Jack’s best friends were in the doctor’s house. Cécile adored him. They played together in the garden if the weather was fair, in the pharmacy if it was stormy. Madame Rivals was always there, and as there was no apothecary’s store in Etiolles, put up simple prescriptions herself. She had done this for so many years, that she had attained considerable experience, and was often consulted in her husband’s absence. The children found vast amusement in deciphering the labels on the bottles, and pasting on new ones. Jack did this with all a boy’s awkwardness, while little Cécile used her hands as gravely and deftly as a woman grown.
The old physician delighted in taking the children with him when he went about the country to visit his patients. The carriage was large, the children small, so that the three were stowed in very comfortably, and merrily jogged over the rough roads. Wherever they went they were warmly welcomed, and while the doctor climbed the narrow stairs, the children roamed at will through the farm-yard and fields.
Illness among these peasant homes assumes a very singular aspect. It is never allowed to interfere with the routine and labors of daily life. The animals must be fed and housed for the night, and driven out to pasture in the morning, whether the farmer be well or ill. If ill, the wife has no time to nurse him, or even to be anxious. After a hard day’s toil she throws herself on her pallet and sleeps soundly until dawn, while her good man tosses feverishly at her side, longing for morning. Every one worshipped the doctor, who they affirmed would have been very rich, had he not been so generous.
His professional visits over, the old man and the children started for home. The Seine, misty and dark with the approach of evening, had yet occasional bars of golden light crossing its surface. Slender trees, with their foliage heavily massed at the top, like palms, and the low white houses along the brink, gave a vague suggestion of an Eastern scene. “It is like Nazareth,” said little Cécile; and the two children told each other stories while the carriage rolled slowly homeward.
Doctor Rivals soon discovered that Jack was by no means wanting in intelligence, and determined, with his natural kindness of heart, to himself supply the great deficiencies in education by giving him an hour’s instruction daily. Those of my readers who are in the habit of enjoying a siesta after dinner, will appreciate the sacrifice made by the old man, when I add that it was this precise time that he now freely gave to the little boy, who, in his turn, gratefully applied himself with his whole heart to his lessons. Cécile was almost always present, and was as pleased as Jack himself when her grandfather, examining the copy-book, said, “Well done!” To his mother, Jack said nothing of his labors; he determined to prove to her at some future day that the diagnosis of the poet had been incorrect. This concealment was rendered very easy, as the mother grew hourly more and more indifferent to her child, and more completely absorbed in D’Argenton. The boy’s comings and goings were almost unnoticed. His seat at the table was often vacant, but no one asked where he had been. New guests filled the board, for D’Argenton kept open house; yet the poet was by no means generous in his hospitality, and when Charlotte would say to him, timidly, “I am out of money, my friend,” he would reply by a wry face and the word, “Already?” But vanity was stronger than avarice, and the pleasure of patronizing his old friends, the Bohemians, with whom he had formerly lived, carried the day. They all knew that he had a pleasant home, that the air was good and the table better; consequently, one would say to another, “Who wants to go to Etiolles to-night?” They came in droves.
Poor Charlotte was in despair. “Madame Archambauld, are there eggs?—is there any game? Company has come, and what shall we give them?”
“Anything will suit, madame, I fancy, for they look half starved,” said the old woman, astonished at the unkempt, unshorn, and hungry aspect of her master’s friends.
D’Argenton delighted in showing them over the house; and then they dispersed to the fields, to the river-side, and into the forest, as happy and frolicsome as old horses turned out to grass. In the fresh country, in the full sunlight, those rusty coats and worn faces seemed more rusty and more worn than when seen in Paris; but they were happy, and D’Argenton radiant. No one ventured to dispute his eternal “I think,” and “I know.” Was he not the master of the house, and had he not the key of the wine cellar?
Charlotte, too, was well pleased. It was to her inconsequent nature and Bohemian instincts a renewal of the excitement of her old life. She was flattered and admired, and, while remaining true to her poet, was pleased to show him that she had not lost her power of charming.
Months passed on. The little house was enveloped in the melancholy mists of autumn; then winter snows whitened the roof, followed by the fierce winds of March; and finally a new spring, with its lilacs and violets, gladdened the hearts of the inmates of the cottage. Nothing was changed there. D’Argenton, perhaps, had two or three new symptoms, dignified by Doctor Hirsch with singular names. Charlotte was as totally without salient characteristics, as pretty and sentimental, as she had always been. Jack had grown and developed amazingly, and having studied industriously, knew quite as much as other boys of his age.