The Adventures of Herr Baby

"Isn't it a little dirty, auntie?" said Fritz.

"Wouldn't your face look a little dirty if it had been hanging up in a frame for over a hundred years?" said auntie, laughing, at which Fritz looked rather puzzled.

Then auntie's eyes went back to the picture again.

"It is sweet," she said, "very, very sweet, and so perfectly natural."

All this time, as I told you, Herr Baby's whole mind had been given to the shiny glasses. Suddenly the sound of his aunt's voice caught his ear, and he looked up.

"What is it that is so 'weet, auntie?" he said.

"The picture over there, dear. Hanging up by the door. The little girl."

Baby looked up, and in a moment his eyes brightened.

"Oh, what a dear little baby!" he said. "Oh, her is 'weet! Auntie, him would so like to kiss her."

"You darling!" said auntie, her glance turning from the sweet picture face above to the sweet living face beside her. "I wonder if you will ever learn to paint like that, Baby. I should very much like to copy it if I could have the loan of it. It would be sure to be very dear to buy," she added to herself. "But we must hurry, my little boys," she went on. "I was tempted to waste time admiring the picture, but we must be quick."

Fritz and Lisa turned away with auntie, but Baby waited one moment behind. He pressed his face close against the shop window and whispered softly,

"Pitty little girl, him would like to kiss you. Him will come a 'nother day. P'ease, pitty little girl, don't let nobody take away the shiny glasses, for him wants to buy them for mother."

Then, quite satisfied, he trotted down the street after the others, who were waiting for him a few doors off.

"Were you saying good-bye to the picture, Baby?" said auntie, smiling.

"Yes," said Baby gravely.

Auntie soon found the office where she was to hear about the house they were thinking of taking. The little boys stood beside her and listened gravely while she asked questions about it, though they couldn't understand what was said.

"Him wishes the people in this countly wouldn't talk lubbish talk," said Herr Baby to Fritz with a sigh. "Him would so like to know what them says."

"I want to know if we're going to have a house with a garden," said Fritz. "That's all I care about," and as soon as they were out in the street again, he asked auntie if "the man" had said there was a garden to the house.

"There are several houses that I have to tell your grandfather about," said auntie. "Some have gardens and some haven't, but the one we like the best has a garden, though not a very big one."

"Not as big as the one at home?" said Fritz.

"Oh dear no, of course not," said auntie. "It is quite different here from at home. People only come to stay a short time, they wouldn't care to be troubled with big gardens."

"I don't mind," said Fritz amiably, "if only it's big enough for us to have a corner to dig in, and somewhere to play in when Lisa's in a fussy humour."

"Mine child," said Lisa mildly. Poor Lisa, she was not a very fussy person! Indeed she was rather too easy for such lively young people as Fritz and Denny.

"And do you want a garden, too, very much, Baby?" said auntie.

Baby had hardly heard what they were saying. His mind was still running on the shiny jugs and the blue-eyed little girl.

"Him wants gate lots of pennies," he said, which didn't seem much of an answer to auntie's question.

"Lots of pennies, my little man," said auntie. "What do you want lots of pennies for?"

But Baby would not tell.

Just then they saw coming towards them in the street two very funny looking men. They had no hats or caps on their heads, so the children could see that they had no hair either, at least none on the top, where it was shaved quite off, and only a sort of fringe all round left. Then they had queer loose brown coats, with big capes, something like grandfather's Inverness cloak, Fritz thought, and silver chains hanging down at their sides, and, queerest of all, no stockings or proper boots or shoes, only things like the soles of shoes strapped on to their bare feet. These were called sandals, auntie said, and she told the boys that these funny looking men were monks, "Franciscans," she said they were called. They all lived together, and they never kept any money, and people said – but auntie thought that was not quite true – that they never washed themselves.

"Nasty dirty men," said Fritz, making a face. "I shouldn't like to be a Franciscan."

"Not in winter, Fritz?" said Baby. "Him wouldn't mind in winter when the water are so cold. Lisa," he went on, turning round to his nurse, "'member – when the werry cold mornings comes, him's going to be a Frantisker – will you 'member, Lisa?"

"But what about the pennies?" said auntie, laughing. "If you are a Frantisker, Baby, you won't have any pennies, and you said just now you wanted a great lot of pennies."

