JOTTINGS FROM THE JOURNAL
April 12, 1914. Well, we've found out all about that dauphin, and an
exhausting piece of work it was. I never waded through so much history
before in all my life. If the Imp hadn't given us that hint, though, it
would have been far worse, for we wouldn't have had the least idea where
to begin.
We went to the library this morning and spent till lunch-time there, and
then went back again this afternoon. As it was the Easter holidays, we
fortunately had all the time to spend on it that we wanted. But I must
tell all about what we've discovered. Some of it is very, very
confusing. We can't understand what it can possibly have to do with
Louis, and yet there are things about it that make us sure that it
somehow has _something_ to do with him.
To begin with, there isn't a shadow of doubt that this portrait is of
the dauphin who was the son of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, king and
queen of France around the time of the French Revolution. They seemed to
be having a pretty mixed up and bloody time in France just about that
period, and everybody had it in for the royal family and all the
nobility. The common people somehow got control of things, and first
they put the king and queen and dauphin and his sister in prison, and
then they killed the king and queen. The dauphin was a little boy of six
or seven at the time, and they didn't kill him, but kept him a prisoner
for three years in a place called the Temple Tower, till finally he died
of neglect. I think it said that he died in 1795.
It just made us wild to read about how shamefully they treated that poor
little fellow. They gave him in charge of a horrible, cruel cobbler,
named Simon, who beat and ill-used him abominably,--just because he
happened to be the child of a king,--and then afterward they shut him up
in a room by himself, where he never saw a single soul for six months,
and handed him his food as they would to a dog in a kennel. At the end
of that time they appeared to be a bit sorry for the way they'd acted,
and let him come out into a decent room and tried to take a little
better care of him. But it was too late, for he died soon afterward,--as
I should think he would after standing that kind of treatment for three
years.
Carol and I got so worked up over the thing that we almost cried. We
felt awfully to think that a poor, innocent, little chap should be
treated that way by people who were fighting for liberty and justice, as
the French were. It didn't make any difference if he _was_ a king's son.
He had just as much right to be fairly treated as any one, and _more_,
because he was so little and helpless. I don't wonder that Monsieur said
he was one of the world's heroic martyrs. One book said that he was
always so sweet and gentle and winning. His pretty manner at times even
softened the hearts of some of his cruel jailers.
Well, that's the history of the dauphin. He would have been Louis XVII,
if he had lived to become a king. The portrait of him must have been
painted before all the trouble broke out. At that time the poor little
fellow could not have dreamed what he was going to suffer later. It's
well that he didn't know.
As there didn't seem to be any more to find out, we decided we'd better
go home.
I was longing for a chance to tell the Imp what we'd discovered, but she
had a bad sore-throat from getting her feet wet this afternoon, and
Mother had put her to bed. So I must wait till to-morrow. But since I've
had an opportunity to sit down and think this all over quietly, I've
been trying to see what connection all these things can possibly have
with affairs across the Green. So far, however, nothing but unanswered
questions has been the result.
For instance, I can _not_ understand why Monsieur should consider that
portrait as one of his most treasured possessions. Of course the story
about the boy is terribly sad, but unless he was some relative of
Monsieur's (which is quite impossible), why should Monsieur cherish the
picture? He never saw the child, and can't possibly have any affection
for him. I don't understand it. And what are those two other pictures,
so carefully covered? Perhaps they are more portraits of the same child,
painted later and too sad to be looked at? I'd love to know.
I wonder, too, if Louis knew about this dauphin, would he still continue
to hate the picture? Or would he be afraid of it? I'm just crazy to tell
him, yet I suppose it wouldn't be fair,--at present, anyway. Good
gracious! An idea has just occurred to me. I happened to think of that
strange dream Louis said he had when he was sick. Was there ever
anything so curious? I remember that he said the little fellow seemed so
changed, with ragged clothes and matted hair and tear-stained cheeks and
a red cap on his head! Why, that is just the way one of those books
described him after he was put in charge of the cobbler. Simon took away
all his nice clothes and made him wear a red "liberty-cap," and forced
him to sing the songs of the revolution and dance for him. And Louis
dreamed all that change in his appearance, yet he doesn't know who the
subject of the portrait is and very little, if anything, about this
dauphin, in all probability. This is simply uncanny! I must tell Carol
in the morning.
April 19. I haven't had a chance to write a thing in this journal for a
week. We have been having the dressmaker. She's getting all our spring
things in order, and I've had to help her and Mother with the sewing
every spare minute that I've had. Father's been laid up, too, with an
acute attack of rheumatism, and was in bed several days. For nearly half
the week I didn't even go to school. So, altogether, I've been having a
rather strenuous time.
But, all the same, I haven't forgotten our mystery for a single minute.
Carol has kept me posted on anything new that has happened, though
nothing special did happen till yesterday. She has been madly reading
history ever since. She always did have a taste for it, and this has
given her the inspiration to read up French history from the very
beginning. She says she's finding it as interesting as a story. Well,
maybe she is, but I'm sure _I_ wouldn't.
