Bee

by Anatole France

  As King Loc thrust his head into the opening through which daylight poured, he saw George of Blanchelande in his glass dungeon where he was lamenting grievously as he thought of Honey-Bee and of earth. For King Loc had undertaken this subterranean journey only to deliver the captive of the nixies.

  But seeing this huge dishevelled head, frowning and bearded, watching him from under his tunnel, George believed himself to be menaced by a mighty danger and he felt for the sword at his side forgetting that he had broken it against the breast of the woman with the green eyes. In the meantime King Loc examined him curiously.

  “Bah,” said he to himself, “it is only a child!” And indeed he was only an ignorant child, and it was because of his great ignorance that he had escaped from the deadly and delicious kisses of the Queen of the Nixies. Aristotle with all his wisdom might not have done so well.

  “What do you want, fathead?” George cried, seeing himself defenceless, “why harm me if I have never harmed you?”

  “Little one,” King Loc replied in a voice at once jovial and testy, “you do not know whether or not you have harmed me, for you are ignorant of effects and causes and reflections, and all philosophy in general. But we’ll not talk of that. If you don’t mind leaving your tunnel, come this way.”

  George at once crept into the cavern, slipped down the length of the wall, and as soon as he had reached the bottom he said to his deliverer:

  “You are a good little man; I shall love you for ever; but do you know where Honey-Bee of Clarides is?”

  “I know a great many things,” retorted the dwarf, “and especially that I don’t like people who ask questions.”

  Hearing this George paused in great confusion and followed his guide in silence through the dense black air where the octopuses and crustaceans writhed. King Loc said mockingly:

  “This is not a carriage road, young prince.”

  “Sir,” George replied, “the road to liberty is always beautiful, and I fear not to be led astray when I follow my benefactor.”

  Little King Loc bit his lips. On reaching the gallery of porphyry he pointed out to the youth a flight of steps cut in the rock by the dwarfs, by which they ascend to earth.

  “This is your way,” he said, “farewell.”

  “Do not bid me farewell,” George replied, “say I shall see you again. After what you have done my life is yours.”

  “What I have done,” King Loc replied, “I have not done for your sake, but for another’s. It will be better for us never to meet again, for we can never be friends.”

  “I would not have believed that my deliverance could have caused me such pain,” George said simply and gravely, “and yet it does. Farewell.”

  “A pleasant journey,” cried King Loc, in a gruff voice.

  Now it happened that these steps of the dwarfs adjoined a deserted stone quarry less than a mile from the castle of Clarides.

  “This young lad,” King Loc murmured as he went on his way, “has neither the wisdom nor the wealth. Truly I cannot imagine why Honey-Bee loves him, unless it is because he is young, handsome, faithful and brave.”

  As he went back to the town he laughed to himself as a man does who has done some one a good turn. As he passed Honey-Bee’s cottage he thrust his big head into the open window just as he had thrust it into the crystal tunnel, and he saw the young girl, who was embroidering a veil with silver flowers.

  “I wish you joy, Honey-Bee,” he cried.

  “And you also, little King Loc, seeing you have nothing to wish for and nothing to regret.”

  He had much to wish for, but, indeed, he had nothing to regret. And it was probably this which gave him such a good appetite for supper. Having eaten a huge number of truffled pheasants he called Bob.

  “Bob,” said he, “mount your raven; go to the Princess of the Dwarfs and tell her that George or Blanchelande, long a captive of the nixies, has this day returned to Clarides.”

  Thus he spoke and Bob flew off on his raven.

  XIX

  Which tells of the extraordinary encounter of Jean the master tailor, and of the blessed song the birds in the grove sang to the duchess

  When George again found himself on the earth on which he was born, the very first person he met was Jean, the master tailor, with a red suit of clothes on his arm for the steward of the castle. The good man shrieked at sight of his young master.

  “Holy St. James,” he cried, “if you are not his lordship George of Blanchelande who was drowned in the lake seven years ago, you are either his ghost or the devil in person.”

  “I am neither ghost nor devil, good Jean, but I am truly that same George of Blanchelande who used to creep to your shop and beg bits of stuff out of which to make dresses for the dolls of my sister Honey-Bee.”

  “Then you were not drowned, your lordship,” the good man exclaimed. “I am so glad! And how well you look. My little Peter who climbed into my arms to see you pass on horseback by the side of the Duchess that Sunday morning has become a good workman and a fine fellow. He is all of that, God be praised, your lordship. He will be glad to hear that you are not at the bottom of the sea, and that the fish have not eaten you as he always declared. He was in the habit of saying many pleasant things about it, your lordship, for he is very amusing. And it is a fact that you are much mourned in Clarides. You were such a promising child. I shall remember to my dying day how you once asked me for a needle to sew with, and as I refused, for you were not of an age to use it without danger, you replied you would go to the woods and pick beautiful green pine needles. That is what you said, and it still makes me laugh. Upon my soul you said that. Our little Peter, also, used to say clever things. Now he is a cooper and at your service, your lordship.”

