ON A MOONLIGHT NIGHT.
"O moon! in the night I have seen you sailing,
And shining so round and low."
CHILD NATURE.
"And what did you dream, Chéri?" inquired Jeanne the next morning in a
confidential and mysterious tone.
Hugh hesitated.
"I don't know," he said at last. "At least----" he stopped and hesitated
again.
The two children were having their "little breakfast," consisting of two
great big cups of nice hot milky coffee and two big slices of bread,
with the sweet fresh butter for which the country where Jeanne's home
was is famed. They were alone in Jeanne's room, and Marcelline had drawn
a little table close to the fire for them, for this morning it seemed
colder than ever; fresh snow had fallen during the night, and out in
the garden nothing was to be seen but smoothly-rounded white mounds of
varying sizes and heights, and up in the sky the dull blue-grey curtain
of snow-cloud made one draw back shivering from the window, feeling as
if the sun had gone off in a sulky fit and would _never_ come back
again.
But inside, close by the brightly-blazing wood fire, Jeanne and Hugh
found themselves "very well," as the little girl called it, very well
indeed. And the hot coffee was very nice, much nicer, Hugh thought, than
the very weak tea which his grandmother's maid used to give him for
breakfast at home. He stirred it round and round slowly with his spoon,
staring into his cup, while he repeated, in answer to little Jeanne's
question about what he had dreamt, "No, I don't know."
"But you did dream _something_," said Jeanne rather impatiently. "Can't
you tell me about it? I thought you were going to have all sorts of
funny things to tell me. You said you would have a party of the peacocks
and all the pets, and make them tell stories."
"Yes," said Hugh slowly. "But I couldn't make them--I must wait till
they come. I think I did dream some funny things last night, but I can't
remember. There seemed to be a lot of chattering, and once I thought I
saw the raven standing at the end of the bed, but that time I wasn't
dreaming. I'm sure I wasn't; but I was very sleepy, and I couldn't hear
what he said. He seemed to want me to do something or other, and then he
nodded his head to where the peacocks are, and do you know, Jeanne, I
thought they nodded too. Wasn't that funny? But I daresay it was only
the firelight--the fire had burnt low, and then it bobbed up again all
of a sudden."
"And what more?" asked Jeanne eagerly. "O Chéri, I think that's
wonderful! Do tell me some more."
"I don't think I remember any more," said Hugh. "After that I went to
sleep, and then it was all a muddle. There were the chickens and Nibble
and the tortoise all running about, and Dudu seemed to be talking to me
all the time. But it was just a muddle; you know how dreams go
sometimes. And when I woke up the fire was quite out and it was all
dark. And then I saw the light of Marcelline's candle through the hinge
of the door, and she came to tell me it was time to get up."
"Oh dear," said Jeanne, "I do hope you'll dream some more to-night."
"I daresay I shan't dream at all," said Hugh. "Some nights I go to
sleep, and it's morning in one minute. I don't like that much, because
it's nice to wake up and feel how cosy it is in bed."
"But, Chéri," pursued Jeanne after a few moments' silence, and a few
more bites at her bread and butter, "there's one thing I don't
understand. It's about Dudu. You said it wasn't a dream, you were sure.
Do you think he was really there, at the foot of the bed? It might have
been the firelight that made you think you saw the peacocks nodding, but
it couldn't have been the firelight that made you think you saw Dudu."
"No," said Hugh, "I can't understand it either. If it was a dream it was
a very queer one, for I never felt more awake in my life. I'll tell you
what, Jeanne, the next time I think I see Dudu like that I'll run and
tell you."
"Yes, do," said Jeanne, "though I don't know that it would be much good.
Dudu's dreadfully tricky."
She had not told Hugh of the trick the raven had played her, though why
she had not done so she could hardly have explained. Perhaps she was a
little ashamed of having been so frightened; perhaps she was still a
little afraid of Dudu; and most of all, I think, she had a great
curiosity to find out more about the mysterious bird, and thought it
best to leave Hugh to face his own adventures.