Baby looked very grave.

"Then him won't be a Frantisker," he said decidedly.

After that he spoke very little all the way home. He had a great deal on his mind, you see. And his last thought that night as he was falling asleep was, "Him are so glad him asked the little pitty girl to take care of the shiny jugs."

Funny little Herr Baby! How much was fancy, how much was earnest in his busy baby mind, who can tell?

A few days after this, they all moved from the Hotel to the pretty house with a garden which auntie had gone to ask about. It was a pretty house. I wish I could show it to you, children! It had not only a garden but a terrace, and this terrace overlooked the sea, the blue sunny sea of the south. And from one side, or from a little farther down in the garden, one could see the white-capped mountains, rising, rising up into the sky, with sometimes a soft mist about their heads which made them seem even higher than they were, "high enough to peep into heaven," said Baby; and sometimes, on very clear days, standing out sharply against the blue behind, so that one could hardly believe it would take more than a few minutes to run to the top and down again.

There were many interesting things in this garden – things that the children had not had in the old garden at home, nice though it was. It was not so beautifully neat as the flower part of the garden at home, but I do not think the children liked it any the less for that. The trees and bushes grew so thickly that down at the lower end it was really like a wilderness, a most lovely place for hide-and-seek. Then there was a fountain, a real fountain, where the water actually danced and fell all day long; and all round the windows of the house and the trellised balcony there were the most lovely red shaded leaves, such as one never sees in such quantities in the north. And in among the stones of the terrace there lived lizards – the most delightful lizards. One in particular grew so friendly that he used to come out at meal-times to drink a little milk which the children spilt for him on purpose; for the day nursery, or school-room, as Celia liked it to be called, opened on to the terrace too, though at the other end from the two drawing-rooms and grandfather's "study," and the windows were long and low, opening like doors, so that Lisa had hard work to keep the children quiet at table the first few days, for every minute they were jumping up to see some new wonder that they caught sight of. Altogether it was a very pretty home to spend the winter in, and every one seemed very happy. Bully and the "calanies" were as merry as larks, if it is true that larks are merrier than other birds, and Peepy-Snoozle and Tim, mistaking the bright warm sunshine for another summer, I suppose, got in the habit of being quite lively about the middle of the day as well as in the middle of the night, instead of spending all the daylight hours curled up like two very sleepy fairy babies with brown fur coats on, in their nice white cotton-wool nests.

There was so much to do and to think of the first few days that I think Baby forgot a little about what he had seen in the old curiosity shop. Auntie, too, was too busy to give any thought to the picture which had so taken her fancy, though neither she nor Baby really forgot the dear little face with its loving, half-merry, half-sad blue eyes. But auntie had to help mother to get everything settled; and of course there was a good deal to explain to the strange servants, for neither Peters nor Linley the maid knew "lubbish talk," as Baby would call it, at all, and it was very funny indeed to hear Peters trying to make the cook understand how grandfather liked his cutlets, or Linley "pounding" at the housemaid, as Fritz called it, to get it into her head that she didn't call it cleaning a room to sweep all the dirt into a corner where it couldn't be seen! Peters was more patient than Linley. When Linley couldn't make herself understood she used to shout louder and louder, as if that would make the others know what she meant, and then she used to say to Celia that it really was "a very hodd thing that the people of this country seemed not to have all their senses." And however Celia explained to her, she couldn't be got to see that she must seem just as stupid to them as they seemed to her! Peters was less put about. He had been in India with grandfather, so he said he was used to "furriners." He seemed to think everybody that wasn't English could be put together as "furriners"; but he had brought a dictionary and a book of little sentences in four languages, and he would sit on the kitchen table patiently trying one language after another on the poor cook, just as when one can't open a lock, one tries all the keys one can find, to see if by chance one will fit. The cook was a very mild, gentle man; he had a nice wife and two little children in the town, and he was inclined to be very fond of Herr Baby, and to pet him if ever he got a chance. But that wasn't for a good while, for Baby was at first terribly frightened of him. He had a black moustache and whiskers and very black eyes, and they looked blacker under his square white cook's cap, and the first time Baby saw him through the kitchen window, the cook happened to be standing with a large carving-knife in one hand, and a chicken which he was holding up by the legs, in the other. Off flew Herr Baby. A little way down the garden he ran against Denny, who was also busy examining their new quarters.

