The pale, sad woman who sat at her machine day after day, the other with her sing-song repetition of the words, “How happy people ought to be who can go to the country in such weather!” exasperated her almost beyond endurance. The transparent blue of the sky, the soft summer air, made all these miseries seem blacker and less endurable; in the same way that the repose of Sunday, disturbed only by church-bells and the twitter of the sparrows on the roofs, weighed painfully on her spirits. She thought of her early life, of her drives and walks, of the gay parties in the country, and above all of the more recent years at Etiolles. She thought of D’Argenton reciting one of his poems on the porch in the moonlight. Where was he? What was he doing? Three months had passed since she left him, and he had not written one word. Then the book fell from her hands, and she sat buried in thought until the arrival of her son, whom she endeavored to welcome with a smile. But he read the whole story in the disorder of the room and in the careless toilet. Nothing was in readiness for dinner.
“I have done nothing,” she said, sadly. “The weather is so warm, and I am discouraged.”
“Why discouraged, dear mother? Are you not with me? You want some little amusement, I fancy. Let us dine out to-day,” he continued, with a tender, pitying smile. But Ida wished to make a toilet; to take out from her wardrobe some one of her pretty costumes of other days, too coquettish, too conspicuous for her present circumstances. To dress as modestly as possible, and walk through these poor streets, afforded her no amusement. In spite of her care to avoid anything noticeable in her costume, Jack always detected some eccentricity,—in the length of her skirts, which required a carriage, or in the cut of her corsage, or the trimming of her hat. Jack and his mother then went to dine at Bagnolet or Romainville, and dined drearily enough. They attempted some little conversation, but they found it almost impossible. Their lives had been so different that they really now had little in common. While Ida was disgusted with the coarse table-cloth spotted by wine, and polished, with a disgusted face, her plate and glass with her napkin, Jack hardly perceived this negligence of service, but was astonished at his mother’s ignorance and indifference upon many other points.
She had certain phrases caught from D’Argenton, a peremptory tone in discussion, a didactic “I think so; I believe; I know.” She generally began and finished her arguments with some disdainful gesture that signified, “I am very good to take the trouble to talk to you.” Thanks to that miracle of assimilation by which, at the end of some years, husband and wife resemble each other, Jack was terrified to see an occasional look of D’Argenton on his mother’s face. On her lips was often to be detected the sarcastic smile that had been the bugbear of his boy-hood, and which he always dreaded to see in D’Argenton. Never had a sculptor found in his clay more docile material than the pretentious poet had discovered in this poor woman.
After dinner, one of their favorite walks on these long summer evenings was the Square des Buttes-Chaumont, a melancholy-looking spot on the old heights of Montfauçon. The grottos and bridges, the precipices and pine groves, seemed to add to the general dreariness. But there was something artificial and romantic in the place that pleased Ida by its resemblance to a park. She allowed her dress to trail over the sand of the alleys, admired the exotics, and would have liked to write her name on the ruined wall, with the scores of others that were already there. When they were tired with walking, they took their seats at the summit of the hill, to enjoy the superb view that was spread out before them. Paris, softened and veiled by dust and smoke, lay at their feet. The heights around the faubourgs looked in the mist like an immense circle, connected by Pere la Chaise on one side, and Montmartre on the other, with Montfauçon; nearer them they could witness the enjoyment of the people. In the winding alleys and under the groups of trees young people were singing and dancing, while on the hillside, sitting amid the yellowed grass, and on the dried red earth, families were gathered together like flocks of sheep.
Ida saw all this with weary, contemptuous eyes, and her very attitude said, “How inexpressibly tiresome it is!” Jack felt helpless before this persistent melancholy. He thought he might make the acquaintance of some one of these honest, simple families, and perhaps in their society his mother might be cheered. Once he thought he had found what he wanted. It was one Sunday. Before them walked an old man, rustic in appearance, leading two little children, over whom he was bending with that wonderful patience which only grandfathers are possessed of.
“I certainly know that man,” said Jack to his mother; “it is—it must be M. Rondic.”
Rondic it was, but so aged and grown so thin, that it was a wonder that his former apprentice had recognized him. The girl with him was a miniature of Zénaïde, while the boy looked like Maugin.
The good old man showed great pleasure in meeting Jack, but his smile was sad, and then Jack saw that he wore crape on his hat. The youth dared not ask a question until, as they turned a corner, Zénaïde bore down upon them like a ship under full sail. She had changed her plaited skirt and ruffled cap for a Parisian dress and bonnet, and looked larger than ever. She had the arm of her husband, who was now attached to one of the custom-houses, and who was in uniform. Zénaïde adored M. Maugin and was absurdly proud of him, while he looked very happy in being so worshipped.
Jack presented his mother to all these good people; then, as they divided into two groups, he said in a low voice to Zenaïde, “What has happened? Is it possible that Madame Clarisse—”