"If Dudu thinks I've told Chéri all about his funny ways," she thought,
"perhaps he'll be angry and not do any more queer things."
The snow was still, as I said, thick on the ground, thicker, indeed,
than the day before. But the children managed to amuse themselves very
well. Marcelline would not hear of their going out, not even as far as
the chickens' house, but she fetched Nibble to pay them a visit in the
afternoon, and they had great fun with him.
"He looks very happy, doesn't he, Chéri?" said Jeanne. "I am sure Houpet
has been kind to him. What a pity pets can't speak, isn't it? they could
tell us such nice funny things."
"Yes," said Hugh, "I've often thought that, and I often have thought
Nibble could speak if he liked."
"_Houpet_ could, I'm quite sure," said Jeanne, "and I believe Dudu and
he do speak to each other. You should just see them sometimes. Why,
there they are!" she added, going close up to the window near which she
had been standing. "Do come here, Chéri, quick, but come very quietly."
Hugh came forward and looked out. There were the four birds, making the
quaintest group you could fancy. Houpet with his waving tuft of feathers
was perched on the top rung of a short garden ladder, his two little
hens as usual close beside him. And down below on the path stood the
raven, on one leg of course, his queer black head very much on one side,
as he surveyed the little group above him.
"Silly young people," he seemed to be saying to himself; but Houpet was
not to be put down so. With a shrill, clear crow he descended from his
perch, stepped close up to Dudu, looked him in the face, and then
quietly marched off, followed by his two companions. The children
watched this little scene with the greatest interest.
"They _do_ look as if they were talking to each other," said Hugh. "I
wonder what it's about."
"Perhaps it's about the party," said Jeanne; "the party you said you'd
give to the peacocks on the wall, and all the pets."
"Perhaps," said Hugh. "I am sure there must be beautiful big rooms in
that castle with the lots of steps up to it, where the peacocks stand.
Don't you think it would be nice to get inside that castle and see what
it's like?"
"Oh, wouldn't it!" said Jeanne, clapping her hands. "How I do wish we
could! You might tell Dudu to take us, Chéri. Perhaps it's a fairy
palace really, though it only looks like a picture, and if Dudu's a
fairy, he might know about it."
"I'll ask him if I get a chance," said Hugh. "Good morning, Monsieur
Dudu," he went on, bowing politely from the window to the raven, who had
cocked his head in another direction, and seemed now to be looking up at
the two children with the same supercilious stare he had bestowed upon
the cock and hens. "Good morning, Monsieur Dudu; I hope you won't catch
cold with this snowy weather. It's best to be very polite to him, you
see," added Hugh, turning to Jeanne; "for if he took offence we should
get no fun out of him."
"Oh yes," said Jeanne, "it is much best to be very polite to him. Look
at him now, Chéri; _doesn't_ he look as if he knew what we were saying?"
For Dudu was eyeing them unmistakably by this time, his head more on one
side than ever, and his lame leg stuck out in the air like a
walking-stick.
"That's _just_ how he stood at the foot of the bed, on the wood part,
you know," said Hugh, in a whisper.
"And weren't you frightened, Chéri?" said Jeanne. "I always think Dudu
looks not at all like a good fairy, when he cocks his head on one side
and sticks his claw out like that. I quite believe then that he's a
wicked enchanter. O Chéri," she went on, catching hold of Hugh, "what
_should_ we do if he was to turn us into two little frogs or toads?"
"We should have to live in the water, and eat nasty little worms and
flies, I suppose," said Hugh gravely.
"And that sort of thick green stuff that grows at the top of dirty
ponds; fancy having that for soup," said Jeanne pathetically. "O Chéri,
we must indeed be very polite to Dudu, and take _great_ pains not to
offend him; and if he comes to you in the night, you must be sure to
call me at once."
