THE DISADVANTAGES OF NOT BEING ABLE TO SPEAK FRENCH
In the meantime Bertie slept, perhaps still continuing to dream of his
mother. When he woke he thought the captain was still taking his rest.
He remained for a time motionless in bed. But it began to dawn upon
him that the room was very quiet, that there was no sound even of
gentle breathing. If the captain slept, he slept with uncommon
soundness.
So he sat up to see if the captain really was asleep, and saw that the
opposite bed was empty. Still the truth did not at once occur to him.
It was quite possible that the captain had not chosen to wait till his
companion awoke before he himself got up.
For the better part of an hour Bertie lay and wondered. By degrees he
could not but perceive that the captain's absence was peculiar.
Considering the close watch and ward which he had kept upon the lad,
it was surprising that he should leave him so long to the enjoyment of
his own society.
An idea occurred to Bertie. Supposing the captain was guarding him
even in his absence? Then the door would be locked. He got up to see.
No; he had only to turn the handle, and the door was open. What could
it mean? Bertie returned to his bed to ponder.
Another half-hour passed, and still no signs of the captain. Bertie
would have liked to get up, but did not dare. Supposing when the
captain returned he chose to be indignant because the lad had taken
upon himself to move without his advice?
There came a tapping at the door. Was it the captain? He would
scarcely knock at the door to ask if he might be allowed to enter. The
tapping again.
"Come in," cried Bertie.
Still the tapping continued. Then some one spoke in French. It was the
old crone's voice.
"M'sieu veut se lever? C'est midi!"
Not in the least understanding what was said, Bertie cried again,
"Come in!"
The door was opened a few inches, and the old crone looked in. She
stared at Bertie sitting up in bed, and Bertie stared at her.
"M'sieu, vot' oncle! Il dort?"
"I don't know what you mean," said Bertie.
They were in the agreeable position of not having either of them the
faintest conception of what the other said. She came further into the
room and looked about her. Then she saw that the captain's bed was
empty.
"Vot' oncle! Ou est-il donc?"
Bertie stared, as though by dint of staring he could get at what she
meant. The Mecklemburg House curriculum had included French, but not
the sort of French which the old lady talked. "Mon pere" and "ma
mere," that was about the extent of Bertie's knowledge of foreign
tongues; and even those simple words he would not have recognised
coming from the peculiarly voluble lips of this ancient dame.
While he was still endeavouring to understand, from the expression of
her face, what it was she said, all at once she began to scold him. Of
course he had still not the slightest knowledge as to what were the
actual words she used; but her voice, her gestures, and the expression
of her countenance needed no interpreter. Never very much to look at,
she suddenly became as though possessed with an evil spirit, seeming
to rain down anathemas on his non-understanding head with all the
virulence of the legendary witch of old.
What was the matter Bertie had not the least conception, but that
something was the matter was plain enough. Her shrill voice rose to a
piercing screech. She seemed half choked with the velocity of her
speech. Her wrinkled face assumed a dozen different hideous shapes.
She shook her yellow claws as though she would have liked to have
attacked him then and there.
Suddenly she went to the door and called to some one down below. A man
in sabots came stamping up the stairs. He was a great hulking fellow
in a blouse and a great wide-brimmed felt hat. He listened to what the
woman said, or rather screamed, looking at Bertie all the time from
under his overhanging brows. Then he took up the lad's clothes which
lay upon the bed, and very coolly turned out all the pockets. Finding
nothing in the shape of money to reward his search, he put them down
again and glowered at Bertie.
Some perception of the truth began to dawn upon the lad. Could the
captain have gone--absconded, in fact--and forgotten to pay his bill?
From the proceedings of the man and woman in front of him it would
seem he had. The man had apparently searched the youngster's pockets
in quest of money to pay what the captain owed, and searched in vain.
