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Read Ebook: Odette: A Fairy Tale for Weary People by Firbank Ronald Buhrer Albert Illustrator
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Ebook has 97 lines and 6716 words, and 2 pages
Illustrator: Albert Buhrer
ODETTE
Crown 8vo. 6s. each
VAINGLORY
INCLINATIONS
"The book is pleasant, vivacious and stimulating throughout."
CAPRICE
GRANT RICHARDS LTD. ST. MARTIN'S ST. LONDON W.C.
ODETTE
A FAIRY TALE FOR WEARY PEOPLE
BY RONALD FIRBANK
LONDON GRANT RICHARDS LIMITED ST. MARTIN'S STREET 1916
Odette: A Fairy Tale for Weary People
In the long summer evenings, when the shadows crept slowly over the lawn, and the distant towers of the cathedral turned purple in the setting sun, little Odette d'Antrevernes would steal out from the old grey chateau to listen to the birds murmuring "good-night" to one another amongst the trees.
Far away, at the end of the long avenue of fragrant limes, wound the Loire, all amongst the flowery meadows and emerald vineyards, like a wonderful looking-glass reflecting all the sky; and across the river, like an ogre's castle in a fairy tale, frowned the chateau of Luynes, with its round grey turrets and its long, thin windows, so narrow, that scarcely could a princess in distress put forth her little white hand to wave to the true knight that should rescue her from her terrible fate.
Just until the sun disappeared behind the trees, veiled in a crimson cloud, little Odette would remain in the shadowy garden, then quickly and mysteriously she would slip back into the old grey chateau; where, in the long, dim drawing-room, before two wax candles, she would find her Aunt Valerie d'Antrevernes embroidering an altar cloth for the homely lichened village church, that one could see across the rose garden from the castle windows.
"Where have you been, my child?" her aunt would ask her, glancing up from the lace altar cloth that fell around her in a snowy cloud.
And Odette, in her pretty baby voice, would reply: "I have been listening to the birds saying their evening prayers," and then silently she would sit on a low hassock at her aunt's feet, and tell herself fairy stories until Fortune, her Creole nurse, should come and carry her off to bed.
Sometimes of an evening the old Cur? of Bois-Fleuri would come to visit Madame d'Antrevernes, and little Odette would watch them as they talked, wondering all the while if Monsieur le Cur? had really seen God. She had never dared ask.
Her aunt always sat in a high armchair of faded blue tapestry, embroidered in gold, with the family arms on a background of fleur-de-lys, and her pale, beautiful face, as it bent over the lace altar cloth, made little Odette think of angels and Holy Saints.
Odette had always seen her aunt thus, bending over an altar cloth for God, so whenever she thought of Madame d'Antrevernes it was with a peculiar reverence that almost approached to awe.
One evening, when little Odette lay awake in her deep four-posted bed, watching the firelight dance upon the strange tapestry figures that covered the walls, she heard Fortune, her old nurse, talking to one of the servants. She caught her aunt's name, then her own, and without realizing that she was doing wrong, she listened to what Fortune said.
She did not really understand what she heard, for she was watching the firelight as it shone upon a tall faded-looking lady in blue, who was regarding with outstretched arms the sky which was full of angels. All about the lady, in a field of red and white flowers, lay sleeping sheep. Her aunt had once told her that the faded-looking blue lady, whom Odette had imagined to be the Lady Virgin herself, was Joan of Arc receiving the message from heaven to deliver France.
So as Odette watched the firelight dancing upon the faded tapestry, she listened, without knowing that she was listening to the voice of Fortune, who, in the next room, sat gossiping with another servant.
"She never seems able to forget him," she heard Fortune say. "Ever since the day that Monsieur le Marquis killed Monsieur d'Antrevernes in a duel, Madame has never recovered."
"She had scarcely been married a month, sweet soul, when her husband was brought home to her dead ... and so beautiful he looked as he lay in the great hall, his eyes wide-open and smiling, just as if he were still alive.... Madame la Comtesse was in the rose garden at the time with Monsieur le Cur?--no one knew where she was, and when suddenly she entered the hall, her hands all full of summer roses, and saw her husband lying dead before her, she gave a terrible cry and fainted straight away.... For days after she hung between life and death, and then, when she at last got well again, she always seemed to be thinking of him, always seemed to be living in the past. Sometimes she would sit for hours in the garden staring in front of her, and smiling and talking to herself so that I used to feel afraid. Then, a few years later, when the father and mother of the little Odette were drowned on their way back from India, Madame seemed to wake up from her long dream, as it were, and went to Paris to fetch Mademoiselle Odette from the convent of the Holy Dove."
