Between the lines of this lengthy letter Jack saw two faces,—that of D’Argenton, dictatorial and stern,—and his mother’s, gentle and tender. How under subjection she was! How crushed was her expansive nature! A child’s imagination supplies his thoughts with illustrations. It seemed to Jack, as he read, that his Ida—she was always Ida to her boy—was shut up in a tower, making signals of distress to him.
Yes, he would work hard, he would make money, and take his mother away from such tyranny; and as a first step he put away all his books.
“You are right,” said old Rondic; “your books distract your attention.”
In the workshop Jack heard constant allusions made to the Rondic household, and particularly to the relations existing between Clarisse and Chariot.
Every one knew that the two met continually at a town half-way between Saint Nazarre and Indret. Here Clarisse went under pretence of purchasing provisions that could not be procured on the island. In the contemptuous glances of the men who met her, in their familiar nods, she read that her secret was known, and yet with blushes of shame dyeing the cheeks that all the fresh breezes from the Loire had no power to cool, she went on. Jack knew all this. No delicacy was observed in the discussion of such subjects before the child. Things were called by their right names, and they laughed as they talked. Jack did not laugh, however. He pitied the husband so deluded and deceived. He pitied also the woman whose weakness was shown in her very way of knotting her hair, in the way she sat, and whose pleading eyes always seemed to be asking pardon for some fault committed. He wanted to whisper to her, “Take care—you are watched.” But to Chariot he would have liked to say, “Go away, and let this woman alone!”
He was also indignant in seeing his friend Bélisaire playing such a part in this mournful drama. The pedler carried all the letters that passed between the lovers. Many a time Jack had seen him drop one into Madame Rondic’s apron while she changed some money, and, disgusted with his old ally, the child no longer lingered to speak when they met in the street.
Bélisaire had no idea of the reason of this coolness. He suspected it so little, that one day, when he could not find Clarisse, he went to the machine-shop, and with an air of great mystery gave the letter to the apprentice. “It is for madame; give it to her secretly!”
Jack recognized the writing of Chariot. “No,” he said at once; “I will not touch this letter, and I think you would do better to sell your hats than to meddle with such matters.”
Bélisaire looked at him with amazement.
“You know very well,” said the boy, “what these letters are; and do you think that you are doing right to aid in deceiving that old man?”