Jack (35 page)

“I do not like this,” said the good man; “you work too hard; you must stop; you have plenty of time: Cιcile does not mean to run away.”

Never had the girl been more loving and tender; she seemed to feel that she mast take his mother’s place as well as her own; and it was precisely this sweetness that induced Jack to make greater exertions each day. His bodily frame was in the same condition as that of the Fakirs of India—urged to such a point of feverish excitement that pain becomes a pleasure. He was grateful to the cold of his little attic, and to the hard dry cough that kept him from sleeping. Sometimes at his writing-table he suddenly felt lightness throughout all his being—a strange clearness of perception and an extraordinary excitement of all his intellectual faculties; but this was accompanied with great physical exhaustion.

His work went like lightning, and all the difficulties of his task disappeared. He would have gone on thus to the end of his labor, had he not received a painful shock. ΐ telegram arrived:

“Do not come to-morrow; we are going away for a week.

Rivals.”

Jack received that despatch just as Madame Bιlisaire had ironed his fine linen for the next day. The suddenness of this departure, the brevity of the despatch, and even the printed characters instead of his friend’s well-known writing, affected him most painfully. He expected a letter from Cιcile or the doctor to explain the mystery, but nothing came, and for a week he was a prey to suspense and anxiety. The truth was: neither Cιcile nor the doctor had left home, but that M. Rivals wished for time to prepare the youth for an unexpected blow—for a decision of Cιcile’s so extraordinary that he hoped his granddaughter would be induced to reconsider it. One evening, on coming into the house, he had found Cιcile in a state of singular agitation; her lips were pale but firmly closed. He tried to make her smile at the dinner-table, but in vain; and suddenly, in reply to some remark of his in regard to Jack’s coming, she said, “I do not wish him to come.”

He looked at her in amazement. She was as pale as death, but in a firm voice she repeated, “I do not wish him to come on Sunday, or ever again.”

“What is the matter, my child?”

“Nothing, dear grandfather, save that I can never marry Jack.”

“You frighten me, Cιcile! Tell me what you mean.”

“I am simply beginning to understand myself. I do not love him; I was mistaken.”

“Good heavens, child, are you quite mad? You have had some childish misunderstanding.”

“No, grandpapa, I assure you that I have for Jack a sister’s friendship, nothing more. I cannot be his wife.”

The doctor was startled. “Cιcile,” he said, gravely, “do you love any other person?”

She colored. “No; but I do not wish to marry;” and to all that M. Rivals said she would make no other reply.

He asked her what would be said, what would be thought by their little world. “Remember,” he said, “that to Jack this will be a frightful blow; his whole future will be sacrificed.”

Cιcile’s pale features quivered nervously. Her grandfather took her hand.

“My child,” he said, “think well before you decide a question of such importance.”

“No,” she answered; “the sooner he knows my decision the better for us both. I know that I am going to pain him deeply, but the longer we delay the worse it will be, and I cannot see him again until he knows the truth; I am incapable of such treachery.”

“Then you mean to give the boy his dismissal,” said the doctor, in a rage. “Good heavens! what strange creatures women are!”

She looked at him with such an expression of despair that he stopped short.

“No, no, little girl, I am not angry with you. It is my fault more than yours. You were too young to know your own mind. I am an old fool, and shall always be one until the bitter end.”

Then came the painful duty of writing to Jack. He began a dozen letters, destroyed them all, and finally sent the telegram, hoping that Cιcile would have come to her senses before the week was over.

The next Saturday, when Dr. Rivals said to his granddaughter, “He will come to-morrow; is your decision irrevocable?”

“Irrevocable,” she said, slowly.

Jack arrived early on Sunday. When he reached the door the servant said, “My master is waiting for you in the garden.”

Jack felt chilled to the heart, and the doctor’s face increased his fears, for he, though for forty years accustomed to the sight of human suffering, was as troubled as Jack.

“Cιcile is here—is she not?” were the youth’s first words.

“No, my friend, I left her—at—where we have been, you know; and she will remain some time.”

“Dr. Rivals, tell me what is wrong. She does not wish to see me again? Is that it?”