All at once he caught Bertie by the shoulders and lifted him bodily on
to the floor. Then he pointed to his clothing, saying something at the
same time. Bertie did not understand what he said, but the meaning of
his gesture was plain enough.
Bertie was to put on his clothes and dress. So Bertie dressed. All the
time the woman kept up a series of exclamations. More than once it was
all that the man could do to prevent her laying hands upon the boy. He
himself stood looking grimly on, every now and then seeming to grunt
out a recommendation to the woman to restrain her indignation.
When the boy was dressed he unceremoniously took him by the collar of
the coat and marched him from the room. The old crone brought up the
rear, shrieking out reproaches as they went.
In this way they climbed down the rickety stairs, Bertie first--a most
uncomfortable first; the man next, holding his coat collar, giving him
little monitory jerks, in the way the policeman had done down
Piccadilly; the woman last, raining abuse upon the unfortunate
youngster's head. This was another stage on the journey to the Land of
Golden Dreams.
Across the room below to the front door. There was a temporary pause.
The old crone gave the boy two sounding smacks, one on each side of
the head, given with surprising vigour considering her apparent age.
Then the man raised his foot, sabot and all, and kicked the young
gentleman into the street!
Then Bertie felt sure that the captain had forgotten to pay his bill.
He stood for a moment in the narrow street, not unnaturally surprised
at this peremptory method of bidding a guest farewell. But it would
have been quite as well if he had stood a little less upon the order
of his going; for the crone, taking advantage of his momentary pause,
caught off her slipper and flung it at his head. This, too, was
delivered with vigour worthy of a younger arm, and as it struck Bertie
fairly on the cheek he received the full benefit of the lady's
strength. The other slipper followed, but that Bertie just dodged in
time. Still, he thought that under the circumstances, perhaps, he had
better go. So he went.
But not unaccompanied.
A couple of urchins had witnessed his unceremonious exit, and they had
also seen the slippers aimed. The whole proceeding seemed to strike
them in a much more humorous light than it did Bertie, and to mark
their enjoyment of the fun they danced about and shrieked with
laughter.
As Bertie began to slink away the man said to them something which
seemed to make them prick up their ears. They followed Bertie,
pointing with their fingers.
"V'la un Anglais! C'est un larron! au voleur! au voleur!"
What it was they shrieked in their shrill voices Bertie had not the
least idea, but he knew it was unpleasant to be pointed and shouted
at, for their words were caught up by other urchins of their class,
and soon he had a force of ragamuffins shrieking close at his heels.
"V'la un Anglais! un Anglais! C'est un lar--r--ron!"
The stress which they laid upon the _larron_ was ear-splitting.
As he went, his following gathered force. They were a ragged regiment.
Some hatless, some shoeless, all stockingless; for even those who wore
sabots showed an inch or two of naked flesh between the ends of their
breeches and the tops of their wooden shoes.
As Bertie found his way into the better portions of the town the
procession created a sensation. Shopkeepers came to their doors
to stare, the loungers in the cafes stood to look. Some of the
foot-passengers joined the rapidly-swelling crowd.
The boy with his sullen face passed on, his lips compressed, his eyes
with their dogged look. What the hubbub was about, why they followed
him, what it was they kept on shouting, he did not understand. He knew
that the captain had left him, and left him penniless. What he was
himself to do, or where he was going, he had not the least idea. He
only knew that the crowd was hunting him on.
There was not one friendly face among those around him--not one who
could understand. The boys seemed like demons, shrieking, dancing,
giving him occasional shoves. Separately he would have tackled any one
of them, for they could not despise him for being English more
heartily than he despised them for being French. But what could he do
against that lot?--a host, too, which was being reinforced by men. For
the cry "Un Anglais!" seemed to be infectious, and citizens of the
grimier and more popular type began to swell the throng and shriek "Un
Anglais!" with the boys.
