Jack (8 page)

The piano was open, the pupils were ranged against the wall; a small green table, on which stood a glass of eau-sucrι and a reading-lamp, was in readiness. M. Moronval, imposing in his white vest; Madame, red and oppressed by all the worry of the evening; and Mβdotu, shivering in the wind from the door,—all are waiting for the countess. Meanwhile, as she came not, D’Argenton consented to recite a poem that all his assistants knew, for they had heard it a dozen times before. Standing in front of the chimney, with his hair thrown back from his wide forehead, the poet declaimed, in a coarse, vulgar voice, what he called his poem.

His friends were not sparing in their praises.

“Magnificent!” said one. “Sublime!” exclaimed another; and the most amazing criticism came from yet another,—“Goethe with a heart?”

Here Ida entered. The poet did not see her, for his eyes were lifted to the ceiling. But she saw him, poor woman; and from that moment her heart was gone. She had never seen him, save in the street wearing his hat: now she beheld him in the mellow light which softened still more his pale face, wearing a dress-coat and evening gloves, reciting a love poem, and, believing in love as he did in God, he produced an extraordinary effect upon her.

He was the hero of her dreams, and corresponded with all the foolish sentimental ideas that lie hidden very often in the hearts of such women.

From that very moment she was his, and he took exclusive possession of her heart. She paid no attention to her little Jack, who made frantic signs to her as he threw her kiss after kiss; nor had she eyes for Moronval, who bowed to the ground; nor for the curious glances that examined her from head to foot, as she stood before them in her black velvet dress and her little white opera hat, trimmed with black roses and ornamented with tulle strings which wrapped about her like a scarf. Years after she recalled the profound impression of that evening, and saw as in a dream her poet as she saw him first in that salon, which seemed to her, seen through the vista of years, immense and superb. The future might heap misery upon her; her past could humiliate and wound her, crush her life, and something more precious than life itself; but the recollection of that brief moment of ecstasy could never be effaced.

“You see, madame,” said Moronval, with his most insinuating smile, “that we made a beginning before your arrival. M. le Vicomte ΐmaury d’Argenton was reciting his magnificent poem.”

“Vicomte!” He was noble, then!

She turned toward him, timid and blushing as a young girl.

“Continue, sir, I beg of you,” she said.

But D’Argenton did not care to do so. The arrival of the countess had injured the effect of his poem—destroyed its point; and such things are not easily pardoned. He bowed, and answered with cold haughtiness that he had finished. Then he turned away without troubling himself more about her. The poor woman felt a strange pang at her heart. She had displeased him, and the very thought was unendurable. It needed all little Jack’s tender caresses and outspoken joy—all his delight at the admiration expressed for her, the attentions of everybody, the idea that she was queen of the fete—to efface the sorrow she felt, and which she showed by a silence of at least five minutes, which silence for a nature like hers was something as extraordinary as restful. The disturbance of her entrance being at last over, every one seated himself to await the next recitation.

Mademoiselle Constant, who had accompanied her mistress, took her seat majestically on the front bench next the pupils. Jack swung himself on the arm of his mother’s chair, between her and M. Moronval, who smoothed the lad’s hair in the most paternal way.

The assemblage was really quite imposing, and Madame Moronval took dignified possession of the little table and the shaded lamp, and proceeded to read an ethnographic composition of her husband’s on the Mongolian races. It was long and tedious—one of those lucubrations that are delivered before certain scientific societies, and succeed in lulling the members to sleep. Madame Moronval took this opportunity of demonstrating the peculiarities of her method, which had the merit—if merit it were—of holding the attention as in a vice, and the words and syllables seemed to reverberate through your own brain. To see Madame Moronval open her mouth to sound her o’s, to hear the r’s rattle in her throat, was more edifying than agreeable. The mouths of the eight children opposite mechanically followed each one of her gestures, producing a most extraordinary effect; one absolutely fascinating to Mademoiselle Constant.

