“I am going away, my son, on a long journey; I am obliged to leave you behind, but I will write to you. Do not cry, dear, for it hurts me; I shall not be gone long, and we shall soon see each other again. Yes, very soon, I promise you.” And she threw out mysterious hints of a fortune to come, and money affairs, and other things that were not at all interesting to the child, who in reality paid little attention to her words, for he was weeping silently but chokingly. The gay streets seemed no longer the Paris of the morning, the sunshine was gone, the flowers on the corner-stands were faded, and all was very dreary, for he saw through eyes dim with tears, and the child was about to lose his mother. CHAPTER VII. MÂDOU’S FLIGHT. Some time after this a letter arrived at the academy from D’Argenton. The poet wrote to announce that the death of a relative had so changed the position of his private affairs that he must offer his resignation as Professor of Literature. In a somewhat abrupt postscript he added that Madame de Barancy was obliged to leave Paris for an indefinite time, and that she confided her little Jack to M. Moronval’s paternal care. In case of illness or accident to the child, a letter could be forwarded to the mother under cover to D’Argenton. “The paternal care of Moronval!” Had the poet laughed aloud as he penned these words? Did he not know perfectly well the child’s fate at the academy as soon as it was understood that his mother had left Paris, and that nothing more was to be expected from her? The arrival of this letter threw Moronval into a terrible fit of rage, which rage shook the equilibrium of the academy as a violent tornado might have done in the tropics. The countess gone! and gone too, apparently, with that brainless fellow, who had neither wit nor imagination. Was it not shameful that a woman of her years—for she was by no means in her earliest youth—should be so heartless as to leave her child alone in Paris, among strangers. But even while he pitied Jack, Moronval said to himself, “Wait a while, young man, and I will show you how paternally I shall manage you.” But if he was enraged when he thought of the Review, his cherished project, he was more indignant that D’Argenton and Ida should have made use of him and his house to advance their own plans. He hurried off to the Boulevard Haussmann to learn all he could; but the mystery was no nearer elucidation. Constant was expecting a letter from her mistress, and knew only that she had broken entirely with all past relations; that the house was to be given up, and the furniture sold. “Ah! sir,” said Constant, mournfully, “it was an unfortunate day for us when we set foot in your old barracks!”