“And I was in England the other day,” continued Uncle Pablôt, who needed little urging, “where I visited the Royal Family. That is nothing,” he said, in answer to a look of proud astonishment from Grandmother. “I have a great many acquaintances in all walks of life. Once I mussed up the hair of a prince and ran off with the parasol of a duchess, just by way of a little joke, you know. Did I ever tell you——”
But if he ever had, he told them again, and at such length that, though the dinner had come to an end, and Grandmother had cleared away the dishes and given Anjou a saucer of milk and a bone, he was still telling them this and other monstrous adventures in his quick, easy voice. How thrilling it all was to Philippe. It seemed to him that the gay words flew from his uncle’s mouth and over his head like flocks of wild birds. Some of them were quite ordinary little words, as sparrows are ordinary little birds, but others were long and strange like the queer birds his uncle had told him about. Or again—this tale of other lands and peoples was like music to which the crackling of the fire and the drip, drip of the rain outside made a soothing accompaniment. He tried hard to keep his eyes and ears wide open, but, to tell the truth, he had eaten very heartily of Grandmother’s delicious dinner, and that, with the darkness of the room, the lullaby singsong of his uncle’s voice, and the soft purring of Anjou, made him heavy-headed and in danger of falling into sleep at any moment. Voices came to him through the fog of smoke, sounding far, far away. He heard his uncle say, “But you, Grandfather Joseph, you should go about the world a bit and see for yourself these wonderful things.”
“I am content,” replied a soft, old voice.
“Yes, you are content to stay where you are put, or at best to drift around a bit, eh?”
And then the old man saying, “I drift—I drift—I drift——”
Maybe it was then that Philippe went to sleep, or, on the other hand, maybe it was then that Philippe overcame his drowsiness and woke up to a new interest in things. Certainly, strange and exciting happenings took place in rapid succession.
It started with Grandmother going to the window where she stood on tiptoe and looked out at the river. “Oh,” she cried, and her voice was younger and happier than Philippe had ever heard it before. “Oh! The river has grown up; never before have I seen my darling child so strong and beautiful. And how he runs and laughs! In another minute he will be at the sill of the window. I will open the door and invite him in.”
“No, no!” cried Grandfather weakly, jumping up from the chair and staring wildly about the room. “It will be the end of me.”
“But think, Joseph, how my child will love it! He will splash and laugh—why, even now I can see him creeping under the door in his eagerness.”
Without a word, gathering the baby Avril into his arms, Grandfather dashed out of the other door; and they watched him running across the fields and meadows, his white hair and beard flying back over his shoulders in the mad speed of his flight.