But the countess saw nothing of all this; she had eyes but for her poet leaning against the door of the drawing-room, with arms folded and eyes moodily cast down. In vain did Ida seek to attract his attention; he glanced occasionally about the salon, but her armchair might as well have been vacant; he did not appear to see her, and the poor woman was rendered so utterly miserable by this neglect and indifference, that she forgot to congratulate Moronval on the brilliant success of his essay, which concluded amid great applause and universal relief.

Then followed another brief poem by Argenton, to which Ida listened breathlessly.

“Ah, how beautiful!” she cried; “how beautiful!” and she turned to Moronval, who sat with a forced smile on his lips. “Present me to M. d’Argenton, if you please.”

She spoke to the poet in a low voice and with great courtesy. He, however, bowed very coldly, apparently careless of her implied admiration.

“How happy you are,” she said, “in the possession of such a talent!”

Then she asked where she could obtain his poems.

“They are not to be procured, madame,” answered D’Argenton, gravely.

Without knowing it, she had again wounded his sensitive pride, and he turned away without vouchsafing another syllable.

But Moronval profited by this opening. “Think of it!” he said; “think that such verses as those cannot find a publisher! That such genius as that is buried in obscurity! If we only could publish a magazine!”

“And why can you not?” asked Ida, quickly.

“Because we have not the funds.”

“But they can easily be procured. Such talent should not be allowed to languish!”

She spoke with great earnestness; and Moronval saw at once that he had played his cards well, and proceeded to take advantage of the lady’s weakness by talking to her of D’Argenton, whom he painted in glowing colors.

He spoke of him as Lara, or Manifred, a proud and independent nature, one which could not be conquered by the hardships of his lot.

Here Ida interrupted him to ask if the poet was not of noble birth.

“Most assuredly, madame. He is a viscount, and descended from one of the noblest families in Auvergne. His father was ruined by the dishonesty of an agent.”

This was his text, which he proceeded to enlarge upon, and illustrate by many romantic incidents. Ida drank in the whole story; and while these two were absorbed in earnest conversation, Jack grew jealous, and made various efforts to attract his mother’s attention. “Jack, do be quiet!” and “Jack, you are insufferable!” finally sent him off, with tearful eyes and swollen lips, to sulk in the corner of the salon. Meanwhile the literary entertainments of the evening went on, and finally Labassandre, after numerous entreaties, was induced to sing. His voice was so powerful, and so pervaded the house, that Mβdou, who was in the kitchen preparing tea, replied by a frightful war-cry. The poor fellow worshipped noise of all kinds and at all times.

Moronval and the comtesse continued their conversation; and D’Argenton, who by this time understood that he was the subject, stood in front of them, apparently absorbed in conversation with one of the professors. He appeared to be out of temper—and with whom? With the whole world; for he was one of that very large class who are at war against society, and against the manners and customs of their day.

At this very moment he was declaiming violently, “You have all the vices of the last century, and none of its amenities. Honor is a mere name. Love is a farce. You have accomplished nothing intellectually.”

“Pardon me, sir,” interrupted his hearer. But the other went on more vehemently and more aggressively. He wished, he said, that all France could hear what he thought. The nation was abased, crushed beyond all hope of recuperation. As for himself, he had determined to emigrate to America.

All this time the poet was vaguely conscious of the admiring gaze that was bent upon him. He experienced something of the same sensation that one has in the fields in the early evening, when the moon suddenly rises behind you and compels you to turn toward its silent presence. The eyes of this woman magnetized him in the same way. The words she caught in regard to leaving France struck a chill to her heart. A funereal gloom settled over the room. Additional dismay overwhelmed her as D’Argenton wound up with a vigorous tirade against French women,—their lightness and coquetry, the insincerity of their smiles, and the venality of their love.

The poet no longer conversed; he declaimed, leaning against the chimney, and careless who heard either his voice or his words.

Poor Ida, intensely absorbed as she was in him, could not realize that he was indifferent, and fancied that his invectives were addressed to herself.

“He knows who I am,” she said, and bowed her head in shame.

Moronval said aloud, “What a genius!” and in a lower voice to himself, “What a boaster!” But Ida needed nothing more; her heart was gone. Had Dr. Hirsch, who was always so interested in pathological singularities, been then at leisure, he might have made a curious study of this case of instantaneous combustion.

