REUNITED AT LAST.
The days that followed were very happy ones for the Tamby children, and
dear kind Madame Pradère found wonderful soothing of her own sorrows in
the frank delight they showed at the ease and luxury they now enjoyed.
The Pradère chateau was surrounded by ample grounds in which Nalla
was provided with a roomy substantial stable for himself, and through
which Cæsar loved to roam accompanied by Vigilant, who evidently quite
appreciated being relieved of all rehearsals and public performances.
The old van, that had so long been the only home the children
possessed, was put in a corner of the carriage-yard where Abel, who
soon found plenty of playmates, had great fun with it, using it now as
a house, and again as a fort, and so on after the manner of youngsters
with a lively imagination.
At the end of a fortnight Madame Pradère said to the two boys:
"Now we must see to your education. You must be well fitted for the
career that is before you, and so I have arranged that you shall enter
the Lycée to-morrow, if you have no objections."
Both Cæsar and Abel were only too glad to obey. What education they
possessed had been given them by their parents, who had done their best
under the difficult circumstances of their lives. But it was of course
very imperfect and no one realized this more keenly than Cæsar, who had
not a lazy bone in his body, and was charged with ambition to be of
some account in the world, while Abel was inspired by his big brother,
whom he fairly worshiped.
Nadine would remain by the side of Madame Pradère, who desired no
better companion than the charming girl with her gentle ways, sweet
voice, quick intelligence, and tender heart, whose one thought was to
bring sunshine into the shadowed heart of her benefactress.
* * * * *
Ten years have come and gone, and many things have happened, the
recital of which would fill another book, so that of course it cannot
be given here. Suffice it to say that they were years full of
happiness for the Tambys, and of proud satisfaction for Madame Pradère,
who every day found cause to congratulate herself upon having taken
them into her home and heart.
Nadine, now twenty-six years of age, had grown into a beautiful woman
with a grace and dignity of manner and sincerity of heart that rendered
her inexpressibly charming. She was devoted to Madame Pradère, who
regarded her just as if she were her own daughter, placing absolute
confidence in her, and giving her every advantage that wealth and
culture could procure.
In no part of her duties as Madame's lieutenant did Nadine take more
delight than in ministering to the poor and suffering. Her own early
experience had taught her the miseries of poverty and sickness, and she
was indefatigable in doing good, so that all Morainville esteemed and
loved her as they did Madame Pradère.
Cæsar for a time gave his sister and his patroness considerable
concern. He did not take kindly to book-learning, and made a poor
showing at the Lycée, the truth of the matter being that he was
possessed by a passion for a quite different kind of study. His
ambition was to be a singer.
As he grew older his voice, so strong and sweet in boyhood, had
developed into a singularly fine tenor, and, having a quick and true
ear, as well as the gift of dramatic expression, he was in great demand
among Madame Pradère's friends, who made a great deal of him.
At first both Nadine and Madame Pradère were opposed to his adopting
singing as a career. They would have preferred some more ordinary
profession, but when they saw that Cæsar's heart was set upon it, and
that he would never be content at anything else, they gave way, and he
was sent to the Conservatory, whence in due time he graduated with the
medal of honor.
It is now late in December, and they are all at the chateau except
Cæsar, who has just made his début in opera at Paris, and scored a
grand success. The journals were unanimous in their praise, and in
acclaiming the appearance of a new tenor of the first quality for whom
they confidently predicted a brilliant career. Madame Pradère, and
Nadine have been thrilled with pride and joy over the triumph of their
loved one, and there is no longer any question as to the wisdom of his
choice of a profession. Cæsar having thus justified himself in the
fullest measure, is returning to the chateau for a short holiday, and
his coming is eagerly awaited.
The chateau was ablaze with lights, and stirring with bustle, for
Madame Françoise, the sharp-tongued housekeeper, who was nevertheless
the most faithful of servants, was sparing no pains to make Cæsar's
reception as brilliant as possible.
