THE MOUNTAINEERS
It was Madame’s birthday, a bright June day; it was also the feast of
St. Zita.
Every girl, Catholic and Protestant alike, had laid a flower on
the Saint’s shrine, the pretty little marble shrine at the end of
the garden, with the yellow roses climbing over it. Every girl had
presented her gift to Madame at breakfast, to the good lady’s unbounded
astonishment. They had been making the gifts under her benevolent nose
for a month past, but she had seen nothing; Soeur Séraphine said so,
and she ought to know. The steel beads of Honor’s neck chain (Honor was
not skilful with her needle, but she could string beads with the best!)
had flashed in sun and lamp light, had dropped on the floor and been
rescued from corners and cracks; Madame never noticed. She did not even
notice when Maria Patterson’s handkerchief case fell into the soup,
which, as Patricia said, served Maria right for tatting at table. Soeur
Séraphine saw, and Maria got no pudding, but Madame Madeleine never
so much as looked that way, and never faltered in her recital of the
virtues and sufferings of St. Zita.
She almost wept with pleasure over her gifts; never, she declared, were
such charming objects seen. And of a utility! _Tiens!_ this beautiful
blotter, how it would adorn her desk! And the exquisite chain! Would it
not sustain her spectacle case, which in future would never, as had so
often happened, become wholly lost? And--“Ma Patricia! this beautiful
scarf cannot be for me: tell me not so, my child! It is for a princess
rather!” etc., etc.
Dear Madame Madeleine! Surely her birthday was the happiest day of the
happy year for herself and all of us.
After the presentation, all was joyous bustle and hurry: baskets to
pack, shawls and cloaks to collect, _fiacres_ to summon; all for the
annual expedition to the _Rochers de Meillerie_, the most wonderful
picnic place in the world. The _fiacres_ (three of them! it made quite
a procession!) took the party down to the lake, where the little
steamer lay at her pier, the smoke pouring from her funnel. What
terror lest they should be late! What frantic signals waved from the
six windows of the procession of _fiacres_! The steamer gave no sign,
but puffed away stolidly; they had been on board half an hour, sitting
on their camp stools in a serried phalanx, before she rang her bell,
shrieked thrice through her whistle and began her leisurely progress
across the lake.
What a voyage of wonder that was! The morning was crystal clear, the
mountains stood in dazzling white and resplendent green, the lake was a
great sparkling sapphire studded with gold and diamonds.
Honor, sitting near the stern, watched the swirling wake, stretching
far behind, saw the rainbow bubbles rise, dance, break, fall away in
silver showers. She was fascinated, could not even look up at her
beloved mountains.
“_Tiens!_” whispered Stephanie. “This tall stranger, very
distinguished, who regards us, Moriole!”
Honor shook her shoulders a little impatiently. Stephanie was
always seeing distinguished strangers; they seldom, if ever, were
distinguished in Honor’s eyes.
Suppose, she thought, an Arm should suddenly appear, rising from the
bosom of the lake,
“Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful!”
Suppose Undine were there--no! she lived in a fountain; well, other
nymphs then! There must be ever so many. But it was to be some time yet
before Honor came to her water world.
“Regard the mountains, my child!” said Madame. “They also are dressed
to welcome us, is it not so?”
Honor looked up, and the mountains took possession of her again.
One could hardly look at the white giants themselves, they were too
dazzling, midway between the vivid blues of sky and lake, the blinding
sunlight beating on them. Instinctively one’s eyes blinked, fell,
rested on the lovely green of the lower forest-clad heights; lower
still, on the mellow brown huddle at their feet, on the very edge of
the water, the Rocks of Meillerie.
“Behold!” said Madame. “The good rocks which await us!”
The good rocks, basking in sunshine as soft as it was warm, neither
dazzled nor blinded; they welcomed. They were actually warm under the
feet, as, released from the steamer, the happy girls clambered over
them, laden with baskets, shawls, campstools.
