The Pets Of Aurore Dupin

: The Strange Story Book

During the years in which Napoleon and his armies were fighting in

Spain, in Germany, and in Russia, a little girl might be seen running

wild in the province of Berry, which is almost in the very centre of

France. In those days if you had asked her name she would have answered

that it was 'Aurore Dupin'; but by and bye she took another, which by

her books she made famous--nearly as famous, indeed, in its own way as

tha
of her great ancestor, the general Count Maurice de Saxe.



But it is not the celebrated writer who called herself 'George Sand'

with whom we have to do now, but the child Aurore Dupin, and her friends

the birds and beasts, dwellers like herself in the bare and desolate

plains that surrounded her grandmother's chateau of Nohant. Maurice

Dupin, father of Aurore, was a soldier like his grandfather, Maurice de

Saxe; but her mother was the daughter of a bird-seller, who, curiously

enough, lived in the 'Street of the Birds' (Quai des Oiseaux) in Paris.

To this fact Aurore always declared that she owed her powers of

fascination over the chaffinches, robins, or starlings that would sit on

her shoulders or perch on her hands as she walked with her mother in the

garden. And far from being frightened at the presence of a grown-up

person, the birds often seemed to prefer Madame Maurice Dupin to Aurore

herself.



Aurore became very learned about birds and their ways, considering them

far cleverer than men or animals, and endowed with finer qualities than

either. Warblers she held superior to any other small bird, and says

that at fifteen days a warbler is as old in the feathered world as a

child of ten is in that which speaks instead of chirping. When she was a

little girl at Nohant, she brought up by hand two baby warblers of

different sorts and different nests.



The one with a yellow breast she named Jonquil; while the other, who had

a grey waistcoat, was called Agatha. Jonquil was as much as a fortnight

older than Agatha, and when under the care of Aurore she was a slim,

gentle young creature, inclined to be thin, and with scarcely enough

feathers to cover her skin, and not yet able to fly with certainty from

one branch to another, or even to feed herself. This Aurore knew was her

own fault, because if Jonquil had remained at home she would have

learned these things far earlier, for bird-mothers are much better

teachers than our mothers, and insist that their children shall find

out how to get on by themselves.



Agatha was a most tiresome child. She would never be quiet for a moment,

but was always hopping about, crying out and tormenting Jonquil, who was

beginning to wonder at all she saw around her, and would sit thinking

with one claw drawn up under her wing, her eyes half shut, and her head

sunk between her shoulders. But Agatha, who never thought at all, did

not see why anybody else should do so either, and would peck at

Jonquil's legs and wings in order to attract attention, unless Aurore

happened to be in the room and glance at her. Then Agatha would dance up

and down the branch uttering plaintive cries, till some bread or biscuit

was given to her. For Agatha was always hungry, or always greedy; you

did not quite know which.



One morning Aurore was absorbed in writing a story, and her two little

friends were seated on a green branch some distance away. It was rather

cold, and Agatha, whose feathers still only half covered her, was

cuddling for warmth against Jonquil. They had actually been quiet for

half an hour--a very rare occurrence--but at length they made up their

minds it must be time for dinner, and if Aurore did not know it, she

must be told.



So Jonquil hopped on to the back of a chair and from that to the table,

and finally planted her claws upon the writing paper, making a great

mess of the words; while Agatha, who was afraid to leave the branch by

herself, flapped her wings and opened her beak, screaming with hunger.



Aurore was just in the middle of the great scene in her story, where

the hero and heroine had found out the wicked uncle, and fond though she

was of Jonquil, she felt for the first time very much provoked by her

behaviour. She pointed out to her that by now she really was old enough

to feed herself, and that close by was an excellent pasty in a pretty

saucer, only she was too lazy to eat it, and expected her mistress to

put it in her mouth. Jonquil was not accustomed to be scolded, and did

not like it, and to show her displeasure hopped sulkily back to her

branch. Agatha, however, had no mind to go without her dinner, and,

turning to Jonquil, insisted that she should return at once and help her

to that delicious dish. And she was so eloquent in her pleading that

Jonquil seemed really moved, though she hesitated as to whether she

should do as Agatha desired, or if she should keep her dignity and

remain on her branch.



