“That of living, sir, when death would be so sweet. I am so weary.”
And in fact the woman looked so ill, so prostrated, that the superintendent feared some catastrophe. He answered compassionately, “Keep up your courage, madame, and remember that your husband loves you.”
And Jack? Ah, he had his day of triumph! The superintendent ordered a placard to be put up in all the buildings, announcing the boy’s innocence. He was fêted and caressed. One thing only was lacking, and that was news of Bélisaire.
When the prison-doors were thrown open, the pedler disappeared. Jack was greatly distressed at this, but nevertheless breakfasted merrily with Zénaïde and her soldier, and had forgotten all his woes, when D’Argenton appeared, majestic and clothed in black. It was in vain that they explained the finding of the money, the innocence of Jack, and that a second letter had been sent narrating all these facts; in vain did these good people treat Jack with familiar kindness: D’Argenton’s manner did not relax; he expressed in the choicest terms his regret that Jack had given so much trouble.
“But it is I who owe him every apology,” cried the old man.
D’Argenton did not condescend to listen: he spoke of honor and duty, and of the abyss to which such evil conduct must always lead. Jack was confused, for he remembered his journey to Nantes, and the stall in which Zénaïde’s lover could testify to having seen him; he therefore listened with downcast eyes to the ponderous eloquence of the lecturer, who fairly talked Father Rondic to sleep.
“You must be very thirsty after talking so long,” said Zénaïde, innocently, as she brought a pitcher of cider and a fresh cake. And the cake looked so nice, so fresh and crisp, that the poet—who was, as we know, something of an epicure—made a breach in it quite as large as that in the ham made by Bélisaire at Aulnettes.
Jack had discovered one thing only from all D’Argenton’s long words,—he had learned that the poet had brought the money to rescue him from disgrace, and the child began to believe that he had done the man great injustice, and that his coldness was only on the surface. The boy, therefore, had never been so respectful. This, and the cordial reception of the Rondics, put the poet into the most amiable state of mind. You should have seen him with Jack as they trod the narrow streets of Indret!
“Shall I tell him that his mother is so near?” said D’Argenton, unwilling to introduce her boy to Charlotte in the character of hero and martyr; it was more than the selfish nature of the man could support. And yet, to deprive Charlotte and her son of the joy of seeing each other once more it was necessary to be provided with some reason; and this reason Jack himself soon furnished.
The poor little fellow, deluded by such extraordinary amiability, acknowledged to M. d’Argenton that he did not like his present life; that he should not be anything of a machinist; that he was too far from his mother. He was not afraid of work, but he liked brain work better than manual labor. These words had hardly passed the boy’s lips, when he saw a change in his hearer.