cordial reception
of the Rondics, put the poet into the most amiable state of mind.
You should have seen him with Jack as they trod the narrow streets of
Indret!

"Shall I tell him that his mother is so near?" said D'Argenton, unwilling
to introduce her boy to Charlotte in the character of hero and martyr;
it was more than the selfish nature of the man could support. And yet,
to deprive Charlotte and her son of the joy of seeing each other once
more it was necessary to be provided with some reason; and this reason
Jack himself soon furnished.

The poor little fellow, deluded by such extraordinary amiability,
acknowledged to M. d'Argenton that he did not like his present life;
that he should not be anything of a machinist; that he was too far from
his mother. He was not afraid of work, but he liked brain work better
than manual labor. These words had hardly passed the boy's lips, when he
saw a change in his hearer.

"You pain me, Jack, you pain me seriously; and your mother would be
very unhappy did she hear you utter such opinions. You have forgotten
apparently that I have said to you a hundred times that this century
was no time for Utopian dreams, for idle fancies;" and on this text he
wandered on for more than an hour. And while these two walked on the
side of the river, a lonely woman, tired of the solitude of her room in
the inn, came down to the other bank, to watch for the boat that was to
bring her the little criminal,--the boy whom she had not seen for two
years, and whom she dearly loved. But D'Argenton had determined to keep
them apart. It was wisest--Jack was too unsettled. Charlotte would
be reasonable enough to comprehend this, and would willingly make the
sacrifice for her child's interest.

And thus it came to pass that Jack and his mother, separated only by the
river, so near that they could have heard each other speak across its
waters, did not meet that night, nor for many a long day afterwards.

CHAPTER XVII.~~IN THE ENGINE-ROOM.

How is it that days of such interminable length can be merged into such
swiftly-passing years? Two have passed since Zenaide was married, and
since Jack's terrible adventure. He has worked conscientiously, and
loathes the thought of a wineshop. The house is sad and desolate since
Zenaide's marriage; Madame Rondic rarely goes out, and occupies her
accustomed seat at the window, the curtain of which, however, is never
lifted, for she expects no one now. Her days