The doctor could not answer. Jack seated himself for fear he should fall. They were at the foot of the garden. It was a fresh, bright November morning; hoar-frost lay on the lawn, a faint haze hung over the distant hills and reminded him of that day at Coudray, the vintage, and their first whisper of love. The doctor laid a paternal hand on his shoulder. “Jack,” he whispered, “do not be unhappy. She is very young and will perhaps change her mind. It is a mere caprice.”

“No, doctor, Cιcile never has caprices. That would be horrible—to drive a knife into a man’s heart merely from caprice! I am sure she has reflected for a long time before she came to this decision. She knew that her love was my life, and that in tearing it up my life would also perish. If she has done this, then it is because she knew well that it was her duty so to do. I ought to have expected it; I should have known that so great a happiness could not be for me.”

He staggered to his feet. His friend took his hand. “Forgive me, my brave boy; I hoped to make you both happy.”

“Do not reproach yourself. Tell her that I accept her decision. Last year,” he continued, “I began the only happy season of my life. I was born on that day, and to-day I die. But these few happy months I owe to you and to Cιcile;” and the youth hurried away.

“But you will breakfast with me,” said the doctor.

“No; I should be too sad a guest.”

He crossed the garden with a firm step, and went away without once looking back. Had he turned he would have seen, half hidden by the curtain of a window in the second story, a face as pale and agitated as his own. The girl extended her slender arms, and tears rained down her cheeks. The following days were sad enough. The little house that had for months been bright and gay, resumed its ancient mournful aspect. The doctor, much troubled, noticed that his granddaughter spent much of her time in her mother’s former room. Where Madeleine had formerly wept, her child now shed in turn her tears. “Would she die as did her mother?”

The doctor asked himself, day after day, If she did not love Jack, why was she so sad? If she did love him, why had she refused him? The old man was sure that there was some mystery, something that he ought to know; but at the least question, Cιcile ran away as if in fear.

One night the bell rang a summons from a dying man. It was the husband of old Salι, who had met with an accident. These people lived near Aulnettes, in a miserable little hole, and on a straw bed in the corner lay the sick man. When Dr. Rivals entered the place he was nearly suffocated by the odor of burning herbs.

“What have you been doing here, Mother Salι?” he said. The old woman hesitated, and wished to tell a falsehood; he gave her no time, however. “So Hirsch is here again, is he?” he continued. “Open the doors and windows, you will be suffocated.”

While M. Rivals bent over the sick man, he half opened his eyes. “Tell him, wife, tell him,” he muttered.

The old woman paid no attention, and the man began again: “Tell him, I say, tell him.”

The doctor looked at Mother Salι, who turned a deep scarlet. “I am sure I am very sorry if I said anything to hurt the feelings of such a good young lady,” she muttered.

“What young lady? Of whom do you speak?” asked the doctor, turning hastily around.

“Well, sir, I will tell you the truth. The mad doctor gave me twenty francs to tell Mamselle Cιcile the story of her father and mother.”

M. Rivals seized the old peasant woman and shook her violently.

“And you dared to do that?” he cried, in a furious rage.

“It was for twenty francs. I could never have opened my lips but for the twenty francs, sir. In the first place, I knew nothing about it until he told me, so that I could repeat it.”

“The wretch! But who could have told him?”

A groan from the sick-bed recalled the physician to his duty. All the long night he watched there, and when all was over he returned in haste to Etiolles and went directly in search of Cιcile. Her room was empty, and the bed had not been slept in. His heart stood still. He ran to the office, still he found no one. But the door of Madeleine’s old room stood open, and there among the relics of the dear dead, prostrate on the Prie-Dieu, was Cιcile asleep, in an attitude that told of a night of prayer and tears. She opened her eyes as her grandfather touched her.

“And the wretches told you the secret that we have taken so much pains to hide from you! And strangers and enemies told you, my poor little darling, the sad tale we concealed.”

She hid her face on his shoulder. “I am so ashamed,” she whispered.

“And this is the reason that you did not wish to marry? Tell me why?”

