THE SECRET OF THE GARRET
THE little Péron enjoyed every privilege of the clockmaker’s house,
but there was one spot in it which he had never entered. That was
the garret under the gabled roof. It was not forbidden him, perhaps
because the mere prohibition was unnecessary, when it was impossible
to penetrate that mysterious corner. For mysterious it was, not only
to Péron, but also to the apprentices; and there was no little gossip
about the closely fastened door in the roof, and the child heard it
when he wandered into the workshop to watch the men manufacturing the
marvellous machinery for his well-beloved jacquemarts. No one went to
that garret but Madame Michel, and she went only at stated intervals;
entering sometimes by the outer staircase, but more frequently by
the ladder which went up to the trap-door in the ceiling of her own
room. When she was up there, the apprentices always knew it, as well
as Péron, for they could hear her steps overhead on the loose boards
of the attic floor. What she did there was the subject of much idle,
half-jesting conjecture. It could scarcely be a store-room, for she
went up and came down empty-handed; they knew this, for the more
curious had surprised her in her entrances and exits more than once.
It was suggested that she sought this retired spot for the purpose
of devotion, but it was further observed that she was usually out of
temper after these excursions, and always belabored with her tongue any
one whom she caught spying upon her, which did not support the theory
of prayer and meditation. The more simple explanation, that she went
there to clean and dust the attic, did not suit them either, although
natural enough; for the goodwife was scrupulously neat, and had more
than once wrought mischief with her dust brush among the curiosities of
the shop, until she had been driven out by Jacques des Horloges.
Many a jest was made about that garret, and when the apprentices found
that little Péron shared their curiosity, they were only too ready to
fill his mind with wonderful tales. The child began after awhile to
feel a certain awe mingled with his interest in the secret chamber.
The men amused themselves telling him of the hobgoblins who lived
under the roof and blew the smoke down the chimneys into the house
on days when they were angry. They dressed them up to please their
own fancy and amaze the boy. Sometimes the goblins were little and
grotesque and lived on eggs stolen from the swallows’ nests under the
eaves; again they were large and fat, and sat squat on the ground
like toads, and devoured only curious little boys who peeped into
their dens in the attics. Again, they told him that the queen of the
fairies lived there and ate nothing but cream of clouds à la Zamet.
And so the garret became a wonderland to Péron, and he dreaded to see
it as much as he longed to explore, with all a boy’s eager fancy for
adventure. He was a sober-minded child, too, although so fanciful, and
he did not altogether believe the tales that were told him. However,
between belief and unbelief, his curiosity waxed strong, and he made
many expeditions up the stone stairs from the court to try the handle
of the door in the roof; but it was never unfastened, although he sat
in the court below and watched it often. Nor was his success better
with the trap-door; he could not reach this to try it, for the ladder
was always locked up in a closet, except on the auspicious days when
Madame Michel ascended. He asked once to accompany her, and was refused
more sharply than he had ever been refused any favor before. He was
not a child to fret or cry because of a denied pleasure; he neither
repeated the request nor asked the cause of the refusal, but accepted
the rissole that madame gave him, on her return, as an apology and
peace offering. Indeed, all the rest of that day she was unusually
indulgent and apologetic to him, and in the evening took him to the
pastry shop of Archambault on the Rue des Petits Champs to purchase
some of his favorite bonbons and a marvellous dove of sugar, with
green eyes which sparkled like jewels. Yet, although she was unaware
of it, she had not propitiated him, for the desire of his heart was
now, boylike, to see the attic. He pattered along at her side without
revealing his thoughts, however; and a strange couple they were on the
streets. The good dame was Norman French, a Rouennaise by birth, and
a big, broad-shouldered woman with a keen, brown eye and a pleasant,
broad face, her black hair brushed smoothly back under her wide-winged
white cap; and her dress was that of a well-to-do tradesman’s wife,
and withal scrupulously neat. But there was no beauty about her,
while about the child there were both beauty and grace of movement.
Even in his plain clothes his little figure was striking, and he had
a fine, fully developed head for his years. His reserve, his quaint
air of dignity, were unlike the manners of the children at play in
the streets. Indeed, he had a fixity of purpose which was to prove
troublesome to Madame Michel. He accepted her blandishments--but he
remembered the attic.
