CHILDREN'S ARCADIA.
It was early spring in the south of France--spring, and delicious,
balmy weather. All that dreadful cold of Normandy seemed like a
forgotten dream. It was almost impossible to believe that the limbs
that ached under that freezing atmosphere could be the same that now
felt the sun almost oppressive.
Little Maurice had the desire of his heart, for the sun shone all day
long. He could pick flowers and smell sweet country air, and the boy
born under these sunny skies revived like a tropical plant beneath
their influence. It was a month now since the children had left Paris.
They had remained for a day or so in Orleans, and then had wandered on,
going farther and farther south, until at last they had passed the
great seaport town of Bordeaux, and found themselves in the monotonous
forests of the Landes. The scenery was not pretty here. The ground was
flat, and for miles and miles around them swept an interminable growth
of fir trees, each tall and straight, many having their bark pierced,
and with small tin vessels fastened round their trunks to catch the
turpentine which oozed slowly out. These trees, planted in long
straight rows, and occupying whole leagues of country, would have been
wearisome to eyes less occupied, to hearts less full, than those that
looked out of the faces and beat in the breasts of the children who on
foot still pursued their march. For in this forest Cecile's heart had
revived. Before she reached Bordeaux she often had felt her hope
fading. She had believed that her desire could never be accomplished,
for, inquire as they would, they could get in none of the towns or
villages they passed through any tidings of Lovedy. No one knew
anything of an English girl in the least answering to her description.
Many smiled almost pityingly on the eager little seekers, and thought
the children a trifle mad to venture on so hopeless a search.
But here, in the Landes, were villages innumerable--small villages,
sunny and peaceful, where simple and kind-hearted folks lived, and
barndoor-fowl strutted about happily, and the goats browsed, and sheep
fed; and the people in these tiny villages were very kind to the little
pilgrims, and gave them food and shelter gladly and cheerfully, and
answered all the questions which Cecile put through her interpreter,
Joe, about Lovedy. Though there were no tidings of the blue-eyed girl
who had half-broken her mother's heart, Cecile felt that here surely,
or in some such place as here, she should find Lovedy, for were not
these exactly the villages her stepmother had described when she lay
a-dying? So Cecile trudged on peacefully, and each day dawned with a
fresh desire. Joe, too, was happy; he had lost his fear of Anton. Anton
could never surely pursue him here. There was no danger now of his
being forced back to that old dreadful life. The hardships, the cold,
the beatings, the starvings, lay behind him; he was a French boy again.
Soon someone would call him by his old forgotten name of Alphonse, and
he should look into his mother's eyes, and then go out among the
vineyards with his brother Jean. Yes, Joe was very happy, he was loved
and he loved; he was useful, too, necessary indeed to the children; and
every day brought him nearer to his beloved Pyrenees. Once amongst
those mountains, he had a sort of idea that he soon should roll off
that seven years of London cruelty and defilement, and become a happy
and innocent child again.
Of course, Maurice was joyful in the Landes; he liked the south, it was
sunny and good, and he liked the kind peasant-women, who all petted the
pretty boy, and fed him on the freshest of eggs and richest of goat's
milk. But, perhaps, of all the little pilgrims, Toby was now the
happiest--the most absolutely contented. Not a cloud hung over Toby's
sky, not a care lingered in his mind.
He was useful too--indeed he was almost the breadwinner of the little
party. For Joe had at last taught Toby to dance, and to dance with
skill quite remarkable in a dog of his age. No one knew what Toby
suffered in learning that rather ponderous dance; how stiff his poor
legs felt, how weak his back, how hard he had to struggle to keep his
balance. But from the day that Joe had rescued the children in the
snow, Toby had become so absolutely his friend, had so completely
withdrawn the fear with which at first he had regarded him, that now,
for very love of Joe, he would do what he told him. He learned to
dance, and from the time the children left Bordeaux, he had really by
this one accomplishment supported the little party.
In the villages of the Landes the people were simple and innocent, they
cared very little about centimes, sous, or francs; but they cared a
great deal about amusement; and when Joe played his fiddle and Toby
danced, they were so delighted, and so thoroughly enjoyed the sport,
that in return they gave supper, bed, and breakfast to the whole party
free of charge.
Thus Cecile's winsey frock still contained a great many francs put away
toward a rainy day; for, since they entered the Landes, the children
not only spent nothing, but lived better than they had ever done before.
Thus the days went on, and it all seemed very Arcadian and very
peaceful, and no one guessed that a serpent could possibly come into so
fair and innocent an Eden.