“Do not scold him, madame,” stammered Bélisaire. “I only am in fault!”
Here D’Argenton, out of all patience, threw open the door with a most imposing gesture. “Go at once,” he said, violently; “how dare you come into this house?”
Bélisaire, to whom no manner of humiliation was new, offered no word of remonstrance, but snatched up his basket, cast one look of distress at the tempest out-of-doors, and another of gratitude toward little Jack—who sighed as he heard the rain falling like hail on the Panamas,—and hurried down the garden walk. No sooner had the man reached the highway, than his melancholy voice resumed the cry, “Hats! Hats to sell!”
In the dining-room profound silence reigned; the servant was kindling a fire, and Charlotte was shaking the poet’s coat, while he sulkily strode up and down the room.
As he passed the table he caught sight of the ham on which the pedler’s knife had made sad havoc. D’Argenton turned pale. Remember that the ham was sacred, like his wine, his mustard, and mineral water. “What! the ham, too!” he exclaimed.
Charlotte, utterly stupefied by such audacity, could only mechanically repeat his words.
“I said, madame, that they ought not to cut the ham, that such pork was too good for such a vagabond. But the little fellow does not know much yet, he is so young.”
Jack by this time was quite alarmed at what he had done, and could only beg pardon in a troubled tone.
“Pardon, indeed!” cried the poet, giving way, as it must be admitted he rarely did, to his temper, and shaking the boy violently, exclaimed, “What right had you to touch that ham? You knew it was not yours. You know that nothing here is yours; for the bed you sleep on, for the food you eat, you are indebted to my bounty. And why should I care for you? I know not even your name!” Here an imploring gesture from Charlotte stopped the torrent of words. Mother Archambauld was still in the room, and listening with eagerness. The poet turned away suddenly, and rushed up stairs, banging the door after him.
Jack remained, looking at his mother in consternation. She wrung her pretty hands, and again implored heaven to tell her what she had done to merit such a hard fate.