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He just stared at Jeanne as if he could not believe his own eyes. And Jeanne did not look surprised at all! That, to Hugh, was the most surprising part of the whole. "Jeanne!" he exclaimed, "you here! Why, Dudu told me you were ever so far away." "And so I am," replied Jeanne, laughing again, "and so are you, Chéri.
Already, long before, interrupting the buttoning of his collar, she had whispered softly, persuasively, clingingly, in the classic manner: "Thou art content, chéri? Thou wilt return?" And he had said: "That goes without saying." But not with quite the same conviction as he now used in speaking definitely of the afternoon of the day after to-morrow. The fact was, he was moved; she too.
Yes, it was streaming in, in a beautiful flood, and the tapestry on the walls had taken again the lovely tints which by daylight were no longer visible. Hugh sprang out of bed. "Are these for me?" he said, touching the wings which Jeanne held. "Certainly," she replied. "Aren't they pretty? Much nicer than your wall-climbers, Chéri. I chose them. Turn round and let me put them on."
And at first I saw nothing else. Then, as the glass-backed locket glanced in the lantern-light, I saw that on the glass something had been inscribed with a diamond. This is what I read, written across the glass: "Jean Coeur a son coeur cheri." I looked up at her. "Jean Coeur," I repeated.
"They'll take us safe back," he said to himself: and that was all he thought about it. "Good-night, Chéri, good-night," was the next thing he heard, or remembered hearing. Hugh half sat up and rubbed his eyes. Where was he?
"Non, non!" she exclaimed resolutely, as she knelt beside him. "Put you' arm 'roun' La Folle's nake, Cheri. Dat's nuttin'; dat goin' be nuttin'." She lifted him in her powerful arms. Cheri had carried his gun muzzle-downward. He had stumbled, he did not know how. He only knew that he had a ball lodged somewhere in his leg, and he thought that his end was at hand.
Relieved from the lout's presence, Cheri gradually laid aside his tantrums, smoothed down his ruffled plumes, and resumed the manners of a gentleman. My attempt at happy families was nipped in the bud, decidedly. By and by I went to the market-town, and, having sold my butter and eggs, hunted up a bird-fancier.
"O Chéri, I think that's wonderful! Do tell me some more." "I don't think I remember any more," said Hugh. "After that I went to sleep, and then it was all a muddle. There were the chickens and Nibble and the tortoise all running about, and Dudu seemed to be talking to me all the time. But it was just a muddle; you know how dreams go sometimes.
To tell you the truth, Chéri, I'm rather frightened of him. I think he's a sort of a fairy." Hugh looked much impressed, but not at all surprised. "Do you really, Jeanne?" he said. "Yes," she said, "I do. And I'm not sure but that Grignan is too. At least I think Grignan is enchanted, and that Dudu is the spiteful fairy that did it. Grignan is the tortoise, you know."
Then I remembered that chickens have a way of putting their heads in their pockets when they go to sleep, and poetry yielded to poultry, Cheri stepped out of Chaucer, and took his place in the hencoop. He has had an eventful life since he came to me. In the summer I hung him on a hook under piazza for the merry company of robins and bluebirds, which he enjoyed excessively.
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