“No, no, Jack; no, dear child; do not be alarmed, you shall never go back to that school. Did they dare to strike you? Cheer up, dear. I tell you that you shall never go there again, but shall always be with me. I will arrange a little room for you to-day, and you will see how nice it is to be in the country. We have cows and chickens, and that reminds me the poultry has not yet been fed. Lie down, dear, and rest a while. I will wake you at dinner-time, but first drink this soup. It is good, is it not? And to think that while I was calmly sleeping, you were alone in the cold and dark night. I must go. My chickens are calling me;” and with a loving kiss Ida went off on tiptoe, happy and bright, browned somewhat by the sun, and dressed with rather a theatrical idea of the proprieties. Her country costume had a great deal of black velvet about it, and she wore a wide-brimmed Leghorn hat, trimmed with poppies and wheat.
Jack could not sleep, but his bath and the soup prepared by Mère Archambauld, his mother’s cook, had restored his strength to a very great degree, and he lay on the couch, looking about him with calm, satisfied eyes.
There was but little of the old luxury. The room he was in was large, furnished in the style of Louis XVI., all gray and white, without the least gilding. Outside, the rustling of the leaves, the cooing of the pigeons on the roof, and his mother’s voice talking to her chickens, lulled him to repose.
One thing troubled him: D’Argenton’s portrait hung at the foot of the bed, in a pretentious attitude, his hand on an open book.
The child said to himself, “Where is he? Why have I not seen him?” Finally, annoyed by the eyes of the picture, which seemed to pursue him either with a question or a reproach, he rose and went down to his mother.
She was busy in the farm-yard; her gloves reached above her elbows, and her dress, looped on one side, showed her wide striped skirt and high heels.
Mère Archambauld laughed at her awkwardness. This woman was the wife of an employé in the government forests, who attended to the culinary department at Aulnettes, as the house was called where Jack’s mother lived.
“Heavens! how pretty your boy is!” said the old woman, delighted by Jack’s appearance.
“Is he not, Mère Archambauld? What did I tell you?”
“But he looks a good deal more like you, madame, than like his papa. Good day, my dear! May I give you a kiss?”