“Well, and what about me?” shouted Fire, angrily.
“Silence!” said Light. “The hour is passing. … Be quick and say goodbye to the Children. …”
Fire rushed forward, took hold of the Children, one after the other, and kissed them so violently that they screamed with pain:
“Oh! Oh! … He’s burning me! …”
“Oh! Oh! … He’s scorched my nose! …”
“Let me kiss the place and make it well,” said Water, going up to the children gently.
This gave Fire his chance:
“Take care,” he said, “you’ll get wet.”
“I am loving and gentle,” said Water. “I am kind to human beings. …”
“What about those you drown?” asked Fire.
But Water pretended not to hear:
“Love the wells, listen to the brooks,” she said. “I shall always be there. When you sit down in the evening, beside the springs, try to understand what they are trying to say. …”
Then she had to break off, for a regular waterfall of tears came gushing from her eyes, flooding all around her. However, she resumed:
“Think of me when you see the water-bottle. … You will find me also in the ewer, the watering-can, the cistern and the tap. …”
Then Sugar came up, with a limping walk, for he could hardly stand on his feet. He uttered a few words of sorrow, in an affected voice and then stopped, for tears, he said, were not in harmony with his temperament.
“Humbug!” cried Bread.
“Sugarplum! Lollipop! Caramel!” yelped Fire.
And all began to laugh, except the two children, who were very sad:
“Where are Tylette and Tylô gone to?” asked our hero.
At that moment, the Cat came running up, in a terrible state: her hair was on end and dishevelled, her clothes were torn and she was holding a handkerchief to her cheek, as though she had the toothache. She uttered terrible groans and was closely pursued by the Dog, who overwhelmed her with bites, blows and kicks. The others rushed in between them to separate them, but the two enemies continued to insult and glare at each other. The Cat accused the Dog of pulling her tail and putting tin tacks in her food and beating her. The Dog simply growled and denied none of his actions:
“You’ve had some,” he kept saying, “you’ve had some and you’re going to have some more!”
But, suddenly, he stopped and, as he was panting with excitement, it could be seen that his tongue turned quite white: Light had told him to kiss the Children for the last time.
“For the last time?” stammered poor Tylô. “Are we to part from these poor Children?”
His grief was such that he was incapable of understanding anything.
“Yes,” said Light. “The hour which you know of is at hand. … We are going to return to silence. …”
Thereupon the Dog, suddenly realizing his misfortune, began to utter real howls of despair and fling himself upon the Children, whom he loaded with mad and violent caresses:
“No! No!” he cried. “I refuse! … I refuse! … I shall always talk! … And I shall be very good. … You will keep me with you and I shall learn to read and write and play dominoes! … And I shall always be very clean. … And I shall never steal anything in the kitchen again. …”
He went on his knees before the two Children, sobbing and entreating, and, when Tyltyl, with his eyes full of tears, remained silent, dear Tylô had a last magnificent idea: running up to the Cat, he offered, with smiles that looked like grins, to kiss her. Tylette, who did not possess his spirit of self-sacrifice, leaped back and took refuge by Mytyl’s side. Then Mytyl said, innocently:
“You, Tylette, are the only one that hasn’t kissed us yet.”
The Cat put on a mincing tone:
“Children,” said she, “I love you both as much as you deserve.”
There was a pause.
“And now,” said Light, “let me, in my turn, give you a last kiss. …”
As she spoke, she spread her veil round them as if she would have wrapped them for the last time in her luminous might. Then she gave them each a long and loving kiss. Tyltyl and Mytyl hung on to her beseechingly:
“No, no, no, Light!” they cried. “Stay here with us! … Daddy won’t mind. … We will tell Mummy how kind you have been. … Where will you go all alone?” …
“Not very far, my Children,” said Light. “Over there to the Land of the Silence of Things.”
“No, no,” said Tyltyl. “I won’t have you go. …”
But Light quieted them with a motherly gesture and said words to them which they never forgot. Long after, when they were a grandfather and grandmother in their turn, Tyltyl and Mytyl still remembered them and used to repeat them to their grandchildren.
Here are Light’s touching words:
“Listen, Tyltyl. Do not forget, child, that everything that you see in this world has neither beginning nor end. If you keep this thought in your heart and let it grow up with you, you will always, in all circumstances, know what to say, what to do and what to hope for.”
And, when our two friends began to sob, she added, lovingly:
“Do not cry, my dear little ones. … I have not a voice like Water; I have only my brightness, which Man does not understand. … But I watch over him to the end of his days. … Never forget that I am speaking to you in every spreading moonbeam, in every twinkling star, in every dawn that rises, in every lamp that is lit, in every good and bright thought of your soul. …”
At that moment, the grandfather’s clock in the cottage struck eight o’clock. Light stopped for a moment and then, in a voice that grew suddenly fainter, whispered:
“Goodbye! … Goodbye! … The hour is striking! … Goodbye!”
Her veil faded away, her smile became paler, her eyes closed, her form vanished and, through their tears, the children saw