One thing she said was that the more she read, the more she felt that
the French weren't much to blame for what they did while getting rid of
their kings and queens in that revolution. Of course they might have
used gentler means, but they were probably too exasperated by the way
they'd been downtrodden. From almost the beginning the reigning monarchs
were a _precious lot_, evidently considering it their chief business in
life to squeeze the most they could out of their subjects. Each one felt
he'd lived in vain, apparently, if he hadn't gone his ancestor one
better at that occupation! Carol says that Louis XVI seems to have been
a lot better than most of them, but by that time the French were too
furious to consider that, I suppose. Anyway, he had to suffer for what
his ancestors had done.
We haven't seen much of Monsieur lately. Louis says he hasn't been
well. This climate doesn't agree with him, and he has rheumatism and
gout, and has caught a dreadful cold. I don't see why he stays here, if
it makes him so miserable. Anyhow, he was in such bad shape that he
decided to go to New York to spend a few days at a sanitarium, and Miss
Yvonne had to take him there, for he was too sick to go alone. He went
yesterday, and last night a queer thing happened. Carol told me about it
this afternoon, giving the account as Louis told it to her while coming
home from school on the trolley.
It seems that he and his uncle were sitting downstairs in the
living-room when, about nine o'clock, they heard a dreadful crash
upstairs, directly over their heads. They couldn't think what in the
world it could be, and were so startled that neither of them moved or
spoke for a moment. Then Louis jumped up, exclaiming:
"Something's the matter in Monsieur's room! That's right overhead. I'll
go up and see."
At first his uncle didn't seem to want him to go, saying he'd rather go
himself. But as he's very feeble and doesn't go upstairs often (his
bedroom is on the lower floor), Louis wouldn't hear of it and insisted
that at least they go together. So up they went.
When they reached Monsieur's room and struck a light, they saw that the
picture of the boy had fallen to the floor and that the glass was
broken. Evidently, the wire by which it was hung had become rusty and
given way, for the picture is very heavy. Louis didn't think much of the
occurrence. He merely remarked that he'd clean up the broken glass and
get a glazier to come in the morning and put in a new one. Also, he said
he'd get some new wire and rehang it.
But for some unknown reason old Mr. Meadows was nearly wild. He stood
and wrung his hands, and walked up and down, as if something perfectly
awful had happened. Louis couldn't make out what in the world was the
matter with him. Finally he said:
"It's all right, Uncle. What are you so excited about? I'm going to
have it all fixed up to-morrow. It will be as good as ever. The picture
itself isn't damaged a bit."
But even then his uncle couldn't seem to calm down, and all Louis could
get from him was this remark, repeated over and over:
"'Tis an evil omen! An unfortunate sign! On no account must Monsieur
know of it!"
Louis said that was all right; he needn't know of it. The picture would
be all fixed up long before Monsieur came back. And even Miss Yvonne
needn't hear of it, for he'd see that it was in place before she came
home to-day. This seemed to calm Mr. Meadows somewhat, and he finally
consented to have it so. But all the evening he kept muttering, "An evil
omen!" to himself, and acted uneasy. Louis says he doesn't see any sense
in it. I can't say that I do either, even with what I know, and yet it
does seem sort of queer.
I'm too tired to write much more to-night, and yet I must tell about how
the Imp acted when we told her of what we'd unearthed in the histories
about the dauphin.
We were awfully enthusiastic over telling her, for we felt sure she
would think we'd done a good piece of work. As a matter of fact, Carol
and I doubted very much whether the Imp could possibly have found out as
much as we had, for we'd dug into things so thoroughly. We felt sure we
were giving her some points she hadn't discovered, and we were rather
proud of ourselves. Imagine our disgust when she remarked, after we'd
finished:
"Well, you've done very nicely, children!" She always calls us
"children" when she wants to be patronizing and unpleasant. I thought it
strange that she should suddenly turn horrid, when she's acted so
friendly of late.
"Don't be hateful," I said, "but admit that we have given you some good
points."
"I don't mean to be hateful," she retorted, "but it makes me mad to see
how little you girls use your brains."
"I don't think that's a nice remark," I said, "but I'll forgive you for
it, if you'll be kind enough to explain what you mean."
"Why, just this," she answered. "There are one, two,--yes, three points
in things you know about that you haven't connected with this picture or
this history at all, so far as I can see."
"What are they?" I demanded.
"You know that I can't tell you," she replied. "I can only advise you to
use your brains and your memories."
"Anything else?" I inquired, as mildly as I could, for by that time I
was getting furious with her.
"Yes, one thing more," she said. "You were trying to be patronizing,
weren't you, when you asked me if you hadn't given me some good points.
As if it wasn't _I_ who put you on the right track in the beginning!
I've always said that you two were an ungrateful pair, and now I'm sure
of it. I'll give you just one more piece of information, and then I'm
through. You thought you had discovered more than I have? Why, I've
unearthed so much more that you haven't even touched or suspected that
you'd be perfectly amazed, if you knew what I do!" With that, she
flounced out of the room.
I can't help but believe the Imp, mad as she has made me. Goodness knows
when she'll come round to being amiable again, for once she goes off on
a tangent like this, she _stays_ off for a good long while. It's too
bad!
What in the world can those three things be that she was talking about?