Rosin the Beau. Richards Laura Elizabeth Howe

those others, and she sing. Her voice go up, thin, thin, like a little cold wind in ze boat-ropes.

      "'Il était trois mat'lots de Groix,

      Il était trois mat'lots de Groix,

      Embarqués sur le Saint François,

      Tra la derira, la la la,

      Tra la derira la laire!'1

      "I make learn you that song, petit Jacques, one time! So we come, – now, mes enfants, we come! and all the old women point the nose, and say, 'Who is it comes there?' But that one old – but Mère Jeanne, she cry out loud, loud. 'Marie! petite Marie, where hast thou been so long, so long?' She opens the arms – I fall into zem, on my knees; I cry – but hush, p'tit Jacques! I cry now only in ze story, only – to – to show thee how it would be! I say, 'It is me, Marie, Mère Jeanne! I come to show thee my little son, to take thy blessing. And my little friend, too!'" She turned to pat Petie's head; she would not let the motherless boy feel left out, even from a world in which he had no part.

      "My good friend Petie, whose mother is with the saints. Then Mère Jeanne, she take all our hands, after she has her weep; she say 'Come!' and we go up ze street, up, up, till we come to Mère Jeanne's house."

      "Tell about the house!" I cried.

      "Holy Cric! what a house!" cried Mère-Marie, clapping her hands together. "It is stone, painted white, clean, like new cheese; the roof beautiful, straw, warm, thick, – ah! what roofs! I have tried to teach thy father to make them, but no! Inside, it is dark and warm, and full wiz good smells. Now it is the pot-au-feu, but not every day zis, for Mère Jeanne is poor; but always somesing, fish to fry, or pancakes, or apples. But zis time, Mère Jeanne make me a fête; she say, 'It is the Fête Marie!'

      "She make the fire bright, bright; and she bring big chestnuts, two handfuls of zem, and set zem on ze shovel to roast; and zen she put ze greedle, and she mixed ze batter in a great bowl – it is yellow, that bowl, and the spoon, it is horn. She show it to me, she say, 'Wat leetle child was eat wiz this spoon, Marie? hein?' and I – I kiss the spoon; I say, ''Tite Marie, Mère Jeanne! 'Tite Marie qui t'aime!'2 It is the first words I could say of my life, mes enfants!

      "Zen she laugh, and nod her head, and she stir, stir, stir till ze bobbles come – "

      "The way they do when you make griddle-cakes, Mère-Marie?"

      "Ah! no! much, much, thousand time better, Mère Jeanne make zem! She toss them – so! wiz ze spoon, and they shine like gold, and when they come down – hop! – they say 'Sssssssssss!' that they like to fry for Mère Jeanne, and for Marie, and p'tit Jacques, and good Petie. Then I bring out the black table, and I know where the bread live, and the cheese, and while the cakes fry, I go to milk the cow – ah! the pearl of cows, children, white like her own cream, fat like a boiled chestnut, good like an angel! She has not forgotten Marie, she rub her nose in my heart, she sing to me. I take her wiz both my arms, I weep – ah! but it is joy, p'tit Jacques! it is wiz joy I weep! Zen, again in ze house, and round ze table, we all sit, and we eat, and eat, that we can eat no more. And Mère Jeanne say:

      "'Tell me of thy home, Marie!' and I tell all, all; of thy father Jacques, how he good, and great, and handsome as Saint Michael; and how my house is fine, fine, and how Abiroc is good. And Mère Jeanne, she make the great eyes; she cry, 'Ah! the good fortune! Ah, Marie, that thou art fortunate, that thou art happy!'

      "Then she tell thee, p'tit Jacques, how I was little, little, in a blue frock, wiz the cap tie under my chin; and how I dance and sing in the street, and how Madame la Comtesse see me, and take me to ze castle, and make teach me the violin, and give me Madame for my friend. I have told thee all, many, many times. Then she tell, Mère Jeanne, – oh! she is good, good, and all ze time she fill thee wiz chestnuts that I cry out lest thou die, – she tell how one day she come home from market, and I am gone. No Marie! She look, she run here and there, she cry, ''Tite Marie, where art thou?' No Marie come. She run to the neighbours, she search, she tear her cap; they tell her, 'Demand of thy son's wife! The strange ship sailed this morning; we heard child cry; what do we know?'

