AU REVOIR.
"One after another they flew away
Far up to the heavenly blue,
To the better country, the upper day----"
JEAN INGELOW.
"Little Charlotte climbed over the railings," continued Dudu, "but she
did not jump down on the other side, for Mademoiselle Eliane, who was
tall, found that by standing half-way up the bank she could reach the
child and hand her down to Mademoiselle Jeanne, a little way below.
There was a good deal of laughing over it all, and this helped them to
make friends more quickly than anything else would have done. But indeed
Charlotte was not a shy child, she had travelled too much and seen too
many people to be so, and our young ladies, besides, were so kind and
merry that no little girl could long have been strange with them. She
ran about the garden in the greatest delight; her new friends showed
her all their favourite nooks, and allowed her to make a bouquet of the
flowers she liked best; and when they were tired of standing about they
all sat down together on a bank, and Charlotte told to the young ladies
the story of her short life. It was a sad little story; her father had
died when she was very young, and her mother, whose health had never
been good after the shock of his death, had gone to Italy with the aunt
who had brought her up, in hopes of growing stronger. But through two or
three years of sometimes seeming better and sometimes worse, she had
really been steadily failing, and at last she died, leaving her poor
little girl almost alone, 'for the old aunt was now,' said Charlotte,
'always ill, and not ill as mamma used to be,' she added, for however
tired _she_ was, she always liked her little girl to be beside her, and
never wearied of listening to all she had to say.
"'But now,' said the child, 'I am always alone, and it is _so_ sad. And
I have watched you so often from the balcony, and wished I might come
down to you. And now, if you will let me come to see you every day, I
shall be _so_ happy.'
"She was a dear little girl, so sweet, and simple, and loving. She
quite gained our young ladies' hearts with her pretty ways and her funny
little English, accent. They kissed her on both cheeks, and told her
they would be very pleased for her to come to them in the garden
whenever she saw them from the balcony, as she was so sure her aunt
would not object to it. They could not invite her to the house, they
explained, unless their mother and her aunt had made acquaintance. Of
course it would not have done, as little Charlotte quite understood; for
in those days," Dudu observed in passing, "politeness and ceremony were
much more observed than is at present, I am sorry to say, the case.
"The little English girl, however," he went on, "was only too delighted
to have received permission to visit them in their garden. And not many
days passed on which she did not join them there. It was a lovely summer
that year--I remember it so well. Never now does the sun seem to me to
shine quite so brightly as in those days. Perhaps it is that I am
growing old, perhaps the sad days that soon after followed left a cloud
on my memory and a mist on my spirit which have never since entirely
cleared away; however that may be, I never remember so bright and
beautiful a summer as the one I am telling you of. And little
Charlotte's merry laugh was often heard on the terrace walk, as she ran
races with Mademoiselle Eliane's dog, or made daisy wreaths for
Mademoiselle Jeanne's dark hair. Kindness and companionship were all she
required to make her a bright and happy child. But the pleasant summer
faded, and with the first autumn days came a fresh sorrow for the little
girl. One morning, before the usual time for meeting in the garden, I
caught sight of her on the balcony, her face looking again like the
little pale Charlotte I had first known her, her eyes red with weeping.
And as by good chance the young ladies came out soon the reason was soon
explained.
"'I am going away, my dear young ladies,' cried Charlotte, as she threw
herself into their arms. 'My aunt has just told me. We return to England
in a few days. To England, where I have no friends, where I shall be
again all alone. O Mademoiselle Eliane! O Mademoiselle Jeanne! what
shall I do without you, and your pretty garden, and your kindness, and
poor old Dudu, and the flowers, and everything?'
"They consoled her as well as they could, my kind young ladies, whose
hearts were always full of sympathy. But the tears came to their own
eyes when they saw how real and acute was the little girl's grief.
"'You will come back to see us again, little Charlotte, perhaps,' they
said. 'Your aunt has travelled so much, very likely she will not wish to
remain always in England. And you would always find us here--in the
winter at any rate; generally in the summer we spend some months at our
château, though this summer our father had business which obliged him to
stay here. But for that we should not have seen you so much.'
