The first excitement over, the ordinary life of the poet and Charlotte was resumed, changed only by the presence of the poor lame fellow, whose legs were badly burned by the explosion of a boiler, and had not yet healed. He was clothed in a jacket of blue cloth. His light moustache, the color of ripe wheat, was struggling into sight through the thick coating of tan that darkened his face; his eyes were red and inflamed, for the lashes had been burned off; and in a state of apathy painful to witness, the son of Ida de Barancy dragged himself from chair to chair, to the irritation of D’Argenton and to the great shame of his mother. When some stranger entered the house and cast an astonished glance at this figure, which offered so strange a contrast to the quiet, luxurious surroundings, she hastened to say, “It is my son, he has been very ill,” in the same way that the mothers of deformed children quickly mention the relationship, lest they should surprise a smile or a compassionate look. But if she was pained in seeing her darling in this state, and blushed at the vulgarity of his manners or his awkwardness at the table, she was still more mortified at the tone of contempt with which her husband’s friends spoke of her son.
Jack saw little difference in the habitués of the house, save that they were older, had less hair and fewer teeth; in every other respect they were the same. They had attained no higher social position, and were still without visible means of support.
They met every day to discuss the prospects of the Review, and twice each week they all dined at D’Argenton’s table. Moronval generally brought with him his two last pupils. One was a young Japanese prince of an indefinite age, and who, robbed of his floating robes, seemed very small and slender. With his little cane and hat, he looked like a figure of yellow clay fallen from an étagère upon the Parisian sidewalk. The other, with narrow slits of eyes and a black beard, recalled certain vague remembrances to Jack, who at last recognized his old friend Said who had offered him cigar ends on their first interview.
The education of this unfortunate youth had been long since finished, but his parents had left him with Moronval to be initiated into the manners and customs of fashionable society. All these persons treated Jack with a certain air of condescension. He remained Master Jack to but one person—that was that most amiable of women, Madame Moronval, who wore the same silk dress that he had seen her in years before. He cared little whether he was called “Master Jack,” or “My boy,”—his two months in the hospital, his three years of alcoholic indulgence, the atmosphere of the engine-room, and the final tempestuous conclusion, had caused him such profound exhaustion, such a desire for quiet, that he sat with his pipe between his teeth, silent and half asleep.
“He is intoxicated,” said D’Argent on sometimes.
This was not the case; but the young man found his only pleasure in the society of his mother on the rare occasions when the poet was absent. Then he drew his chair close to hers, and listened to her rather than talk himself. Her voice made a delicious murmur in his ears like that of the first bees on a warm spring day.
Once, when they were alone, he said to Charlotte, very slowly, “When I was a child I went on a long voyage—did I not?”
She looked at him a little troubled. It was the first time in his life that he had asked a question in regard to his history.
“Why do you wish to know?”
“Because, three years ago, the first day that I was on board a steamer, I had a singular sensation. It seemed to me that I had seen it all before; the cabins, and the narrow ladders, impressed me as familiar; it seemed to me that I had once played on those very stairs.”