The Tapestry Room Part 22

"'I don't want friends of my own age. I shall never love _any_ friends as much as my dear Mademoiselle Jeanne and my dear Mademoiselle Eliane,' sobbed Charlotte; and the only thing that consoled her at all was when the two young ladies found for her among their little treasures a very prettily painted 'bonbonniere,' and a quaint little workcase, fitted with thimble, scissors, and all such things, which she promised them she would always keep, _always_, as souvenirs of their kindness.

"And in return, the poor little thing went out with her aunt's maid the next morning and bought two little keepsakes--a scent-bottle for Mademoiselle Jeanne, and a fan for Mademoiselle Eliane. She spent on them all the money she had; and at this very moment," added Dudu, "the scent-bottle is downstairs in your mother's large old dressing-case, the dressing-case she got from her grandfather. What became of the fan I cannot say.

"Well, the few remaining days pa.s.sed, and one cold, dreary morning poor Charlotte clambered over the railings for the last time, to embrace her friends and bid them farewell. She might have come in by the door and seen them in the salon; of course neither her aunt nor our young ladies'

mother would have objected to such a thing, as she was going away, even though no visits of ceremony had been exchanged between the families.

But this would not have suited Charlotte; it was in the garden she had first seen her friends, and in the garden must she bid them good-bye. I a.s.sisted at the interview," continued Dudu, "and very touching it was.

Had I been of a nature to shed tears, I really think my feelings would have been too much for me. And Charlotte would have kissed and hugged me too, no doubt, had I encouraged anything of the kind. But, fortunately perhaps for the preservation of my feathers and my dignity, I am not, and never have been, of a demonstrative disposition."

Dudu cleared his throat and stopped to rest for a moment. Then he continued--

"The parting was over at last, and little Charlotte was away--quite away over the sea in cold, rainy England. Cold and rainy it must have been that winter in any case, for it was cold and rainy even here, and many changes happened, and shadows of strange events were already faintly darkening the future. It was the next year that our pretty Mademoiselle Jeanne married and went away with her husband from the old house, which yet was to be her home, and the home of her children in the end, for Mademoiselle Eliane never married, and so all came to be inherited by her sister's sons. But with that we have nothing to do at present. I wished only to tell you what concerns our young ladies' friendship with the little stranger. Years went on, as they always do, whether they leave the world happy or miserable, and the shadows I have told you of grew darker and darker. Then, at last, the terrible days began--the storm burst forth, our happy, peaceful home, with hundreds and thousands of others, was broken up, and its kindly inhabitants forced to flee.

Mademoiselle Jeanne came hurrying up from her husband's home, where things were even worse than with us, with her boys, to seek for shelter and safety, which, alas! could not be given her here. For all had to flee--my poor old master, frail as he was, his delicate wife, our young ladies, and the boys--all fled together, and after facing perils such as I trust none of their descendants will ever know, they reached a safe refuge. And then they had to endure a new misery, for months and months went by before they had any tidings of poor Mademoiselle Jeanne's husband, your great-grandfather, my children, who, like all of his name--a name you may well be proud of, my little Mademoiselle Jeanne--stayed at the post of danger till every hope was pa.s.sed. Then at last, in disguise, he managed to escape, and reached this place in safety, hoping here to find something to guide him as to where his wife and children were. But he found nothing--the house was deserted, not a servant or retainer of any kind left except myself, and what, alas!

could _I_ do? He was worn out and exhausted, poor man; he hid in the house for a few days, creeping out at dusk in fear and trembling to buy a loaf of bread, trusting to his disguise and to his not being well known in the town. But he would have died, I believe, had he been long left as he was, for distress of mind added to his other miseries, not knowing anything as to what had become of your great-grandmother and his children.

"She was a good wife," continued Dudu, after another little pause. "Our Mademoiselle Jeanne, I mean. Just when her poor husband was losing heart altogether, beginning to think they must all be dead, that there was nothing left for him to do but to die too, she came to him. She had travelled alone, quite alone, our delicate young lady--who in former days had scarcely been allowed to set her little foot on the pavement--from Switzerland to the old home, with a strange belief that here if anywhere she should find him. And she was rewarded. The worst of the terrible days were now past, but still disguise was necessary, and it was in the dress of one of her own peasants--the dress in which she had fled--that Mademoiselle Jeanne returned. But he knew her--through all disguises he would have known her--and she him. And the first evening they were together in the bare, deserted house, even with all the terrors behind them, the perils before them, the husband and wife were happy."

Dudu paused again. The children, too interested to speak, listened eagerly.

"Go on, dear Dudu," whispered Jeanne at last, softly.

