A Madeira Party

by S. Weir Mitchell

"This had been a sad day and full of more danger than we lads knew of, and of many fears; but if the day was bad, the night I shall never forget. The Duke said it was seven o'clock, and time to eat. We took our rations eagerly enough, and then the thief wrapped up Henri and me in blankets, and we two poor little dogs fell to discussing where we were, and when we should get out. At last we slept, and were awakened only by the Duke's shaking us. We got up from our damp bed, pretty well tired of our adventure. But the Duke declared we should soon be out in the air; and so, on this our seventh morning, we set forth again. As the thief had some positive notion of direction, and the Duke had none, our good thief took the lead, and would have it that we boys should come beside or after him. Except for his rattle of jokes and thieves' slang and queer stories well worth remembering, I think we boys would have given out early on that weary day.

"My mother moved along, saying nothing, but the Duke now and then flung a skeptical comment at our thief, who nevertheless kept on, insisting that we must soon come into daylight.

"At last the Duke called a halt about five in the evening, and, disheartened, in total silence we ate our meal. We decided to go no further until morning. I drew Henri close up to me, and tucked in the blankets and tried to sleep. Unluckily, the water-drops fell thick, and the rats were so bold and fierce that I was afraid. Assuredly, they lacked no courage, for during my brief lapses into slumber they stole out of my coat pocket a bit of cheese, a biscuit, and a roll of twine. Once the baby set up such a yell that the thief, who stayed on guard, lit a candle, and then we saw that a rat had bitten the little fellow's finger.

"About six o'clock our thief called, 'Breakfast is served,' and we tumbled out of our covers, dazed. 'The sun is up,' said the thief, as he lit the candle; and this was our eighth day since my father left us shut in the cave. The candles were giving out, despite our most economical care, and this day we ate in darkness. I suppose this may have upset me, since I began to have for the first time strange fears. I wanted to keep touch of some one. I thought I felt things go by me. I was afraid, and yet neither as a child nor as a man have I been called timid. Indeed, I was not altogether sorry when the baby cried; and, as the thief said, he cried very solid. Somehow I also felt that my mother was growing weak, and was feeling the long strain of doubt and danger and deep darkness. Even the Duke grew downcast, or at least ceased from his efforts to encourage my mother and to cheer up his son and me. Our thief alone never gave up. He insisted on taking the child from my mother, and crooned to it amazing lullabies. And to us he sang queer ballads, and once, when we rested for two hours, he told us some astonishing tales such as I shall some day delight to relate to you. They were very queer stories, I assure you.

"When our sorry meal was over, and the wine was circulating hope with our blood, our thief proposed to try to take those ways which seemed to lead along under streets. I do not see now why this should have seemed desirable, but it did, and we were busy all that day following this clue, if such it were, by waiting until we heard the sound of wagons. It was time we got somewhere; for although we still had a fair allowance of food, it was no more than would serve with economy for two days longer. Still more alarming was it that our candles were giving out.

"About five that afternoon of July 28th we came to a full stop where a long tunnel ended in a cul-de-sac. It was a weary way back, and as for us boys, we held on to one another and choked down our tears. The thief seemed to understand, for when we again got to the turn we had last taken, he gave us in the dark a good dose of wine, and saying, as he lit the lantern candle, 'Rest, Madame; I must see where now to go,' he ran down the next alley of stone, and we heard the sound of his feet until they were lost. Overhead the rumble and roar of wagons were no longer heard, and the stillness was as the darkness, complete.

"On the morning of the day before, these noises now and then shook down small fragments of stone, to our great alarm. Once the thief said, 'If only a nice little house would drop down, and we could just go up-stairs and walk out.' In fact, many houses had thus fallen into these caves, and it was by no means an impossible thing. It served to season our fears with a laugh; but since then the constant silence had made us hope we were going out into the suburbs and toward some opening. Alas! it came not, and now when our thief left us we were so dispirited that for a time no one said a word of his sudden departure. Then the Duke, seeming to understand how we felt, said, 'He will come back soon'; and my mother, whose sweet hopefulness was sapped by this long fatigue, answered, 'Or perhaps he will not. God knows.' Even I, a lad, heard her with astonishment, because she was one who never doubted that all things would come out right, and all people would do what they should.

"I liked our thief, and when an hour went by, and there was borne in on me the idea that he had deserted us, I burst into tears. Just as my mother drew me to her, saying, 'Do not cry, my boy. God will take care of us,' I heard our thief, beside me, cry cheerily, 'This way, Madame. I will show you the light of day.' As we heard him we all leaped up. He cried out, 'This way, and now to the left, Monsieur le Duc; and now this way,' and so through several alleys until he paused and said, 'See! The light of day,' and certainly there was, a little way off, a pale reflection against the gray stone wall beyond us.

"'I thought,' said our thief, 'that as we turned into the impasse I felt a current of air. I was not sure enough to speak, and I went just now to see whence it came. We have gone under the Luxembourg or perhaps Val-de-Grâce, and past the barrier.' Then he explained that this cross-passage, whence came the light, was short and tortuous, and was partly blocked by debris; that it opened into a disused quarry; and that it was beyond the city barrier. Upon this, it seemed needful to think over what was best to be done when once we were out; but my mother cried, 'Wait a little,' and knelt down, as we all did, and said aloud a sweet and thankful prayer for our safety, and concerning the thief God had so strangely sent to help us in our extremity.

"As she ended, I looked at the man, and as we stood I saw that now the rascal was shedding tears. A moment later he passed his sleeve across his eyes, and said: 'If it please you, Monsieur le Duc, let us go to the opening and see more of the neighborhood.' We went with them a little way, and stood waiting. It was so wonderful and so lovely to get a glimpse even of the fading light of day! It came straight up the cave from the west. We made no objection to being left alone, and just stayed, as it were, feeding on the ruddy glare, and blinking at it like young owlets. Every now and then my mother turned to St. Maur or me, and smiled and nodded, as much as to say, 'We have light.'