      "For the wife of Mère Jeanne's Jeannot, she was a devil, as I have told thee, a devil with both the eyes evil; and none dare say what she had done, for fear of their children and their cows to die. And then, Mère Jeanne she tell how she run to Jeannot's house, – she fear nossing, Mère Jeanne! the good God protect her always. She cry, 'Where is Marie? where is my child?' And Jeannot's Manon, she laugh, she say, 'Cross the sea after her, old witch! Who keeps thee?' Then – see, p'tit Jacques! see, Petie! I have not seen this wiz my eyes, no! but in my heart I have seen, I know! Then Mère Jeanne run at that woman, that devil; and she pull off her cap and tread it wiz her foot; and she pull out her hair, – never she had much, but since this day none! – and she scratch her face and tear the clothes – ah! Mère Jeanne is mild like a cherub till she is angry, but then – And that devil scream, scream, but no one come, no one care; they are all glad, they laugh to hear. Till Jeannot run in, and catch his mother and hold her hands, and take her home to her house. She tell me all this, Mère Jeanne, and it is true, and I know it in my heart. But now she is dead, that witch, and the great devil has her, and that is well." (I think my father would have lost his wits, Melody, if he had heard the way my mother talked to me sometimes; but it was a child's talk, my dear, and there was no harm. A child who had been brought up among ignorant peasants; how should she know better, poor little Mother Marie?)

      "But now, see, mes enfants! We must come back across the sea, for ze sun, he begin to go away down. So I tell zis, and Mère Jeanne she cry, she take us wiz her arms, she cannot let us go. But I take Madame on my arm, I go out in ze street, I begin to play wiz my hand. Then all come, all run, all cry, 'Marie! Marie is here wiz her violon!' And I play, play and sing, and the little children dance, dance, and p'tit Jacques and Petie take them the hands and dance wiz —

      "'Eh! gai, Coco,

      Eh! gai, Coco,

      Eh! venez voir la danse

      Du petit marmot!

      Eh! venez voir la danse

      Du petit marmot!'

      "Adieu, adieu, Mère Jeanne! adieu, la France! but you, mes enfants; why do you cry?"

      CHAPTER III

      I WAS twelve years old when my mother died. She had no illness, or none that we had known of; the sweet soul of her slipped away in the night like a bird, and left the body smiling asleep. We never knew what ailed her; people did not torment themselves in those days with the "how" of a thing. There may have been talk behind the village doors, but my father never asked. She was gone, and his heart was gone with her, my poor father. She was all the joy of his life, and he never had any more; I never remember seeing him smile after that time. What gave him the best comfort was trying to keep things pretty and bright, as she liked to see them. He was neat as a woman, and he never allowed a speck of dust on the chairs, or a withered leaf on the geraniums. He never would let me touch her flowers, but I was set to polish the pewter and copper, – indeed, my mother had taught me that, – and he watched jealously lest any dimness come on them. I sometimes wondered at all this, as he had so lately counted these matters of adornment and prettiness and such as less than nothing, and vanity, as the preacher has it. But I think his great grief put a sacredness, as it were, over everything that had been hers, and all her ways seemed heavenly to him now, even though he had frowned at them (never at her, Melody, my dear! never at her!) when she was still with him.

      My father wished me to help him in the farm work, but I had no turn for that. I was growing up tall and weedy, and most like my strength went into that. However it was, there was little of it for farming, and less liking. Father Jacques made up his mind that I was no good for anything, but Abby Rock stood up for me.

      "The boy is not strong enough for farming, Jacques!" she said. "He's near as tall as you, now, and not fifteen yet. Put him to learn a trade, and he'll be a credit to you."

      So

1There were three sailor-lads of Groix,There were three sailor-lads of Groix,They sailèd in the Saint François,Tra la derira, etc.

2

Little Marie, Mother Jeanne! Little Marie who loves you.