ZITLI
Honor did not sleep the first part of the night; her ankle was stiff
and painful, and she was a little feverish. She had a vision, in the
middle of the night, of Gretli, towering like an Alp beside her in a
mammoth nightgown, holding a cup to her lips and murmuring, “_Tisane!_
to make sleep well. Taste! but taste then, my child!”
Honor tasted, sipped, drank deep of the pleasant cooling draught,
herbs and honey and whey mysteriously mingled; then sank back on
the pillow. Was it really Gretli or a mountain? The _Dent d’Oche_,
come to visit her and accept her homage? Why not? Hesperus came!
Mountains--maidens--_tisane_--
The next thing Honor knew the morning sun was shining in on her: not
directly in her face, but reflected through the open door in the little
mirror opposite the foot of her bed. She sat up, blinking and rubbing
her eyes.
“Where am I?” she said again, as she had said the day before; the next
moment she knew, for there was Gretli in the doorway, beaming broad and
bright as the sun itself. She carried a basin--a very small one--and a
towel of homespun damask fit for a duchess.
“It is to wash the face, is it not?” she said. “Before breakfast; such
is the custom of the honored Ladies, one is aware.”
“Oh, thank you, Gretli! What a pretty towel!”
Gretli beamed broader still. “It is of my trousseau!” she said. “I
chose it for mademoiselle, because it is the pattern I like best;
observe! the double-basket weave; that is not ugly, _hein_? I spun and
wove that when I was of the age of Mademoiselle.”
“Your trousseau!” cried Honor. “Are you going to be married, Gretli?
Oh, how exciting! Does Madame know? May I tell the girls? Who is he? Is
he as handsome as--but he couldn’t be!”
“Mademoiselle must not excite herself before breakfast!” said Gretli
demurely. “All girls make their trousseau, is it not so? Then if the
good God sends a husband, _voilà!_ one is not unprepared. Permit that
I brush the hair of mademoiselle; the brush is entirely new, a present
from my godmother. But, what hair! Verily, it curls like the flames on
the hearth. A fire of gold, is it not so?”
“Isn’t it horrid?” sighed Honor. “I’d give everything I have in the
world to have it black, Gretli!”
Gretli cried out in horror.
“Mademoiselle! the wonderful hair; beautiful enough, with reverence be
it said, for the tresses of Ste. Gêneviève herself. But mademoiselle
jests, of a surety. She is doubtless thankful, as she surely ought to
be, for this gift of the good God, which might be desired by queens.
_Voilà!_ Mademoiselle is tidiness itself; a little moment, and I bring
her breakfast!”
What a breakfast that was! _Café-au-lait_, a whole bowl of it, smoking,
fragrant, delicious; crisp rolls, fresh butter, honey and cream, and a
little tea-rose-colored egg, which Gretli declared the youngest pullet
had laid on purpose not half an hour before. All this neatly arranged
on a wooden tray so beautifully carved that Honor cried out at sight of
it. Gretli glowed responsive.
“Zitli’s work!” she said proudly. “It took the prize at the carvers’
exhibition last year; in the department of young persons, be it
understood. He was offered much money for it, but no! it was for me, he
said, the good child! I value it highly, mademoiselle.”
“I should think so!” said Honor. “Why, I never saw anything so lovely.
What are the flowers?”
“_Edelweiss_ and _alpenrosen_; they are my flowers. But now let
mademoiselle eat, lest her breakfast cool! I return shortly.”
Honor ate her breakfast with right good will, enjoying every mouthful
as a healthy girl should. Between bites and sups, she exchanged morning
greetings with the mountains, which showed as friendly a face as the
night before, though no rosy veil softened their morning splendor of
white and green.
“Did you bring me the _tisane_ last night, Royal Highness?” said Honor.
“Or was it really Gretli? She looked quite as big, you know! Are any of
your mountain ladies as handsome as she is? Wouldn’t they look funny in
blue skirts and black bodices? How many yards do you suppose it would
take--”
A light cloud-shadow drifted over the shining face of the _Dent du
Midi_; it was as if he said, “Don’t talk nonsense, child!”
Honor accepted the rebuke, and devoted herself to her honey and rolls.
By and by came Gretli again to inspect the ankle. It was better, but
still swollen and painful. After examining it carefully, the good
giantess vanished, and presently reappeared, carrying carefully a glass
bowl in which were two black objects about two inches long. At first
sight Honor thought they were stones or bits of black wood: but looking
carefully at them, she saw one move.
“Gretli!” she cried. “They are alive! What hideous, horrible creatures!
Take them away, please!”
“In truth they are alive!” Gretli nodded contentedly. “Have no fear
of them, Mademoiselle. They are good creatures, and understand their
business well. See how your ankle is swollen, is it not? I apply my
good little _sangsue_ (leech), and in a few moments--but mademoiselle
will see!” and without more ado she clapped first one leech and then
the other on the offending ankle.
