the sergeant usually spent his evenings at home. all day long he was on his feet, and it was a pleasure to him when he came in at night to settle himself in a comfortable armchair, after he had his supper, and devote himself to some interesting book until bedtime.
he often read aloud to his wife, who sat and sewed beside him; and one evening, after he had been reading for some time, he laid his book face downward on the small table before him, and said, “where is the boy?”
mrs. hardy dropped her work, and moved aside the lamp that partly hid her husband’s face from her. “he is in his room,” she said.
“he usually listens to me,” said the sergeant; “he isn’t moping, is he, or offended at anything?”
[pg 141]
“oh, no! he never does that now,” laughed mrs. hardy. “he is as cheerful as possible.”
“queer, isn’t it,” said the sergeant, “how any one gets used to anything? does he ever speak to you about hearing from france?”
“not now; he used to when he first came. he thinks of it, though.”
“how do you know?”
“oh! i can tell. i understand him so well.”
“how long is it since he came here?”
“five weeks last wednesday.”
“it doesn’t seem as long as that,” said the sergeant thoughtfully.
“the time passes more quickly with a child in the house,” observed his wife.
“i believe it does. i’m not sorry we took him, bess.”
“i know you are not, stephen. i would send him away if i thought you were.”
her husband sent her an affectionate glance, but made no remark for some time. then he said, “what are you doing?”
“darning a pillow-case; it is getting old.”
“why don’t you buy some new ones?”
[pg 142]
“i must economize now,” she said. “it takes more to keep us since the boy came.”
“but you will have plenty by and by.”
“we haven’t it yet, stephen. one can’t count on the future.”
“i believe it is a pleasure to you,” he said under his breath.
his wife caught the word pleasure, and said, “what did you say, stephen?”
“i believe you like to scrimp yourself for any one you like.”
“of course i do,” she said, laughing, and tossing her white head. “i should only be half a woman if i didn’t.”
“he is a handsome lad, isn’t he?” said the sergeant.
“indeed he is. every one looks at him in the street. wasn’t it a joke that old mrs. purdy should think he was our boy? i shall never forget the way eugene looked at her when she fell on his neck, and said he was the image of his father.”
“she is getting old and stupid,” said the sergeant indulgently, “and forgets things.[pg 143] hello, here’s our young man,” as eugene came quietly into the room. “what have you been doing, son?”
“i was reading,” said eugene; “that is,” he added hesitatingly, as he met mrs. hardy’s scrutinizing glance, “i was looking beyond my history lesson for to-morrow.”
“your first statement is true,” said mrs. hardy quietly. “if you were only reading, you were not studying. i don’t care to have him learn lessons in the evening,” she said in an explanatory tone to her husband, “because it tires him.”
“no child should study in the evening,” said the sergeant gruffly.
“i wished to find out what washington did when he became a man,” said eugene.
“you like to read about the father of this country, don’t you?” asked mrs. hardy.
“i do. i admire him. he was a great man,” said the boy.
“greater than napoleon?” inquired the sergeant mischievously.
mrs. hardy gently pushed his foot under[pg 144] the table when she saw eugene’s disturbed face, but the sergeant would not recall his question.
“no, no, not greater,” said the boy at length, “not greater; i cannot forget my emperor; but general washington was better. he loved more his fellow-men.”
“bravo!” said the sergeant; “you’ll make a first-class citizen of the united states yet.”
“never,” said eugene abruptly.
the sergeant and his wife looked earnestly at him.
“i shall be a frenchman always,” said eugene vehemently. “i may never see my country again; but i love her—i would die for her;” and he grew deathly pale, as he always did when he was much moved.
“that’s right,” said the sergeant. “the world wants more boys like you. always stand up for your own country, but be charitable to others. france is a wide world, my boy, but there’s a wider.”
“you mean america?”
“no; i mean the world.”
[pg 145]
“i like america,” said eugene; “but i detest england.”
“there’s where you’re wrong,” said the sergeant. “if i hated england, i should feel like a child hating my mother. they’re a magnificent nation over there; though sometimes they provoke us, and sometimes we provoke them. however, they’ll stand more goading from us than they will from any other people on the face of the earth. just you make a note of that, my boy. you’ll find it’s true some day, and then you will appreciate them.”