Little Odette had fallen asleep berced by the lullaby of the old servant's voice, and when next morning the risen sun shone in a shower of gold through the diamond-paned windows of her room, and all the birds in the garden below were rejoicing amidst the trees, little Odette had forgotten the conversation she had overheard the previous night as she lay awake watching the firelight dancing upon the faded blue gown of the Maid of France.
Sometimes of an afternoon Monsieur le Cur? de Bois-Fleuri would call at the chateau and ask Blaise, the long valued butler, whether Mademoiselle Odette d'Antrevernes was at home; and Blaise would smile at Monsieur le Cur? and ask him to be seated whilst he went to see.
Then slowly, slowly, Blaise would traverse the great hall, pass under the torn and faded flags that drooped sadly like dead things from the massive rafters and shaking his silver head and murmuring to himself he would disappear on the great staircase lined with armour.
And the old Cur? would sit musing on the past, his eyes fixed on the torn flags that had once been borne in proud splendour at Pavie and Moncontour.
Then the little Odette in her flowing robe would trip eagerly down the wide oak staircase, and making a low reverence to the Cur?, she would take his hand, and together they would walk out into the rose garden that faced the south side of the chateau.
There, by a broken statue on a rustic seat they would sit surrounded by clustering roses, and the Cur?, with his soft, low voice, would tell little Odette beautiful stories about the Saints and the Virgin Mary.
But the story that Odette found the most wonderful of all, was the account of the child Bernadette beholding the Holy Virgin in the mountains. This, for her, was the most perfect story in the world, and with her quick, imaginative mind she would picture the little peasant girl Bernadette returning to her parents' distant dwelling, when suddenly in a ray of glorious light, the Holy Mary herself appeared on the lonely mountain path, like a beautiful dream.
Oh! how Odette wished that she could have been little Bernadette! And she would delight to surmise what the little peasant girl looked like; whether her hair was brown, or whether it was gold--and Odette was terribly disappointed when asking the Cur? this question, that he only shook his head and said he did not know.
So the days slipped by quietly as on silver wings. Madame d'Antrevernes always in her high blue chair, her altar cloth between her hands, and little Odette on a faded cushion dreaming at her feet.
Then one beautiful evening in August, as little Odette watched the two twin towers of the distant Cathedral flush purple in the setting sun, and the great round dome of St. Martin's Church loom like a ripe apricot against the sky, a wonderful idea came to her. She, too, would seek the Holy Virgin. She, too, like little Bernadette, would speak with the Holy Mary, the Mother of the Lord Seigneur Christ.
It was the evening of the eventful night. For one whole week Odette had prayed steadfastly, and now this evening she was going to speak to the Holy Mary in the rose garden, when Aunt Valerie and Fortune, Blaise, and Monsieur le Cur? were all fast asleep.
She felt terribly excited as she kissed her aunt good-night, and trembling with a beautiful holy fear she allowed Fortune to undress her and put her to bed.
Then for two long hours she watched the moonlight fall upon the dim blue figure of Joan of Arc, for the frail summer fire that Fortune lit of an evening had long ago burnt itself out, and now the room was filled with mysterious shadows and strange creakings of furniture, so that it was all Odette could do not to be afraid. At last she heard the gentle rustle of her aunt's gown as she passed her door, and Odette could see the yellow light from Madame d'Antreverne's candle glint like a fleeting star through the keyhole. Soon afterwards she heard the slow steps of Blaise cross the Picture Gallery, and then a sudden silence fell upon the chateau only broken by faint nocturnal noises from the garden.
Odette sat up amid her pillows listening. She felt her heart beating, beating, as if it were trying to escape.
Then silently she slipped from her bed, crossed to the window, and looked out.
Perhaps the Virgin was already waiting for her in the garden?
But she saw no one.
Far away she could see a few lights shining like fallen stars in the town of Tours, and through the trees upon the lawn she saw the Loire glittering like an angel's robe beneath the moon.
"How wicked to expect the Holy Virgin to wait for me," thought Odette, "It is I that must wait for Her." And fastening a fair silver cross about her neck, she noiselessly opened the bedroom door, and found herself standing alone upon the great dark staircase.
To get to the garden it was necessary to cross the Picture Gallery; for the Picture Gallery was at the top of the great staircase.
Odette trembled as she passed down the long still Gallery where the portraits of her ancestors peered eerily from the panelled walls. But she was comforted by the thought that Gabrielle was at the other end.
Odette adored the tired languid-looking hands, full of deep red roses, that lay like two dead doves upon the silver brocaded gown, and she would weave beautiful tales about Gabrielle, seated on her favourite cushion, peering up at the portrait, her great eyes lost in thought.
But this evening she did not linger as her custom was but with a friendly smile to the beloved Gabrielle she hurried by, her cautious feet all a-pit-a-pat, a-pit-a-pat, on the parquet floor.
Then she went down the broad staircase between the pale armour, beneath the brooding flags, and so to the glass door that led to the garden.
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