The Tapestry Room | Page 2

generally done in the funny little brain of Mademoiselle Jeanne.
Inside the room it was getting dark, and the white snow outside seemed
to make it darker.
"Mademoiselle Jeanne," said a voice belonging to a servant who just

then opened the door; "Mademoiselle Jeanne, what are you doing at the
window? You will catch cold."
Jeanne gave a little start when she heard herself spoken to. She had
been all alone in the room for some time, with not a sound about her.
She turned slowly from the window and came near the fire.
"If I did catch cold, it would not be bad," she said. "I would stay in bed,
and you, Marcelline, would make me nice things to eat, and nobody
would say, 'Don't do that, Mademoiselle.' It would be charming."
Marcelline was Jeanne's old nurse, and she had been her mother's nurse
too. She was really rather old, how old nobody seemed exactly to know,
but Jeanne thought her very old, and asked her once if she had not been
her grandmother's nurse too. Any one else but Marcelline would have
been offended at such a question; but Marcelline was not like any one
else, and she never was offended at anything. She was so old that for
many years no one had seen much difference in her--she had reached a
sort of settled oldness, like an arm-chair which may once have been
covered with bright-coloured silk, but which, with time and wear, has
got to have an all-over-old look which never seems to get any worse.
Not that Marcelline was dull or grey to look at--she was bright and
cheery, and when she had a new clean cap on, all beautifully frilled and
crimped round her face, Jeanne used to tell her that she was beautiful,
quite beautiful, and that if she was very good and always did exactly
what Jeanne asked her, she--Jeanne--would have her to be nurse to her
children when she had grown up to be a lady, married to some very
nice gentleman.
And when Jeanne chattered like that, Marcelline used to smile; she
never said anything, she just smiled. Sometimes Jeanne liked to see her
smile; sometimes it would make her impatient, and she would say,
"Why do you smile like that, Marcelline? _Speak!_ When I speak I like
you to speak too."
But all she could get Marcelline to answer would be, "Well,
Mademoiselle, it is very well what you say."

This evening--or perhaps I should say afternoon, for whatever hour the
chickens' timepiece made it, it was only half-past three by the great big
clock that stood at the end of the long passage by Jeanne's room
door;--this afternoon Jeanne was not quite as lively as she sometimes
was. She sat down on the floor in front of the fire and stared into it. It
was pretty to look at just then, for the wood was burning redly, and at
the tiniest touch a whole bevy of lovely sparks would fly out like bees
from a hive, or a covey of birds, or better still, like a thousand
imprisoned fairies escaping at some magic touch. Of all things, Jeanne
loved to give this magic touch. There was no poker, but she managed
just as well with a stick of unburnt wood, or sometimes, when she was
quite sure Marcelline was not looking, with the toe of her little shoe.
Just now it was Marcelline who set the fairy sparks free by moving the
logs a little and putting on a fresh one behind.
"How pretty they are, are they not, Marcelline?" said Jeanne.
Marcelline did not speak, and when Jeanne looked up at her, she saw
by the light of the fire that she was smiling. Jeanne held up her
forefinger.
"Naughty Marcelline," she said; "you are not to smile. You are to speak.
I want you to speak very much, for it is so dull, and I have nothing to
do. I want you to tell me stories, Marcelline. Do you hear, you naughty
little thing?"
"And what am I to tell you stories about then, Mademoiselle? You have
got all out of my old head long ago; and when the grain is all ground
what can the miller do?"
"Get some more, of course," said Jeanne. "Why, I could make stories if
I tried, I daresay, and I am only seven, and you who are a hundred--are
you quite a hundred, Marcelline?"
Marcelline shook her head.
"Not quite, Mademoiselle," she said.

"Well, never mind, you are old enough to make stories, any way. Tell
me more about the country where you lived when you were little as I;
the country you will never tell me the name of. Oh, I do like that one
about the Golden Princess shut up