“This way!” the brown rocks invited: “to the left here, my children,
under our shadow, for the sun is hot! here rather to the right, since
the footing is better. Yonder is a place of treachery; avoid always
that emerald patch! Unknown depths lurk beneath.”
And so on, and so on! Did the rocks actually speak, or was it Soeur
Séraphine panting in the rear, cautioning, adjuring? Never mind! Here
they were at last in the picnic place, their own place, discovered by
the two good sisters, Madame Madeleine and Soeur Séraphine, hundreds
of years ago, when they were girls themselves. No one else knew of it,
they were sure; except, of course, Atli and Gretli, and they were safe.
It was a family affair, the rock parlor, with its brown walls and its
carpet of softest moss. No treachery here! The moss was as dry as it
was soft; a wonderful moss, like tiny velvet ferns; Honor and Stephanie
agreed it could grow nowhere else in the world. Here and there baby
rocks jutted through the green, making perfect stools; there was even
an armchair for Madame; it was arranged, Soeur Séraphine assured
them gaily. Nature, the good Mother Superior of the White Sisters
yonder--she indicated the towering giants above them--had designed this
place for them.
“Sit down, my children! My sister, this cushion for thy back, is it not
so? _Voilà!_”
The snowy cloth was laid on the moss before Madame’s rock armchair; the
baskets were unpacked, amid squeaks of rapture. Oh! the great pie! ah!
the _brioches_, the _galette_, the Lyons sausage, all the good, good
Swiss dainties! how wonderful they were, eaten here in the rock parlor,
at the very foot of the mountains! And when the girls were thirsty--Ah!
at the good hour! Here were Atli and Gretli.
Down through the brown rocks, stepping as sturdily and easily as if on
level ground, came the gigantic twins, Margoton’s brother and sister;
he bearing a shining milkcan, she a comb of golden honey in a blue
bowl. This also was a part of the regular programme. Never were twins
more alike. Clip Gretli’s flaxen hair and put her into Atli’s white
shirt, broad green breeches and worsted stockings; furnish Atli with
two heavy braids hanging to his waist, and dress him in bodice and
petticoat--Madame asked you--was there a difference? They were superb,
even Patricia allowed that. Their massive, regular features, their
blue eyes, the flash of their white teeth, the ruddy brown of cheek
and chin, contrasting with the milk-white strip of forehead when the
shady hat came off--all this with the figure of a Norse viking and--“Is
there such a word as ‘vi-queen’?” asked Patricia. Soeur Séraphine
thought not: the idea, however, was admirable. That was certainly what
our good Atli and Gretli resembled. Vee-king! vee-quin--: ki--veen! my
faith! That was difficult, if you would! a majestic language, but of a
complexity!
Honor thought silently that they were more like the Norse Gods: Baldur
the Beautiful, Nanna the Fair: there was a story about them in a little
brown book--
Atli, all unconscious of either kinglike or godlike attributes, poured
the rich, foaming milk into the tin cups held out by a dozen eager
hands: Gretli dispensed the honey with golden smiles; then the twins
sat down simply, and had their share of _galette_, _brioche_, and all
the rest of it, and answered the questions showered upon them by the
two ladies. Yes, the cows were well, with thanks to the holy ladies
for their interest; that is, the present time found them in health.
La Dumaine had been ill in the spring: but desperately ill! They had
despaired of her. During a week they had watched beside her as those
expecting the end. She was good as bread, the poor sufferer; her
moans were as eloquent as words. When she said “Moh!” one knew she
had thirst, one brought water on the instant; when she sneezed, it
expressed affection.
“It is that we understand!” said Gretli simply; “she is our sister, do
you see?”
Atli nodded gravely.
“It is like that!” he confirmed her. “We are all creatures of the good
God. Few human beings have the virtues of La Dumaine. The Duchesse,
now, is of another quality; that cow is malicious, if you will. Figure
to yourselves, my ladies, her endeavoring to snatch from our poor
Dumaine the tuft of clover that I had found for her (with difficulty,
for the season was late) and brought up from the valley. An evil beast!
my faith, she was well paid for that, the Duchesse; good strokes of the
cudgel rewarded her.”