One man, a very dirty and evil-looking gentleman, laying his two hands
on Bertie's shoulders, started running, and began pushing him on in
front of him. This added to the sport. The cavalcade broke into a
trot. The shrieks became more vigorous. Suddenly Bertie, being pushed
too vigorously from behind, and perhaps a little bewildered by the
din, lost his footing and fell forward on his face. The man, taken
unawares, fell down on top of him. The crowd shrieked with laughter.
A functionary interfered, in the shape of a _sergent de ville_. He
wanted to know what the disturbance was about. Two or three dozen
people, who knew absolutely nothing at all about it, began explaining
all at once. They did not render the matter clearer. Nor did the man
who had pushed Bertie over. He was indignant; not because he had
pushed Bertie over, but because he had fallen on him afterwards. He
evidently considered himself outraged because Bertie had not managed
to enjoy a monopoly of tumbling down.
The policeman, not much enlightened by the explanations which were
poured upon him, marched Bertie off to the _bureau de police_. They
manage things differently in France, and the difference is about as
much marked in a police station as anywhere else. Bertie found himself
confronted by an official who pelted him with questions he did not
understand, and who was equally at a loss to understand the
observations he made in reply. Then he found himself locked up. It is
probable that while he was held in durance vile an attempt was made to
discover an interpreter; it would appear from what followed that if
such an attempt were made, it was made in vain.
The afternoon passed away. Still the boy was left to enjoy his own
society. He had plenty of leisure to think; to wonder what was going
to happen to him--what was the next page which was to be unfolded in
the history of his adventures. He had leisure to learn that he was
getting hungry. But no one brought him anything to eat.
At last, just as he was beginning to think that he surely was
forgotten, an official appeared, who, without a word, took him by the
collar of his coat--he had been taken a good many times by the collar
of his coat of late--led him straight out of the station-house,
through some by-streets to the outskirts of the town.
Then, when he had taken him some little distance outside the walls,
and a long country road stretched away in front, he released the lad's
collar, and with a very expressive gesture, which even Bertie was not
at a loss to understand, he bade him take himself away.
And Bertie took himself away, walking smartly off in the direction in
which the sergeant pointed--away from the town. The policeman watched
him for some time, standing with his hands in his pockets; and then,
when a curve in the road took the lad out of sight, he returned within
the walls.
It was already evening. The uncertain weather which had prevailed
during the last few days still proved its uncertainty. The day had
been fine, the evening was clouded. The wind was high, and, blowing
from the north-west, blew the clouds tumultuously in scurrying masses
across the sky.
The country was bare, nearly treeless. It was very flat. The scant
fields of Finistere offered no protection from the weather, and but
little pleasure to the eye. It was a bleak, almost barren country,
with but little natural vegetation--harsh, stony, and inhospitable.
Along the wind-swept road he steadily trudged. He knew not whither he
was going, not even whence he came. He was a stranger in a strange
land. The captain had asked him whether he spoke French; he supposed,
therefore, that this land was France. But the captain had confused
him--bidden him ask for tickets for Constantinople. Even Bertie's
scanty geographical knowledge told him that Constantinople was not
France. On the other hand, the same scant store suggested that it
needed a longer flight than they had taken to bring him into Turkey.
A very slight knowledge of French would have enabled him to solve the
question. If he had only been able to ask, Where am I? The person
asked might have taken him to be an English lunatic in a juvenile
stage of his existence, but would probably have replied. Unfortunately
this knowledge was wanting. If sometimes a little knowledge is a
dangerous thing, it is also, and not seldom, very much the other way.
Nearly all that night Bertie went wandering on. The darkness gathered.
The wind seemed to whistle more loudly when the darkness came, but
there was no escape from it for him. Seen in the light of clustering
shadows the country seemed but scantily peopled. He scarcely met a
soul. A few peasants, a cart or two--these were the only moving things
he saw. And when the darkness deepened he seemed to be alone in all
the world.
