For a fortnight he had heard of it night and day; his mother had extorted a promise from him not to weep; his trunk was packed, and all was ready, and the child’s heart was full of trouble; and now at the last moment he was reprieved.
If his mother had not been in so much trouble now, he would have thanked her; how happy would he have been curled up at her side, under her furs, in the little coupé in which they had had so many happy hours together—hours which were now to be repeated. And Jack thought of the afternoons in the Bois, of the long drives through the gay city of Paris—a city so new to both of them, and full of excitement and interest. A monument, perhaps, or even a mere street incident, delighted them.
“Look, Jack—”
“Look, mamma—”
They were two children together, and together they peered from the window,—the child’s head with its golden curls close to the mother’s face tightly veiled in black lace.
A despairing cry from Madame de Barancy aroused the boy from all these sweet recollections. “Mon dieu!” she cried, wringing her hands, “what have I done to be so wretched?”
This exclamation naturally elicited no response, and little Jack, not knowing what to say, or how to console her, timidly caressed her hand, even at last kissing it with the fervor of a lover.
She started and looked wildly at him.
“Ah! cruel, cruel child, what harm you have done me in this world!”
Jack turned pale. “I? What have I done?”