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.
“You will see,” she said, “how I can aid you. I can work, and, besides, I shall not be completely penniless.”
But D’Argenton hesitated. He was, notwithstanding his apparent enthusiasm and recklessness, extremely methodical and clear-headed.
“No, we will wait a while. I shall be rich some day, and then—”
He alluded to his old aunt, who now made him an allowance and whose heir he would unquestionably be. “The good old lady was very old,” he added. And the two, Ida and D’Argenton, made a great many plans for the days that were to come. They would live in the country, but not so far away from Paris that they would be deprived of its advantages. They would have a little cottage, over the door of which should be inscribed this legend: Parva domus, magna quies. There he could work, write a book—a novel, and later, a volume of poems. The titles of both were in readiness, but that was all.
Then the publishers would make him offers; he would be famous, perhaps a member of the Academy—though, to be sure, that institution was mildewed, moth-eaten, and ready to fall.
“That is nothing!” said Ida; “you must be a member!” and she saw herself already in a corner on a reception-day, modestly and quietly dressed, as befitted the wife of a man of letters. While they waited, however, they regaled themselves on the pears sent by “the kind friend, who was certainly the best and least suspicious of men.”