"Oh, Denny, Denny!" he cried, "this is a dedful place – there's a' ogre, a real tellable ogre in the house. Him's seen him in one of the windows under the dimey-room. Oh, Denny, Denny, p'raps him'll eaten us up."

Denny for the first moment was, to tell the truth, a little bit frightened herself. Common sense told her there were no such things as ogres, not now-a-days any way, at least not in England, their own country. But a dreadful idea struck her that this was not England; this might be one of the countries where ogres, like wolves and bears, were still occasionally to be found. There was no telling, certainly; but not for a good deal would Miss Denise Aylmer, a young lady of nine years old past, have owned to being frightened as long as she could possibly help it.

She caught Baby by the hand.

"What sall we do?" he said; "sall we go and tell mother?"

Denny considered.

"We'd better go and see again," she said very bravely. "You must have made a mistake, I think, Baby dear. I don't think there can be any ogres here."

Baby was much struck by Denny's courage. His hand slipped back a very little out of hers.

"Will you go and see, Denny?" he said. "Him will stay here till you comes back."

"Oh, no, you'd better come with me," said Denny, who felt that even Baby was better than nobody. "I shouldn't know where you saw the ogre," and she kept tight hold of his hand. "Which window was it?"

"It were at a tiny window really under the ground. Him was peeping to see if there was f'owers 'side of the wall," said Baby. "Him'll show you, Denny; him are so glad you isn't f'ightened."

They set off down the path, making their way rather cautiously as they got near the house. Suddenly Denny felt Baby squeeze her hand more tightly, and with a sort of scream he turned round and hid his face against her.

"There! There!" he cried. "Him sees the ogre coming."

Denny looked up. She saw a rather little man with a white apron and a white cap, carrying a couple of cackling hens or chickens in his arms, coming across the garden from the house. He was on his way to a little sort of poultry-yard, where he had fastened up half-a-dozen live chickens he had bought at the market that morning, meaning to kill two of them for dinner, but finding them not so fat as he had expected, he was putting them back among their friends for a day or two. Very like a real ogre, if Denny and Baby had understood all about it, which they didn't. Denny herself, for a minute or two, felt puzzled as to who this odd-looking man could be. But he was no ogre, that was certain, any way.

"Don't be frightened, Baby, it's not a' ogre," she said. "Look up, he's far too little."

Baby ventured to peep round. The little black-eyed, white-capped man came towards them smiling.

"Bon jour, Mademoiselle, bon jour, Monsieur Bébé," he said, looking quite pleased. And then he stroked down the ruffled feathers of the poor chickens, and held them out to the two children, chattering away at a great rate in Baby's "lubbish talk," hardly a word of which they understood.

"Can he be wanting to sell the chickens?" said Denny.

The cook, who had before this lived with families from England, understood the children's language better than they did his, which, however, is not saying a great deal.

"Yes, Mees, pairfectly," he said. "Me sell zem at ze marché the morning. Fine poulets, goot poulets, not yet strong – wait one, two, 'ree days – be strong for one grand dinner for Madame."

"Who are you? What's your name, please?" said Denny, still a little alarmed.

"Jean-Georges, Mademoiselle," said the little man, with a bow. "Jean-Georges compose charming plates for Mademoiselle and Monsieur Bébé. Jean-Georges loves little messieurs and little 'demoiselles. Madame permit Monsieur and Mademoiselle visit Jean-Georges in his cuisine one day."

Denny caught the word "cuisine," which, of course, children, you will know means "kitchen."

"He's the cook, Baby," she said, with great relief; "don't you remember grandfather said he must have a man cook? Good morning, Mr. Cook, we'll ask mother to let us go and see you one day in your kitchen, and you must make us very nice things to eat, please Mr. Cook."

"Pairfectly, Mademoiselle," said Jean-Georges, with as magnificent a bow as he could manage, considering the two chickens in his arms, and then he walked away.

"What a very nice man!" said Denny, feeling very proud of herself, and quite forgetting that she, too, had not been without some fears. "You see, Baby dear, how foolish it is to be frightened. I told you there couldn't be any ogres here."

