Chapter II

HEN Desbarollda was born, it was mid-winter, and the family had moved from their summer residence in the buttery to a more imposing establishment behind the fireplace in the great banquet hall.

“She is the image of her dear father,” said the dowager mouse, peering at Desbarollda short-sightedly. The infirmity of advanced age was rapidly overtaking her; she was reduced to walking with a cane, and frequently missed the point of a conversation.

“She is a great consolation to me already,” averred her mother happily, but even in the midst of her joy her mind was not free of morbid associations, and dissolving into sudden tears she added piteously: “Suppose the cat should get her too?”

“Tush, fubb, folly and fie!” exclaimed the dowager mouse sternly. “Banish such gloomy speculation! Concern yourself instead with teaching her how cats are best avoided, and she’ll live to be as ancient as I am! Glory ducketts! I shall be three in May!”

In the winter it was the Duke’s pleasure to hold elaborate entertainments in the banquet hall; and a quintet of musicians occupied a small gallery high on the wall, wherein they played arduously throughout the night, while the Duke’s guests danced stately measures or frivolous jigs in the hall below.

When the entertainments were over and the hall was deserted, Desbarollda’s two uncles would embark upon hazardous expeditions to forage for provender among the dishes on the banquet table.

Upon these occasions, the dowager mouse was never at ease until they returned. She would stand at the door of the establishment, leaning heavily on her cane and twitching her nose, her mind a prey to misgiving.

“About what are you so concerned, Grandmère?” asked Desbarollda innocently one night.

“Never you mind!” returned the dowager mouse with unusual asperity. “If you must know, I’m listening for the cat!”

“What is a cat?” asked Desbarollda. “Have I ever seen one?”

“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed her grand-mother piously. “You must know, child, that there is sorrow in the world as well as pleasure: danger as well as safety; and cats as well as mice.”

“Do the cats play those pretty waltzes?” asked Desbarollda.

“That is the work of humans,” replied her grandmother. “They are no more trustworthy than cats. When you are older you shall be told all that is good for you to know of such matters. It is sufficient for the moment that you obey your mother and strive to please her in every way. Never venture beyond this door, child, regardless of the provocation, or you may learn too soon how large and ruthless is the world!”

Much awed by this homily, Desbarollda retired to bed, where her mother was already asleep.

Of all the fanciful notions of the outside world which now preoccupied her thoughts, however, the music of the quintet intrigued her most. Even at this early stage of her development she could hum whole measures from memory.