  “I shall employ no one else. But give me news of Honey-Bee and the Duchess, Master Jean.”

  “Alack, where do you come from, your lordship, seeing that you do not know that it is now seven years since the Princess Honey-Bee was stolen by the dwarfs of the mountain? She disappeared the very day you were drowned; and one can truly say that on that day Clarides lost its sweetest flowers. The Duchess is in deep mourning. And it’s that which makes me say that the great of the earth have their sorrows just as well as the humblest artisans, if only to prove that we are all the sons of Adam. And because of this a cat may well look at a king, as the saying is. And by the same token the good Duchess has seen her hair grow white and her gaiety vanish. And when in the springtime she walks in her black robes along the hedgerow where the birds sing, the smallest of these is more to be envied than the sovereign lady of Clarides. And yet her grief is not quite without hope, your lordship; for though she had no tidings of you, she at least knows by dreams that her daughter Honey-Bee is alive.”

  This and much else said good man Jean, but George listened no longer after he heard that Honey-Bee was a captive among the dwarfs.

  “The dwarfs hold Honey-Bee captive under the earth,” he pondered; “a dwarf rescued me from my crystal dungeon; these little men have not all the same customs; my deliverer cannot be of the same race as those who stole my sister.”

  He knew not what to think except that he must rescue Honey-Bee.

  In the meantime they crossed the town, and on their way the gossips standing on the thresholds of their houses asked each other who was this young stranger, but they all agreed that he was very handsome. The better informed amongst them, having recognised the young lord of Blanchelande, decided that it must be his ghost, wherefore they fled, making great signs of the cross.

  “He must be sprinkled with holy water,” said one old crone, “and he will vanish leaving a disgusting smell of sulphur. He will carry away Master Jean, and he will of course plunge him alive into the fire of hell.”

  “Softly! old woman,” a citizen replied, “his lordship is alive and much more alive than you or I. He is as fresh as a rose, and he looks as if
he had come from some noble court rather than from the other world. One does return from afar, good dame. As witness Francoeur the squire who came back from Rome last midsummer day.”

  And Margaret the helmet-maker, having greatly admired George, mounted to her maiden chamber and kneeling before the image of the Holy Virgin prayed, “Holy Virgin, grant me a husband who shall look precisely like this young lord.”

  So each in his way talked of George’s return until the news spread from mouth to mouth and finally reached the ears of the Duchess who was walking in the orchard. Her heart beat violently and she heard all the birds in the hedge-row sing:

  “Cui, cui, cui,

  Oui, oui, oui,

  Georges de Blanchelande,

  Cui, cui, cui.

  Dont vous avez nourri l’enfance

  Cui, cui, cui,

  Est ici, est ici, est ici! Oui, oui, oui.”

  Francoeur approached her respectfully and said: “Your Grace, George de Blanchelande whom you thought dead has returned. I shall make it into a song.” In the meantime the birds sang:

  “Cucui, cui, cui, cui, cui,

  Oui, oui, oui, oui, oui, oui,

  Il est ici, ici, ici, ici, ici, ici.”

  And when she saw the child who had been to her as a son, she opened her arms and fell senseless at his feet.

  XX

  Which treats of a little satin shoe

  Everybody in Clarides was quite convinced that Honey-Bee had been stolen by the dwarfs. Even the Duchess believed it, though her dreams did not tell her precisely. “We will find her again,” said George. “We will find her again,” replied Francoeur. “And we will bring her back to her mother,” said George.

  “And we will bring her back,” replied Francoeur. “And we will marry her,” said George.

  “And we will marry her,” replied Francoeur. And they inquired among the inhabitants as to the habits of the dwarfs and the mysterious circumstances of Honey-Bee’s disappearance.

  And so it happened that they questioned Nurse Maurille who had once been the nurse of the Duchess of Clarides; but now as she had no more milk for babies Maurille instead nursed the chickens in the poultry yard. It was there that the master and squire found her. She cried: “Psit! Psit! psit! psit! lil—lil—lil—lil—psit, psit, psit, psit!” as she threw grain to the chicks.

  “Psit, psit, psit, psit! Is it you, your lordship? Psit, psit, psit! Is it possible that you have grown so tall—psit! and so handsome? Psit, psit! Shoo! shoo, shoo! Just look at that fat one there eating the little one’s portion! Shoo, shoo, shoo! The way of the world, your lordship. Riches go the rich, lean ones grow leaner, while the fat ones grow fatter. There’s no justice on earth! What can I do for you, my lord? May I offer you each a glass of beer?”

  “We will accept it gladly, Maurille, and I must embrace you because you nursed the mother of her whom I love best on earth.”

  “That’s true, my lord, my foster child cut her first tooth at the age of six months and fourteen days. On which occasion the deceased duchess made me a present. She did indeed.”

