Laura Richards
Honor Bright
CHAPTER III
THE MOUNTAINEERS
It was Madame’s birthday, a bright June day; it was also the feast of St. Zita.
Every girl, Catholic and Protestant alike, had laid a flower on the Saint’s shrine, the pretty little marble shrine at the end of the garden, with the yellow roses climbing over it. Every girl had presented her gift to Madame at breakfast, to the good lady’s unbounded astonishment. They had been making the gifts under her benevolent nose for a month past, but she had seen nothing; Soeur Séraphine said so, and she ought to know. The steel beads of Honor’s neck chain (Honor was not skilful with her needle, but she could string beads with the best!) had flashed in sun and lamp light, had dropped on the floor and been rescued from corners and cracks; Madame never noticed. She did not even notice when Maria Patterson’s handkerchief case fell into the soup, which, as Patricia said, served Maria right for tatting at table. Soeur Séraphine saw, and Maria got no pudding, but Madame Madeleine never so much as looked that way, and never faltered in her recital of the virtues and sufferings of St. Zita.
She almost wept with pleasure over her gifts; never, she declared, were such charming objects seen. And of a utility! Tiens! this beautiful blotter, how it would adorn her desk! And the exquisite chain! Would it not sustain her spectacle case, which in future would never, as had so often happened, become wholly lost? And – “Ma Patricia! this beautiful scarf cannot be for me: tell me not so, my child! It is for a princess rather!” etc., etc.
Dear Madame Madeleine! Surely her birthday was the happiest day of the happy year for herself and all of us.
After the presentation, all was joyous bustle and hurry: baskets to pack, shawls and cloaks to collect, fiacres to summon; all for the annual expedition to the Rochers de Meillerie, the most wonderful picnic place in the world. The fiacres (three of them! it made quite a procession!) took the party down to the lake, where the little steamer lay at her pier, the smoke pouring from her funnel. What terror lest they should be late! What frantic signals waved from the six windows of the procession of fiacres! The steamer gave no sign, but puffed away stolidly; they had been on board half an hour, sitting on their camp stools in a serried phalanx, before she rang her bell, shrieked thrice through her whistle and began her leisurely progress across the lake.
What a voyage of wonder that was! The morning was crystal clear, the mountains stood in dazzling white and resplendent green, the lake was a great sparkling sapphire studded with gold and diamonds.
Honor, sitting near the stern, watched the swirling wake, stretching far behind, saw the rainbow bubbles rise, dance, break, fall away in silver showers. She was fascinated, could not even look up at her beloved mountains.
“Tiens!” whispered Stephanie. “This tall stranger, very distinguished, who regards us, Moriole!”
Honor shook her shoulders a little impatiently. Stephanie was always seeing distinguished strangers; they seldom, if ever, were distinguished in Honor’s eyes.
Suppose, she thought, an Arm should suddenly appear, rising from the bosom of the lake,
“Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful!”
Suppose Undine were there – no! she lived in a fountain; well, other nymphs then! There must be ever so many. But it was to be some time yet before Honor came to her water world.
“Regard the mountains, my child!” said Madame. “They also are dressed to welcome us, is it not so?”
Honor looked up, and the mountains took possession of her again. One could hardly look at the white giants themselves, they were too dazzling, midway between the vivid blues of sky and lake, the blinding sunlight beating on them. Instinctively one’s eyes blinked, fell, rested on the lovely green of the lower forest-clad heights; lower still, on the mellow brown huddle at their feet, on the very edge of the water, the Rocks of Meillerie.
“Behold!” said Madame. “The good rocks which await us!”
The good rocks, basking in sunshine as soft as it was warm, neither dazzled nor blinded; they welcomed. They were actually warm under the feet, as, released from the steamer, the happy girls clambered over them, laden with baskets, shawls, campstools.
“This way!” the brown rocks invited: “to the left here, my children, under our shadow, for the sun is hot! here rather to the right, since the footing is better. Yonder is a place of treachery; avoid always that emerald patch! Unknown depths lurk beneath.”
