“I will write to my mother,” he thought. But the questions he wished to ask were so delicate and complicated, that he resolved to see her at once, and have one of those earnest conversations where eyes do the work of words, and where silence is as eloquent as speech. Unfortunately he had no money for his railroad fare. “Pshaw!” he said, “I can go on foot. I did it when I was eleven, and I can surely try it again.” And he did try it the next day; and if it seemed to him less long and less lonely than it did before, it was far more sad. Jack saw the spot where he had slept, the little gate at Villeneuve Saint-George’s, where he had been dropped by the kind couple from their carriage, the pile of stones where the recumbent form of a man had so terrified him, and he sighed to think that if the Jack of his youth could suddenly rise from the dust of the highway, he would be more afraid of the Jack of to-day than of any other dismal wanderer. He reached Paris in the afternoon. A settled, cold rain was falling; and pursuing the comparison that he had made of his souvenirs with the present time, he recalled the glow of the sunset on that May evening when his mother appeared to him, like the archangel Michael, wrapped in glory, and chasing away the shades of night. Instead of the little house at Aulnettes where Ida sang amid her roses, Jack saw D’Argenton just issuing from the door, followed by Moronval, who was carrying a bundle of proofs. “Here is Jack!” said Moronval. The poet started and looked up. To see these two men, one dressed with so much care, brushed, perfumed, and gloved; the other in a velvet coat, much too short for him, shiny from wear and weather, no one would have supposed that any tie could exist between them. Jack extended his hand to D’Argenton, who gave one finger in return, and asked if the house at Aulnettes was rented. “Rented?” said the other, not understanding. “To be sure. Seeing you here, I supposed that of course the house was occupied, and you were compelled to leave it.” “No,” said Jack, somewhat disconcerted; “no one has even called to look at the place.” “What are you here for?” “To see my mother.” “Filial affection is a most excellent thing. Unfortunately, however, there are travelling expenses to be thought of.” “I came on foot,” said Jack, with simple dignity. “Indeed!” drawled D’Argenton, and then added, “I am glad to see that your legs are in better order than your arms.” And pleased at this mot, the poet bowed coldly, and went on.