“I have succeeded,” she cried, as the poet entered the carriage.
“Ah!” he answered, dryly, relapsing into silence, turning over his circulars with an air of affected interest. Charlotte, too, was silent, supposing his pride wounded; and finally he was obliged to say, “You succeeded, then?”
“Completely. It has always been his intention to give Jack, on his coming of age, a present of ten thousand francs. He has given it to me now. Six thousand will repay the money, and the other four thousand I am to employ as I think best for my child’s advantage.”
“Employ it, then, in placing him in the Maison Paternelle, at Mertray, for two or three years. It is there only that one can learn to make an honest man from out of a thief.”
She started, for the harsh word recalled her to reality. We know that in that poor little brain impressions are very transitory.
“I am ready to do whatever you choose,” she said, “you have been so good and generous!”
The poet was enchanted; he was still master, and he proceeded to read Charlotte a long lecture. Her maternal weakness was the cause of all that had happened. The master-hand of a man was absolutely essential. She did not answer, being occupied with joy at the thought of her child not being sent to prison.
It was on Sunday morning that they reached Basse Indret. The poet went at once to the superintendent’s, while Charlotte remained alone at the inn, for hotel there was none at the village. The rain beating against the windows, and the loud talking in the house, gave her the first clear impression she had received of the exile to which she had condemned her boy. However guilty he might be, he was still her child—her Jack. She remembered him as a little fellow, bright, intelligent, and sensitive, and the idea that he would presently appear before her as a thief and in a workman’s blouse, seemed almost incredible. Ah! had she kept her child with her, or had she sent him with other boys of his age to school, he would have been kept from temptation. The old doctor was right, after all. And Jack had lived with these people for two years! All the prejudices of her superficial nature revolted against her surroundings. She was incapable of comprehending the grandeur of a task accomplished, of a life purchased by the fatigue of the body and the labor of the hands. To change the current of her thoughts, she took up the prospectus of which we have spoken—“Maison Paternelle.” The system adopted was absolute isolation. The mother’s heart swelled with anguish, and she closed the book and went to the window, where she stood with her eyes fixed on a small bit of the Loire that she saw at the foot of a street, where the water was as rough as the sea itself.
D’Argenton, in the meantime, was accomplishing his mission. He would not have relinquished the duty for any amount of money. He was fond of attitudes and scenes. He prepared in advance the terms in which he should address the criminal.
An old woman pointed out the house of the Rondics, but when he reached it he hesitated. Must he not have made a mistake? From the wide open windows came the sound of gay music, and heavy feet were heard keeping time to it. “No, this cannot be it,” said D’Argenton, who naturally expected to find a desolate house.