And so on, and so on! Did the rocks actually speak, or was it Soeur Séraphine panting in the rear, cautioning, adjuring? Never mind! Here they were at last in the picnic place, their own place, discovered by the two good sisters, Madame Madeleine and Soeur Séraphine, hundreds of years ago, when they were girls themselves. No one else knew of it, they were sure; except, of course, Atli and Gretli, and they were safe. It was a family affair, the rock parlor, with its brown walls and its carpet of softest moss. No treachery here! The moss was as dry as it was soft; a wonderful moss, like tiny velvet ferns; Honor and Stephanie agreed it could grow nowhere else in the world. Here and there baby rocks jutted through the green, making perfect stools; there was even an armchair for Madame; it was arranged, Soeur Séraphine assured them gaily. Nature, the good Mother Superior of the White Sisters yonder – she indicated the towering giants above them – had designed this place for them.
“Sit down, my children! My sister, this cushion for thy back, is it not so? Voilà!”
The snowy cloth was laid on the moss before Madame’s rock armchair; the baskets were unpacked, amid squeaks of rapture. Oh! the great pie! ah! the brioches, the galette, the Lyons sausage, all the good, good Swiss dainties! how wonderful they were, eaten here in the rock parlor, at the very foot of the mountains! And when the girls were thirsty – Ah! at the good hour! Here were Atli and Gretli.
Down through the brown rocks, stepping as sturdily and easily as if on level ground, came the gigantic twins, Margoton’s brother and sister; he bearing a shining milkcan, she a comb of golden honey in a blue bowl. This also was a part of the regular programme. Never were twins more alike. Clip Gretli’s flaxen hair and put her into Atli’s white shirt, broad green breeches and worsted stockings; furnish Atli with two heavy braids hanging to his waist, and dress him in bodice and petticoat – Madame asked you – was there a difference? They were superb, even Patricia allowed that. Their massive, regular features, their blue eyes, the flash of their white teeth, the ruddy brown of cheek and chin, contrasting with the milk-white strip of forehead when the shady hat came off – all this with the figure of a Norse viking and – “Is there such a word as ‘vi-queen’?” asked Patricia. Soeur Séraphine thought not: the idea, however, was admirable. That was certainly what our good Atli and Gretli resembled. Vee-king! vee-quin – : ki – veen! my faith! That was difficult, if you would! a majestic language, but of a complexity!
Honor thought silently that they were more like the Norse Gods: Baldur the Beautiful, Nanna the Fair: there was a story about them in a little brown book —
Atli, all unconscious of either kinglike or godlike attributes, poured the rich, foaming milk into the tin cups held out by a dozen eager hands: Gretli dispensed the honey with golden smiles; then the twins sat down simply, and had their share of galette, brioche, and all the rest of it, and answered the questions showered upon them by the two ladies. Yes, the cows were well, with thanks to the holy ladies for their interest; that is, the present time found them in health. La Dumaine had been ill in the spring: but desperately ill! They had despaired of her. During a week they had watched beside her as those expecting the end. She was good as bread, the poor sufferer; her moans were as eloquent as words. When she said “Moh!” one knew she had thirst, one brought water on the instant; when she sneezed, it expressed affection.
“It is that we understand!” said Gretli simply; “she is our sister, do you see?”
Atli nodded gravely.
“It is like that!” he confirmed her. “We are all creatures of the good God. Few human beings have the virtues of La Dumaine. The Duchesse, now, is of another quality; that cow is malicious, if you will. Figure to yourselves, my ladies, her endeavoring to snatch from our poor Dumaine the tuft of clover that I had found for her (with difficulty, for the season was late) and brought up from the valley. An evil beast! my faith, she was well paid for that, the Duchesse; good strokes of the cudgel rewarded her.”
“And the goats?” asked Soeur Séraphine. “They have wintered well? The little white one lives always, that you named for me, kind young persons that you are?”
The twins threw back their heads – their movements were apt to be not only identical but simultaneous – and their laughter rang among the rocks; every one else laughed, too, from sheer infection of merriment.
“If she lives?” chuckled Atli.
“The marvel is that others still survive!” cried Gretli. “It is we that owe you a thousand apologies, my Sister, for giving your holy and beautiful name to such a creature. She is mistress – what do I say? She is tyrant of the whole flock. She drives them before her like lambs of a month old; they have no peace, the unhappy ones. Only the two he-goats, old Moufflon himself, and his son, our handsome Bimbo, can withstand her. These, also, however, she conquers, but with wiles, you understand. She has charm, la Séraphine; my faith, yes! Even Atli gives her her own way, when I would give her the stick rather.”
