TURNING THE TABLES
IT is said, and with truth, that all, or nearly all, wandering races
are rich in the grace of hospitality, and these French gipsies, or
rather tramps of a mixed race, had kind hearts, as Tad and Phil proved.
Poor, outcast, homeless creatures as they were, strangers in a strange
land, these good people had asked of them but few questions, but made
the boys heartily welcome, giving them permission to continue with the
troupe so long as it suited them to do so.
Old Jacques had said, furthermore, when he yielded to the earnest
entreaty of the lads, "Yes, my children, and I accept your offer of
service. We are not rich, and we cannot afford to keep anyone in
idleness. You will therefore work as we do, and be one with us in all
things, subject also to the laws that govern us. For we have our own
rules which we strictly enforce, and punishment is inflicted upon all
those who break them."
The boys had readily promised obedience. Any rule, any yoke of service,
would be light, and even pleasant, after the miseries of their late
servitude, and now they gladly resolved to be docile, industrious,
and helpful. Very soon they found they were taken at their word, and
that there was no want of employment for anyone willing and able. They
learned the art of basket-making, Phil's slender hands being specially
clever in this. They made flower-sticks, clothes-pegs, twig-brooms,
and broom-handles. They caned chairs, mended kitchen furniture for the
poor people, and did a little rough tinkering. Phil, too, soon proved
himself a good hand at weaving big rush hats for farm labourers, and
very proud he was when he could hand over into good mother Sophie's
care a handful of coppers, the wages of his industry.
Tad, on the other hand, was just as useful in the heavier and rougher
work, and in the daily routine duties of the camp. He felt it no
indignity to be a hewer of wood and drawer of water to the kind people
who had extended towards him and Phil so generous a helping hand in
their dire distress and destitution.
Ready in all things else to do the gipsies' bidding, the boys had
begged that they should never be sent on errands that necessitated
their going any distance alone. They had told Jacques and Sophie
enough of their story to bespeak the sympathy and protection of the
good old couple, and to show them that a meeting with Renard, Paul,
or Jean might prove dangerous to their freedom, and possibly even to
their lives. So the lads were kept to duties within the precincts
of the camp; and in the busy, out-of-door life which they led, they
lost, after a while, all fear of the evil men, the dread of whose
reappearance had hitherto haunted them like evil phantoms.
For some time they heard nothing more about Marie and her plans. But
one day Sophie and Jacques were talking together, and Tad heard what
was said. The gipsies had decided to go on the next day to St. Malo,
and encamp in a piece of waste ground about half a mile out of the town.
"At the town post-office, a letter from our daughter will probably be
awaiting us," Sophie had said, "and let us hope she will soon follow
it, coming by one of the steamers that bring passengers to this port."
The next day the little procession of gipsy vans passed through the
town, not stopping, however, anywhere until it reached the open space
where the troupe could encamp without fear of disturbing anyone, or
being themselves molested.
One morning Tad and Phil were busy helping Sophie and Pelagie with the
noonday meal. It was not often these gipsies had meat or poultry of any
kind, but to-day one of the party had bought from a farmer's man, for a
mere trifle, an antiquated rooster of venerable aspect, and the whole
company were in high glee at the thought of adding this dainty to the
usual soup.
But first old chanticleer must be plucked and cleaned, and Tad was set
to work at this, while Phil helped to wash turnips and carrots, and
peel onions and potatoes for the pot-au-feu.
Jacques and one or two of the men had gone into the town to call at
the post-office and make some necessary purchases, and the rest of the
troupe were employed about the camp in various ways.
It was one of those mild mornings in March which come sometimes,
closely following a storm of wind and rain, and which give, in their
balmy freshness and sweetness, promise of the yet fairer time at hand.
Light-hearted as the birds, the boys were chattering over their work,
breaking out, now and again, into some fragment of English song, when
a voice behind them said, "Bon jour, mine cheeldren! So I you have
found at de last, you were naughty boys. Oh unkind and tankless to run
yourselves away from de good, kind master, from dis poor old Renard dat
did lofe you so moche!"
The boys started and turned. Tad, in his horror, almost tumbled the
ancient fowl—now partially denuded of his scant feathers—into the fire,
and Phil overturned the big basin of water into which he was putting
his peeled vegetables.
"Ah, mine leetle dears!" went on Renard with his evil, sneering smile.
