Jack by Alphonse Daudet (web ebook reader txt) 📖

enough to admit the head and arm of Labassandre, who beckoned earnestly.
"What is it?" said D'Argenton, impatiently, when he reached the ante-room.
"Jack is very ill," said the tenor.
"I don't believe it," answered the poet.
"This man swears that it is so."
D'Argenton looked at the man, whose face was not absolutely unknown to him.
"Did you come from the gentleman,--that is to say, did he send you?"
"No; he is too sick to send any one. It is three weeks since he has been in his bed, and very, very ill."
"What is his disease?"
"Something on the lungs, and the doctors say that he cannot live; so I thought I had better come and tell his mother."
"What is your name?"
"Belisaire, sir; but the lady knows me."
"Very well, then," said the poet, "you will say to the one who sent you, that the game is a good one, though rather old, and he had better try something else."
"Sir?" said the pedler, interrogatively, for he did not comprehend these sarcastic words.
But D'Argenton had left the room, and Belisaire stood in silent amazement, having caught a glimpse of the lighted salon and its crowd of people.
"It is nothing, only a mistake," said the poet on his entrance; and while he majestically resumed his reading, the pedler hurried home through the dark streets, through the sharp hail and fierce wind, eager to reach Jack, who lay in a high fever, on the narrow iron bed in the attic-room.
He had been taken ill on his return from Etiolles; he lay there, almost without speaking, a victim to fever and a severe cold, so serious, that the physicians warned his friends that they had everything to fear. Belisaire wished to summon M. Rivals, but to this Jack refused to consent. This was the only energy he had shown since his illness, and the only time he had spoken voluntarily, save when he told his friend to take his watch, and a ring he owned, and sell them.
All Jack's savings had been absorbed in furnishing the rooms at Charonne, and the Belisaire household was equally impoverished through their recent marriage. But it mattered very little; the pedler and his wife were capable of every sacrifice for their friend; they carried to the Mont de Piete the greater part of their furniture, piece by piece--for medicines were so dear. They were advised to send Jack to the hospital. "He would be better off; and, besides, he would then cost you nothing," was the argument employed. The good people were now at the end of their resources, and decided to inform Charlotte of her son's danger.
"Bring her back with you," said Madame Belisaire to her husband. "To see his mother would be such a comfort to the lad. He never speaks of her because he is so proud."
But Belisaire did not bring her. He returned in a very unhappy frame of mind, from the reception he had received. His wife, with her child asleep on her lap, talked in a low voice to a neighbor, in front of a poor little fire--such a one as is called a widow's fire by the people. The two women listened to Jack's painful breathing, and to the horrible cough that choked him. One would never have recognized this unfurnished, dismal room as the bright attic where cheerful voices had resounded such a short time before. There was no sign of books or studies. A pot of tisane was simmering on the hearth, filling the air with that peculiar odor which tells of a sickroom. Belisaire came in.
"Alone?" said his wife.
He told in a low voice that he had not been permitted to see Jack's mother.
"But had you no blood in your veins? You should have entered by force and called aloud, 'Madame, your son is dying!' Ah, my poor Belisaire, you will never be anything but a weak chicken!"
"But, had I undertaken such a thing, I should simply have been arrested," said the poor man, in a distressed tone.
"But what are we going to do?" resumed Madame Belisaire. "This poor boy must have better care than we can give him."
A neighbor spoke. "He must go to the hospital, as the physician said."
"Hush, hush! not so loud!" said Belisaire, pointing to the bed; "I'm afraid he heard you."
"What of that? He is not your brother, nor your son; and it would be better for you in every respect."
"But he is my friend," answered Belisaire, proudly; and in his tone was so much honest devotion that his wife's eyes filled with tears.
The neighbors shrugged their shoulders and went away. After their departure, the room looked less cold and less bare.
Jack had heard all that was said. In spite of his weakness he slept little, and lay with his face turned to the wall, with eyes wide open. If that blank surface, wrinkled and tarnished like the face of a very old woman, could have spoken, it would have said that in those pitiful eyes but one expression could have been seen, that of utter and overwhelming despair. He never complained, however; he even tried, at times, to smile at his stout nurse, when she brought him his tisanes. The long and solitary days passed away in this inaction and helplessness. Why was he not strong in health and body like the people about him, and yet for whom did he wish to labor? His mother had left him, Cecile had deserted him. The faces of these two women haunted him day and night. When Charlotte's gay and indifferent smile faded away, the delicate features of Cecile appeared before him, veiled in the mystery of her strange refusal; and the youth lay there incapable of a word or a gesture, while his pulses beat with accelerated force, and his hollow cough shook him from head to foot.
