'And I believe in love, As I believe in a good G.o.d above.'"

"As I believe in G.o.d above," said the poet, making as horrible a grimace as if his finger had been caught in a vice.

The countess, who had but a vague idea of prosody, understood simply that she had again incurred the displeasure of D'Argenton. The fact is that he had begun to affect her in a manner quite beyond her own control, and which, in its unreasoning terror, was somewhat like the timid worship offered by the j.a.panese to their hideous idols.

Under the influence of his presence she was more foolish by far than nature had made her; her piquancy forsook her, and the versatility that rendered her so charmingly absurd was quite gone. But D'Argenton relented, and suspended his hygienic exercise for a moment.

"I shall be most happy to recite anything, madame, at your command; but what?"

Here Moronval interposed. "Recite the 'Credo,' my dear fellow," he said.

"Very well, then; I am satisfied to obey you."

The poem commenced gently enough with the words,--

"Madame, your toilette is charming."

Then irony deepened to bitterness, bitterness to fury, and concluded in these terrific words:

"Good Lord, deliver me from this woman so terrible, Who drains from my heart its life-blood."

As if these extraordinary words had aroused in his memory most painful recollections, D'Argenton relapsed into silence, and said not another word the whole evening. Poor Ida was also thoughtful, haunted by vague fears of the n.o.ble ladies who had so warped the gentle spirit of her poet, so drained his heart that there was not a drop left for her.

"You know, my dear fellow," said Moronval, as they strolled through the empty boulevards, arm-inarm, that night, little Madame Moronval pattering on in front of them,--"you know if I can succeed in the establishment of my Review, that I shall make you editor-in-chief!"

Moronval threw the half of his cargo overboard in order to save his ship, for he saw that unless the poet was enlisted, the countess would take no interest in the scheme. D'Argenton made no reply, for he was absorbed in thoughts of Ida.

No man can play the part of a lyric poet, a martyr to love, without being conscious of, and touched by, that silent adoration which appeals to his vanity, both as a man of letters and a man of the world. Since he had seen Ida in her luxurious home, about which there was the same suspicion of vulgarity that clung about herself, the rigidity of his principles had amazingly softened.

CHAPTER VI.--AMAURY D'ARGENTON.

Amaury d'Argenton belonged to one of those ancient provincial families whose castles resembled great farms. Impoverished for the three last generations, they had finally sold their property, and come to Paris to seek their fortunes; with little change for the better, however; and for the last thirty years they had dropped the _De_, which Amaury ventured to resume on adopting his literary career. He meant to make it famous, and even was audacious enough to announce this intention aloud.

The childhood of the poet had been one of gloom and privation; surrounded by anxieties and by tears, by sordid cares, and that constant lack of money which imbitters the lives of so many of us, he had never laughed nor played like other children. A scholarship that was obtained for him enabled him to complete his studies, and his only recreation was obtained through the kindness of an aunt who resided in the Marais, and who gave him gloves and other trifles, which the poet very early in life learned to regard as essentials.

Such a childhood ripens early into bitter maturity. Infinite prosperity is needed to efface such early impressions, and we often see men who have attained to high honors, who are rich and powerful, and yet who have never conquered the timidity born of their early deprivations.

D'Argenton's bitterness was not without reason: at twenty-five he had succeeded in nothing; he had published a volume at his own expense, and had lived on bread and water in consequence for at least six months.

He was industrious as well as ambitious; but something more than these qualities are essential to a poet, whose imagination and genius must be endowed with wings. These D'Argenton had not; he felt merely that vague uneasiness which indicates a missing limb, but that was all, and he lost both time and trouble in ineffectual efforts; his aunt aided him by a small allowance, but his life bore not the shadow of a resemblance to the picture drawn by Ida. In fact, D'Argenton had never been entangled in any serious love affair; his nature was cold and prudent, and yet he had been beloved by more than one woman. To D'Argenton, however, their society had always seemed a waste of time. Ida de Barancy was the first who had made upon him any real impression. Of this fact Ida had no idea, and whenever she met the poet on her very frequent visits to Jack, it was always with the same deprecating air and timid voice. The poet, while adopting an air of utter indifference, cultivated the affection and society of little Jack, whom he induced to talk freely of his mother.

Jack being extremely flattered, gladly gave every information in his power, and talked freely of the kind friend who was so good to mamma.

The mention of this person cost the poet a strange pang. "He is so kind," babbled Jack, "he comes to see us every day; or, if he does not come, he sends us great baskets of fruit, and playthings for me."

"And is your mother very fond of him, too?" continued D'Argenton, without looking up from his writing.

"Yes, indeed, sir," answered the little fellow, innocently.

But are we quite sure that he spoke so innocently. The minds of children are not always so transparent as we believe; and it is difficult to say when they understand matters that go on about them, and when they do not. That mysterious growth that is constantly going on within them, has unexpected seasons of bursting into flower, and they suddenly ma.s.s together the disconnected fragments of information they have acquired and intuitively attain the result.