"You am agitate. It is widout doubt from de joy to see once more you
dear old master. Ah, truly yes. Well now we am discover one anoder,
you shall bote come back to me, and all weel be as before, but steel
better. Oh yes, believe me, mine dears, so moche better."
The lads, paralysed with terror, still said nothing, and just at that
moment, up came old Sophie and Pelagie to see if the provisions in hand
were ready yet for the big pot which they had filled at the brook. As
Sophie approached, Tad made a spring, and falling on his knees before
her, caught her gown.
"Oh dear mother, good mother Sophie, here is this dreadful man!" he
cried. "It is he—our master of whom we told you! Give us not up to him!
For God's sake suffer him not to take us away with him!"
Phil said nothing, but he too had come near, and with pleading eyes
fixed on the old woman's face, awaited her answer.
She put a motherly hand upon each of the boys, and turning to Renard
said:
"Surely, monsieur, I have seen you before! Did you not come to us some
nights ago, on the other side of St. Malo?"
"Madame, you are right," replied Renard, doffing his greasy cap and
making a low bow which had about it an insulting air of mockery.
"And on that occasion," went on Sophie, "you made inquiry respecting
two lads?"
"I did so, madame; once more you are entirely right."
"Are these the lads then, monsieur?"
"These are they, madame, sans doute. The eye of love—such love as I
have for these dear petits garcons—" and Foxy showed his teeth—"is not
to be deceived."
"What then do you want, monsieur, now you have found them?" asked
Mother Sophie.
"Madame, you are a stranger to me!" cried Foxy. "You know not—how
should you?—this heart of mine, or you would not make such an inquiry.
Unworthy, ungrateful as these children are, I am ready (such is my
magnanimous nature!) to forgive and receive them back into my affection
and my service."
"Hein, monsieur! Eh bien!" cried the strident voice of Pelagie, who
had hitherto stood silent. "But what say the boys to this? You say you
are willing to have them back; now the question is, are they ready to
return to you? For there should be two sides to a bargain, monsieur, as
all the world knows."
"You have reason, Pelagie," said Sophie quietly. "What say you, my
children?" and the old woman's voice softened, and her face grew tender
and pitiful, as the lads clung to her in their fear and distress. "What
say you, will you go with Monsieur Renard, your former master?"
"No, no, good mother, never! Never again!" cried both boys at once.
Old Sophie turned once more to Foxy.
"You see, monsieur, that these lads do not wish to avail themselves of
the kindness you offer them, so there is nothing more to be said, and I
will wish you bon jour, Monsieur Renard."
Renard's face at this lost its mocking grin, and became dark and
louring.
"And know you not, you stupid gipsy woman," he shrieked, "that I—Jules
Renard—have a right to these children? And I swear to you—ugly old hag
that you are—if you give them not up to me this very minute, I will
bring the police from, the town, and then, not only will the lads have
to come with me, but you will be punished for detaining them."
"Ah, Monsieur Renard, if it comes to talk of police, perchance you
are not the only one who may have somewhat to say," remarked a deep,
stern voice behind Foxy. And good old Jacques, backed by two of the
troupe—stalwart nephews of his—appeared on the scene. "Listen, my
friend; we have information that you, and two worthy companions of
yours, were more or less concerned in a burglary not very far from
here, and their names and the home of one of them are known to us. We
are quiet people, Monsieur Renard, and we seek no quarrel with any; but
another word from you, another threat against us or these children, and
at once we give in our information at headquarters at St. Malo. And
as for your treatment of the boys—there is a law in France to protect
them, and to punish those who sin against them. Look to yourself, you
fox by name and fox by nature. Seek not to meddle with these lads, or
you may find yourself where you would rather not be."
The stern, uncompromising manner and words of the old gipsy seemed to
make an impression on Renard, who cowered and cringed as the man was
speaking. But he turned it off lightly, only saying as he turned away:
"That is all nonsense; you could not hurt me if you would. But of
course I will not press this matter of the boys, if they do not wish to
return to me. Keep them, if you like to do so, and I wish you joy of
your bargain. You will repent it some day."
Once more bowing low, cap in hand, and a sardonic leer on his thin
lips, Renard bade the gipsies good day, while, watching him till out
of sight on the St. Malo road, Tad and Phil at last dared to breathe
freely once more.