“possibly,” said eugene; “in the day that tolerate the republic in france.”
“queer little lad,” said the sergeant, affectionately laying a hand on eugene’s smooth head. “you can’t look ahead and see yourself a tolerant man?”
eugene rarely let a question go unanswered. he had been brought up to reply to every remark addressed to him; but seeing he had some difficulty in answering this, the sergeant went on. “i can. you have a fair start toward[pg 146] making a first-class,—what is it they call those people that are at home among all nations,—oh, yes, a cosmopolite. wife, suppose i go on with my reading?”
“yes, do,” she replied, as the sergeant again took up his book.
eugene sat down at a little distance from him, and listened attentively to a tale of far-away africa. mrs. hardy listened, too, for a short time; then she laid down her work and gazed attentively, first at the boy on the sofa, and then at her husband beside her. something stirred softly in her heart as she looked at these two beings,—her husband and her adopted son. for them she felt that she could endure any hardship, any privation. if the occasion should arise, she felt that she could even lay down her life for them.
“i used to think that i was happy, but i am happier now,” she murmured. “my love for my husband makes me love the boy more, and my love for the boy makes me love my husband more.”
eugene, as if aware that her attention was[pg 147] concentrated on him, began to fidget in a sensitive way, then he got up and moved to a chair next her. she took his hand in hers, and the boy leaned his head against her shoulder while he again listened to the reading.
at last the sergeant put down the book. “wife,” he said, “it is half-past nine.”
“i will go to bed,” said eugene, rising immediately. “good-night, mrs. hardy.”
“good-night, my dear boy,” she said, “my son.”
a curious look came over the boy’s face. he colored, looked confused, and she thought that his parted lips were forming the word “mother,” when suddenly her two cats, who were usually taken with a spirit of mischief about bedtime, sprang at her workbasket, and by upsetting it diverted her attention from eugene.
he laughed in the merry way that he had learned since coming to her house; and at once he and the sergeant and the cats engaged in a frolic, and by turns chased each other and the spools of thread that went rolling all over the floor.
[pg 148]
mrs. hardy stood looking at them with a smile on her face when, in the midst of their fun, they heard a ring at the door-bell.
eugene jumped up. “allow me to open the door,” he said in his pretty, courteous way; and mrs. hardy stood aside to let him pass.
the parlor door remained open; and to her surprise she heard from the hall, first an eager exclamation from eugene, then a succession of rapid french sentences.
“who is there?” said the sergeant, turning his red face toward her.
“i cannot imagine. wait! eugene is bringing the person in.”
at that minute the boy appeared in the doorway, ushering in a tall, very foreign-looking, brown-faced man, clad in a black cassock.
the boy’s cheeks were blazing, and his eyes were excited. “mrs. hardy,” he said in a repressed voice, “permit me to present to you monsieur le curé déjoux of chatillon-sur-loir. i have told him in the hall that it is with you that i have found refuge. enter, monsieur.”
[pg 149]
the sergeant flashed a quick glance at his wife. how would she stand this? the priest probably came to take her darling back to france. to his relief she was perfectly calm, though clearly surprised. she looked without consternation into the grave, kindly, almost childish face of the stranger.
the sergeant pressed forward, and shook hands with his caller; then wondering that his cassock should be so handsome, and his boots so clumsy, and his bare, ungloved hands so brown, he pointed to a chair, and begged him to be seated.
the curé bowed once more in a paternal manner, and sitting down, looked at eugene, who stood at his elbow with glittering eyes that scarcely moved from his face.
“you are here, i take it, from the boy’s grand-uncle,” said the sergeant, coming directly to the object of his caller’s visit.
the priest did not understand a word of what he said. he spread out his hands, then turned to eugene, who had at last ceased to hover about him, and had dropped on a stool by his side.
[pg 150]
“monsieur understands english,” said the boy, “if you will speak slowly. is it not so?”
the priest smiled, and showed a good set of white teeth. “yes,” he said in a stumbling voice. “vairy, vairy slow.”
“you—have—come—for—eugene, i suppose,” said the sergeant spasmodically.
“i comprehand parfaitement,” returned the priest. “it ees true, i come to seek heem.”
