“You will put the luggage where it cannot get wet if the weather should change?”
“I have a tarpaulin,” said Pierrotin; “and you see, madame, it is carefully packed away.”
“Oscar, do not stay more than a fortnight, even if you are pressed,” Madame Clapart went on, coming back to her son. “Do what you will, Madame Moreau will never take to you; besides, you must get home by the end of September. We are going to Belleville, you know, to your uncle Cardot’s.”
“Yes, mamma.”
“Above all,” she added in a low tone, “never talk about servants. Always remember that Madame Moreau was a lady’s maid—”
“Yes, mamma.”
Oscar, like all young people whose conceit is touchy, seemed much put out by these admonitions delivered in the gateway of the Silver Lion.
“Well, goodbye, mamma; we shall soon be off, the horse is put in.”
The mother, forgetting that she was in the open street, hugged her Oscar, and taking a nice little roll out of her bag—
“Here,” said she, “you were forgetting your bread and chocolate. Once more, my dear boy, do not eat anything at the inns; you have to pay ten times the value for the smallest morsel.”
Oscar wished his mother further as she stuffed the roll and the chocolate into his pocket.
There were two witnesses to the scene, two young men a few years older than the newly fledged schoolboy, better dressed than he, and come without their mothers, their demeanor, dress, and manner proclaiming the entire independence which is the end of every lad’s desire while still under direct maternal government. To Oscar, at this moment, these two young fellows epitomized the World.
“Mamma! says he,” cried one of the strangers, with a laugh.
The words reached Oscar’s ears, and in an impulse of intense irritation he shouted out:
“Goodbye, mother!”
It must be owned that Madame Clapart spoke rather too loud, and seemed to admit the passersby to bear witness to her affectionate care.
“What on earth ails you, Oscar?” said the poor woman, much hurt. “I do not understand you,” she added severely, fancying she could thus inspire him with respect—a common mistake with women who spoil their children. “Listen, dear Oscar,” she went on, resuming her coaxing gentleness, “you have a propensity for talking to everybody, telling everything you know and everything you don’t know—out of brag and a young man’s foolish self-conceit. I beg you once more to bridle your tongue. You have not seen enough of life, my dearest treasure, to gauge the people you may meet, and there is nothing more dangerous than talking at random in a public conveyance. In a diligence well-bred persons keep silence.”
The two young men, who had, no doubt, walked to the end of the yard and back, now made the sound of their boots heard once more under the gateway; they might have heard this little lecture; and so, to be quit of his mother, Oscar took heroic measures, showing how much self-esteem can stimulate the inventive powers.
“Mamma,” said he, “you are standing in a thorough draught, you will catch cold. Besides, I must take my place.”
The lad had touched some tender chord, for his mother clasped him in her arms as if he were starting on some long voyage, and saw him into the chaise with tears in her eyes.
“Do not forget to give five francs to the servants,” said she. “And write to me at least three times in the course of the fortnight. Behave discreetly, and remember all my instructions. You have enough linen to need none washed. And, above all, remember all Monsieur Moreau’s kindness; listen to him as to a father, and follow his advice.”
As he got into the chaise Oscar displayed a pair of blue stockings as his trousers slipped up, and the new seat to his trousers as his coattails parted. And the smile on the faces of the two young men, who did not fail to see these evidences of honorable poverty, was a fresh blow to Oscar’s self-esteem.
“Oscar’s place is No. 1,” said Madame Clapart to Pierrotin. “Settle yourself into a corner,” she went on, still gazing at her son with tender affection.
Oh! how much Oscar regretted his mother’s beauty, spoilt by misfortune and sorrow, and the poverty and self-sacrifice that hindered her from being nicely dressed. One of the youngsters—the one who wore boots and spurs—nudged the other with his elbow to point out Oscar’s mother, and the other twirled his moustache with an air, as much as to say, “A neat figure!”
“How am I to get rid of my mother?” thought Oscar, looking quite anxious.
“What is the matter?” said Madame Clapart.
Oscar pretended not to hear, the wretch! And perhaps, under the circumstances, Madame Clapart showed want of tact; but an absorbing passion is so selfish!
“Georges, do you like traveling with children?” asked one of the young men of his friend.
“Yes, if they are weaned, and are called Oscar, and have chocolate to eat, my dear Amaury.”
These remarks were exchanged in an undertone, leaving Oscar free to hear or not to hear them. His manner would show the young man what he might venture on with the lad to amuse himself