Honor shrieked aloud at the touch of the cold, clammy creatures;
shrieked louder still when they applied themselves, in a quiet but
efficient way, to the work in hand. The two shrieks rent the air;
startled the browsing goats outside, brought Zitli to his feet in
the outer room, to see what was the matter. Looking up, in the act
of opening her mouth for a third, Honor saw Gretli’s face of demure
amazement, and stopped short.
“Why--why do you look at me like that?” she faltered. “They _are_
horrible and disgusting, and they hurt me! I never heard of anything so
dreadful!”
“Is it so?” Gretli spoke gravely. “Mademoiselle is young. There are
many things more dreadful than a _sangsue_, which was made by the
Divine Hand, and given for the use of man. Mademoiselle observes
that we live upon a mountain, where physicians do not abound; thus,
we employ the remedies that Nature imparted to our fathers, and are
thankful. To the _montagnard_, the _sangsue_ is a good friend. Zitli
went before daybreak to the little pond to bring these fresh and lively
for mademoiselle.”
Honor blushed scarlet, and hung her head.
“I am sorry!” she murmured. “It--it was very kind of Zitli. Don’t tell
him, please, Gretli! I am so ashamed!”
“Assuredly, no!” Gretli was her own beaming self again; a slight shake
of her head as she glanced toward the door warned Zitli to make no
sound; he vanished silently.
“Friend _sangsue_ is not beautiful!” she admitted cheerfully. “Also,
he surprised mademoiselle. I should have explained in advance--but
in that case mademoiselle might not have permitted; so all is well,
and now I remove these gentlemen, who have breakfasted to heart’s
content--_voilà!_ Back to your bowl, messieurs! Now a little massage,
and we shall see!”
Wonderful massage that, with the strong, supple fingers! The pain
seemed to melt away under them. When it was over, and the ankle firmly
bound in bandages of strong homespun linen (no “gauze” in mountain
châlets!) Honor declared it felt almost entirely well.
“I believe I could walk on it! May I try, Gretli?”
“On no account, Mademoiselle! It is great happiness to have relieved
you of the pain, but for strength, time and patience are required.
It will be several days before mademoiselle can stand on that foot;
meantime--behold her conveyance.”
She held out her massive brown arms with a delightful smile. Ten
minutes later, Honor was reclining, well propped with pillows, on the
seat that ran the length of the broad window in the living room. Her
lame ankle, swathed in its bandages, contrasted oddly with her other
foot in its stout little walking shoe. Honor had pretty feet. Stephanie
admired them greatly (her own feet being large and flat) and was
constantly praising them. Soeur Séraphine heard her one day, and said
gravely that both girls should be simply thankful that their feet were
not deformed.
“It would have been fully as easy for the good God to give you club
feet,” she reminded them, “and it is through no merit of yours that
this was not ordained. If a foot is good to walk on, that is all we
should ask of it.”
The Sister walked away up the _allée_. Stephanie, shrugging her
shoulders, pointed at the footprint she left on the white sand.
“But regard!” she murmured. “It is well for the Sister to speak; her
foot was considered the most beautiful in Paris, my mother has told me
so.”
Honor was glad Stephanie could not see her foot now; the next moment
she forgot all about it.
The broad window looked out upon the green in front of the châlet, a
shelf, as it were, of the mountain, which fell steeply away below it,
and rose no less steeply behind. There was just room for the buildings
(the châlet, the cowhouse and various small outbuildings), and for this
pleasant green space. The grass was short and close as turf, though no
lawn mower had ever touched it. The goats attended to that; here they
were now, nibbling busily away, as if they had no time to spare. In
the middle of the green sat Zitli, on a low stool, milking one of the
she-goats. His crutch lay on the grass beside him; he was whistling
gayly, and looked bright as the morning. Presently Honor, watching,
saw him give a quick little glance over his shoulder, and then very
quietly take a crutch in one hand, while he went on milking with the
other. Following his glance, Honor was aware of Bimbo, standing a few
paces in the rear of Zitli, his beautiful head thrown back, his eyes
measuring the distance between him and the boy. Now he cast a wary
glance around him; nibbled grass for a moment with an air of elaborate
detachment; then dropping his head swiftly, he sprang forward like
arrow from the bow.
Whack! the crutch caught him full on the muzzle: he rolled over with a
shrill bleat of amazement, rage and pain.
Honor clapped her hands in delight.
“Hurrah!” she shouted.
Zitli looked up and laughed back at her.
“_Bon jour_, mademoiselle!” he cried, waving his victorious crutch. “He
has his breakfast, that one, not so?”
“Look out, Zitli!” cried Honor. “There comes Séraphine, on the other
side!”
She-goats do not butt; nevertheless, Séraphine, sidling quietly up,
evidently meant mischief. She stretched her neck toward the brimming
pail; another moment, and--_whack_! the crutch caught her too, and she
retired shaking her head violently.
“What possesses the creatures?” cried Honor.
“The pixies are riding them, mademoiselle!” replied Zitli. “_Ohé_,
Gretli! the pail is full, and the creatures are ridden.”