"But Charlotte was not to be consoled. Her aunt, she was sure, would
never travel any more. She had said only that very morning, that once
she got back to England she would stay there for the rest of her life,
she was too old to move about any more.
"'And I,' added Charlotte, with a fresh burst of weeping, 'I am to be
sent to an English school as soon as aunt can settle about it.'
"'But you will be happier at school, dear,' said Mademoiselle Eliane.
'You will have friends of your own age.'
"'I don't want friends of my own age. I shall never love _any_ friends
as much as my dear Mademoiselle Jeanne and my dear Mademoiselle
Eliane,' sobbed Charlotte; and the only thing that consoled her at all
was when the two young ladies found for her among their little treasures
a very prettily painted 'bonbonnière,' and a quaint little workcase,
fitted with thimble, scissors, and all such things, which she promised
them she would always keep, _always_, as souvenirs of their kindness.
"And in return, the poor little thing went out with her aunt's maid the
next morning and bought two little keepsakes--a scent-bottle for
Mademoiselle Jeanne, and a fan for Mademoiselle Eliane. She spent on
them all the money she had; and at this very moment," added Dudu, "the
scent-bottle is downstairs in your mother's large old dressing-case, the
dressing-case she got from her grandfather. What became of the fan I
cannot say.
"Well, the few remaining days passed, and one cold, dreary morning poor
Charlotte clambered over the railings for the last time, to embrace her
friends and bid them farewell. She might have come in by the door and
seen them in the salon; of course neither her aunt nor our young ladies'
mother would have objected to such a thing, as she was going away, even
though no visits of ceremony had been exchanged between the families.
But this would not have suited Charlotte; it was in the garden she had
first seen her friends, and in the garden must she bid them good-bye. I
assisted at the interview," continued Dudu, "and very touching it was.
Had I been of a nature to shed tears, I really think my feelings would
have been too much for me. And Charlotte would have kissed and hugged me
too, no doubt, had I encouraged anything of the kind. But, fortunately
perhaps for the preservation of my feathers and my dignity, I am not,
and never have been, of a demonstrative disposition."
Dudu cleared his throat and stopped to rest for a moment. Then he
continued--
"The parting was over at last, and little Charlotte was away--quite away
over the sea in cold, rainy England. Cold and rainy it must have been
that winter in any case, for it was cold and rainy even here, and many
changes happened, and shadows of strange events were already faintly
darkening the future. It was the next year that our pretty Mademoiselle
Jeanne married and went away with her husband from the old house, which
yet was to be her home, and the home of her children in the end, for
Mademoiselle Eliane never married, and so all came to be inherited by
her sister's sons. But with that we have nothing to do at present. I
wished only to tell you what concerns our young ladies' friendship with
the little stranger. Years went on, as they always do, whether they
leave the world happy or miserable, and the shadows I have told you of
grew darker and darker. Then, at last, the terrible days began--the
storm burst forth, our happy, peaceful home, with hundreds and thousands
of others, was broken up, and its kindly inhabitants forced to flee.
Mademoiselle Jeanne came hurrying up from her husband's home, where
things were even worse than with us, with her boys, to seek for shelter
and safety, which, alas! could not be given her here. For all had to
flee--my poor old master, frail as he was, his delicate wife, our young
ladies, and the boys--all fled together, and after facing perils such as
I trust none of their descendants will ever know, they reached a safe
refuge. And then they had to endure a new misery, for months and months
went by before they had any tidings of poor Mademoiselle Jeanne's
husband, your great-grandfather, my children, who, like all of his
name--a name you may well be proud of, my little Mademoiselle
Jeanne--stayed at the post of danger till every hope was passed. Then at
last, in disguise, he managed to escape, and reached this place in
safety, hoping here to find something to guide him as to where his wife
and children were. But he found nothing--the house was deserted, not a
servant or retainer of any kind left except myself, and what, alas!
could _I_ do? He was worn out and exhausted, poor man; he hid in the
house for a few days, creeping out at dusk in fear and trembling to buy
a loaf of bread, trusting to his disguise and to his not being well
known in the town. But he would have died, I believe, had he been long
left as he was, for distress of mind added to his other miseries, not
knowing anything as to what had become of your great-grandmother and his
children.