But the following night and several nights after that went by, and
nothing was heard or seen of Monsieur Dudu. The weather got a little
milder; that is to say, the snow gradually melted away, and the children
were allowed to go out into the garden and visit their pets. Nibble
seemed quite at home in his new quarters, and was now permitted to run
about the chicken-house at his own sweet will; and Jeanne greatly
commended Houpet for his kindness to the little stranger, which
commendation the chicken received in very good part, particularly when
it took the shape of all the tit-bits left on the children's plates.
"See how tame he is," said Jeanne one day when she had persuaded the
little cock to peck some crumbs out of her hand; "isn't he a darling,
Chéri, with his _dear_ little tuft of feathers on the top of his head?"
"He's awfully funny-looking," said Hugh, consideringly; "do you really
think he's very pretty, Jeanne?"
"Of course I do," said Jeanne, indignantly; "all my pets are pretty, but
Houpet's the prettiest of all."
"He's prettier than Grignan, certainly," said Hugh, giving an amiable
little push to the tortoise, who happened to be lying at his feet; "but
I like Grignan, he's so comical."
"I think Grignan must know a great deal," said Jeanne, "he's so solemn."
"So is Dudu," said Hugh. "By the by, Jeanne," he went on, but stopped
suddenly.
"What?" said Jeanne.
"It just came into my head while we were talking that I must have
dreamt of Dudu again last night; but now I try to remember it, it has
all gone out of my head."
"_What_ a pity," said Jeanne; "do try to remember. Was it that he came
and stood at the foot of the bed again, like the last time? You promised
to call me if he did."
"No, I don't think he did. I have more a sort of feeling that he and the
peacocks on the wall were whispering to each other--something about
us--you and me, Jeanne--it was, I think."
"Perhaps they were going to give a party, and were planning about
inviting us," suggested Jeanne.
"I don't know," said Hugh; "it's no good my trying to think. It's just a
sleepy feeling of having heard something. I can't remember anything
else, and the more I think, the less I remember."
"Well, you must be sure to tell me if you do hear anything more. I was
awake ever so long in the night, ever so long; but I didn't mind, there
was such nice moonlight."
"Moonlight, was there?" said Hugh; "I didn't know that. I'll try to keep
awake to-night, because Marcelline says the figures on the walls are so
pretty when it's moonlight."
"And if Dudu comes, or you see anything funny, you'll promise to call
me?" said Jeanne.
Hugh nodded his head. There was not much fear of his forgetting his
promise. Jeanne reminded him of it at intervals all that day, and when
the children kissed each other for good-night she whispered again,
"Remember to call me, Chéri."
Chéri went to sleep with the best possible intentions as to
"remembering." He had, first of all, intended not to go to sleep at all,
for his last glance out of the window before going to bed showed him
Monsieur Dudu on the terrace path, enjoying the moonlight apparently,
but, Hugh strongly suspected, bent on mischief, for his head was very
much on one side and his claw very much stuck out, in the way which
Jeanne declared made him look like a very impish raven indeed.
"I wonder what Marcelline meant about the moonlight," thought Hugh to
himself as he lay down. "I hardly see the figures on the wall at all.
The moon must be going behind a cloud. I wonder if it will be brighter
in the middle of the night. I don't see that I need stay awake all the
night to see. I can easily wake again. I'll just take a little sleep
first."
And the little sleep turned out such a long one, that when poor Hugh
opened his eyes, lo and behold! it was to-morrow morning--there was
Marcelline standing beside the bed, telling him it was time to get up,
he would be late for his tutor if he did not dress himself at once.
"Oh dear," exclaimed Hugh, "what a pity! I meant to stay awake all night
to watch the moonlight."
Marcelline smiled what Jeanne called her funny smile.
"You would find it very difficult to do that, I think, my little
Monsieur," she said. "However, you did not miss much last night. The
clouds came over so that the moon had no chance. Perhaps it will be
clearer to-night."
