with
all sooner than with this;" and the man rolled up his shirt-sleeve and
displayed an enormous arm tattooed in red and blue. Two blacksmith's
hammers were crossed within a circle of oak-leaves; an inscription was
above these emblems in small letters: _Work and Liberty_. Labassandre
proceeded to deplore the unhappy hour when the manager of the opera at
Nantes had heard him sing. Had he been let alone, he would by this time
have been the proprietor of a large machine shop, with a provision laid
up for his old age.

"Yes," said Charlotte, "but you were very strong, and I have heard you
say that the life was a hard one."

"Precisely; but I am inclined to believe that the individual in question
is sufficiently robust."

"I will answer for that," said Dr. Hirsch.

Charlotte made other objections. She hinted that some natures were more
refined than others--"that certain aristocratic instincts--"

Here D'Argenton interrupted her in a rage. "What nonsense! My friends
occupy themselves in your behalf, and then you find fault, and utter
absurdities."

Charlotte burst into tears. Jack ran away, for he felt a strong desire
to fly at the throat of the tyrant who had spoken so roughly to his
pretty mother.

Nothing more was said for some days; but the child noticed a change in
his mother's manner toward him: she kissed him often, and kissed him
with that lingering tenderness we show to those we love and from whom we
are about to part. Jack was the more troubled as he heard D'Argenton say
to Dr. Rivals, with a satirical smile, "We are all busy, sir, in your
pupil's interest. You will hear some news in a few days that will
astonish you."

The old man was delighted, and said to his wife, "You see, my dear, that
I did well to make them open their eyes."

"Who knows? I distrust that man, and do not believe he intends any good
to the child. It is better sometimes that your enemy should sit with
folded arms than trouble himself about you."

CHAPTER XII.~~LIFE IS NOT A ROMANCE.

One Sunday morning, just after the arrival of the train that had brought
Labassandre and a noisy band of friends, Jack, who was in the garden
busy with his squirrel-net, heard his mother call him. Her voice came
from the window of the poet's room. Something in its tone, or a certain
instinct so marked in some persons, told the child that the crisis had
come, and he tremblingly ascended the stairs. On the Henri Deux chair
D'Argenton sat, throne