The Aspirations of Jean Servien eBook

“The creatures keep great hampers,” she declared, “that swallow up bottles of wine, cold chickens, and other titbits, fine linen, old clothes, oil, sugar, and candles—­the best pickings from a rich man’s house.  No, I’ll not let my little Jean be sucked to death by such vampires. I mean to keep your house in order.  No one will ever know I am your aunt.  And if they did know, there’s nobody, I should hope, could object.  I don’t know why anyone should be ashamed of me.  They can lay my whole life bare, I have nothing to blush for.  And there’s many a Duchess can’t say as much.  As for forsaking the lad for fear of doing him a hurt, well, the notion is just what I expected of you, Servien; you’ve always been a bit simple-minded. I mean to stay all my life with Jean.  No, little lad, you’ll never drive your old aunt out of your house, will you?  And who could ever make your bed the way I can, my lamb?”

Jean promised his father faithfully, oh! most faithfully, he would lead a hardworking life.  Then he shut himself up in his room and pictured the future to himself—­long years of austere and methodical labour.

He mapped out his days systematically.  In the morning he wrote copies to improve his handwriting, seated at a corner of the workbench.  After breakfast he did sums in his bedroom.  Every evening he went to the Rue Soufflot by way of the Luxembourg gardens to a private tutor’s, and the old man would set him dictations and explain the rules of simple interest.  On reaching the gate adjoining the Fontaine Medicis the boy always turned round for a look at the statues of women he could discern standing like white ghosts along the terrace.  He had left behind on the path of life another fascinating vision.

He never read a theatrical poster now, and deliberately forgot his favorite poets for fear of renewing his pain.

XII

This new life pleased him; it slipped by with a soothing monotony, and he found it healthful and to his taste.  One evening, as he was coming downstairs at his old tutor’s, a stout man offered him, with a sweep of the arm, the bill of fare advertising a neighbouring cook-shop; he carried a huge bundle of them under his left arm.  Then stopping abruptly: 

“Per Bacco!” cried the fellow; “it is my old pupil.  Tall and straight as a young poplar, here stands Monsieur Jean Servien!”

It was no other than the Marquis Tudesco.  His red waistcoat was gone; instead he wore a sort of sleeved vest of coarse ticking, but his shining face, with the little round eyes and hooked nose, still wore the same look of merry, mischievous alertness that was so like an old parrot’s.

Jean was surprised to see him, and not ill-pleased after all.  He greeted him affectionately and asked what he was doing now.