"She was a good wife," continued Dudu, after another little pause. "Our
Mademoiselle Jeanne, I mean. Just when her poor husband was losing heart
altogether, beginning to think they must all be dead, that there was
nothing left for him to do but to die too, she came to him. She had
travelled alone, quite alone, our delicate young lady--who in former
days had scarcely been allowed to set her little foot on the
pavement--from Switzerland to the old home, with a strange belief that
here if anywhere she should find him. And she was rewarded. The worst of
the terrible days were now past, but still disguise was necessary, and
it was in the dress of one of her own peasants--the dress in which she
had fled--that Mademoiselle Jeanne returned. But he knew her--through
all disguises he would have known her--and she him. And the first
evening they were together in the bare, deserted house, even with all
the terrors behind them, the perils before them, the husband and wife
were happy."
Dudu paused again. The children, too interested to speak, listened
eagerly.
"Go on, dear Dudu," whispered Jeanne at last, softly.
"How were they to get away to safety? That was the question," continued
Dudu. "They dared not stay long where they were; yet they dared not go.
Monsieur was far too feeble to stand much fatigue, and the two of them
journeying together might attract notice.
"'If we could get to the sea,' said Mademoiselle Jeanne--Madame I should
call her, but it never comes naturally--there we might find a ship to
take us to England or Holland, and thence find our way to our dear ones
again.'
"But Monsieur shook his head. 'Impossible,' he said. 'I have not the
strength for even the four leagues' walk to the sea, and finding a ship
that would take us is a mere chance. We have almost no money. Here at
least we have shelter, and still some sous for bread. Jeanne, my
beloved, you must make up your mind to leave me again--alone and
unhindered you might find your way back in safety.'
"'I will never leave you,' said Jeanne. 'We will die together, if it
must be so. The boys are safe--my father and mother and Eliane will care
for them. I will never leave you.'
"And Monsieur said no more; but in his own mind I could see that he
thought himself fast dying, that want of comforts and nourishment much
longer would exhaust his little strength, and that his poor Jeanne
would, in the end, be forced to attempt the journey back alone. They
were sitting at the end of the terrace walk that evening--the end near
little Charlotte's balcony; it was a mild, still evening--it seemed less
dreary and miserable than in the house; from the distance came the sound
of the children playing in the old streets, and near at hand some birds
were singing still--for children will play and birds will sing whatever
happens. Suddenly a sound close at hand made Mademoiselle Jeanne look
up. And I too, for I was close beside them on the terrace, I looked up
in amazement, half imagining it must be a dream. For we heard--both
Mademoiselle Jeanne and I knew it again--the sound of the window on to
the balcony opening, the window through which the little English girl
used to come out to meet her friends. We looked and could scarcely
believe our eyes. Out on to the balcony stepped a young lady, a young
girl rather she seemed, for she was tall and slight and had fair curls
about her sweet fresh face. She stood for one instant looking at us all
as if bewildered, then, with a sudden cry, almost before we knew what
she was doing, she was over the railings and down the bank.
"'Mademoiselle Jeanne or Mademoiselle Eliane!' she cried, 'which of you
is it? for it is one of you, I know! And you are _not_ dead--not all
dead and gone--and there is Dudu, too. Oh, how glad, how very glad, I am
that I came!'
"Laughing and crying both at once, she threw herself into Madame's arms,
while Monsieur looked on in amazement.
"'You know me?' she cried--'your little English Charlotte. See, here is
the bonbonnière,' feeling for it in her pocket as she spoke. 'And you
are Mademoiselle Jeanne. I know you now--if you had twenty peasant caps
on I should know you. But how thin and pale you are, my poor Jeanne!
And is this your husband? I knew you were married. I saw it in the
newspapers ever so many years ago. Do you know it is fifteen years since
I went away? And I am married, too. But tell me first how it is you are
here and dressed like that, and why you look so sad and Monsieur so ill.