Nadine, her countenance radiant, and her eyes aglow, looked more than
usually lovely, while Abel, a comely lad now nearing his majority,
presented a fine appearance in his cadet uniform.
Vigilant was still alive, although very feeble. He was wholly blind,
and almost deaf, and never ventured outside the inclosure of the
chateau. Nevertheless when feeling in good spirits, and on being taken
notice of, he would make an effort at remembering his accomplishments,
and do his best to stand upon his hind legs, and salute with his
fore-paws as of old. But he was very tottery in his doing of it.
Out in the park Nalla lived a life of luxurious leisure. Being only a
little over sixty years of age he was, for an elephant, still in the
heyday of youth, and enjoyed himself immensely, having plenty of room
to roam around, abundant food of the best quality, and a spacious lodge
into which to retire if the weather was inclement.
Nadine never failed to pay him a daily visit, and, catching sight of
her at a distance, he would trumpet joyfully, making the welkin ring
with raucous exclamations.
Poor old Steady had long ago lain down never to rise again, dying
contentedly of old age after his life of toil and trouble.
In good time Cæsar arrived. He had grown into a very handsome man.
With his father's stalwart shapely figure, and his mother's regular
features, and fine brown eyes, he had inherited many of the good
qualities of both parents. Through all his experiences of the world and
its temptations he had remained a frank, fearless, unsullied boy who
loved his sister Nadine to the point of adoration, and regarded Madame
Pradère as the best and kindest of friends to whom he could never be
sufficiently grateful.
The reunion was an inexpressibly happy one. The young people had a
thousand things to tell each other, and as they chatted away like
magpies, Madame Pradère watching them with tear-dimmed eyes, but
swelling heart, murmured softly:
"The good God bless them! They are the sunshine of my life."
At breakfast the following morning Cæsar surprised her by asking
permission to take Nadine away with him for a few days.
"Where do you wish to take her, Cæsar?" Madame Pradère inquired.
"I want to fulfill a vow that I made the day I entered the
Conservatory," answered Cæsar, and on his explaining what the vow was,
Madame at once said:
"I heartily approve, Cæsar. It will be a lovely thing to do, and not
only shall Nadine and Abel accompany you, but I shall also go with you."
Two days later Madame and the three young people took the midday train
at the railway station, it being the twenty-third of December.
Where were they going--and how was it that Madame Pradère, who had not
gone out since her husband's death, went with them?
These were the questions that set Morainville agog, but the secret was
well kept, and no one could answer them, save with a mere guess.
Their destination was the little village of Mamezan, which they now
revisited after an absence of ten years, and in which they found little
change, except that there were many more crosses in the cemetery beside
the shabby old church.
Good Father Blandinière was still in charge, but the venerable priest
was very frail, being over eighty years of age, the oldest curé and
the most beloved in the whole country.
Night had come, and with it the snow. From the windows of the Mamezan
houses the light streamed out upon the ill-kept sidewalks, which as it
drew towards midnight began to be crowded with the villagers clattering
noisily in their wooden sabots.
They were all going in the one direction, that is, churchward, for the
Christmas midnight Mass was about to be celebrated.
The little edifice was crowded by reverent worshipers, but who were the
strange ladies in such rich attire, and the strapping young fellow in
the rich uniform?
Nobody knew, although every one tried hard to get a good look at them,
and to see if they could not recognize them.
Presently the little bell tinkled, and the aged priest slowly descended
the altar steps. He seemed very feeble, and his long hair, white as the
snow outside, lay upon his shoulders. With trembling hands he elevated
the Host while the congregation kneeled, and the bell once more tinkled.
At that moment the clear, sweet notes of a mandolin floated down from
the little gallery over the entrance, and then a superb tenor voice,
of wonderful power and expression, began the beautiful _Cantique de
Noel_:
"Tout bruit s'éteint, le soir s'achève
Dans un silence triomphant;
L'enfant cède à l'heure du rêve
Et le rêve berce l'enfant,
Noel! Noel!"
All sounds are hushed, for night has come
In silence earth unfolding;
The children far through dreamland roam
Rare joys in sleep beholding.