Had Jack, therefore, no perception of the hidden rage that filled the heart of his professor when he questioned him in regard to their kind friend? Jack did not like D'Argenton; in addition to his first dislike, he was now actuated by strong jealousy. His mother was too much occupied by this man. When he pa.s.sed the day with her, she in her turn plied him with questions, and asked if his teacher never spoke to him of her.

"Never," said Jack, calmly. And yet that very day D'Argenton had desired him to present his compliments to the countess, with a copy of his poems; but Jack at first forgot the volume, and finally lost it, as much from cunning as from heedlessness.

Thus, while these two dissimilar natures were attracted toward each other, the child stood between them suspicious and defiant, as if he already foresaw what the future would bring about.

Every two weeks Jack dined with his mother, sometimes alone with her, sometimes with their friend. They went to the theatre in the evening, or to a concert, and Jack was sent back to school with his pockets full of dainties, in which the other children shared.

One evening, as he entered his mother's house, he saw the dining-table laid for three, and a gorgeous display of flowers and crystal. His mother met him, exquisitely dressed, wearing in her hair sprays of white lilacs, like those that filled the vases. The blazing fire alone lighted the salon, into which she gayly drew the boy, as she said, "Guess who is here!"

"O, I know very well!" exclaimed Jack in delight; "it is our good friend."

But it was D'Argenton, who sat in full evening dress on the sofa, near the fire. The enemy was in Jack's own seat, and the child was so overwhelmed by his disappointment that he with difficulty restrained his tears. There was a moment of restraint and discomfort felt by all three.

Just then the door was thrown open, and dinner announced by Augustin.

The dinner was long and tedious to little Jack. Have you ever felt so entirely out of place that you would have gladly disappeared from off the face of the globe, painfully conscious, withal, that had you so vanished, no one would have missed you? When Jack spoke, no one listened; his questions were unheard and his wants unheeded. The conversation between his mother and D'Argenton was incomprehensible to him, although he saw that his mother blushed more than once, and hastily raised her gla.s.s to her lips as if to conceal her rising color. Where were those gay little dinners when Jack sat close at his mother's side and reigned an absolute king at the table? This recollection came to the boy's mind just as Madame de Barancy offered a superb pear to D'Argenton.

"That came from our friend at Tours," said Jack, maliciously.

D'Argenton, who was about to peel the fruit, dropped it upon his plate with a shrug of the shoulders. What an angry glance Ida threw upon her child! She had never looked at him in that way before. Jack did not venture to speak again, and the evening to him was but a dreary continuation of the repast.

Ida and the poet talked in low voices, and in that confidential tone that indicates great intimacy. He told her of his sad childhood and of his early home. He described the ruined towers and the long corridors where the wind raged and howled. He then depicted his early struggles in the great city, the constant obstacles thrown in the way of the development of his genius, of his jealous rivals and literary enemies, and of the terrible epigrams which he had hurled upon them.

"Then I uttered these stinging words." This time she did not interrupt him, but listened with a smile, and her absorption was so great that when he ceased speaking she still listened, although nothing was to be heard in the salon save the ticking of the clock and the rustling of the leaves of the alb.u.m that Jack, half asleep, was turning over. Suddenly she rose with a start.

"Come, Jack, my love; call Constant to take you back to school. It is quite time."

"O, mamma!" said the child, sadly; but he dared not say that he generally remained much later. He did not wish to be troublesome to his mother, nor to meet again such an expression in her ordinarily serene and laughing eyes, as had so startled him at the dinner-table.

She rewarded him for his self-control by a most loving embrace.

"Good night, my child!" said D'Argenton, and he drew the child toward him as if to embrace him, but suddenly, with a movement of repulsion, turned aside as he had done at dinner from the fruit.

"I cannot! I cannot!" he murmured, throwing himself back in his arm-chair and pa.s.sing his handkerchief over his forehead.

Jack turned to his mother in amazement.

"Go, dear Jack. Take him away, Constant." And while Madame de Barancy sought to conciliate her poet, the child returned with a heavy heart to his school; and in the cold dormitory, as he thought of the professor installed in his mother's chimney-corner, said to himself, "He is very comfortable there. I wonder how long he means to stay!"

In D'Argenton's exclamation and in his repugnance to Jack, there was certainly some acting, but there was also real feeling. He was very jealous of the child, who represented to him Ida's past, not that the poet was profoundly in love with the countess. He, on the contrary, loved himself in her, and, Narcissus-like, worshipped his own image which he saw reflected in her clear eyes. But D'Argenton would have preferred to be the first to disturb those depths.

But these regrets were useless, though Ida shared them. "Why did I not know him earlier?" she said to herself over and over again.

"She ought to understand by this time," said D'Argenton, sulkily, "that I do not wish to see that boy."

But even for her poet's sake Ida could not keep her child away from her entirely. She did not, however, go so often to the academy, nor summon Jack from school, as she had done, and this change was by no means the smallest of the sacrifices she was called upon to make.

As to the hotel she occupied, her carriage, and the luxury in which she lived, she was ready to abandon them all at a word from D'Argenton.