With this hope Hugh had to be satisfied, and to satisfy also his little
cousin, who was at first quite disappointed that he had nothing
wonderful to tell her.
"To-night," she said, "_I_ shall stay awake all night, and if the
moonlight is very nice and bright I shall come and wake _you_, you
sleepy Chéri. I do _so_ want to go up those steps and into the castle
where the peacocks are standing at the door."
"So do I," said Hugh, rather mortified; "but if one goes to sleep,
whose fault is it? I am sure you will go to sleep too, if you try to
keep awake. There's _nothing_ makes people go to sleep so fast as trying
to keep awake."
"Well, don't try then," said Jeanne, "and see what comes then."
And when night came, Hugh, partly perhaps because he was particularly
sleepy--the day had been so much finer that the children had had some
splendid runs up and down the long terrace walk in the garden, and the
unusual exercise had made both of them very ready for bed when the time
came--took Jeanne's advice, tucked himself up snugly and went off to
sleep without thinking of the moonlight, or the peacocks, or Dudu, or
anything. He slept so soundly, that when he awoke he thought it was
morning, and brighter morning than had hitherto greeted him since he
came to Jeanne's home.
"Dear me!" he said to himself, rubbing his eyes, "it must be very late;
it looks just as if summer had come," for the whole room was flooded
with light--such beautiful light--bright and clear, and yet soft. No
wonder that Hugh rubbed his eyes in bewilderment--it was not till he sat
up in bed and looked well about him, quite awake now, that he saw that
after all it was moonlight, not sunshine, which was illumining the old
tapestry room and everything which it contained in this wonderful way.
"Oh, how pretty it is!" thought Hugh. "No wonder Marcelline told us that
we should see the tapestry in the moonlight. I never could have thought
it would have looked so pretty. Why, even the peacocks' tails seem to
have got all sorts of new colours."
He leant forward to examine them better. They were standing--just as
usual--one on each side of the flight of steps leading up to the castle.
But as Hugh gazed at them it certainly seemed to him--could it be his
fancy only?--no, it _must_ be true--that their long tails grew longer
and swept the ground more majestically--then that suddenly--fluff! a
sort of little wind seemed to rustle for an instant, and fluff! again,
the two peacocks had spread their tails, and now stood with them proudly
reared fan-like, at their backs, just like the real living birds that
Hugh had often admired in his grandfather's garden. Hugh was too much
amazed to rub his eyes again--he could do nothing but stare, and stare
he did with all his might, but for a moment or two there was nothing
else to be seen. The peacocks stood still--so still that Hugh now
began to doubt whether they had not always stood, tails spread, just as
he saw them now, and whether these same tails having ever drooped on the
ground was not altogether his fancy. A good deal puzzled, and a little
disappointed, he was turning away to look at another part of the
pictured walls, when again a slight flutter of movement caught his eyes.
What was about to happen this time?
[Illustration:--"IT WAS DUDU!"--p. 51.]
"Perhaps they are going to furl their tails again," thought Hugh; but
no. One on each side of the castle door, the peacocks solemnly advanced
a few steps, then stood still--quite still--but yet with a certain
waiting look about them as if they were expecting some one or something.
They were not kept waiting long. The door of the castle opened slowly,
very slowly, the peacocks stepped still a little farther forward, and
out of the door of the castle--the castle into which little Jeanne had
so longed to enter--who, what, who _do_ you think came forth? It was
Dudu!