“The creature!” said Atli indulgently. “She is of a beauty, my ladies! White as cream, and her eyes so dark and appealing. My ladies will graciously visit the châlet, as of custom? There will be great rejoicing at sight of them.”
But yes, said Madame; that was one of the chief pleasures of this happy day, long looked forward to. On the instant even, it would be well for them to begin the ascent. Already it was two o’clock, and the steamer left at five. Also, though young persons could imitate the goats in their manner of ascent, for those of advanced years it was necessary to allow time. Forward then, my children! to the châlet of the Rocks!
In the twinkling of an eye the baskets were repacked and safely stowed beneath an overhanging rock; every scrap of paper and crust of bread picked up and burned, under Soeur Séraphine’s watchful eye; then the whole party began the ascent, Gretli leading the way with Soeur Séraphine, whose slight figure was as active as that of her namesake, Atli bringing up the rear, carefully guiding and supporting Madame Madeleine. Between the two couples went the girls in a hubbub of delight, skipping, slipping, leaping, chattering French and English as they went.
“He is far more handsome than last year!” sighed Stephanie. “Regard his moustache, how it embellishes him! What king was that thou callest him, Patricia? Le roi Vi, n’est-ce pas?”
“No king at all! The Vikings were sea-rovers, pretty much pirates, I suppose.”
“Pirate? That is corsair?” asked Vivette, who was getting on nicely with her English. “My ancestor was a corsair of St. Malo. He captivated three British ships – ”
“By his beauty?” asked Patricia. “You mean ‘captured,’ Vivi!”
“Cap-ture, capti-vate, is it not the same thing? A captive, is he not captivated? How then?”
“Catastrophe of a language!” murmured Stephanie, who detested English.
“Hop, Froggy!” said Patricia and Maria in one breath.
Seeing battle imminent, Honor broke in hastily, “Oh, look, girls! Regarde, Stephanie! The châlet! Race to it!”
No more words were spoken. Panting, breathless, the girls pressed on. Soon they overtook Gretli and Soeur Séraphine, and some would have passed them, but Patricia made an imperious gesture.
“Manners?” she suggested; “one doesn’t rush ahead of one’s hostess, I think; or does one, Stephanie?”
Honor did wish they would not quarrel so. Of course Patricia was right, but – she slid her hand into Stephanie’s, and they dropped back behind the others.
“I hate her!” said Stephanie.
“No, you don’t,” said Honor stoutly. “You dislike her, and that is a pity, because she is splendid, and if you didn’t dislike her, you would like her so tremendously; but you don’t hate her.”
“The same thing!” muttered Stephanie.
“No!” Honor’s cheek flushed and her eyes flashed. “To dislike, that comes to every one; to hate, that is wicked, and the good God is vexed.”
“My children,” called Soeur Séraphine. “Behold us arrived! forward then! Our Gretli has a surprise for us, of which I learn but on the instant. Follow me!”
CHAPTER IV
THE OUTGOING
The Châlet des Rochers (I hope it is still standing!) wore an air of high festivity. Garlands wreathed the open door and swung in festoons from the low thatched roof. Around the door stood a group of young men and maidens, all in the old-time Swiss costume, one of the prettiest in the world; the girls with dark bodices laced over the full white blouse, short full skirts of bright green, blue or red, snowy stockings and well-blacked shoes; the youths in knee-breeches, white shirts, short jackets and pointed hats.
“Are we at the Opéra Comique?” whispered Patricia. “They will begin to yodel in a moment!”
And they did! As the School advanced, the whole group broke out in – song, shall I say? Certainly into a sound as musical as it was strange. “A-i! o-oh! u-u-u – ” No! it may not be described. It must be heard, and heard in the mountains.
“It is the Ranz des Vaches!” cried Soeur Séraphine. “I heard it – how many years ago? When I was a little young girl! What pleasure! what delight! What means this, my Gretli?”
Gretli’s face was aglow; she clapped her hands and laughed, joyously.
“It is the Spring Festival, my Sister!” she cried. “The festival of the Outgoing, when the animals go to the mountain pastures. Hearing that the gracious Ladies would be with us to-day, we held back the outgoing that they might see. These are our neighbors, come to help us and join our simple feast. Marie, Madelon, Jeanne, here are the gracious Ladies of whom you have heard so much. Ah! à la bonne heure! And here is our Zitli himself to welcome you.”