Of course, Aurore pretended to see nothing of all this, although in

reality she was watching eagerly under her eyelids how it would end.



Suddenly there was a flutter in the air, and Jonquil stood on the edge

of the saucer. She opened her mouth and chirped, expecting the food to

fly into her beak; but as it did nothing of the sort, she stooped down

and pecked it. To the surprise of her mistress, instead of swallowing

the morsel herself, she flew back to the branch and gave it to Agatha.



From that day Jonquil took as much care of Agatha as if she had been her

own child. She saw that her feathers were kept in order, taught her very

soon to feed herself, and steadied her in her first nights from the

branch. Agatha proved quicker and cleverer than her mistress expected,

and in a month's time she and Jonquil had made a home for themselves

amongst the big trees in the garden, from which they would often fly

down to see their old friends at dinner in the garden, and to share

their dessert.



* * * * *



All through her life Aurore and the birds around were close friends;

others besides Jonquil and Agatha would come when she called them, not

because they knew their names, but because they recognised the sound of

her voice. In later years she had a splendid hawk whom everyone else

was afraid of, but his mistress would trust him to perch on her baby's

cot, and snap gently at any flies which settled on the child's face

without waking him. Unluckily this charming gentleman was not always

nice to people whom he did not like, and at last he was obliged to be

placed in a strong cage, from which he easily escaped the next day after

breaking the bars.



* * * * *



Maurice Dupin, the father of Aurore, was aide-de-camp to General Murat,

afterwards King of Naples and Napoleon's brother-in-law. In April 1808,

long before the time of Jonquil and Agatha, when the general was ordered

to Madrid, the Dupins followed him, and they all lived for a time in a

splendid palace belonging to the hated Spanish minister, known as the

'Prince of Peace,' who like his master the king, was now a captive in

France. Here Aurore was very happy. The rooms were large, the passages

long, and you never knew what kind of delightful beast you might not

meet with in one or the other. Perhaps, on the whole, it was most

likely that you would come across a rabbit, as there were so many of

them that they came and went without the slightest attention from

anyone. A beautiful white bunny, with eyes as red as rubies, at once

bade Aurore welcome. He had established himself in the corner of her

bedroom behind the looking-glass, and would come out from there to play

games on the polished floor. When they were both tired, the little

girl--Aurore was then about four--would throw herself into a chair, and

the white rabbit would jump into her lap, and lie quietly there for

hours, while Aurore made up all kinds of interesting stories to amuse

him.



Besides the white rabbit, Aurore greatly admired General Murat

(especially when he wore his uniform) and was quite convinced he was a

fairy prince. Her mother made her a uniform too, not like the general's,

of course, but an exact copy of her father's. It consisted of a white

cashmere vest with sleeves fastened by gold buttons, over which was a

loose pelisse, trimmed with black fur, while the breeches were of yellow

cashmere embroidered with gold. The boots of red morocco had spurs

attached; at her side hung a sabre and round her waist was a sash of

crimson silk cords. In this guise Aurore was presented by Murat to his

friends, but though she was intensely proud of her uniform, the little

aide-de-camp found the fur and the gold very hot and heavy, and was

always thankful to change it for the black silk dress and black mantilla

worn by Spanish children. One does not know in which costume she must

have looked most strange.



Murat, who was a good-natured man, grew very fond of the child, and one

evening when he returned from hunting he went up to the rooms in the

palace occupied by the Dupins bearing in his arms a tiny fawn. Aurore

was sound asleep, for it was nearly midnight, but, followed by her

father and mother, the general entered the room and laid the fawn beside

her on the pillow. The child half-opened her eyes, and seeing the little

head close to her face, put her arm round its neck and dozed off again.