The day after this conversation at Jack's bedside, Madame Belisaire was much startled, on entering the room, to find him, tall and gaunt, sitting in front of the fire. "Why are you out of your bed?" she asked with severity.
"I am going to the hospital, my kind friend; it is impossible for me to stay here any longer. Do not attempt to detain me, for go I will."
"But, Mr. Jack, you cannot walk there, weak as you are."
"Yes, I can, if your husband will give me the help of his arm."
It was useless to resist such determination, and Jack said farewell to Madame Belisaire, and descended the stairs with one sad look of farewell at the humble home which had been illuminated by so many fair dreams and hopes. How long the walk was! They stopped occasionally, but dared not linger long, for the air was sharp. Under the lowering December skies the sick youth looked worse even than when he lay in his bed. His hair was wet with perspiration, the hurrying crowds made him dizzy and faint. Paris is like a huge battlefield where mere existence demands a struggle; and Jack seemed like a wounded soldier borne from the field by a comrade.
It was still early when they reached the hospital. Early as it was, however, they found the huge waiting-room filled with persons. An enormous stove made the air of the room almost intolerable, with its smell of hot iron. When Jack entered, assisted by Belisaire/all eyes were turned upon him. They were awaiting the arrival of the physician, who would give, or refuse, a card of admittance. Each one was describing his symptoms to some indifferent hearer, and endeavoring to show that he was more ill than any one else. Jack listened to these dismal conversations, seated between a stout man who coughed violently, and a slender young girl whose thin shawl was so tightly drawn over her head that only her wild and affrighted eyes were to be seen. Then the door opened, and a small, wiry man appeared; it was the physician. A profound silence followed all along the benches. The doctor warmed his hands at the stove, while he cast a scrutinizing glance about the room. Then he began his rounds, followed by a boy carrying the cards of admission to the different hospitals. What joy for the poor wretches when they were pronounced sick enough to receive a ticket. What disappointment, what entreaties from those who were told that they must struggle on yet a little longer! The examination was brief, and if it seemed somewhat brutal at times, it must be remembered that the number of applicants was very large, and that the poor creatures loved to linger over the recital of their woes.
Finally the physician reached the stout man next to Jack. "And what is the matter with you, sir?" he asked.
"My chest burns like fire," was the answer.
"Ah, your chest burns like fire, does it! Do you not sometimes drink too much brandy?"
"Never, sir," answered the patient indignantly.
"Well, then, if you do not drink brandy, how about wine?"
"I drink what I want of that, of course."
"Ah, yes, I understand! You drink with your friends." %
"On pay-days I do, certainly."
"That is, you get drunk once in the week. Let me see your tongue."
When the physician reached Jack, he examined him attentively, asked his age and how long he had been ill. Jack answered with much difficulty, and while he spoke, Belisaire stood behind him with a face full of anxiety.
"Stand up, my man," and the doctor applied his ear to the damp clothing of the invalid. "Did you walk here?"
"Yes, sir."
"It is most extraordinary that you were able to do so, in the state in which you are; but you must not try it again;" and he handed him a ticket and passed on to continue his inspection.
Of all the thousand rapid and confused impressions that one receives in the streets of Paris, do you remember any one more painful than the sight of one of those litters, sheltered from the sun's rays by a striped cover, and borne by two men, one behind and the other in front,--the form of a human being vaguely defined under the linen sheets? Women cross themselves when these litters pass them, as they do when a crow flies over their heads.
Sometimes, a mother, a daughter, or a sister, walks at the side of the sick man, their eyes swimming in tears at this last indignity to which the poor are subjected. Jack thus lay, consoled by the sound of the familiar tread of his faithful Belisaire, who occasionally took his hand to prove to him that he was not completely deserted.
The sick man at last reached the hospital to which he had been ordered. It was a dreary structure, looking out on one side upon a damp garden, on the other on a dark court. Twenty beds, two arm-chairs, and a stove, were the furniture of the large room to which Jack was carried. Five or six phantoms in cotton nightcaps looked up from a game of dominos to inspect him, and two or three more started from the stove as if frightened.
The corner of the room was brightened by an altar to the Virgin, decorated with flowers, candles, and lace; and near by was the desk of the matron, who came forward, and in a soft voice, the tones of which seemed half lost among the folds of her veil, said:
"Poor fellow, how sick he looks! he must go to bed at once. We have no bed yet, but the one at the end there will soon be empty. While we are waiting, we will put him on a couch."
This couch was placed close to the bed "that would soon be empty," from whence were heard long sighs, dreary enough in