One fair day his opportunity came, as all things come to him who
waits. Jacques des Horloges was busy in the shop, the apprentices were
deeply engaged on a large clock for M. de Rambuteau, and the cat, M.
de Turenne, ran away from Péron and hid. The child hunted for his
playmate with the zeal born of idleness, and finding the rooms below
empty, he clambered up the stairs to the upper floor. When he came to
Madame Michel’s room he stood transfixed at the open door. The ladder
was at the trap, and he heard madame’s voice in the court, engaged in
shrill altercation with a peddler. The child could scarcely believe
his eyes. M. de Turenne was forgotten; here was something of far
greater interest. He advanced cautiously, not because he felt himself
a transgressor, but because he was awed at the possible revelation
which lay before him. His heart beat as he set his small foot on the
first rung of the ladder, and then he drew back. The stories of the
hobgoblins beset him with strange misgivings; he fancied that he heard
a soft sound overhead; he hesitated, and a little tremor of excitement
ran over him. What would he see up there? Ah, that was the question!
He reflected, however, that he would like to see a hobgoblin, and
he did not believe that they ate little boys. He was screwing up his
courage, admitting to himself that the possibilities were ugly. But
curiosity is a strong motive power, and the child was no coward, if
over-imaginative, as children so brought up are likely to be. He
wavered only a moment or two; decisive action was necessary before
Madame Michel returned. He took his life in his hand and climbed the
ladder like a young hero; he did not pause again until he reached the
floor of the attic, for fear his courage might fail. At the top he
drew his breath and stood still; it took a few minutes for his eyes to
become accustomed to the gloom, for there was only one window in the
roof, and that a small one. Then he looked about him with a sharp sense
of disappointment, for he saw nothing,--that is, nothing of interest
to a child. It was a very small room indeed, with the naked rafters
above, and, strange to say, in spite of madame’s neatness, a cobweb or
two festooned the corners. The window in the roof revealed the rough
boards of the floor and nothing more except three large plain chests of
solid wood standing in a row on one side. A barren spot to have excited
so much curiosity, and certainly not a promising home for hobgoblins.
Péron’s first impulse was to go down the ladder again, but he thought
better of it and began to move about the attic, examining it until he
assured himself that there was nothing to be seen except the chests.
Having arrived at this conclusion, he betook himself to these; he
tried the lid of the one nearest the trap-door, but it defied even the
industrious efforts of little fingers, and he turned away, disappointed
and piqued. The next was equally unaccommodating, although he devoted
more time to it; he found the lock and applied his eye to it, in a
fruitless effort to see inside. Curiosity now was whetted by defeat and
he approached the third, his little face more rosy than usual and his
lips pinched tightly together. He was destined to succeed at last; the
first touch assured him that the lid was unlocked, and he put out all
his child’s strength to lift it and peep in. Again a disappointment;
he saw only some neatly folded clothing; but something in the color
and appearance attracted him and he pursued his investigations. With
infinite care and labor he lifted the lid upright and turned it back
on its hinges, then stood gazing with pleased eyes at the objects
revealed. Nothing very unusual, only the small clothing of a child of
two or three years old, but of a quality and color so delicate that
little Péron examined them in wonder. They were as beautiful as the
gowns of the belles of the Marais. The chest was closely packed, but
the boy got no deeper than the upper layer. Here was a little coat of
the palest blue, and Péron knew that it was of velvet and satin, and
the lace on it seemed to him like the frost-work that he had sometimes
seen on the windows at Christmas. He fingered it gently, for he was
a careful child, and the tiny roses in the pattern delighted him. It
was while he was examining them that he felt something cold touch his
exploring fingers, and a tiny chain of gold slipped out from the folds
with a locket on the end of it. His attention was at once absorbed by
this new object of interest; it was small and round, and Péron thought
it was the brightest piece of red glass that he had ever seen. On it
was engraved a very curious picture,--curious to him, at least,--a
little lion rampant, a wreath or a scroll, and some figures which he
could not decipher. He did not know what it was, but he took it nearer
the window, when he discovered that the light made it sparkle. The
chain did not interest him, and he gently worked at the links until he
accidentally detached it, and then he dropped the chain back into the
chest and stood shifting the stone in his fingers to catch the changes
of light. He remembered seeing one such stone before,--he thought it
was on the neck of the Duchess of Rohan,--and he was delighted with
his discovery. It was still in the little nervous fingers when Madame
Michel came suddenly up the ladder, having approached unheard while he
was fascinated with his bit of red glass. At first the good dame did
not see the invader of her sanctum, and when she did, she discovered
the open chest at the same instant and came forward with an outcry that
frightened the child so much that he drew back, clasping his treasure
tightly to his breast, and gazing at her angry face in mute, wide-eyed
alarm.
“Mère de Dieu!” she cried, running to the open box, and looking in with
feverish anxiety, “what have you done, you little rogue?”