Noel! Noel!
At the first notes, the old priest instinctively turned towards his
flock. It was the same chant that ten years before had been sung by the
young mountebank. But the voice was not that of the boy, although the
playing of the mandolin was surely the same.
With brimming eyes and fluttering heart the old man listened as though
spell-bound. Never before had such glorious music filled his obscure
little church. It was as though an angel sang.
When the service concluded, Madame Pradère and the Tambys remained to
exchange greetings with Father Blandinière. The venerable curé was so
deeply moved that he found difficulty in speaking. He embraced Nadine,
and Cæsar, and Abel, affectionately, murmuring, in a scarcely audible
voice:
"My dear children! My dear children! It is good of God to permit me to
see you again, and all so happy!"
The travelers had arranged to leave for home on the following evening,
but they were told that a traveling circus was to give a great
performance that evening, and Cæsar begged Madame Pradère to remain
over, as he was anxious to be present.
"It will remind us," he said to Nadine, "of the poor little
representation that we gave here ten years ago, when we were in such
hard luck."
Madame Pradère readily consented, and in the evening they all went to
the circus, which they found crowded to its utmost capacity.
The performance was a very good one of its kind. There were expert
acrobats, tumblers, tight-rope walkers, bare-back riders, and several
highly-amusing clowns. One clown, called "Mossieu Frisch," was
particularly diverting with his jokes and antics. Cæsar, looking at
him closely, was suddenly impressed with the idea that he had seen him
before. But when, and where? His recollection was confused. He could
neither identify nor locate the funny fellow.
Presently the attendants began to place hurdles about the ring,
and to bring in large hoops covered with parti-colored paper. Then
Mossieu Frisch announced with a great flourish that the world-renowned
equestrienne, Mademoiselle Rosalba, would perform her thrilling feats.
At the same moment a superb snow-white horse, having on its back a
broad pad covered with satin and spangles, galloped into the ring,
followed by a pretty girl in circus costume, who leaped lightly to
the pad.
The instant she appeared there rang out above the music of the band a
threefold cry of
"Lydia! Lydia! Lydia!"
The equestrienne sprang to the ground, stood for a moment as if she
doubted what eyes and ears were telling her, and then, darting across
the ring, threw herself into the outstretched arms of Nadine and Cæsar
and Abel, that encircled her so as almost to hide her from sight.
For it was Lydia--their own darling sister--so long lost, and now by
kind Providence restored to them.
A scene of great excitement ensued. The spectators marveled what it
all meant, and whether it was some novel feature of the performance.
The performance was of course suspended, and presently the ubiquitous
gendarmes appeared to make inquiry.
Cæsar called upon them to arrest Mossieu Frisch, whom he felt sure had
been responsible for Lydia's abduction, and they at once laid hands
upon him, and took him off to prison. He was indeed the very man who
had put his van in place of theirs at Beaulieu, and had afterwards
so startled Nadine by peeping in through the window when they were
reckoning up their receipts.
It appeared that the circus had but recently returned to France after
many years traveling through Italy and Germany, and that was why all
efforts to trace and rescue Lydia had been in vain.
So--all's well that ends well. Lydia, despite her hard life with the
circus, had grown into a very attractive girl, little spoiled by her
surroundings. Madame Pradère's party had but four members when it left
Morainville, but five when it returned. The kind-hearted lady was only
too delighted to have one more child to mother, and the Tambys rejoiced
beyond description at the restoration of the sister about whose absence
they had never ceased to grieve.
The future stretched before them with every promise of happiness.
They had had their hard times, and their bitter griefs, and had borne
them bravely. Now through a beneficent Providence these were all over
and past. And richly they deserved their good fortune, for, amid all
their vicissitudes had they not kept their lives pure, and their hearts
simple?
FINIS.
Transcriber's Note
Apparent typographical errors have been repaired.
Pg. 165: "CHAPTER XVIII" changed to "CHAPTER XVII".
End of Project Gutenberg's The Family on Wheels, by J. MacDonald Oxley