“What party?”
“The rich children opposite. It’s the Christmas-tree. Let’s open the shutters. …”
“Can we?” asked Mytyl, timidly.
“Of course we can; there’s no one to stop us. … Do you hear the music? … Let us get up.”
The two Children jumped out of bed, ran to the window, climbed on the stool in front of it and threw back the shutters. A bright light filled the room; and the Children looked out eagerly:
“We can see everything!” said Tyltyl.
“I can’t,” said poor little Mytyl, who could hardly find room on the stool.
“It’s snowing!” said Tyltyl. “There are two carriages, with six horses each!”
“There are twelve little boys getting out!” said Mytyl, who was doing her best to peep out of the window.
“Don’t be silly! … They’re little girls. …”
“They’ve got knickerbockers on. …”
“Do be quiet! … And look! …”
“What are those gold things there, hanging from the branches?”
“Why, toys, to be sure!” said Tyltyl. “Swords, guns, soldiers, cannons. …”
“And what’s that, all round the table?”
“Cakes and fruit and cream-tarts.”
“Oh, how pretty the children are!” cried Mytyl, clapping her hands.
“And how they’re laughing and laughing!” answered Tyltyl.
“And the little ones dancing! …”
“Yes, yes; let’s dance too!” shouted Tyltyl.
And the two Children began to stamp their feet for joy on the stool:
“Oh, what fun!” said Mytyl.
“They’re getting the cakes!” cried Tyltyl. “They can touch them! … They’re eating, they’re eating, they’re eating! … Oh, how lovely, how lovely! …”
Mytyl began to count imaginary cakes:
“I have twelve! …”
“And I four times twelve!” said Tyltyl. “But I’ll give you some. …”
And our little friends, dancing, laughing and shrieking with delight, rejoiced so prettily in the other children’s happiness that they forgot their own poverty and want. They were soon to have their reward. Suddenly, there came a loud knocking at the door. The startled Children ceased their romp and dared not move a limb. Then the big wooden latch lifted of itself, with a loud creak; the door opened slowly; and in crept a little old woman, dressed all in green, with a red hood over her head. She was humpbacked and lame and had only one eye; her nose and chin almost touched; and she walked leaning on a stick. She was surely a fairy.
She hobbled up to the Children and asked, in a snuffling voice:
“Have you the grass here that sings or the bird that is blue?”
“We have some grass,” replied Tyltyl, trembling all over his body, “but it can’t sing. …”
“Tyltyl has a bird,” said Mytyl.
“But I can’t give it away, because it’s mine,” the little fellow added, quickly.
Now wasn’t that a capital reason?
The Fairy put on her big, round glasses and looked at the bird:
“He’s not blue enough,” she exclaimed. “I must absolutely have the Blue Bird. It’s for my little girl, who is very ill. … Do you know what the Blue Bird stands for? No? I thought you didn’t; and, as you are good children, I will tell you.”
The Fairy raised her crooked finger to her long, pointed nose, and whispered, in a mysterious tone:
“The Blue Bird stands for happiness; and I want you to understand that my little girl must be happy in order to get well. That is why I now command you to go out into the world and find the Blue Bird for her. You will have to start at once. … Do you know who I am?”
The Children exchanged puzzled glances. The fact was that they had never seen a fairy before; and they felt a little scared in her presence. However, Tyltyl soon said politely:
“You are rather like our neighbor, Madame Berlingot. …”
Tyltyl thought that, in saying this, he was paying the Fairy a compliment; for Madame Berlingot’s shop, which was next door to their cottage, was a very pleasant place. It was stocked with sweets, marbles, chocolate cigars and sugar dolls and hens; and, at fair-time, there were big gingerbread dolls covered all over with gilt paper. Goody Berlingot had a nose that was quite as ugly as the Fairy’s; she was old also; and, like the Fairy, she walked doubled up in two; but she was very kind and she had a dear little girl who used to play on Sundays with the woodcutter’s Children. Unfortunately, the poor little pretty, fair-haired thing was always suffering from some unknown complaint, which often kept her in bed. When this happened, she used to beg and pray for Tyltyl’s dove to play with; but Tyltyl was so fond of the bird that he would not give it to her. All this, thought the little boy, was very like that which the Fairy told him; and that was why he called her Berlingot.
Much to his surprise, the Fairy turned crimson with rage. It was a hobby of hers to be like nobody, because she was a fairy and able to change her appearance, from one moment to the next, as she pleased. That evening, she happened to be ugly and old and humpbacked; she had lost one of her eyes; and two lean wisps of grey hair hung over her shoulders.
“What do I look like?” she asked Tyltyl. “Am I pretty or ugly? Old or young?”
Her reason for asking these questions was to try the kindness of the little boy. He turned away his head and dared not say what he thought of her looks. Then she cried:
“I am the Fairy Bérylune!”
“Oh, that’s all right!” answered Tyltyl, who, by this time, was shaking in every limb.
This satisfied the Fairy; and, as the Children were still in their nightshirts, she told them to get dressed. She herself helped Mytyl and, while she did so, asked:
“Where are your Father and Mother?”
“In there,” said Tyltyl, pointing to the door on the right. “They’re asleep.”
“And your Grandad and Granny?”
“They’re dead. …”
“And your little brothers and sisters. … Have you any? …”
“Oh, yes, three little brothers!” said Tyltyl.
“And four little sisters,” added Mytyl.
“Where are they?” asked the Fairy.
“They are dead, too,” answered Tyltyl.
“Would you like to see them again?”
“Oh, yes! … At once! … Show them to us! …”
“I haven’t them in my pocket,” said the Fairy. “But this is
