The Fantastical World of Magical Beasts. Andrew LangЧитать онлайн книгу.

      The stone was heaved up. It swung up on a creaking, unwilling hinge, and showed a growing oblong of dazzling daylight; and it fell back with a bang against something that kept it upright. Everyone climbed out, but there was not room for everyone to stand comfortably in the little paved house where they found themselves, so when the Phoenix had fluttered up from the darkness they let the stone down, and it closed like a trap-door, as indeed it was.

      You can have no idea how dusty and dirty the children were. Fortunately there was no one to see them but each other. The place they were in was a little shrine, built on the side of a road that went winding up through yellow-green fields to the topless tower. Below them were fields and orchards, all bare boughs and brown furrows, and little houses and gardens. The shrine was a kind of tiny chapel with no front wall – just a place for people to stop and rest in and wish to be good. So the Phoenix told them. There was an image that had once been brightly coloured, but the rain and snow had beaten in through the open front of the shrine, and the poor image was dull and weather-stained. Under it was written: ‘St Jean de Luz. Priez pour nous.’ It was a sad little place, very neglected and lonely, and yet it was nice, Anthea thought, that poor travellers should come to this little rest-house in the hurry and worry of their journeyings and be quiet for a few minutes, and think about being good. The thought of St Jean de Luz – who had, no doubt, in his time, been very good and kind – made Anthea want more than ever to do something kind and good.

      ‘Tell us,’ she said to the Phoenix, ‘what is the good and kind action the carpet brought us here to do?’

      ‘I think it would be kind to find the owners of the treasure and tell them about it,’ said Cyril.

      ‘And give it them all?’ said Jane.

      ‘Yes. But whose is it?’

      ‘I should go to the first house and ask the name of the owner of the castle,’ said the golden bird, and really the idea seemed a good one.

      They dusted each other as well as they could and went down the road. A little way on they found a tiny spring, bubbling out of the hillside and falling into a rough stone basin surrounded by draggled hart’s-tongue ferns, now hardly green at all. Here the children washed their hands and faces and dried them on their pocket-handkerchiefs, which always, on these occasions, seem unnaturally small. Cyril’s and Robert’s handkerchiefs, indeed, rather undid the effects of the wash. But in spite of this the party certainly looked cleaner than before.

      The first house they came to was a little white house with green shutters and a slate roof. It stood in a prim little garden, and down each side of the neat path were large stone vases for flowers to grow in; but all the flowers were dead now.

      Along one side of the house was a sort of wide veranda, built of poles and trellis-work, and a vine crawled all over it. It was wider than our English verandas, and Anthea thought it must look lovely when the green leaves and the grapes were there; but now there were only dry, reddish-brown stalks and stems, with a few withered leaves caught in them.

      The children walked up to the front door. It was green and narrow. A chain with a handle hung beside it, and joined itself quite openly to a rusty bell that hung under the porch. Cyril had pulled the bell and its noisy clang was dying away before the terrible thought came to all. Cyril spoke it.

      ‘My hat!’ he breathed. ‘We don’t know any French!’

      At this moment the door opened. A very tall, lean lady, with pale ringlets like whitey-brown paper or oak shavings, stood before them. She had an ugly grey dress and a black silk apron. Her eyes were small and grey and not pretty, and the rims were red, as though she had been crying.

      She addressed the party in something that sounded like a foreign language, and ended with something which they were sure was a question. Of course, no one could answer it.

      ‘What does she say?’ Robert asked, looking down into the hollow of his jacket, where the Phoenix was nestling. But before the Phoenix could answer, the whitey-brown lady’s face was lighted up by a most charming smile.

      ‘You – you ar-r-re fr-r-rom the England!’ she cried. ‘I love so much the England. Mais entrez – entrez donc tous! Enter, then – enter all. One essuyes his feet on the carpet.’

      She pointed to the mat.

      ‘We only wanted to ask—’

      ‘I shall say you all that what you wish,’ said the lady. ‘Enter only!’

      So they all went in, wiping their feet on a very clean mat, and putting the carpet in a safe corner of the veranda.

      ‘The most beautiful days of my life,’ said the lady, as she shut the door, ‘did pass themselves in England. And since long time I have not heard an English voice to repeal me the past.’

      This warm welcome embarrassed everyone, but most the boys, for the floor of the hall was of such very clean red and white tiles, and the floor of the sitting-room so very shiny – like a black looking-glass – that each felt as though he had on far more boots than usual, and far noisier.

      There was a wood fire, very small and very bright, on the hearth – neat little logs laid on brass fire-dogs. Some portraits of powdered ladies and gentlemen hung in oval frames on the pale walls. There were silver candlesticks on the mantelpiece, and there were chairs and a table, very slim and polite, with slender legs. The room was extremely bare, but with a bright foreign bareness that was very cheerful, in an odd way of its own.

      At the end of the polished table a very un-English little boy sat on a footstool in a high-backed, uncomfortable-looking chair. He wore black velvet, and the kind of collar – all frills and lacey – that Robert would rather have died than wear; but then the little French boy was much younger than Robert.

      ‘Oh, how pretty!’ said everyone. But no one meant the little French boy, with the velvety short knickerbockers and the velvety short hair.

      What everyone admired was a little, little Christmas-tree, very green, and standing in a very red little flower-pot, and hung round with very bright little things made of tinsel and coloured paper. There were tiny candles on the tree, but they were not lighted yet.

      ‘But yes – is it not that it is genteel?’ said the lady. ‘Sit down you then, and let us see.’

      The children sat down in a row on the stiff chairs against the wall, and the lady lighted a long, slim red taper at the wood flame, and then she drew the curtains and lit the little candles, and when they were all lighted the little French boy suddenly shouted, ‘Bravo, ma tante! Oh, que c’est gentil,’ and the English children shouted ‘Hooray!’

      Then there was a struggle in the breast of Robert, and out fluttered the Phoenix – spread his gold wings, flew to the top of the Christmas-tree, and perched there.

      ‘Ah! catch it, then,’ cried the lady; ‘it will itself burn – your genteel parrakeet!’

      ‘It won’t,’ said Robert, ‘thank you.’

      And the little French boy clapped his clean and tidy hands; but the lady was so anxious that the Phoenix fluttered down and walked up and down on the shiny walnut-wood table.

      ‘Is it that it talks?’ asked the lady.

      And the Phoenix replied in excellent French. It said, ‘Parfaitement, madame!’

      ‘Oh, the pretty parrakeet,’ said