"How were they to get away to safety? That was the question," continued Dudu. "They dared not stay long where they were; yet they dared not go.

Monsieur was far too feeble to stand much fatigue, and the two of them journeying together might attract notice.

"'If we could get to the sea,' said Mademoiselle Jeanne--Madame I should call her, but it never comes naturally--there we might find a ship to take us to England or Holland, and thence find our way to our dear ones again.'

"But Monsieur shook his head. 'Impossible,' he said. 'I have not the strength for even the four leagues' walk to the sea, and finding a ship that would take us is a mere chance. We have almost no money. Here at least we have shelter, and still some sous for bread. Jeanne, my beloved, you must make up your mind to leave me again--alone and unhindered you might find your way back in safety.'

"'I will never leave you,' said Jeanne. 'We will die together, if it must be so. The boys are safe--my father and mother and Eliane will care for them. I will never leave you.'

"And Monsieur said no more; but in his own mind I could see that he thought himself fast dying, that want of comforts and nourishment much longer would exhaust his little strength, and that his poor Jeanne would, in the end, be forced to attempt the journey back alone. They were sitting at the end of the terrace walk that evening--the end near little Charlotte's balcony; it was a mild, still evening--it seemed less dreary and miserable than in the house; from the distance came the sound of the children playing in the old streets, and near at hand some birds were singing still--for children will play and birds will sing whatever happens. Suddenly a sound close at hand made Mademoiselle Jeanne look up. And I too, for I was close beside them on the terrace, I looked up in amazement, half imagining it must be a dream. For we heard--both Mademoiselle Jeanne and I knew it again--the sound of the window on to the balcony opening, the window through which the little English girl used to come out to meet her friends. We looked and could scarcely believe our eyes. Out on to the balcony stepped a young lady, a young girl rather she seemed, for she was tall and slight and had fair curls about her sweet fresh face. She stood for one instant looking at us all as if bewildered, then, with a sudden cry, almost before we knew what she was doing, she was over the railings and down the bank.

"'Mademoiselle Jeanne or Mademoiselle Eliane!' she cried, 'which of you is it? for it is one of you, I know! And you are _not_ dead--not all dead and gone--and there is Dudu, too. Oh, how glad, how very glad, I am that I came!'

"Laughing and crying both at once, she threw herself into Madame's arms, while Monsieur looked on in amazement.

"'You know me?' she cried--'your little English Charlotte. See, here is the bonbonniere,' feeling for it in her pocket as she spoke. 'And you are Mademoiselle Jeanne. I know you now--if you had twenty peasant caps on I should know you. But how thin and pale you are, my poor Jeanne!

And is this your husband? I knew you were married. I saw it in the newspapers ever so many years ago. Do you know it is fifteen years since I went away? And I am married, too. But tell me first how it is you are here and dressed like that, and why you look so sad and Monsieur so ill.

Tell me all. You may trust me, you may indeed, and perhaps my husband and I may be able to be of some use. You may trust me,' seeing that Madame and her husband looked at each other in bewilderment; 'may they not, Dudu?' she added, turning to me. 'Tell Mademoiselle Jeanne that she can indeed trust me.'

"I flapped my wings and croaked.

"'You see,' said Charlotte, and at that they all laughed.

"'It is not that we do not trust you, my dear friend,' said Madame; 'and indeed you see all in seeing us here as you do. There is nothing to tell but the same sad story that has been to tell in so many once happy French homes. But explain to me, my dear Charlotte, how you are here. It is so strange, so extraordinary.'

"And Charlotte explained. Her husband was a sailor. To be near him, she had been in Spain at the outbreak of the revolution, and had remained there till he was ordered home. Now that the terror was subsiding, there was--for them, as foreigners--but little risk. She had persuaded her husband, whose vessel, owing to some slight accident at sea, had been obliged to put in at the neighbouring port, to let her come to have a look at the old town, at the old house, or garden rather, she still loved so dearly. 'The house we used to live in,' she said, 'was empty. I easily found my way in, and out on to the balcony, as you saw. I had a sort of wild idea that perhaps I might see or hear something of you. Yet I was almost afraid to ask, such terrible things have happened,' added Charlotte, with a shudder.

"But nothing more terrible was in store for our young ladies, I am glad to say," continued Dudu. "The faithful-hearted Charlotte and her husband were able to be of the greatest service to Mademoiselle Jeanne and _her_ husband. They conveyed them in safety to the port and saw them on board a friendly vessel, and not many weeks pa.s.sed before they were again with their children and the old Monsieur and Madame and Mademoiselle Eliane in their home for the time in Switzerland."

