Jack by Alphonse Daudet (web ebook reader txt) 📖

said, shrewdly; and his suspicions were confirmed by a trifle that proved how completely the past had taken possession of the poor woman's mind. She never ceased humming the words of a little song of D'Argenton's, which the poet was in the habit of singing himself at the piano in the twilight. Over and over again she sang the refrain, and the words revived in Jack's mind only sad and shameful memories. Ah, if he had dared, what words he would have said to the woman before him! But she was his mother; he loved her, and wished by his own respect to teach her to respect herself. He therefore kept strict guard over his lips. This first warning of coming danger, however, awoke in him all the jealous foreboding of a man who was about to be betrayed. He studied her way of saying good-bye to him when he left in the morning, and he analyzed her smile of greeting on his return. He could not watch her himself, nor could he confide to any other person the distrust with which she inspired him. He knew how often a woman surrounds the man whom she deceives in an atmosphere of tender attentions,--the manifestations of hidden remorse. Once, on his way home, he thought he saw Hirsch and Labassandre turning a distant corner.
"Has any one been here?" he said to the concierge; and by the way he was answered he saw that some plot was already organized against him. The Sunday after on his return from Etiolles he found his mother so completely absorbed in her book that she did not even hear him come in. He would not have noticed this, knowing her mania for romances, had not Ida made an attempt to conceal the book.
"You startled me," she said, half pouting.
"What are you reading?" he asked.
"Nothing,--some nonsense. And how are our friends?" But as she spoke, a blush covered her face and glowed under her fine transparent skin. It was one of the peculiarities of this childish nature that she was at once prompt and unskilful in falsehood. Annoyed by his earnest gaze, she rose from her chair. "You wish to know what I am reading! Look, then." He saw once more the glossy cover of the Review that he had read for the first time in the engine-room of the Cydnus; only it was thinner and smaller. Jack would not have opened it if the following title on the outer page had not met his eyes:--
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