Herr Baby did not answer for a moment. He had certainly very much admired Denny's courage, but still he wasn't quite sure that she had not been a very little afraid, just for a minute, when he had called out "There he is!"

"What would you have done if there had been a' ogre, Denny?" he said.

"Oh, bother," said Denny, "what's the good of talking about things that couldn't be? Talk of something sensible, Baby."

Baby grew silent again. They walked on slowly down the garden path.

"Denny," said Baby, in a minute or two, "didn't the little man say somefin about mother having a party?"

Denny pricked up her ears at this. Parties of all kinds pleased her very much.

"Did he?" she said, "I didn't notice. He said something about Madame's dinner, but I didn't think he meant a dinner-party. Perhaps he did though. We'll ask. I'd like mother to have some parties; it seems quite a long time since I had one of my best frocks on to come down to the drawing-room before dinner, the way we did at home. And I know mother and auntie have friends here. I heard that stupid little footman asking Linley what day 'Miladi' would 'receive,' that means have visitors, Baby."

Denny's tongue had run on so fast, that it had left Baby's wits some way behind. They had stopped short at the first idea of a party.

"Mother likes to make werry pitty dinners when she has parties," he said. "Mother told him that were why she were so solly when him breaked her's pitty glasses."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Baby," said Denny. "Let's have a race. I'll give you a start."

CHAPTER VII.

BABY'S SECRET

"'Pussy, only you I'll tell,For you can keep secrets well;Promise, pussy, not a word.'Pussy reared her tail and purred."

There was a cat at the Villa Désirée, Baby's, and Denny's, and "all of them's house," as Baby would have called it. Where the cat came from I don't know – whether it belonged to the villa and let itself out with it every winter, like the furniture, or whether it was really the cat of Madame Jean-Georges, and had followed Monsieur Jean-Georges back one evening when he had been home to see his "good friend" (that was what he called his wife), and his two "bébés," is what I cannot tell. I only know the cat was there, and that when Baby could get a chance of playing with it he was very pleased. He didn't often have a chance, in his own room, for "Mademoiselle," as Celia was always called by the new servants, a title which she thought much nicer than "Miss Aylmer," or "Miss Celia," Mademoiselle, said "the stupid little footman," had given strict orders that "Minet" was not to be allowed upstairs for fear of the "pets," the "calanies," and the Bully, and Peepy-Snoozle, and Tim, all of whom would have been very much to Minet's taste, I fear. It was very funny to see the way the little footman went "shoo-ing" at the poor cat the moment Celia appeared, for Celia had rather grand manners for her age, and the servants thought her very "distinguished," especially the stupid little footman. But Herr Baby was very sorry for poor Minet; he had no particular pet of his own here, nothing to make up for his "labbits," and so he took a great fancy to the pussy.

"Poor little 'weet darling," he would call it; "Celia's a c'uel girl to d'ive Minet away, Minet wouldn't hurt the calanies, or the Bully, or the sleepy-mouses; Minet is far too good."

"Pray, how do you know, Baby?" Celia would say. "Cats are cats all the world over, every one knows that."

"Minet aren't," Baby would have it, "Minet has suts a kind heart. Him asked Minet if her would hurt the calanies and the sleepy-mouses, and her said 'no, sairtingly not.'"

"Baby!" said Denny, "what stories! Cats can't talk. You shouldn't tell stories."

"Minet can talk," said Baby. "When him asks for somefin, her says 'proo-proo-oo,' and that means 'yes,' and if her means 'no,' her humps up her back and s'akes her tail. When him asked Minet if her would like to hurt the calanies, her humped up her back never so high, and sook and sook her tail, for no, no, NO!"

Celia could not find an answer to this. Baby went on stroking Minet with great satisfaction, as if there was nothing more to be said.

"All the same," said Celia at last, "I don't want Minet to come upstairs. She's quite as happy downstairs, and, you see, it would frighten the birds and the dormice if they saw her, for they mightn't understand that she wouldn't, on any account, hurt them."

"Werry well," said Baby, and he went on playing with his new pet.

"Herr Baby," said Lisa coming into the room a moment or two later; "mine child, how is it that your coat is so dirty? All green, Herr Baby, as if you had rubbed it on the wet grass."