A small black figure, black from head to foot, head very much cocked on
one side, foot--claw I should say--stuck out like a walking-stick; he
stood between the peacocks, right in Hugh's view, just in front of the
door which had closed behind him, at the top of the high flight of
steps. He stood still with an air of great dignity, which seemed to say,
"Here you see me for the first time in my rightful character--monarch of
all I survey." And somehow Hugh felt that this unspoken address was
directed to _him_. Then, quietly and dignifiedly still, the raven
turned, first to the right, then to the left, and gravely bowed to the
two attendant peacocks, who each in turn saluted him respectfully and
withdrew a little farther back, on which Dudu began a very slow and
imposing progress down the steps. How he succeeded in making it so
imposing was the puzzle, for after all, his descent was undoubtedly a
series of hops, but all the same it was very majestic, and Hugh felt
greatly impressed, and watched him with bated breath.
"One, two, three, four," said Hugh to himself, half unconsciously
counting each step as the raven advanced, "what a lot of steps! Five,
six, seven," up to twenty-three Hugh counted on. And "what is he going
to do now?" he added, as Dudu, arrived at the foot of the stairs, looked
calmly about him for a minute or two, as if considering his next
movements. Then--how he managed it Hugh could not tell--he suddenly
stepped out of the tapestry landscape, and in another moment was
perched in his old place at the foot of Hugh's bed.
He looked at Hugh for an instant or two, gravely and scrutinisingly,
then bowed politely. Hugh, who was half sitting up in bed, bowed too,
but without speaking. He remembered Jeanne's charges to be very polite
to the raven, and thought it better to take no liberties with him, but
to wait patiently till he heard what Monsieur Dudu had to say. For
somehow it seemed to him a matter of course that the raven _could_
speak--he was not the very least surprised when at last Dudu cleared his
throat pompously and began--
"You have been expecting me, have you not?"
Hugh hesitated.
"I don't know exactly. I'm not quite sure. Yes, I think I thought
perhaps you'd come. But oh! if you please, Monsieur Dudu," he exclaimed,
suddenly starting up, "do let me go and call Jeanne. I promised her I
would if you came, or if I saw anything funny. Do let me go. I won't be
a minute."
But the raven cocked his head on one side and looked at Hugh rather
sternly.
"No," he said. "You cannot go for Jeanne. I do not wish it at present."
Hugh felt rather angry. Why should Dudu lay down the law to him in this
way?
"But I promised," he began.
"People should not promise what they are not sure of being able to
perform," he said sententiously. "Besides, even if you did go to get
Jeanne, she couldn't come. She is ever so far away."
"Away!" repeated Hugh in amazement, "away! Little Jeanne gone away. Oh
no, you must be joking Du--, I beg your pardon, Monsieur Dudu."
"Not at all," said Dudu. "She _is_ away, and farther away than you or
she has any notion of, even though if you went into her room you would
see her little rosy face lying on the pillow. _She_ is away."
Hugh still looked puzzled, though rather less so.
"You mean that her thinking is away, I suppose," he said. "But I could
wake her."
Again the raven cocked his head on one side.
"No," he said. "You must be content to do my way at present. Now, tell
me what it is you want. Why did you wish me to come to see you?"
"I wanted--at least I thought, and Jeanne said so," began Hugh. "We
thought perhaps you were a fairy, Monsieur Dudu, and that you could take
us into the castle in the tapestry. It looked so bright and real a few
minutes ago," he added, turning to the wall, which was now only faintly
illumined by the moonlight, and looked no different from what Hugh had
often seen it in the daytime. "What has become of the beautiful light,
Monsieur Dudu? And the peacocks? They have shut up their tails
again----"
"Never mind," said the raven. "So you want to see the castle, do you?"
he added.
"Yes," said Hugh; "but not so much as Jeanne. It was she wanted it most.
She wants dreadfully to see it. _I_ thought," he added, rather timidly,
"_I_ thought we might play at giving a party in the castle, and inviting
Houpet, you know, and Nibble."
"_Only_," observed the raven, drily, "there is one little objection to
that. _Generally_--I may be mistaken, of course, my notions are very
old-fashioned, I daresay--but, _generally_, people give parties in their
own houses, don't they?"
And as he spoke he looked straight at Hugh, cocking his head on one side
more than ever.