“it is getting late now,” said mrs. hardy with a glance at the clock, “and eugene will be too much fatigued to sleep. suppose we put off our business conversation till the morning, and talk of other things.”
the priest turned his gentle face toward his hostess. he had not understood what she said.
eugene put her sentences into liquid french for him; and he made a gesture of assent, and said in laborious english, “madame has right.”
“ah, no,” said eugene; “i could not sleep. with mrs. hardy’s permission, let us talk a long, long time. tell me of france, dear[pg 151] monsieur le curé. are you still in the little village below the chateau?”
“steel there, excep’ when i voyage in amérique,” said the priest in peaceful amusement. “nevair have i voyage before.”
“and my uncle received my letter?” said eugene.
“he deed,” said the priest seriously.
“and he showed it to you?”
“no, no; he deed not that.”
“did he tell you what i had written?” asked eugene.
“no, my chile.”
“he was angry, for example?”
“well angry, leetle one. thou deed write wrong, ees it not?”
“possibly i did,” said eugene with a shrug of his shoulders; and for the first time mrs. hardy found her suspicion verified that the boy had had some prickings of conscience about the letter that he had written to his grand-uncle.
“thy onkel has many cheeldren,” said the curé amiably.
[pg 152]
“he has but a son and a daughter,” rejoined eugene hastily.
“but the cheeldren’s cheeldren,” said the priest, expanding his hands. “many they are, like the birds of the feelds.”
“therefore,” said mrs. hardy slowly, “he cannot do much for eugene. is that what you wish to say?”
“pardon, madame,” said the curé.
eugene explained what she meant, and the priest assented by a profound bow.
“but he has sent me money,” said eugene, frowning slightly. “much money, has he not, monsieur le curé?”
the curé shook his head. “he has sent me—not money. monsieur thy onkel wishes,” and he directed his remark to mrs. hardy, “that thees dear boy return to hees country.”
“pause a moment, monsieur le curé,” said eugene urgently, “and pardon me, mrs. hardy, though it is not civil to speak a language you do not understand, but i cannot wait;” and then ensued a brief colloquy between them in french.
[pg 153]
the boy’s face grew paler and paler, and his manner quieter, as they proceeded, while the curé became flushed and eloquent.
“eugene is suffering, poor lad. i wonder what the priest is saying,” murmured mrs. hardy.
at last the conversation was over. the expression of hope and animation that had illumined the boy’s countenance when he greeted the curé had all died away. he was composed now, and almost sullen.
“all is over,” he said with a despairing gesture; “my uncle renounces me.”
the curé, who was listening eagerly to him, caught the word “renounce.”
“eugene,” he interposed gravely, “thou deceivest also thyself and thy friends. willst thou explain?”
eugene turned to the hardys, and said in a dull voice, “my grand-uncle offers me a pittance which i do not receive unless i go to france—not to live with him,” bitterly, “ah, no, but with monsieur the curé.”
“it seems to me from what i have heard[pg 154] you say,” remarked the sergeant, “that you would not care to take up your abode with your uncle.”
“i would never live with him,” said eugene proudly; “yet he should offer to have me inhabit the chateau which should be mine.”
“would you not like to live with this gentleman?” asked mrs. hardy in a tense voice.
eugene turned his pain-stricken face toward her. when the curé had first appeared, the lad had immediately assumed a patronizing air toward the two people who had been as adopted parents to him. now, however, his pride was all gone. his grand expectations from his uncle were not to be realized. he felt himself to be a poor, despised boy.
“what does it matter whether i like it or not,” he said with a bitter smile. “i am obliged to go to france. i must live with this good man, but i fear that i shall be a torment to him. however, some day i shall revenge myself on my uncle. i shall study it.”
[pg 155]
“eugene,” said mrs. hardy suddenly, “you must go to bed; you are not yourself.”
”you will spend the night with us, will you not?” said the sergeant hospitably to their visitor.
the priest said that it would be “too much pleasure,” that he had “conveyed” his travelling-bag to a near hotel, and that he was sorry to have “deranged” them by coming so late, but he had been detained by a search for eugene in his old quarters.
