Delicious day! without hours or minutes—a day of uninterrupted felicity. The whole house greeted him warmly, a bright fire burned in the salon, flowers bloomed at the windows, and Cécile and the doctor made him feel how dear he was to them both. After they had dined, M. Rivals examined the work of the week, corrected everything, and explained all that had puzzled the youth.
Then came a walk through the woods, if the day was fair, and they often passed the chalet where Dr. Hirsch still came to pursue certain experiments. So black was the smoke that poured from the chimneys, that one would have fancied that the man was burning all the drugs in the world. “Don’t you smell the poison?” said M. Rivals, indignantly. But the young people passed the house in silence; they instinctively felt that there were no kindly sentiments within those walls toward them, and, in fact, feared that the fanatic Dr. Hirsch was sent there as a spy. But what had they to fear, after all? Was not all intercourse between D’Argenton and Charlotte’s son forever ended? For three months they had not met. Since Jack had been engaged to Cécile, and understood the dignity and purity of love, he had hated D’Argenton, making him responsible for the fault of his weak mother, whose chains were riveted more closely by the violence and tyranny under which a nobler nature would have revolted. Charlotte, who feared scenes and explanations, had relinquished all hope of reconciliation between these two men. She never mentioned her son to D’Argenton, and saw him only in secret.
She had even visited the machine-shop in a fiacre and closely veiled, and Jack’s fellow-workmen had seen him talking earnestly with a woman elegant in appearance and still young. They circulated all sorts of gossip in regard to the mysterious visitor, which finally reached Jack’s ears, who begged his mother not to expose herself to such remarks. They then saw each other in the gardens, or in some of the churches; for, like many other women of similar characteristics, she had become dévote as she grew old, as much from an overflow of idle sentimentality as from a passion for honors and ceremonies. In these rare and brief interviews Charlotte talked all the time, as was her habit, but with a worn, sad air. She said, however, that she was happy and at peace, and that she had every confidence in M. d’Argenton’s brilliant future. But one day, as mother and son were leaving the church-door, she said to him, with some embarrassment, “Jack, can you let me have a little money for a few days? I have made some mistake in my accounts, and have not money enough to carry me to the end of the month, and I dare not ask D’Argenton for a penny.”
He did not let her finish; he had just been paid off, and he placed the whole amount in his mother’s hand. Then, in the bright sunshine he saw what the obscurity of the church had concealed: traces of tears and a look of despair on the face that was generally so smiling and fresh. Intense compassion filled his heart. “You are unhappy,” he said; “come to me, I shall-be so glad to have you.”
She started. “No, it is impossible,” she said, in a low voice; “he has so many trials just now;” and she hurried away as if to escape some temptation.
CHAPTER XX.
THE WEDDING-PARTY.
It was a summer morning. The pedler and his comrade were up before daybreak. One was sweeping and dusting, with as little noise as possible, careful not to disturb his companion, who was established at the open window. The sky was the cloudless one of June, pale blue with a faint tinge of rose still lingering in the east, that could be seen between the chimneys. In front of Jack was a zinc roof, which, when the sun was in mid-heaven, became a terrible mirror. At this moment it reflected faintly the tints of the sky, so that the tall chimneys looked like the masts of a vessel floating on a glittering sea. Below was heard the noise from the poultry owned by the various inhabitants of the Faubourg. Suddenly a cry was heard: “Madame Jacob! Madame Mathieu! Here is your bread.”
It was four o’clock. The labors of the day had begun. The woman whose daily business it was to supply that quarter with bread from the baker’s had begun her rounds. Her basket was filled with loaves of all sizes, sweet-smelling and warm. She carries them all through the corridors, placing them at the corners of the various doors; her shrill voice aroused the sleepers; doors opened and shut; childish voices uttered cries of joy, and little bare feet pattered to meet the good woman, and returned hugging a loaf as big as themselves, with that peculiar gesture that you see in the poor people who come out of the bake-shops, and which shows the thoughtful observer what that hard-earned bread signifies to them.
All the world is now astir; windows are thrown open, even those where the lamps have burned the greater part of the night. At one sits a sad-faced woman, at a sewing-machine, aided by a little girl, who hands her the several pieces of her work. At another a young girl, with hair already neatly braided, is carefully cutting a slice of bread for her slender breakfast, watching that no crumb shall fall on the floor she swept at daybreak. Further on is a window shaded by a large red curtain to keep off the reflection from the zinc roof. All these rooms open on the other side into a dark and ugly house of enormous size. But the student heeds nothing but his work. One sound only depresses him at times, and that is the voice of an old woman, who says every morning, before the noises of the street have begun, “How happy people ought to be who can go to the country on a day like this!” To whom does the poor woman utter these words, day after day? To the whole world, to herself, or only to the canary, whose cage, covered with fresh leaves, she hangs on the shutters? Perhaps she is talking to her flowers. Jack never knew, but he is much of her opinion, and would gladly echo her words; for his first waking thoughts turn toward a tranquil village street, toward a little green door, Jack has just reached this point in his reverie when a rustle of silk is heard, and the handle of his door rattles.
“Turn to the right,” said Bélisaire, who was making the coffee.