Jack. Alphonse Daudet
as restful. The disturbance of her entrance being at last over, every one seated himself to await the next recitation.
Mademoiselle Constant, who had accompanied her mistress, took her seat majestically on the front bench next the pupils. Jack swung himself on the arm of his mother’s chair, between her and M. Moronval, who smoothed the lad’s hair in the most paternal way.
The assemblage was really quite imposing, and Madame Moronval took dignified possession of the little table and the shaded lamp, and proceeded to read an ethnographic composition of her husband’s on the Mongolian races. It was long and tedious—one of those lucubrations that are delivered before certain scientific societies, and succeed in lulling the members to sleep. Madame Moronval took this opportunity of demonstrating the peculiarities of her method, which had the merit—if merit it were—of holding the attention as in a vice, and the words and syllables seemed to reverberate through your own brain. To see Madame Moronval open her mouth to sound her o’s, to hear the r’s rattle in her throat, was more edifying than agreeable. The mouths of the eight children opposite mechanically followed each one of her gestures, producing a most extraordinary effect; one absolutely fascinating to Mademoiselle Constant.
But the countess saw nothing of all this; she had eyes but for her poet leaning against the door of the drawing-room, with arms folded and eyes moodily cast down. In vain did Ida seek to attract his attention; he glanced occasionally about the salon, but her arm-chair might as well have been vacant; he did not appear to see her, and the poor woman was rendered so utterly miserable by this neglect and indifference, that she forgot to congratulate Moronval on the brilliant success of his essay, which concluded amid great applause and universal relief.
Then followed another brief poem by Argenton, to which Ida listened breathlessly.
“Ah, how beautiful!” she cried; “how beautiful!” and she turned to Moronval, who sat with a forced smile on his lips. “Present me to M. d’Argenton, if you please.”
She spoke to the poet in a low voice and with great courtesy. He, however, bowed very coldly, apparently careless of her implied admiration.
“How happy you are,” she said, “in the possession of such a talent!”
Then she asked where she could obtain his poems.
“They are not to be procured, madame,” answered D’Argenton, gravely.
Without knowing it, she had again wounded his sensitive pride, and he turned away without vouchsafing another syllable.
But Moronval profited by this opening. “Think of it!” he said; “think that such verses as those cannot find a publisher! That such genius as that is buried in obscurity! If we only could publish a magazine!”
“And why can you not?” asked Ida, quickly.
“Because we have not the funds.”
“But they can easily be procured. Such talent should not be allowed to languish!”
She spoke with great earnestness; and Moronval saw at once that he had played his cards well, and proceeded to take advantage of the lady’s weakness by talking to her of D’Argenton, whom he painted in glowing colors.
He spoke of him as Lara, or Manifred, a proud and independent nature, one which could not be conquered by the hardships of his lot.
Here Ida interrupted him to ask if the poet was not of noble birth.
“Most assuredly, madame. He is a viscount, and descended from one of the noblest families in Auvergne. His father was ruined by the dishonesty of an agent.”
This was his text, which he proceeded to enlarge upon, and illustrate by many romantic incidents. Ida drank in the whole story; and while these two were absorbed in earnest conversation, Jack grew jealous, and made various efforts to attract his mother’s attention. “Jack, do be quiet!” and “Jack, you are insufferable!” finally sent him off, with tearful eyes and swollen lips, to sulk in the corner of the salon. Meanwhile the literary entertainments of the evening went on, and finally Labassandre, after numerous entreaties, was induced to sing. His voice was so powerful, and so pervaded the house, that Mâdou, who was in the kitchen preparing tea, replied by a frightful war-cry. The poor fellow worshipped noise of all kinds and at all times.
Moronval and the comtesse continued their conversation; and D’Argenton, who by this time understood that he was the subject, stood in front of them, apparently absorbed in conversation with one of the professors. He appeared to be out of temper—and with whom? With the whole world; for he was one of that very large class who are at war against society, and against the manners and customs of their day.
At this very moment he was declaiming violently, “You have all the vices of the last century, and none of its amenities. Honor is a mere name. Love is a farce. You have accomplished nothing intellectually.”
“Pardon me, sir,” interrupted his hearer. But the other went on more vehemently and more aggressively. He wished, he said, that all France could hear what he thought. The nation was abased, crushed beyond all hope of recuperation. As for himself, he had determined to emigrate to America.
All this time the poet was vaguely conscious of the admiring gaze that was bent upon him. He experienced something of the same sensation that one has in the fields in the early evening, when the moon suddenly rises behind you and compels you to turn toward its silent presence. The eyes of this woman magnetized him in the same way. The words she caught in regard to leaving France struck a chill to her heart. A funereal gloom settled over the room. Additional dismay overwhelmed her as D’Argenton wound up with a vigorous tirade against French women—their lightness and coquetry, the insincerity of their smiles, and the venality of their love.
The poet no longer conversed; he declaimed, leaning against the chimney, and careless who heard either his voice or his words.
Poor Ida, intensely absorbed as she was in him, could not realize that he was indifferent, and fancied that his invectives were addressed to herself.
“He knows who I am,” she said, and bowed her head in shame.
Moronval said aloud, “What a genius!” and in a lower voice to himself, “What a boaster!” But Ida needed nothing more; her heart was gone. Had Dr. Hirsch, who was always so interested in pathological singularities, been then at leisure, he might have made a curious study of this case of instantaneous combustion.
An hour before, Madame Moronval had dispatched Jack to bed, with two or three of the younger children; the others were gaping in silent wretchedness, stupefied by all they saw and heard. The Chinese lanterns swung in the wind each side of the garden-gate; the lane was unlighted, and not even a policeman enlivened its muddy sidewalk; but the disputative little group that left the Moronval Academy cared little for the gloom, the cold, or the dampness.
When they reached the avenue they found that the hour for the omnibus had passed. They accepted this as they did the other disagreeables of life—in the same brave spirit.
Art is a great magician. It creates a sunshine from which its devotees, as well as the poor and the ugly, the sick and the sorry, can each borrow a little, and with it gain a grace to suffer, and a calm serenity that may well be envied.
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