The Wood-Elf stopped speaking, for running lightly over the grass, holding each other’s long white veils so as to form a swinging cradle, came a group of nine smooth-limbed Korrigans, their red-gold hair tossing on the wind behind them. In the midst of the hanging cradle lay a tiny baby, with widely opened eyes and a solemn pink face, sucking a fat round thumb.
“They have stolen him from his mother, while she dreamt of fairy gold,” the Wood-Elf sighed. “She should not have left her door on the latch; it was a sad mistake. In her little one’s place there is now a Poupican. At first she will not know, but will fondle and kiss the changeling as if he were her own. After a while she will grieve to find that he gives her no love in return for hers, and plays as readily with strangers as with his mother. But her husband, who is a hard man, will rejoice at the wee child’s cleverness. For he will have an old head on young shoulders, and be wise beyond his years.”
While the Wood-Elf was speaking, poor Annette’s baby lay contentedly beside the crystal goblet, sucking his thumb and looking up at the stars. The Korrigans had left off singing now, and they were passing round the golden cup when there came on the wind the sound of a church bell. Flinging the cup and the goblet into the pond, and staying only to wind the baby in their clinging veils, the Korrigans fled into the darkness with cries of anguish. Some spell seemed to hold me, or I should have tried to rescue the little thing; for it was dreadful to think what might happen to him with the Korrigans.
But the Wood-Elf was quite comforting. “He will be well taken care of,” she said, “and someday Annette may break the spell, with the help of the Curé. Rose-Marie got back her child by her own wit, but then she has the name of the blessed Mother. ‘You would like to know how?’ Then I must speak softly, lest a Korrigan should hear.”
“Rose-Marie was very young when she married Pierre,” began the Elf, “and nothing his mother or hers could say would induce her to beware of Korrigans when her baby came.
‘They would not hurt him even if they could,’ she cried. ‘Who could harm anything so small and sweet?’ And she actually set his cradle under the cherry trees, so that his round pink face was covered with fallen petals. Then she went to fetch Pierre from his sowing that he might see how his little son was hidden under the spring snow, and lingered on her way to gather a cluster of purple violets.
When she had disappeared, the Korrigans stole her baby, leaving a Poupican in the fragrant nest. The sun had gone in when she came back, and the little creature was wailing fretfully, Rose-Marie snatched him to her bosom and tried to soothe him, but from that day forward she had no rest. Her milk was sweet and plentiful, and the cradle was soft and warm, but he gave neither her nor her good man Pierre a moment’s peace. All through the hours of the night he wailed, and tore at her hair when she held him close to her, scratching her face like an angry kitten.