dly proud of him, while he looked very happy in being so
worshipped.

Jack presented his mother to all these good people; then, as they
divided into two groups, he said in a low voice to Zenaide, "What has
happened? Is it possible that Madame Clarisse--"

"Yes, she is dead; she was drowned in the Loire accidentally."

Then she added, "We say 'accidentally' on father's account; but you, who
knew her so well, may be quite sure that it was by no accident that she
perished. She died because she could never see Chariot again. Ah, what
wicked men there are in this world!"

Jack glanced at his mother, and was quite ready to agree with his
companion.

"Poor father! we thought that he could not survive the shock," resumed
Zenaide; "but then he never suspected the truth. When M. Maugin got his
position in Paris, we made him come with us, and we live all together
in the Eue des Silas at Charonne. You will come and see him, won't you,
Jack? You know he always loved you; and now only the children amuse him.
Perhaps you can make him talk. But let us join him; he is looking at us,
and thinks we are speaking of him, and he does not like that."

Ida, who was deep in conversation with M. Maugin, stopped short as Jack
approached her. He suspected that she had been talking of D'Argenton, as
indeed she had, praising his genius and recounting his successes, which,
had she confined herself to the truth, would not have taken long. They
separated, promising to meet again soon; and Jack, not long afterward,
called upon them with his mother.

He found the old ornaments on the chimney that he had learned to know so
well at Indret, the sponges and corals; he recognized the big wardrobe
as an old friend. The rooms were exquisitely clean, and presented a
perfect picture of a Breton interior transplanted to Paris. But he soon
saw that his mother was bored by Zenaide, who was too energetic and
positive to suit her, and that there, as everywhere else, she was
haunted by the same melancholy and the same disgust which she expressed
in the brief phrase, "It smells of the work-shop."

The house, the room she lived in, the bread she ate, all seemed
impregnated with one smell, one especial flavor. If she opened the
window, she perceived it even more strongly; if she went out, each
breath of wind brought it to her. The people she saw--even her own Jack,
when he returned at night with his blouse spotted with oil--exhaled the
same baleful odor, which sh