An hour before, Madame Moronval had dispatched Jack to bed, with two or three of the younger children; the others were gaping in silent wretchedness, stupefied by all they saw and heard. The Chinese lanterns swung in the wind each side of the garden-gate; the lane was unlighted, and not even a policeman enlivened its muddy sidewalk; but the disputative little group that left the Moronval Academy cared little for the gloom, the cold, or the dampness.

When they reached the avenue they found that the hour for the omnibus had passed. They accepted this as they did the other disagreeables of life—in the same brave spirit.

Art is a great magician. It creates a sunshine from which its devotees, as well as the poor and the ugly, the sick and the sorry, can each borrow a little, and with it gain a grace to suffer, and a calm serenity that may well be envied.

CHAPTER V.~~A DINNER WITH IDA.

The next day the Moronvals received from Madame de Barancy an invitation for the following Monday; at the bottom of the note was a postscript, expressing the pleasure she should have in receiving also M. d’Argenton.

“I shall not go,” said the poet, dryly, when Moronval handed him the coquettish perfumed note. Then the principal grew very angry, as he saw his plans frustrated. “Why would not D’Argenton accept the invitation?”

“Because,” was the answer, “I never visit such women.”

“You make a great mistake,” said Moronval; “Madame de Barancy is not the kind of person you imagine. Besides, to serve a friend, you should lay aside your scruples. You see that I need the countess, that she is disposed to look favorably on my Colonial Review, and you should do all that lies in your power to favor my views. Come, now, think better of it.”

D’Argenton, after being properly entreated, finished by accepting the invitation.

On the following Monday, therefore, Moronval and his wife left the academy under the supervision of Dr. Hirsch, and presented themselves in the Boulevard Haussmann, where the poet was to join them.

Dinner was at seven; D’Argenton did not arrive until half an hour past the time. Ida was in a state of great anxiety. “Do you think he will come?” she asked; “perhaps he is ill. He looks very delicate.”

At last he appeared with the air of a conquering hero, making some indifferent excuse for his lack of punctuality. His manner, however, was less disdainful than usual, for the hotel had impressed him. Its luxury, the flowers, and thick carpets; the little boudoir with its bouquets of white lilacs; the commonplace salon, like a dentist’s waiting-room, a blue ceiling and gilded mouldings, the ebony furniture, cushioned with gold color, and the balcony exposed to the dust of the boulevard,—all charmed the attachι of the Moronval Academy, and gave him a favorable impression of wealth and high life.

The table equipage, the imposing effect produced by Augustin, in short, all the luxurious details of the house, appealed to his senses, and D’Argenton, without flattering the countess as openly as did Moronval; yet succeeded in doing so in a more subtile manner, by thawing under her influence to a very marked extent.

He was an interminable talker, and submitted with a very bad grace to any interruption. He was arbitrary and egotistical, and rang the changes on the I and the my for a whole evening, without allowing any one else to speak.

Unhappily, to be a good listener is a quality far above natures like that of the countess; and the dinner was characterized by some unfortunate incidents. D’Argenton was particularly fond of repeating the replies he had made to the various editors and theatrical managers who had declined his articles, and refused to print his prose or his verse. His mots on these occasions had been clever and caustic; but with Madame de Barancy he was never able to reach that point, preceded as it must necessarily be with lengthy explanations. At the critical moment Ida would invariably interrupt him,—always, to be sure, with some thought for his comfort.

“A little more of this ice, M. d’Argenton, I beg of you.”

“Not any, madame,” the poet would answer with a frown, and continue, “Then I said to him—”

“I am afraid you do not like it,” urged the lady.

“It is excellent, madame,—and I said these cruel words—”

Another interruption from Ida; who, later, when she saw her poet in a fit of the sulks, wondered what she had done to displease him. Two or three times during dinner she was quite ready to weep, but did her best to hide her feelings by urging all the delicacies of her table upon M. and Madame Moronval. Dinner over, and the guests established in the well warmed and lighted salon, the principal fancied he saw his way clear, and said suddenly, in a half indifferent tone, to the countess,—