“that doesn’t matter,” said the sergeant; “better late than never. i’ll go with you and get your bag, and we can put you up here.”
the priest overwhelmed him with thanks; and while the sergeant went for his hat, he looked about the pleasant room, and said appreciatively, “ah, but you are well cossu here.”
“what does he mean?” asked mrs. hardy.
“it is like a bean in a soft pod,” said eugene. “one uses the word in france. this house is indeed a palace compared with the[pg 156] house of the poor curé,” he went on, after the priest had uttered a cheerful au revoir and had disappeared with the sergeant.
“what is his house like?” asked mrs. hardy curiously.
“chatillon-sur-loir is a small village,” replied eugene. “there is a broad green in the centre of it. on one side in a thatched cottage lives the curé with old jeanne his servant. he has only a few pieces of furniture. he drinks but little wine, mostly water or mallow tea; and he eats black bread, for the white is dear. he wears an old cotton cassock; the one that he has on is probably a gift from my grand-aunt, who is pious. and he gives away everything, even the wood for his stove. he goes from his cottage to the chapel where he officiates; he visits the peasants who are stupid. he saunters to and fro on the green, reading his breviary or the figaro. oh, it is a charming existence!”
mrs. hardy suppressed a smile. “you would be less unhappy with us,” she said.
eugene looked at her quickly.
[pg 157]
“why not stay with us?” she murmured caressingly. “you know that we love you, and would consider you our child if you would let us.”
“oh, no, no!” said eugene, raising his hands as if he were putting some temptation from him. “do not mention this, for it is among the impossible things.”
“good-night,” she said abruptly; and she kissed him tenderly, and then pushed him from her. “go, get into your little bed, but remember this when you are fretting there,—that there is always one heart open to you, one home ready for you. whether you go to france or stay here i shall always look upon you as my boy.”
eugene paused. then he seized her hand, and pressed it warmly to his lips before he rushed from the room. there were tears on the hand when he dropped it, and mrs. hardy sat looking at it steadfastly until her husband came in.
“i just slipped the stranger into his room, bess,” he said. “i knew everything was ready[pg 158] for him, and i thought i wouldn’t bother bringing him in here again; for we folks who have to get up early want to get to bed early. what’s the matter? you’re not worrying, are you?”
“no, stephen; it seems to me i shall never worry again.”
“well, you’re a queer little woman,” he rejoined. “you worry when i don’t expect it, and when i do, you don’t.”
“there’s nothing to worry about in this case,” she said.
“that’s odd. i thought you’d be struck all of a heap. i nearly was when i took in the situation.”
“do you suppose that child is going back to france?”
“i guess so. it looks like it. i’ve had a great talk with the priest. when i get him alone i can understand his lingo better. i got out of him some information about the de vargas. he acknowledges that they’re a proud, ugly-tempered kind of a family, and the young ones in it are as upsetting and unmanageable[pg 159] as the old ones, which isn’t usual among french children. the grand-uncle is furious with this boy. he’ll not have an easy time in france. the old man won’t have the boy live in the chateau because he has the name of being unmanageable, and he would talk his bonapartism, which isn’t fashionable in the neighborhood. bess, what is the difference between the old noblesse and the new?”
“i don’t know exactly. we’ll have to read about france, stephen.”
“the priest says that the de vargas belong to the new. he says if the boy was willing it would be far better for him to remain in this country, for he will be sure to get himself into trouble in france; but he knows he won’t stay here, so he is planning to take him back and keep an eye on him. he says he’ll try to squeeze money enough out of the grand-uncle to send him away to school. what are you smiling about?”
“stephen,” said mrs. hardy gently but decidedly, “that boy belongs to us. he will live and die in this country.”
“are you crazy, bess?”
“no, i’m not. they may take him away, but he’ll come back. i doubt if he even consents to leave this city.”
the sergeant was surprised. “you are a funny little woman,” he said shortly. “what makes you say that?”
“because he loves us,” she said triumphantly. “i never was sure of it till this evening. there’s no one that he likes in france. he will stay where his heart is, or if he goes away he will come back to us.”
“maybe you’re right and maybe you’re wrong,” said the sergeant sagely. “time will tell; but i guess he’ll go to france and get used to it.”
