I understood that a battle was being fought, and that, if I wished her to be victorious, if I wished to keep my mother with me, that I must employ all means and devices. Our street and house displeased her. I wanted something gayer and more airy. I hired then at Charonne Rue de Silas three rooms newly papered. I furnished these rooms with great care. All the money I had saved—pardon me these details—I devoted to this purpose. Bιlisaire aided me in moving, while Zιnaοde was in the same street, and I counted on her in many ways. All these arrangements were made secretly, and I hoped a great surprise and pleasure was in store for my mother. The place was as quiet as a village street, the trees were well grown and green, and I fancied that she would, when established there, have less to regret in the country-life she had so much enjoyed.

“Yesterday evening everything was in readiness. Belisaire was to tell her that I was waiting for her at the Rondics, and then he was to take her to our new home. I was there waiting; white curtains hung at all the windows, and great bunches of roses were on the chimney. I had made a little fire, for the evening was cool, and it gave a home look to the room. In the midst of my contentment I had a sudden presentiment. It was like an electric spark. ‘She will not come.’ In vain did I call myself an idiot, in vain did I arrange and rearrange her chair and her footstool. I knew that she would never come. More than once in my life I have had these intuitions. One might believe that Fate, before striking her heaviest blows, had a moment of compassion, and gave me a warning.

“She did not come, but Bιlisaire brought a note from her. It was very brief, merely stating that M. D’Argenton was very ill, and that she regarded it as her duty to watch at his side. As soon as he was well she would return. Ill! I had not thought of that. I might call myself ill, too, and keep her at my bedside. How well he understood her, the wretch! How thoroughly he had studied that weak but kindly nature! You remember those ‘attacks’ he talked of at Etiolles, and which so soon disappeared after a good dinner. It is one of those which he now has. But my mother was only too glad of an excuse, and allowed herself to be deceived. But to return to my story. Behold me alone in this little home, amid all the wasted efforts, time and money! Was it not cruel? I could not remain there; I returned to my old room. The house seemed to me as sad as a funeral-chamber. I permitted the fire to die out, and the roses wither and fall on the marble hearth below with a gentle rustle. I took the rooms for two years, and I shall keep them with something of the same superstition with which one preserves for a long time the cage from which some favorite bird has flown. If my mother returns we will go there together. But if she does not I shall never inhabit the place. I have now told you all, but do not let Cιcile see this letter. Ah, my friend, will she too desert me? The treachery of those we love is terrible indeed. But of what am I thinking; I have her word and her promise, and Cιcile always tells the truth.”

CHAPTER XXII.~~CΙCILE UNHAPPY RESOLVE.

Fob a long time Jack had faith that his mother would return. In the morning, in the evening, in the silence of midday, he fancied that he heard the rustling of her dress, her light step on the threshold. When he went to the Rondics he glanced at the little house, hoping to see the windows opened and Ida installed in the refuge, the address of which, with the key, he had sent to her: “The house is ready. Come when you will.” Not a word in reply. The desertion was final and absolute.

Jack was in great grief. When our mothers do us harm, it wounds and grieves us, and seems like a direct cruelty from the hand of God. But Cιcile was the magician to cure him; she knew just the words to use, and her delicate tenderness defied the rough trials of destiny. A great resource to him at this time was hard work, which is one’s best defence against sorrow and regrets. While his mother had been with him, she, without knowing it, had often prevented him from working. Her indecision had been at times very harassing. She sometimes was all ready to go out, with hat and shawl on, when she would suddenly decide to remain at home. Now that she was gone, he took rapid strides and regained his lost time. Each Sunday he went to Etiolles; he was at once more in love, and wiser. The doctor was delighted with the progress of his pupil; before a year was over, he said, if he went on in this way, he could take his degree.

These words thrilled Jack with joy, and when he repeated them to Bιlisaire, the little attic positively glowed and palpitated with happiness. Madame Bιlisaire was suddenly filled with a desire to learn, and her husband must teach her to read. But while M. Rivals was pleased at Jack’s progress with his books, he was discontented with the state of his health; the old cough had come back, his eyes were feverish and his hands hot.