Free Bee by Anatole France Page A

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:
    â€œCucui, 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.
    â€œAnd we will bring her back,” replied Francoeur. “And we will marry her,” said George.
    â€œAnd 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.
    â€œPsit, 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?”
    â€œWe will accept it gladly, Maurille, and I must embrace you because you nursed the mother of her whom I love best on earth.”
    â€œThat’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.”
    â€œNow, Maurille, tell us all you know about the dwarfs who carried away Honey-Bee.”
    â€œAlas, 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.”
    â€œHere’s to your health, Maurille; but I was told that your husband knew something about the disappearance of Honey-Bee.”
    â€œThat’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:
    â€œIt’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