  “Now, Maurille, tell us all you know about the dwarfs who carried away Honey-Bee.”

  “Alas, my lord, I know nothing of the dwarfs who carried her away. And how can you expect an old woman like me to know anything? It’s ages ago since I forgot the little I ever knew, and I haven’t even enough memory left to remember where I put my spectacles. Sometimes I look for them when they’re on my nose. Try this drink; it’s fresh.”

  “Here’s to your health, Maurille; but I was told that your husband knew something about the disappearance of Honey-Bee.”

  “That’s true, your lordship. Though he never was taught anything he learnt a great deal in the pothouses and the taverns. And he never forgot anything. Why if he were alive now and sitting at this table he could tell you stories until tomorrow. He used to tell me so many that they quite muddled my head and even now I can’t tell the tail of one from the head of the other. That’s true, your lordship.”

  Indeed, it was true, for the head of the old nurse could only be compared to a cracked soup-pot. It was with the greatest difficulty that George and Francoeur got anything good out of it. Finally, however, by means of much repetition they did extract a tale which began somewhat as follows:

  “It’s seven years ago, your lordship, the very day you and Honey-Bee went on that frolic from which neither of you ever returned. My deceased husband went up the mountain to sell a horse. That’s the truth. He fed the beast with a good peck of oats soaked in cider to give him a firm leg and a brilliant eye; he took him to market near the mountain. He had no cause to regret his oats or his cider, for he sold his horse for a much better price. Beasts are like human beings; one judges them by their appearance. My deceased husband was so rejoiced at his good stroke of business that he invited his friends to drink with him, and glass in hand he drank to their health.

  “You must know, your lordship, that there wasn’t a man in all Clarides could equal my husband when glass in hand he drank to the health of his friends. So much so that on that day, after a number of such compliments, when he returned alone at twilight he took the wrong road for the reason that he could not recognise the right one. Finding himself near a cavern he saw as distinctly as possible, considering his condition and the hour, a crowd of little men carrying a girl or a boy on a litter. He ran away for fear of ill-luck; for the wine had not robbed him of prudence. But at some distance from the cavern he dropped his pipe, and on stooping to pick it up he picked up instead a little satin shoe. When he was in a good humour he used to amuse himself by saying, ‘It’s the first time a pipe has changed into a shoe.’ And as it was the shoe of a little girl he decided that she who had lost it in the forest was the one who had been carried away by the dwarfs and that it was this he had seen. He was about to put the shoe into his pocket when a crowd of little men in hoods pounced down on him and gave him such a thrashing that he lay there quite stunned.”

  “Maurille! Maurille!” cried George, “it’s Honey-Bee’s shoe. Give it to me and I will kiss it a thousand times. It shall rest for ever on my heart, and when I die it shall be buried with me.”

  “As you please, your lordship; but where will you find it? The dwarfs took it away from my poor husband and he always thought that they only gave him such a sound thrashing because he wanted to put it in his pocket to show to the magistrates. He used to say when he was in a good humour—”

  “Enough—enough! Only tell me the name of the cavern!”

  “It is called the cavern of the dwarfs, your lordship, and very well named too. My deceased husband—”

  “Not another word, Maurille! But you. Francoeur, do you know where this cavern is?”

  “Your lordship,” replied Francoeur as he emptied the pot of beer, “you would certainly know it if you knew my songs better. I have written at least a dozen about this cavern, and I’ve described it without even forgetting a single sprig of moss. I venture to say, your lordship, that of these dozen songs, six are of great merit. And even the other six are not to be despised. I will sing you one or two…”

  “Francoeur,” cried George, “we will take possession of this cavern of the dwarfs and rescue Honey-Bee.”

  “Of course we will!” replied Francoeur.

  XXI

  In which a perilous adventure is described

  That night when all were asleep George and Francoeur crept into the lower hall in search of weapons. Lances, swords, dirks, broadswords, hunting-knives and daggers glittered under the time-stained rafters—everything necessary to kill both man and brute. A complete suit of armour stood upright under each beam in an attitude as resolute and proud as if it were still filled with the soul of the brave man it had once decked for mighty adventures. The gauntlet grasped the lance in its ten iron fingers, while the shield rested against the plates of the greaves as if to prove tha
t prudence is necessary to courage, and that the best fighter is armed as well for defence as for attack.

  From among all these suits of armour George chose the one that Honey-Bee’s father had worn as far away as the isles of Avalon and Thule. He donned it with the aid of Francoeur, nor did he forget the shield on which was emblazoned the golden sun of Clarides. As for Francoeur, he put on a good old steel coat of mail of his grandfather’s and on his head a casque of a bygone time, to which he attached a ragged and moth-eaten tuft or plume. This he chose merely as a matter of fancy and to give himself an air of rejoicing, for, as he justly reasoned, gaiety, which is good under every circumstance, is especially so in the face of great dangers.