the poor things away from the home the good God gave them in
His mercy and His pity, and sent down His rain and dew and
sunshine upon it five hundred years in token of His peace? It was
their home–theirs, by the grace of God and His good heart, and no
man had a right to rob them of it. And they were the gentlest,
truest friends that children ever had, and did them sweet and
loving service all these five long centuries, and never any hurt or
harm; and the children loved them, and now they mourn for them,
and there is no healing for their grief. And what had the children
done that they should suffer this cruel stroke? The poor fairies
could have been dangerous company for the children? Yes, but
never had been; and could is no argument. Kinsmen of the Fiend?
What of it? Kinsmen of the Fiend have rights, and these had; and
children have rights, and these had; and if I had been there I would
have spoken–I would have begged for the children and the fiends,
and stayed your hand and saved them all. But now–oh, now, all is
lost; everything is lost, and there is no help more!”
Then she finished with a blast at that idea that fairy kinsmen of the
Fiend ought to be shunned and denied human sympathy and
friendship because salvation was barred against them. She said
that for that very reason people ought to pity them, and do every
humane and loving thing they could to make them forget the hard
fate that had been put upon them by accident of birth and no fault
of their own. “Poor little creatures!” she said. “What can a person’s
heart be made of that can pity a Christian’s child and yet can’t pity
a devil’s child, that a thousand times more needs it!”
She had torn loose from PЉre Fronte, and was crying, with her
knuckles in her eyes, and stamping her small feet in a fury; and
now she burst out of the place and was gone before we could
gather our senses together out of this storm of words and this
whirlwind of passion.
The PЉre had got upon his feet, toward the last, and now he stood
there passing his hand back and forth across his forehead like a
person who is dazed and troubled; then he turned and wandered
toward the door of his little workroom, and as he passed through it
I heard him murmur sorrowfully:
“Ah, me, poor children, poor fiends, they have rights, and she said
true–I never thought of that. God forgive me, I am to blame.”
When I heard that, I knew I was right in the thought that he had set
a trap for himself. It was so, and he had walked into it, you see. I
seemed to feel encouraged, and wondered if mayhap I might get
him into one; but upon reflection my heart went down, for this was
not my gift.
Chapter 3 All Aflame with Love of France
SPEAKING of this matter reminds me of many incidents, many
things that I could tell, but I think I will not try to do it now. It will
be more to my present humor to call back a little glimpse of the
simple and colorless good times we used to have in our village
homes in those peaceful days–especially in the winter. In the
summer we children were out on the breezy uplands with the
flocks from dawn till night, and then there was noisy frolicking
and all that; but winter was the cozy time, winter was the snug
time. Often we gathered in old Jacques d’Arc’s big dirt-floored
apartment, with a great fire going, and played games, and sang
songs, and told fortunes, and listened to the old villagers tell tales
and histories and lies and one thing and another till twelve o’clock
at night.
One winter’s night we were gathered there–it was the winter that
for years afterward they called the hard winter–and that particular
night was a sharp one. It blew a gale outside, and the screaming of
the wind was a stirring sound, and I think I may say it was