The Lonesomest Doll (1928)/Chapter 13
XIII
The Stolen Queen
They were flying over the ground like wild creatures at a hunt, and Clotilde’s little heart was beating like a trip-hammer with excitement and fear. All of a sudden she heard a strange sound in front, and then an ugly exclamation from the robber who rode ahead of them. Jacques reined up Black Bête with a jerk. “What is the matter?” he growled, and there was a click of a pistol close beside Clotilde’s ear.
At first they could not see anything in the darkness. But presently Clotilde caught sight of the robber Jean limping up to Black Bête’s saddle.
“My horse fell and has broken his leg, I think,” he whispered hoarsely. “It’s no use. They’re coming close behind. They’ll hang me if I’m caught. You can’t desert a comrade—take me up behind, Jacques. Black Bête can carry double. But you must leave the Queen. They’ll stop when they find her, and we shall escape safely to the Wood.”
“What luck!” grumbled Jacques. “You blundering knave, can’t you keep a horse from stumbling? We are losing the chance of our lives,” and he muttered an ugly oath. Then a sudden thought struck him. “But at least we can keep the doll. Her jewels alone are worth a Queen’s ransom, if all I’ve heard of them be true. Leave the Queen, then, if we must. We’ll get something out of this night’s work. Here, help me with the child.”
Clotilde’s heart throbbed wildly. Poor Mignon seemed about to become once more the lonesomest doll—lonesome in a strange land, carried to a den of robbers! And oh, how lonesome the Queen would be without her, now that she had learned to love her so dearly! As if she were only a doll herself Jacques handed her down to Jean, who stood on the ground beside them. But when he tried to pull Mignon from Clotilde’s closebound arms she clung as tightly as she could.
“Mamma, Mamma, Mamma!” cried Mignon frightedly, as her poor little body was squeezed in the rough grasp of Jean.
“What’s that? Heavens above! What’s that?” gasped the robber, who had never before heard of a talking doll. And he fell back, imagining it the voice of a fairy,—just as Mother Marie had done.
But Jacques was less easily frightened. “Oh, come on! Be quick about it,” he muttered. “They are hard upon us—give me the doll.” And, indeed, the sound of hoofs was very near now echoing down the road behind them.
Jacques tore the doll from Clotilde’s arms, and was hurrying back to his horse when again in his hands Mignon began to cry—“Mamma, Mamma, Mamma!” so piteously that he paused. He glanced from the doll down at Clotilde, who lay on the grass in the moonlight with the tears running down her cheeks, looking after Mignon. She could not speak because of the handkerchief which muffled her poor little mouth. But her eyes said as plainly as anything,—“Oh, my dear dollie! Don’t take away my dear doll!”
Perhaps Jacques had once had a little girl of his own who loved dolls. Perhaps he had not always been a bad man, and a terror to little children, whose very name would frighten them at night. At all events his heart softened a little bit.
“It’s a witch doll,” he muttered to himself. “It will not leave her. It will bring us bad luck.—Oh, let her keep her doll,” he growled roughly to Jean, who was already in the saddle. “All we want is the gems—the doll is nothing to us. Here!” and in a moment he had stripped from Mignon her crown, her necklace, and her dress embroidered with pearls and jewels.
Rip, rip! Tear, tear! Ah, Mignon was only a poor little beggar-doll now, all rags and tatters. Jacques tossed her into the lap of the Queen, and leaped upon Black Bête, in front of his brother robber. There was a snort, a start, a click of hoofs—and they were gone.