"Oh, how glad I am!" exclaimed Jeanne. "I was dreadfully afraid your story was going to end badly, Dudu."

"It is not ended yet," said Dudu.

"Isn't it?" cried Jeanne. "Oh dear, then go on quick, please. I _hope_ Mademoiselle Jeanne's poor husband----"

"Your great-grandfather, you mean," corrected Dudu.

"Oh, well then, my great-grandfather, _our_ great-grandfather, for he was Cheri's, too, you said. I do so hope he got better. Did he, Dudu?"

"Yes," said Dudu, "he got better, but never quite well again. However, he lived some years, long enough to see his boys grown up and to return--after the death of our old Monsieur and Madame--to return to his own country with his wife and sister-in-law. But before very long, while still far from an old man, he died. Then our young ladies, young no longer, came back, after a time, to their childish home; and here they lived together quietly, kind and charitable to all, cheered from time to time by the visits of Madame's two sons, out in the world now and married, and with homes of their own. And time went on gently and uneventfully, and gradually Madame's hair became quite, quite white, and Mademoiselle Eliane took to limping a little in her walk with the rheumatism, and when they slowly paced up and down the terrace it was difficult for me to think they were really my pretty young ladies with the white dresses and blue ribbons of half a century ago. For it was now just thirty-five years since the last visit of their English friend. She too, if she were alive, must be a woman of more than sixty. They had never heard of her again. In the hurry and anxiety of their last meeting they had forgotten to ask and she to give her exact address, so they could not write. She might have written to them to the old house perhaps, on the chance of it finding them; but if so, they had never got the letter. Yet they often spoke of her, and never saw the balcony at the end of the terrace without a kindly thought of those long ago days.

"One evening--an autumn evening--mild and balmy, the two old ladies were slowly pacing up and down their favourite walk, when a servant came out to say that they were wanted--a lady was asking for them. But not to disturb them, he added, the visitor would be glad to see them in the garden, if they would allow it. Wondering who it could be, Madame and her sister were hesitating what to do, when a figure was seen approaching them from the house.

"'I could not wait,' she said, almost before she reached them. 'I wished so much to see you once more in the old spot, dear friends;' and they knew her at once. They recognised in the bowed and worn but still sweet and lovely woman, their pretty child-friend of fifty years ago. She had come to bid them farewell, she said. She was on her way to the south--not to live but to die, for she had suffered much and her days were numbered.

"'My dear husband is dead some years ago,' she said. 'But we were very happy together, which is a blessed thought. And my children--one after another they faded. So I am an old woman now and quite alone, and I am glad to go to them all. My friends wished me to go to the south, for I have always loved the sunshine, and there my little daughter died, and perhaps death will there come to me in gentler shape. But on my way, I wished to say good-bye to you, dear friends of long ago, whom I have always loved, though we have been so little together.'

"And then they took each other's hands, gently and quietly, the three old ladies, and softly kissed each other's withered cheeks, down which a few tears made their way; the time was past for them for anything but gentle and chastened feelings. And whispering to their old friend not good-bye, but 'Au revoir, au revoir in a better country,' my ladies parted once more with their childish friend.

"She died a few months later; news of her death was sent them. _They_ lived to be old--past eighty both of them, when they died within a few days of each other. But I never hobble up and down the terrace walk without thinking of them," added Dudu, "and on the whole, my dears, even if I had my choice, I don't think I should care to live another two or three hundred years in a world where changes come so quickly."

Hugh and Jeanne were silent for a moment. Then "Thank you, dear Dudu,"

they said together.

And Dudu c.o.c.ked his head on one side. "There is Marcelline calling you,"

he said, in a matter-of-fact tone. "Run downstairs. Take a look at the beautiful stars overhead before you go. Good-bye, my dears."

"Good-night, Dudu, and thank you again," said the children, as they hastened away.

They found their way back to the tapestry room without difficulty. They were standing in the middle of the room, half puzzled as to how they had got there, when Marcelline appeared.

"We have been with Dudu," they told her, before she had time to ask them anything. "He has told us lovely stories--nicer even than fairy adventures." And Marcelline smiled and seemed pleased, but not at all surprised.

"A strange thing has happened," said Jeanne's father the next day. "I feel quite distressed about it. Old Dudu the raven has disappeared. He is nowhere to be found since yesterday afternoon, the gardener tells me.

They have looked for him everywhere in vain. I feel quite sorry--he has been in the family so long--how long indeed I should be afraid to say, for my father remembered him as a child."

The children looked at each other.

"Dudu has gone!" they said softly.

"We shall have no more stories," whispered Hugh.

"Nor fairy adventures," said Jeanne.

"He may come back again," said Hugh.