“Because I did not wish to acknowledge my mother’s dishonor, and my conscience compelled me to have no secrets from my husband. There was but one thing to do, and I did it.”

“But you love him?”

“With my whole heart; and I believe he loves me so well that he would marry me in spite of my shameful history; but I would never consent to such a sacrifice. A man does not marry a girl who has no father—who has no name, or, if she had one, it would be that of a robber and forger.”

“But you are mistaken, my child; Jack was proud and happy to marry you with a thorough knowledge of your history. I told it all to him, and if you had had more confidence in me, you would have avoided this trial to us all.”

“And he was willing to marry me!”

“Child! he loves you. Besides, your destinies are similar. He has no father, and his mother has never been married. The only difference between you is that your mother was a saint, and his is a sinner.”

Then the doctor, who had told Jack Cιcile’s history, now related to her the long martyrdom of the youth she loved. He told her of his exile from his mother’s arms—of all that he had endured. “I understand it all now,” he cried; “it is she who has told Hirsch of your mother’s marriage.”

While the doctor was talking, Cιcile was overwhelmed with despair to think that she had caused Jack, already so unhappy, so much needless sorrow. “O, how he has suffered!” she sobbed. “Have you heard anything from him?”

“No; but he can come and tell you himself all that you wish to know,” answered her grandfather, with a smile.

“But he may not wish to come.”

“Well, then, we will go to him. It is Sunday; let us find him and bring him home with us.”

An hour or two later, M. Rivals and his granddaughter were on their way to Paris. Just after they left, a man stopped before the house. He looked at the little door. “This is the place,” he said, and he rang. The servant opened the door, but seeing before her one of those dangerous pedlers that wander through the country, she attempted to close it again.

“What do you want?”

“The gentleman of the house.”

“He is not at home.”

“And the young lady?”

“She is not at home, either.”

“When will they be back?”

“I have no idea!” And she closed the door.

“Good heavens!” said Bιlisaire, in a choked voice; “and must he be permitted to die without any help?”

CHAPTER XXIII.~~A MELANCHOLY SPECTACLE.

That evening there was a great literary entertainment at the editors of the Review; a fκte had been arranged to celebrate Charlotte’s return, at which it was proposed that D’Argenton should read his new poem.

But was there not something rather ridiculous in deploring the absence of a person who was then present? And how could he describe the sufferings of a deserted lover, he who was supposed at the moment to be at the summit of bliss, by reason of the return of the beloved object? Never had the apartments been so luxuriously arranged; flowers were there in profusion. The toilet of Charlotte was in exquisite taste, white with clusters of violets, and all the surroundings breathed an atmosphere of riches. Yet nothing could have been more deceptive. The Review was in a dying condition; the numbers appearing at longer intervals, and growing small by degrees and beautifully less. D’Argenton had swallowed up in it the half of his fortune, and now wished to sell it. It was this unfortunate situation, added to an attack skilfully managed, that had induced the foolish Charlotte to return to him. He had only to assume before her the air of a great man crushed by unmerited misfortune, for her to reply that she would serve him always.

D’Argenton was foolish and conceited, but he understood the nature of this woman in a most wonderful degree. She thought him handsomer and more fascinating than he was twelve years before, when she saw him for the first time, under the chandeliers of the Moronval salon. Many of the same persons were there also: Labassandre in bottle-green velvet, with the high boots of Faust; and Dr. Hirsch with his coat-sleeves spotted by various chemicals; and Moronval in a black coat very white in the seams, and a white cravat very black in the folds; several “children of the sun,”—the everlasting Japanese prince, and the Egyptian from the banks of the Nile. What a strange set of people they were! They might have been a band of pilgrims on the march toward some unknown Mecca, whose golden lamps retreat before them. During the twelve years that we have known them, many have fallen from the ranks, but others have risen to take their places; nothing discourages them, neither cold nor heat, nor even hunger. They hurry on, but they never arrive. Among them D’Argenton, better clothed and better fed, resembled a rich Hadji with his harem, his pipes, and his riches; on this evening he was especially radiant, for he had triumphed.