Jack. Alphonse Daudet

teachers, the greater part of whose time was passed in discussions over their pipes, the smoke from which soon became so thick that they could neither see nor hear. They talked loudly, contradicted each other with vehemence in a vocabulary of their own, where art, science, and literature were picked into fragments as precious stuffs might be under the application of violent acids.

      And the “children of the sun,” what became of them amid all this? Madame Moronval alone, who preserved the good traditions of her former home and school, made any attempts to perform the duties they had undertaken, but the kitchen, her needle, and the care of the great establishment absorbed a great part of her time.

      As it was necessary that they should go out, their uniforms were kept in order, for the pupils were proud of their braided tunics, and of the chevrons reaching to the elbow. In the Moronval Academy, as in certain armies of South America, all were sergeants. It was a trifling compensation for the miseries of exile and for the harsh treatment of surly masters. Moronval was quite pleasant the first days of each new quarter, when his exchequer was full; he had even then been known to smile; but the rest of the time he avenged himself on these black skins for the negro blood in his own veins.

      His violence accomplished that which his indolence had begun. Very soon he began to lose his pupils; of the fifteen that were there at one time there remained but eight.

      “Number of pupils limited,” said the prospectus, and there was a certain amount of melancholy truth in the announcement. A dismal silence seemed to settle down on the great establishment, which was even threatened with a seizure of the furniture, when Jack appeared upon the scene. It of course was no very great sum, this quarter in advance, but Moronval understood certain prospective advantages, and even had a very clear perception of Ida’s true nature, having cross-examined Constant with very good results. This day, therefore, witnessed a certain armed neutrality between masters and pupils. A good dinner in honor of the new arrival was served, all the professors were present, and “the children of the sun” even had a drop of wine, which startling event had not happened to them for a long time.

CHAPTER III.~~MÂDOU.

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      If the Moronval Academy still exists, I desire to stigmatize it now and forever as the most unhealthy spot I ever knew. Its dampness makes it most objectionable for children.

      Imagine a long building all rez-de-chaussée, without windows, and lighted only from above. About the room hung an indescribable odor of collodion and ether, as if it had once been used by a photographer. The garden was shut in by high walls covered with ivy which dripped with moisture. The dormitory stood against a superb hotel; and on one side was a stable, always noisy with the oaths of grooms, the trampling of horses’ feet, and the rattling of pumps. From one end of the year to the other the place was always damp, the only difference being that, according to the different seasons of the year, the dampness was either very cold or very warm. In summer it was filled with moisture like a bathroom. In addition, a crowd of winged creatures, who lived among the old ivy on the walls, attracted by the brightness of the glass in the low roof, introduced themselves into the dormitory through the smallest crevice, and struck their wings against the glass, humming loudly, and finally falling on the beds in clouds.

      The winter’s humidity was worse still; the cold crept into the dormitory through the uneven floors and the thin walls, but after two hours of shivering the pupils might succeed in getting warm if they drew their knees up to their chins and kept the bedclothes well over their heads. The paternal eye of Moronval saw at once the propriety of utilizing this otherwise unemployed building.

      “This shall be the dormitory,” he said.

      “May it not be somewhat damp?” Madame Moronval ventured to ask.

      “What of that?” he answered, sternly.

      In reality there was but room for ten beds; but twenty were placed there, with a lavatory at the end, a wretched bit of carpet near the door, and all was in readiness.

      Why not? After all, a dormitory is only a place to sleep in, and children should be able to sleep anywhere, in spite of heat or cold, of bad air and of creeping things, in spite of the noise of pumps and of horses. They catch rheumatism, ophthalmia, and bronchitis, to be sure, but they sleep all the same the calm sweet sleep of children worn out by out-door exercise and play, and undisturbed by anxieties for the morrow. This is the popular belief in regard to children, but too many of us know that the truth is quite different. For example, the first night little Jack could not close his eyes. He had never slept in a strange house, and the change was great from his own little room at home, dimly lighted by a night-lamp, and littered with his favorite playthings, to the strange and comfortless place where he now found himself.

      As soon as the pupils were in bed, a black servant took away the light, and Jack remained wide awake.

      A pale moon, reflected from the snow that covered a portion of the skylight, filled the room with a bluish light. He looked at the beds, standing close together foot to foot the length of the room, most of them unoccupied, their coverings rolled up in a bundle at one end. Seven or eight were animated by an occasional snore, by a hollow cough, or a stifled exclamation.

      The new-comer had the best place, a little sheltered from the wind of the door. Nevertheless, he was far from warm, and the cold kept him from sleep as much as the novelty of his surroundings. He went over and over again in his memory every trifling detail of the day’s events. He saw Moronval’s bulky white cravat, the enormous spectacles of Dr. Hirsch—his soiled and spotted overcoat; but above all he recalled the cold and haughty eyes of “his enemy,” as he already in his innermost heart called D’Argenton.

      This thought struck such terror to his soul that involuntarily he looked to his mother for protection and defence.

      Where was she at that moment? A dozen different clocks at that instant struck eleven. She was probably at some ball or theatre. She would soon come in, all wrapped in furs and laces. When she came, it mattered not how late, she always opened Jack’s door and bent over his bed to kiss him. Even in his sleep he was generally conscious of her presence, and smilingly opened his eyes to admire her toilette. And now he shuddered as he thought of the change; and yet it was not altogether painful, for the chevrons of his uniform delighted him, and he was happy in concealing his long legs in the skirt of his tunic. He had made two or three new acquaintances—a thing very agreeable to most children; he had found his fellow-pupils odd enough, but their oddities interested him. They had snowballed each other in the garden, which, to a child who had been living in the warm boudoir of a pretty woman, was a very novel amusement.

      One thing puzzled Jack: he had not yet seen his royal Highness. Where was the little king of Dahomey, of whom M. Moronval had spoken so warmly? Was he in the Infirmary? Ah! if he could only see him, talk with him, and make him his friend. He repeated to himself the names of the “eight children of the sun,” but there was no prince among them. Then he thought he would ask the boy Said.

      “Is not his royal Highness in the school at present?” he asked.

      The young man looked at him with wide-opened eyes, in astonished silence. Jack’s question remained unanswered, and the child’s thoughts ran on as he lay in his bed, listening to occasional gusts of music that rang through the house from the lungs of Labassandre, and to the perpetual sound of the pumps in the stable.

      Moronval’s guests were gone, with a final bang of the large gate, and all was silent. Suddenly the dormitory door was thrown open, and the small black servant entered, with a lantern in his hand.

      He shook off the snow that lay thick on his black head, and crept between the two rows of beds, with his head drawn down between his shoulders, and his teeth chattering.

      Jack looked at the grotesque shadows on the wall, which exaggerated all the peculiarities of the black boy—the protruding mouth, the enormous ears, and retreating forehead.

      The