“And the goats?” asked Soeur Séraphine. “They have wintered well?
The little white one lives always, that you named for me, kind young
persons that you are?”
The twins threw back their heads--their movements were apt to be not
only identical but simultaneous--and their laughter rang among the
rocks; every one else laughed, too, from sheer infection of merriment.
“If she lives?” chuckled Atli.
“The marvel is that others still survive!” cried Gretli. “It is we
that owe you a thousand apologies, my Sister, for giving your holy and
beautiful name to such a creature. She is mistress--what do I say? She
is tyrant of the whole flock. She drives them before her like lambs
of a month old; they have no peace, the unhappy ones. Only the two
he-goats, old Moufflon himself, and his son, our handsome Bimbo, can
withstand her. These, also, however, she conquers, but with wiles, you
understand. She has charm, _la Séraphine_; my faith, yes! Even Atli
gives her her own way, when I would give her the stick rather.”
“The creature!” said Atli indulgently. “She is of a beauty, my ladies!
White as cream, and her eyes so dark and appealing. My ladies will
graciously visit the _châlet_, as of custom? There will be great
rejoicing at sight of them.”
But yes, said Madame; that was one of the chief pleasures of this happy
day, long looked forward to. On the instant even, it would be well for
them to begin the ascent. Already it was two o’clock, and the steamer
left at five. Also, though young persons could imitate the goats in
their manner of ascent, for those of advanced years it was necessary to
allow time. Forward then, my children! to the châlet of the Rocks!
In the twinkling of an eye the baskets were repacked and safely stowed
beneath an overhanging rock; every scrap of paper and crust of bread
picked up and burned, under Soeur Séraphine’s watchful eye; then
the whole party began the ascent, Gretli leading the way with Soeur
Séraphine, whose slight figure was as active as that of her namesake,
Atli bringing up the rear, carefully guiding and supporting Madame
Madeleine. Between the two couples went the girls in a hubbub of
delight, skipping, slipping, leaping, chattering French and English as
they went.
“He is far more handsome than last year!” sighed Stephanie. “Regard his
moustache, how it embellishes him! What king was that thou callest him,
Patricia? _Le roi Vi, n’est-ce pas?_”
“No king at all! The Vikings were sea-rovers, pretty much pirates, I
suppose.”
“Pirate? That is _corsair_?” asked Vivette, who was getting on nicely
with her English. “My ancestor was a corsair of St. Malo. He captivated
three British ships--”
“By his beauty?” asked Patricia. “You mean ‘captured,’ Vivi!”
“Cap-ture, capti-vate, is it not the same thing? A captive, is he not
captivated? How then?”
“Catastrophe of a language!” murmured Stephanie, who detested English.
“Hop, Froggy!” said Patricia and Maria in one breath.
Seeing battle imminent, Honor broke in hastily, “Oh, look, girls!
_Regarde, Stephanie!_ The châlet! Race to it!”
No more words were spoken. Panting, breathless, the girls pressed on.
Soon they overtook Gretli and Soeur Séraphine, and some would have
passed them, but Patricia made an imperious gesture.
“Manners?” she suggested; “one doesn’t rush ahead of one’s hostess, I
_think_; or does one, Stephanie?”
Honor did wish they would not quarrel so. Of course Patricia was right,
but--she slid her hand into Stephanie’s, and they dropped back behind
the others.
“I hate her!” said Stephanie.
“No, you don’t,” said Honor stoutly. “You dislike her, and that is a
pity, because she is splendid, and if you didn’t dislike her, you would
like her so tremendously; but you don’t hate her.”
“The same thing!” muttered Stephanie.
“No!” Honor’s cheek flushed and her eyes flashed. “To dislike, that
comes to every one; to hate, that is wicked, and the good God is vexed.”
“My children,” called Soeur Séraphine. “Behold us arrived! forward
then! Our Gretli has a surprise for us, of which I learn but on the
instant. Follow me!”