A house or two he passed, even some villages, in which there were no
signs of life except an occasional light gleaming through a wayside
window. He made no attempt to ask for food, or drink, or shelter. How
could he have asked? As he went further and further from the town he
began to come among the Breton aborigines; and in Brittany, as in
Wales, you find whole hamlets in which scarcely one of the inhabitants
has a comprehensible knowledge of the language of the country which
claims them as her children. Even French would have been of
problematic service in the parts into which he had found, or rather
lost his way, and he was not even aware that there was a place called
Brittany, and a tongue called Breton. He was a stranger in a strange
land indeed!
It was a horrible night, that first one he spent wandering among the
wilds of Finistere. After he had gone on and on and on, and never
seemed to come to anything, and the winds shrieked louder, and he was
hungry and thirsty and weary and worn, and there was nothing but
blackness all around and the terror-stricken clouds whirling above his
head, somewhere about midnight he thought it was time he should find
some shelter and rest.
So he clambered over a stone wall which bound the road on either side,
and on the other side of this stone wall he ventured to lie down. It
was not comfortable lying; there was no grass, there were thistles,
nettles, weeds, and stones--plenty of stones. On this bed he tried to
take some rest, trusting to the wall to shelter him.
In vain. It requires education to become accustomed to a bed of
stones. All things come by custom, but those who are used to sheets
find stony soil disagreeable ground. Bertie gave it up. The wind
seemed to come through the chinks in the wall with even greater
bitterness than if there had been no wall at all. The stones were
torture. There was nothing on which he could lay his head. So he got
up and struck across the field, seeking for a sheltered place in which
to lie. For another hour or so he wandered on, now sitting down for a
moment or two, now kneeling, and feeling about with his hand for
comfortable ground. In an open country, on a dark and windy night, it
is weary searching for one's bed, especially in a country where stones
are more plentiful than grass.
In his fruitless wanderings, confused by the darkness and the
strangeness of the place, Bertie went over the same ground more than
once. Without knowing it, meaning to go forwards, he went back. When
he suspected that this was the case, his helplessness came home to him
more forcibly than it had done before. What was he to do if he could
not tell the way he had come from the way he was going?
At last he blundered on some trees. He welcomed them as though they
had been friends. He sat down at the foot of one, and found that the
ground was coated by what was either moss or grass. Compared to his
bed of stones it was like a bed of eider-down. It was quite a big
tree, and he found that he could so lean against it that it would
serve as a very tolerable barrier against the wind at his back.
At the foot of this tree he sat down, and pillowing his head against
the trunk he sought for sleep. But sleep was coy, and would not come
on being wooed. The utter solitude of his position kept him wakeful.
Robinson Crusoe's desolation was scarcely more complete; his
helplessness was not so great. It came upon Bertie, as it came upon
Crusoe in his lonely island, that he was wholly in the hands of God.
The teachings which he had been taught at his mother's knee, and which
seemed to go into one ear and out of the other, proved to be the bread
which is cast upon the waters, returning after many days. He
remembered with startling vividness how his mother had told him that
God holds us all in the hollow of His hand: he understood the meaning
of that saying now.
He was so sleepy, so tired out and out, that from very weariness
he forgot that he was hungry and athirst. Yet, in some strange
fantastic way, the thought, despite his weariness, prevented him from
sleeping--that the winds which whistled through the night were the
winds of God. The winds of God! And it seemed to him that all things
were of God, the darkness and the solitude, and the mysterious place.
Who shall judge him? Who shall say that it was only because he was in
trouble that he had such thoughts? It is something even if in times of
trouble we think of God. "God is a very present help in times of
trouble," has been written on some page of some old book.
Bertie was so curiously impressed by a sense of the presence of the
Almighty God that he did what he had not done for a very long time--he
got up, and kneeling at the foot of the friendly tree, he prayed. And
it is not altogether beyond the range of possibility that, when he
again sought rest, it was because of his prayer that God sent sleep
unto his eyes.