Tell me all. You may trust me, you may indeed, and perhaps my husband
and I may be able to be of some use. You may trust me,' seeing that
Madame and her husband looked at each other in bewilderment; 'may they
not, Dudu?' she added, turning to me. 'Tell Mademoiselle Jeanne that she
can indeed trust me.'
"I flapped my wings and croaked.
"'You see,' said Charlotte, and at that they all laughed.
"'It is not that we do not trust you, my dear friend,' said Madame; 'and
indeed you see all in seeing us here as you do. There is nothing to tell
but the same sad story that has been to tell in so many once happy
French homes. But explain to me, my dear Charlotte, how you are here. It
is so strange, so extraordinary.'
"And Charlotte explained. Her husband was a sailor. To be near him, she
had been in Spain at the outbreak of the revolution, and had remained
there till he was ordered home. Now that the terror was subsiding, there
was--for them, as foreigners--but little risk. She had persuaded her
husband, whose vessel, owing to some slight accident at sea, had been
obliged to put in at the neighbouring port, to let her come to have a
look at the old town, at the old house, or garden rather, she still
loved so dearly. 'The house we used to live in,' she said, 'was empty. I
easily found my way in, and out on to the balcony, as you saw. I had a
sort of wild idea that perhaps I might see or hear something of you. Yet
I was almost afraid to ask, such terrible things have happened,' added
Charlotte, with a shudder.
"But nothing more terrible was in store for our young ladies, I am glad
to say," continued Dudu. "The faithful-hearted Charlotte and her husband
were able to be of the greatest service to Mademoiselle Jeanne and _her_
husband. They conveyed them in safety to the port and saw them on board
a friendly vessel, and not many weeks passed before they were again with
their children and the old Monsieur and Madame and Mademoiselle Eliane
in their home for the time in Switzerland."
"Oh, how glad I am!" exclaimed Jeanne. "I was dreadfully afraid your
story was going to end badly, Dudu."
"It is not ended yet," said Dudu.
"Isn't it?" cried Jeanne. "Oh dear, then go on quick, please. I _hope_
Mademoiselle Jeanne's poor husband----"
"Your great-grandfather, you mean," corrected Dudu.
"Oh, well then, my great-grandfather, _our_ great-grandfather, for he
was Chéri's, too, you said. I do so hope he got better. Did he, Dudu?"
"Yes," said Dudu, "he got better, but never quite well again. However,
he lived some years, long enough to see his boys grown up and to
return--after the death of our old Monsieur and Madame--to return to his
own country with his wife and sister-in-law. But before very long, while
still far from an old man, he died. Then our young ladies, young no
longer, came back, after a time, to their childish home; and here they
lived together quietly, kind and charitable to all, cheered from time to
time by the visits of Madame's two sons, out in the world now and
married, and with homes of their own. And time went on gently and
uneventfully, and gradually Madame's hair became quite, quite white, and
Mademoiselle Eliane took to limping a little in her walk with the
rheumatism, and when they slowly paced up and down the terrace it was
difficult for me to think they were really my pretty young ladies with
the white dresses and blue ribbons of half a century ago. For it was now
just thirty-five years since the last visit of their English friend. She
too, if she were alive, must be a woman of more than sixty. They had
never heard of her again. In the hurry and anxiety of their last meeting
they had forgotten to ask and she to give her exact address, so they
could not write. She might have written to them to the old house
perhaps, on the chance of it finding them; but if so, they had never got
the letter. Yet they often spoke of her, and never saw the balcony at
the end of the terrace without a kindly thought of those long ago days.
"One evening--an autumn evening--mild and balmy, the two old ladies were
slowly pacing up and down their favourite walk, when a servant came out
to say that they were wanted--a lady was asking for them. But not to
disturb them, he added, the visitor would be glad to see them in the
garden, if they would allow it. Wondering who it could be, Madame and
her sister were hesitating what to do, when a figure was seen
approaching them from the house.