A boy stood in the doorway, beaming welcome; a boy of fifteen, also wearing the gay Swiss dress, but otherwise contrasting strangely with the stalwart, sunburnt shepherds and farm maidens. He leaned on crutches; his face was white and drawn, with lines of pain that should not belong to so young a creature; yet no face in all the group shone more brightly than that of Zitli, the younger brother, the joy and pride of the mighty Twins.
Now Atli hastened forward to bring stools for the Ladies. Soon the whole group was established before the châlet, the Ladies sitting in dignity on their stools, the girls at their feet, on rugs and shawls carefully spread by the Twins and their friends; “To protect from dampness!” explained Gretli. “And from chill!” chimed in Atli. “My faith! our Mountain’s heart is warm, but his bones are cold. Now! my ladies find themselves in comfort? At the good hour! The creatures become impatient. Hark to la Duchesse! That one is in a temper!”
An angry bellow was heard from the farmyard, where we could see white horns tossing over the rough stone wall. It was answered by a “Moo!” in a very different tone: a moo full of quiet dignity, with a touch of rebuke.
“Well done!” cried Gretli. “La Dumaine responds; she puts that other in her place. Is it not well done, friends?”
There was a general murmur of applause, amid which Atli, making a sign, vanished into the yard, followed by the other young men. Presently the sound of bells was heard, first one, then another, then a chime, all on different notes, all in harmony. A lovely melody! And now the girls, led by Gretli’s powerful voice, began to sing: a quaint air, with quainter words, which may be roughly translated as follows:
“Ten young maidens fair and free;
All the ten would married be:
There was Dine, there was Chine,
There was Claudine and Martine;
Ah! ah! Cath’rinette and Cath’rina:
There was beautiful Suzon;
Duchess fair of Montbazon;
There was Célimène;
There was La Dumaine.”
As they sang, the farmyard gate opened, and out came the cows. Usually the herd was already in the mountain pastures by the time of the Birthday Fête; the School had never seen it before. Honor gazed in silent wonder and delight at the superb creature who led the way: a cow white as cream, graceful as a deer, holding her head like a queen. Round her neck was a broad collar of leather, richly embroidered in bright-colored silks, from which hung a large bell. As she moved, she tossed her beautiful head, and the deep mellow notes of the bell rang out sweetly on the quiet air. “Ting! ling-a-ling! ling-a-ling!”
“Ling-ling!” responded another bell! another, and another. The two cows following the leader were also beauties: one a delicate fawn color with white feet and a white star on her forehead; the other —
“But this is the Purple Cow!” cried Patricia.
“‘I never saw a purple cow,
I never thought to see one!’
But now I do!”
Honor had never read “The Lark,” never, poor Continental child, so much as heard of it; but there was no doubt about it; here was a purple cow, or one of so deeply violet-tinted a gray that purple was the one idea suggested.
“What an original tint has this!” cried Madame Madeleine. “And what a beauty! Truly, Gretli, she rivals La Dumaine herself!”
As if she understood the words, the purple cow flung up her head with an angry movement; then lowering it, jostled rudely against the leader as if trying to push past her. La Dumaine paid no heed, but continued to advance slowly, her beautiful eyes turned lovingly toward Atli, who walked beside her, his arm on her neck. The fawn-colored cow, however, with a quiet but firm shove of her powerful shoulder, jostled the purple one back into her place.
“Aha!” cried Gretli. “Well done, Célimène! This, my ladies, is a creature of discernment, and of judgment. Célimène, I am content with thee, my friend!”
The purple cow bellowed angrily; Gretli replied with asperity, “As for thee, thou wilt do well to be silent. No one desires speech of thee, be assured!”
“What is her name?” asked Patricia. “The purple one; she is the handsomest of all, I think.”
“It is the Duchesse de Montbazon, Mademoiselle! An animal of beauty, as all acknowledge, but of an evil and envious disposition. Her jealousy of La Dumaine passes bounds. The truth is, two years ago our beloved Queen had an illness, was not able to seek the mountains with the rest. Wishing to be entirely just, we allowed La Duchesse to lead the herd, as in beauty and in quality of milk she properly ranked next. Figure to yourself that a month later, when Atli led the wholly-recovered Dumaine to the mountain pasture, this one refused to yield her place. She roared, she tore up the ground – there was a scene, I promise you! Atli was forced to belabor her well with the milking-stool before she could be brought – I say not to reason, – she is incapable of it – but to simple obedience. There again our worthy Célimène was of assistance; she, loving La Dumaine like a sister, advanced to the attack of that other, who was threatening our queen in a manner wholly savage, and overthrew her.”