She examined the clothes with fierce scrutiny, but she could detect
no disturbance of their neat folds, for Péron had handled them so
delicately that no harm was done. She slammed down the lid, and,
locking it, thrust the key in her bosom before she turned to the child.
Her anger was slightly mollified, but there was still some agitation in
her face and manner, and she gazed searchingly at the offender.
“How long have you been here?” she demanded sharply.
The boy was still alarmed by her unusual conduct, and he kept the bit
of red glass tight in his little fist.
“I do not know,” he said, shaking his head; “I was looking for M. de
Turenne, I--”
“Mon Dieu!” cried madame, looking about behind the boxes, “is that
beast here? If he had got into the chest, he would have torn up
everything.”
“He is not here,” replied Péron soberly. “I could not find him, and I
came up the ladder.”
“What did you want to come up here for?” asked the woman suspiciously,
having satisfied herself that M. de Turenne was not in hiding.
“I wanted to see the hobgoblins,” rejoined the child calmly, his
agitation departing as her anger subsided.
Madame looked at him in amazement, her eyes very round.
“Ciel! the boy is mad,” she said to herself softly, and then aloud,
“You are dreaming, mon enfant, what do you mean? There are no
hobgoblins in this house.”
“Mais oui, madame!” exclaimed the child wisely, “there are, here under
the roof; they said so;” and he pointed downward.
“They?” repeated the good woman, bewildered; “who are ‘they’?”
“Jehan and Pierre, the apprentices, and Manchette, too,” he replied;
“it must be true!”
“Ah!” ejaculated madame sharply; “so they gossip about this place, do
they?”
Gossip was a long word for little Péron; he wrinkled his brows.
“They told me of the hobgoblins,” he repeated stoutly.
Madame Michel’s face cleared a little.
“Ah, only nonsense to frighten the child!” she exclaimed, with a sigh
of relief. “Sainte Geneviève! I thought--” But she did not finish the
sentence; she laid a heavy hand on Péron’s shoulder.
“Listen to me,” she said, in a sharp, clear tone. “I have never whipped
you, mon enfant, but if you say one word of this attic to Jehan,
Pierre, Manchette, or any one else, I will surely whip you, Péron, and
you shall have no dinner; neither shall you go to the Rue des Petits
Champs;--do you understand me, eh?”
Péron looked up at her red face and his childish courage quaked; but he
was a proud child, and he inwardly resolved that he would never bear a
blow--he would run away first.
“Why do you not speak?” she cried angrily; “you hear me, enfant!”
“I will not tell, madame,” the boy answered gravely, “but you will not
whip me!”
She let go of him, amazed at the look on his face, an expression of
almost shame coming over hers. She knelt down on the garret floor and
kissed the child’s hand, the picture of humility.
“I beg your pardon, monsieur,” she said, tears in her voice; “you are
right, I will not whip you.”
There were tears in her eyes also. A moment later she rose, and brushed
the moisture from her eyelashes with the back of her broad, strong hand.
“I am an old fool!” she said, giving the boy a push toward the ladder;
“go away, mon enfant, there is nothing here but some old chests, old
clothes, and old hopes!”
At this moment her eyes fell on the form of M. de Turenne, who was
sitting placidly at the top of the ladder, licking his gray fur, the
end of his tail moving in a charmed circle.
“Scat!” she cried, stamping her feet, “between the cat and the child I
shall go mad,” and she drove them both down the ladder and slammed down
the door after them.
All the while the piece of red glass had remained tightly clasped
in Péron’s hand. In his agitation he had held it unconsciously,
and now he was afraid to tell Madame Michel, dreading a repetition
of the scene. He crept away with it to his own little room and
examined it with a tremor of excitement. It was so pretty, and it
had so nearly precipitated a terrible calamity; for he felt that had
madame struck him, he should have died of shame. He was afraid to
return the stone and afraid to play with it, and it became a fresh
cause for embarrassment. However, he finally solved the problem by
determining to hide it away. In a little cupboard in the corner of
his room there was one shelf devoted to his treasures,--wax and paper
models of jacquemarts, broken watch-springs, some fancifully shaped
pebbles, a number of marvellously useless valuables, and here Madame
Michel never meddled. Therefore he loved it with the pride of sole
proprietorship, and here in a dark corner he stowed away the bit of
red glass wrapped in a soiled sheet of paper. For a few days he took
it out surreptitiously and played with it, and then he forgot it and
it lay there unheeded and unsought; for as yet Madame Michel had not
discovered her loss.