"'I could not wait,' she said, almost before she reached them. 'I wished
so much to see you once more in the old spot, dear friends;' and they
knew her at once. They recognised in the bowed and worn but still sweet
and lovely woman, their pretty child-friend of fifty years ago. She had
come to bid them farewell, she said. She was on her way to the
south--not to live but to die, for she had suffered much and her days
were numbered.
"'My dear husband is dead some years ago,' she said. 'But we were very
happy together, which is a blessed thought. And my children--one after
another they faded. So I am an old woman now and quite alone, and I am
glad to go to them all. My friends wished me to go to the south, for I
have always loved the sunshine, and there my little daughter died, and
perhaps death will there come to me in gentler shape. But on my way, I
wished to say good-bye to you, dear friends of long ago, whom I have
always loved, though we have been so little together.'
"And then they took each other's hands, gently and quietly, the three
old ladies, and softly kissed each other's withered cheeks, down which a
few tears made their way; the time was past for them for anything but
gentle and chastened feelings. And whispering to their old friend not
good-bye, but 'Au revoir, au revoir in a better country,' my ladies
parted once more with their childish friend.
"She died a few months later; news of her death was sent them. _They_
lived to be old--past eighty both of them, when they died within a few
days of each other. But I never hobble up and down the terrace walk
without thinking of them," added Dudu, "and on the whole, my dears, even
if I had my choice, I don't think I should care to live another two or
three hundred years in a world where changes come so quickly."
Hugh and Jeanne were silent for a moment. Then "Thank you, dear Dudu,"
they said together.
And Dudu cocked his head on one side. "There is Marcelline calling you,"
he said, in a matter-of-fact tone. "Run downstairs. Take a look at the
beautiful stars overhead before you go. Good-bye, my dears."
"Good-night, Dudu, and thank you again," said the children, as they
hastened away.
They found their way back to the tapestry room without difficulty. They
were standing in the middle of the room, half puzzled as to how they had
got there, when Marcelline appeared.
"We have been with Dudu," they told her, before she had time to ask them
anything. "He has told us lovely stories--nicer even than fairy
adventures." And Marcelline smiled and seemed pleased, but not at all
surprised.
* * * * *
"A strange thing has happened," said Jeanne's father the next day. "I
feel quite distressed about it. Old Dudu the raven has disappeared. He
is nowhere to be found since yesterday afternoon, the gardener tells me.
They have looked for him everywhere in vain. I feel quite sorry--he has
been in the family so long--how long indeed I should be afraid to say,
for my father remembered him as a child."
The children looked at each other.
"Dudu has gone!" they said softly.
"We shall have no more stories," whispered Hugh.
"Nor fairy adventures," said Jeanne.
"He may come back again," said Hugh.
"I think not," said Jeanne, shaking her smooth little black head. "Don't
you remember, Chéri, what he said about not wishing to stay here
longer?"
"And he said 'good-bye,'" added Hugh sadly. "I fear he will not come
back."
But if he _ever_ does, children dear, and if you care to hear what he
has to tell, you shall not be forgotten, I promise you.
THE END
_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.
Transcriber's notes:
Title page, closing single quote added to poetry quotation.
Page 4, period added to end of sentence. "any worse. Not"
Page 66, word "to" inserted in "Nibble next to the carriage".
Page 87, period added: "to row. After a time"
Page 94, single end-quote changed to double end-quote " ...sing
evermore."
Page 128, opening quote added to "There now, ..."
Page 137, opening quote added to "And 'don't care;' ..."
Page 148, opening single quote added to "'but I would fain ...'"
Page 158, opening quote added to "'She is so courageous ...'"
Page 165, double end-quote changed to single end-quote "'Have no fear,'
he replied ..."
Page 168, '" changed to "' in "'I knew not ...'"
Page 170, closing quote changed to closing single quote "'Go?' said ..."
Page 170, extraneous ' removed from "She looked ..."
Page 180, opening ' added. "'Hateful thing!' she ..."
Page 189, double quotes changed to single quotes 'The crowd is so
great...prettier than you,'
Page 230, opening quote added to "And Charlotte explained..."