“Ah!” cried a shrill voice behind her. “That was a thing to see! Paff! and there she rolled, the four legs in the air.”
Gretli turned smiling to the boy who, leaning always on his crutches, rubbed his hands with delight, while a glow spread over his pale face.
“Thou saw’st it, Zitli, didst thou not?” she said approvingly. “As thou sayst, it was a thing to see. Regard, my Ladies! La Dumaine comes to pay her respects to our honored guests!”
Stepping daintily over the short turf, guided by Atli’s hand on her neck, the beautiful creature advanced to within a few paces of the group before the door, and stretching her neck, sniffed inquiringly, fixing her great violet-brown eyes on Soeur Séraphine with an appealing look.
“Beautiful one!” the little Sister patted the snowy muzzle gently. “What wouldst thou?”
Zitli thrust into her hand a saucer containing a lump of salt. “She desires bonbons!” he said. “Behold the bonbons of La Dumaine, my Ladies!”
Honor, curled up at the Sister’s feet, watched entranced as the pink tongue curled eagerly round the salt. She was in such a state of wonderment and rapture, she was conscious of nothing save the cows; but suddenly a hand clutched hers, and a voice whispered,
“Moriole, I faint! I die! I can bear no more!”
Honor, turning in amazement, beheld Stephanie, white as chalk, her eyes starting from their sockets, her teeth absolutely chattering.
“But what is it?” she cried. “Stephanie, what ails thee? My Sister, Stephanie is ill!”
“My child!” Soeur Séraphine turned in anxiety. “You find yourself ill?”
“She’s afraid of the cows!” said Patricia bluntly.
“But no! of these gentle creatures? Can it be? Come, my child! Lay your hand on the beautiful head! Observe her gentleness! A lamb is less mild!”
She tried to draw Stephanie toward her: and in so doing drew back the saucer a little. La Dumaine pursued it, snuffing and blowing appreciatively: at this Stephanie uttered a wild shriek, and springing up, rushed to one side to escape the terrible animal, who, she cried out, would devour her.
Alas! Stephanie had recently had a present of a scarlet parasol, of which she was inordinately proud. So proud that she had brought it with her to the fête, regardless of the gibes of the other girls. In her sidewise rush, the parasol, still clutched in her hand, was presented full to the view of the Duchess of Montbazon, within two feet of her purple nose. The Duchess, in no mood to endure this, lowered her head with a furious bellow, and leaving her place in the ranks, advanced upon Stephanie, who fled with shrieks that rent the air. The other cows, startled, huddled together: at the rear, Le Roi, the splendid young bull, raised his great head, crowned with the milking-stool, and uttered a loud moo of inquiry.
It was a bad moment; but Atli and the Queen were equal to the emergency. A touch on the neck, a word in the ear; La Dumaine turned from her “bonbons” and with regal pace and head lifted high, started across the plot of greensward and up the track that led to the mountain pasture. After a moment’s confusion, the other cows, aided by voice and hand of the farm maidens, followed in their regular order. Gretli rescued the shrieking Stephanie and carried her bodily into the house. The shepherds, shouting with laughter, corralled the Duchess of Montbazon in a corner of the yard, and drove her, still bellowing rage and defiance, after the herd. She followed for some paces behind Le Roi, who, conscious of his duty to guard the rear, turned his head frequently to utter snorts of rebuke and remonstrance. Finally, jealousy and ambition triumphed over the sulks. Breaking into a clumsy gallop, La Duchesse plunged past the bull, past Dine and Chine, Claudine, Martine and the rest, and shouldered her way in behind La Dumaine and beside Célimène. The former pursued her serene way, taking no notice; the latter – well, cows cannot laugh, but Célimène’s carriage was very expressive as with a whisk of her tail and a “wallop” of her hind-quarters, she made place for the rebel beside her. So the herd swept out and away, Atli still walking beside his Queen: and after them, shouting and laughing, went the neighbor boys and girls, to finish their holiday with a feast of curds and whey, cheese and black bread in the mountain pasture.
