At the last house the carriage stopped.
“Yes, this is it,” said Jack, sadly. The good people said a kind good-bye. “How lucky you are to have finished your journey,” said the woman; “we have four good leagues before us.”
Little Jack had the same, but durst not say so. He went toward the garden-gate. “Good night,” said his new friends, “good night.”
He answered in a voice choked by tears, and the carriage turned toward the right. Then the child, overwhelmed with vain regrets, ran after it with all his speed; but his limbs, weakened instead of strengthened by inadequate repose, refused all service. At the end of a few rods he could go no further, but sank on the roadside with a burst of passionate tears, while the hospitable proprietors of the carriage rolled comfortably on, without an idea of the despair they had left behind them.
He was cold, the earth was wet. No matter for that; he was too weary to think or to feel. The wind blows violently, and soon the poor little boy sleeps quietly. A frightful noise awakens him. Jack starts up and sees something monstrous—a howling, snorting beast, with two fiery eyes that send forth a shower of sparks. The creature dashed past, leaving behind him a train like a comet’s tail. A grove of trees, quite unsuspected by Jack, suddenly flashed out clearly; each leaf could have been counted. Not until this apparition was far away, and nothing of it was visible save a small green light, did Jack know that it was the express train.
What time was it? How long had he slept? He knew not, but he felt ill and stiff in every limb. He had dreamed of Mâdou,—dreamed that they lay side by side in the cemetery; he saw Mâdou’s face, and shivered at the thought of the little icy fingers touching his own. To get away from this idea Jack resumed his weary journey. The damp earth had stiffened in the cold night wind, and his own footfall sounded in his ears so unnaturally heavy, that he fancied Mâdou was at his side or behind him.
The child passes through a slumbering village; a clock strikes two. Another village, another clock, and three was sounded. Still the boy plods on, with swimming head and burning feet. He dares not stop. Occasionally he meets a huge covered wagon, driver and horses sound asleep. He asks, in a timid, tired voice, “Is it far now to Etiolles?” No answer comes save a loud snore.
Soon, however, another traveller joins the child—a traveller whose praises are sung by the cheery crowing of the cocks, and the gurgles of the frogs in the pond. It is the dawn. And the child shares the anxiety of expectant nature, and breathlessly awaits the coming of the new-born day.
Suddenly, directly in front of him, in the direction in which lay the town where his mother was, the clouds divide—are torn apart suddenly, as it were; a pale line of light is first seen; this line gradually broadens, with a waving light like flames. Jack walks toward this light with a strength imparted by incipient delirium.
Something tells him that his mother is waiting there for him, waiting to welcome him after this horrible night. The sky was now clear, and looked like a large blue eye, dewy with tears and full of sweetness. The road no longer dismayed the child. Besides, it was a smooth highway, without ditch or pavement, intended, it seemed, for the carriages of the wealthy. Superb residences, with grounds carefully kept, were on both sides of this road. Between the white houses and the vineyards were green lawns that led down to the river, whose surface reflected the tender blue and rosy tints of the sky above. O sun, hasten thy coming; warm and comfort the little child, who is so weary and so sad!