The next morning when she woke up, she found Murat standing by her bed,

for M. Dupin had told him what a pretty picture the two made, and he

wished to see it. The poor little creature--probably not more than a few

days old--had been chased by dogs the previous evening, and though it

had escaped unhurt, which was a marvel, was absolutely worn out, and had

settled itself comfortably to sleep like a kitten. It lay curled up on

Aurore's chest, with its head on the pillow and her arms still remained

round its neck. At the sound of voices she awoke, and rubbed her cheek

against the nose of her bedfellow, who, feeling warm and comfortable and

sure of a friend, licked her hands gratefully. But the little thing

pined for its mother, and though Aurore did her very best to replace

her, it was too late, and early one morning Madame Dupin found the fawn

quite dead under the pile of coverings Aurore had spread over it. She

dared not tell the child what had happened, so she said it had run away

in the night, and was now quite happy with its family in the woods. All

of which Aurore believed.



After a few months spent in Spain, the Dupins returned to Nohant at the

end of August, exhausted by the hardships they had undergone and their

terrible journey. For a few days they had peace and rest; then the

little blind baby died, and, at his mother's express wish, was buried by

his father secretly under a pear-tree in the garden of Nohant. Nine days

later Maurice Dupin mounted a hard-mouthed horse named Leopardo, and

rode off to dine with some friends in the country. On his return

Leopardo stumbled in the darkness over a heap of stones on one side of

the road, and threw his master.




MURAT.]



'Weber! Come quickly! I am dying,' Maurice called to his groom, and it

was true. His back was broken; and though help was speedily got and he

was taken to an inn near by, there was no hope from the first, and he

spoke no more. For the second time in her life, his mother put her feet

on the ground, and walked to meet him as they carried him back to

Nohant. The other occasion was when she awaited him on the road at

Passy, after his release from prison.



The blow was a dreadful one, but the elder Madame Dupin was a woman of

strong and silent courage, and tried to take up her life as usual. She

wished to adopt Aurore entirely, and leave Madame Maurice to take care

of another daughter named Caroline, whom she had had by a former

husband. But Madame Maurice could not bear to part from her younger

child, and as Caroline was at this time in a convent there was no need

to decide the matter at present. In this manner two or three years

slipped past, and Aurore grew strong and healthy in the open air,

playing with any children who came in her way, or, better still, with

any animals she could get hold of.



Among her particular friends at Nohant was a donkey--the best donkey in

the world. Of course, he might have been obstinate and fond of kicking

in his youth, like some other donkeys; but now he was old, very old

indeed, and was a model of good behaviour.



His walk was slow and stately, and, owing to the respect due to his age

and his long service in the house of Madame Dupin, no one either scolded

or corrected him. Every day Aurore and Ursule, the little girl who was

her companion, were placed in panniers on his back, and made what seemed

to them long journeys through the world. On their return home he was

unharnessed, and left to wander where he wished, for nobody ever dreamed

of interfering with him. He might have been met in the village, in the

fields, or in the garden, but always conducting himself as an elderly

gentleman should. Now and then the fancy took him to walk in at Madame

Dupin's front door, from which he would enter the dining-room or even

the lady's private apartments. One day she found him installed in her

dressing-room, sniffing curiously at a box of oris powder. As the doors

were only fastened by a latch after the old custom, he could easily open

them, and could find his way all over the ground floor, which he

generally explored in search of Madame Dupin, for he knew quite well she

would be sure to have something nice for him in her pocket. As to being

laughed at for his odd habits, he was quite indifferent to that, and

listened to the jokes made about him with the air of a philosopher.



One hot night in summer he could not sleep, and a wandering fit seized

him. He passed through a door which had been left open, mounted six or

eight steps, crossed the hall and the kitchen and arrived at Madame

Dupin's bedroom. He tried as usual to lift the latch, but as a bolt had

been put on the inside, he could not get in. He then began to scratch

with his hoofs, but Madame Dupin only thought that it was a thief,

cutting through the door, and rang for her maid violently. The maid,

fearing that her mistress had been taken ill, did not wait even to

obtain a light, but ran along the passage as fast as she could, falling

right over the donkey. The maid set up piercing cries; the donkey

uttered loud hee-haws, and Madame Dupin jumped hastily out of bed to see

what in the world could be happening. It took a good deal to move her

stately composure, but on that occasion she really did allow herself to

smile, if only the maid and the donkey had not been too frightened to

notice it. But when Aurore heard the story next morning, she laughed

more than she had ever done in her life.



So good-bye to her for the present. When we next hear of her, she will

be busy with lessons.



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