"It's with his poking in among the bushes by the kitchen window," said Denny of the ready tongue; "yesterday, you know, Baby, when you thought – "

"Hush," said Baby, "don't talk to me. You distairb me and the cat – we'se busy."

Denny and Lisa looked at each other and smiled.

"Pussy, pitty pussy, dear Minet," went on Baby, who wanted to stop Denny's account of his fears.

"We're going out, Herr Baby," said Lisa. "There are commissions for your lady mamma. We are to go to the patissier and – "

"Who are the pattyser?" said Baby.

"The cumfectioner," said Denny.

Baby pricked up his ears.

"We are to go to the patissier," said Lisa, "to order some cakes for Miladi for to-morrow, when Miladi's friends come to dine; and perhaps we will buy some little cake for Herr Baby's tea. Come, mine child, leave Minet, and come."

Herr Baby got up from the corner of the room where he had been embracing the cat; there was a grave look on his face, but he did not say anything till he was out on the road with Lisa. Denny was not with them; she had got leave to go a walk with Celia and the lady who came every day to give her French lessons, which Denny thought much more grand than going out with Baby and Lisa.

"Lisa," said Baby, after a few minutes, "are mother going to have a party?"

"Not one very big party," said Lisa, "just some Miladis and some Herren – some genkelmen – to dine."

"Will it look very pitty?" asked Baby.

"Not so pretty as at home," said Lisa, who, now that she was away from it, of course looked upon The Manor – that was the name of "home" – as the most lovely place in the world; "there's no nice glass, no nice pretty dishes here. And François, he is so dumm – how you say 'dumm,' Herr Baby?"

"Dumm," repeated Baby, exactly copying Lisa's voice, staring up in her face.

"No, mine child, how you say it of English? Ah – I knows —stupid. François, he is too stupid. Peters and I, we will make the table so pretty as might be. Lisa will command some bon-bons."

"Mother will want the shiny jugs," thought poor Baby. "Him s'ould have brought him's pennies. Him would like to know if him has 'nuff pennies; perhaps him could go to the little girl's shop when Lisa is at the pattyser's."

But he said nothing aloud. How it was that he kept his thoughts to himself, why he had such a dislike to any one knowing what was in his mind, I cannot exactly tell; but so it was, and so it often is with very little children, even though quite frank and open by nature. Baby had, I think, a fear that mother might not like him to spend all his pennies on the shiny jugs, perhaps she might say she would pay them herself, and that would not have pleased him at all. Deep down in his honest little heart was the feeling that he had broken the glasses and he should pay for the new ones. But he said nothing to Lisa – he had never spoken of the jugs to her – mother had been "so kind," never to tell any one about what a silly little boy he had been, for mother knew that he didn't like being laughed at. Perhaps "they" would laugh at him now if he told about wanting to buy the shiny jugs – he wouldn't mind so much if he had bought them, but "'appose they wouldn't let him go to the shop to get them?" Poor little mother! She wouldn't have her pitty glasses then for the party – no, it was much best to settle it all his own self. Whom he meant by "they" I don't think Baby quite knew, he had a sort of picture in his mind of grandfather and auntie and mother all talking together, and Celia and Fritz and Denny all joining in, and saying that "Baby was far too little to go to shops to buy things." And by the time he had thought this all over, Herr Baby glancing up – for till now he had been walking along with Lisa's hand, seeing and noticing nothing – found that they were already in the street of the town where the biggest shops were, and that Lisa was looking about to find the shop where she was to give the orders for his mother.

It was a very pretty shop indeed – Baby had never seen such a pretty shop. The cakes and bon-bons were laid out so nicely on the tables round the wall, and they were all of such pretty colours. Baby walked round and round admiring, and, I think, considering he was such a very little boy, that it was very good of him not to think of touching any of the tempting dainties. In a few minutes Lisa had ordered all she wanted – then she chose some nice biscuits and a very few little chocolate bon-bons, which she had put up in two paper parcels, and when they came out of the shop she told Herr Baby that they were for him, his mother had told her to get him something nice. Baby looked pleased, but still he seemed very grave, and Lisa began wondering what he was thinking of.