Gretli came hastening out to lift the heavy pail, and scold the unruly
goats, which scattered in every direction at sight of her; some up the
mountain, some down, away they went, leaping from stone to stone, till
not one was to be seen save old Moufflon, standing on a point of rock
and gravely bleating reproof to his troublesome flock.
Zitli followed Gretli into the house, and while she disappeared into
the dairy, he came and sat down by Honor’s window-seat. He hoped
mademoiselle had slept well; pain, that was not agreeable, no indeed.
He rejoiced to hear that it was nearly gone this morning.
“Are the goats always so mischievous, Zitli?” asked Honor.
“Not always! often, yes; but I hold it not wholly the fault of the
creatures. To-day, for example, they are pixy-ridden, that sees itself
easily.”
“What _do_ you mean, Zitli?”
“Mademoiselle knows about the pixies? No? True, they are of the
mountains; in cities, one hears, they are not known, but here--yes,
indeed! They are like men, only small, small, and full of mischief.
At times, they are visible to mortals, at others not; it is as they
please. Mademoiselle permits that I bring my work-bench, yes? Like
that, I can talk better; that is, if mademoiselle would care to hear?”
Seeing Honor all eagerness, he hobbled across the room, and returned,
pushing before him a small table covered with bits of wood and carving
tools.
“Like that!” he repeated, settling himself, and taking up his work.
“While the hands work, the tongue may play; if it speaks no evil!”
added the boy, crossing himself gravely.
“Tell me about the pixies!” cried Honor. “Did you ever see one, Zitli?”
Zitli glanced toward the dairy.
“The sister holds it not well to speak of them,” he said uneasily; “but
so long as one says no harm--Brother Atli thinks it was a dwarf I saw,
mademoiselle, a mortal being, only small, like a tiny child. There are
such, he says, and all he says is true. Nevertheless--” he paused.
“Nevertheless? Do go on, Zitli!”
“He was _very_ small!” Zitli spoke in a half-whisper. “Smaller than
any child I ever saw; and he wore a green coat. Mademoiselle can judge
for herself. Certain it is that he had a bag full of money, hung from
his belt. There was a hole in it, and some coins had fallen out, gold
and silver pieces. There they lay in the road, and he all unknowing.
I called to him, and he turned and gave me a look of anger truly
frightful. I began to pick up the coins, and brought them to him as
quickly as I could; then, quite suddenly, his look changed. He thanked
me as a father might, and gave me--look, mademoiselle!”
He drew from under his shirt a small bag that hung round his neck, and
opening it, displayed a gold coin.
“Oh, Zitli, how wonderful!” cried Honor. “And you think--you really
think he was a pixy? May I look? Oh! but--but this is a real coin,
isn’t it? A ten-florin piece. Would a pixy have that, do you think,
Zitli?”
Zitli nodded thrice, gravely. “Mademoiselle,” he said, “those people
can have what they like--or the appearance of it. Never while I live
will I spend this gold; and--mademoiselle may think this strange, but
it is true--since I have had it my back has given me no pain; but
none at all, compared with former times. It is true, as my sister
says, that the doctor at Lucerne gave also some help; yes, I am not
ungrateful to him; but--” he nodded several times, gravely, as he
replaced the bag around his neck.
“Are they often seen?” queried Honor. “Could--do you suppose a girl
could see them, Zitli?”
“But assuredly! indeed, some hold that they are kinder to maidens than
to men. There is the story of Magdalen of Pilatus. Mademoiselle has
never heard that? She lived at the foot of that dreadful mountain--”
Zitli crossed himself again--“and she was a good girl, and beautiful,
but very poor. Higher up on the mountain lived her mother’s cousin
Klaus, and he was very rich, and his gold, men said, come by in no
honest way, but of that I know nothing. Once the mother fell sick, and
felt a longing for a certain kind of cheese, which they were too poor
to buy. Magdalen went to the rich Klaus, and asked for a piece of this
cheese, of which it was known that he possessed a large store, but
he would not give her so much as would lie on the point of a pin, and
drove her away with cruel words. Then she went to her betrothed, Alois,
a good youth, but little richer than herself. He gave her what cheese
he had; but as she was returning home down the mountain, her foot
slipped, and she dropped the cheese, which rolled down the precipice
and was lost. Magdalen sat down and wept bitterly; as she wept, she
felt a pull at her sleeve, and looking up, lo! there was a little green
man with a long beard and a cheese on his shoulder. In his hand he held
a green plant, and he bade Magdalen give over her weeping.
“‘Take this plant,’ he said, ‘and make of it a _tisane_ for your
mother; it will cure her of her sickness. As for cheese, here is one
that will do instead of that you lost!’
“He then disappeared like a mist of night. Magdalen hastened home
and made the _tisane_ and gave it to her mother, who recovered her
health at once. And when they cut open the cheese, mademoiselle, it
was all pure gold within. So they became rich, and Magdalen and Alois
were married, and bought many fine pastures and cows, and became the
happiest couple in Switzerland. But from that day the wicked Klaus
began to lose his riches, and at last he died a beggar whom Magdalen
fed out of her bounty.”