The Adventures of Herr Baby

"Do you know where the shop is? Can we easily find it?"

"I think so; yes, I am sure I can find it," said auntie. "It is a shop of curiosities, a shop at a corner, the street is narrow."

"I know it," said Mademoiselle Lucie, "though it is not very well known. There are grander shops of curiosities which are more visited, but I know that shop, as I often pass it."

She told auntie the name of the owner of the shop, and of the street, and then auntie fixed, as they were now near the town, that she would go on alone to the shop, while Mademoiselle Lucie went to her brother, who, she hoped, would be at home at this hour, and get him to go with her to the police office, so that no time should be lost.

Auntie hurried on by herself, but though she went so fast that the easy-going peasants driving their sleepy bullocks, whom she met, looked after her in surprise, she did not, for one moment, leave off looking about her on every side, to see if by any chance she could discover the well-known little figure it would have given her such joy to see. But no. Once or twice a child in the distance made her heart beat a little quicker, but, as soon as she got near enough to see it clearly, her hopes sank again. There were very few houses on the country road leading from the villa till one was quite in the town. So auntie thought it not worth while to ask, for, in a street of houses and shops standing close together, and people constantly passing, it was much less likely that any one would have noticed a little tot like Herr Baby making his way.

"No," said auntie to herself, "it is no use stopping to ask. The best thing I can do is to find the shop at once, and if they can tell me nothing there, to follow Mademoiselle Lucie to the police office."

And, with a deep sigh, for, somehow, every step she took farther without seeing anything of the little truant, made auntie's heart feel heavier – she hurried on again.

She soon found the wide street – the street with the dressmakers' and milliners' shops, which Fritz had not cared to look at – then she turned one corner and went on a little farther, then another, and – yes, there was the little old shop, looking just the same as the day they had all stood there so happily. Auntie had been walking very quickly, almost running, but when she saw the shop just before her she stood still – she felt so anxious – what should she do if she could hear nothing of Baby?

When she got to the door she stopped and looked in; there seemed to be no one in the shop. Auntie glanced up to the side of the door where the little portrait had hung. It was gone! Could that have anything to do with Baby? auntie asked herself in a sort of puzzled way. Could Baby have thought of buying it? how much money had he? But it was stupid and foolish to stand there puzzling and wondering, instead of boldly going in to ask. Auntie took her courage in her two hands, as the saying is, and went in.

No one there; where could the owner of the shop be? The last time he had come forward at once when they were only looking in – a little-dried up old man, just the sort of person one would expect to find in such a shop, sitting in a dark corner like an old spider, watching to see what flies were passing his way. Auntie went right in without seeing any one, but she heard voices not far off, and, in her anxiety, she went forward to a door slightly open, leading into rooms behind the shop. She knocked – but for a moment no one took any notice. They were talking so eagerly inside that she had to knock again, and in the moment or two that had passed without them hearing her, she heard one or two words that made her eager to hear more.

"No, no," some one was saying, "much better go at once to the office. We may get into trouble."

"He seems so sensible," said another voice. "I say, better go with him and carry the things, and we shall soon see if he knows his way, and – "

Auntie could not wait any more. She pushed open the door and went in. There was, however, no Herr Baby to be seen, as she had almost expected there would be. There was the old man that she remembered having seen before, looking like a very startled spider this time, as he raised his two shrivelled old arms in surprise at her appearance, and beside him was a very pleasant, bright-faced, young woman, with a baby in her arms, talking, or at least looking as if she had just been talking very eagerly.

"Is he here?" said auntie, quite breathless, "my little boy, my little nephew, I mean. Is Baby here?"

The young woman looked at the old man with a sort of little nod of triumph.

"You see," she said quickly, "I said there was no need to frighten the poor darling by taking him to the police office." "Yes, Madame," she went on, turning to auntie, "the dear bébé is here – that is to say, he cannot but be the one you are looking for. I sent him out into the little garden with his cat and my little girl, while my grandfather and I talked about what to do. I would have sent him home, I mean we would have tried to find his home, if my husband had been here, but he is away."

"And I am too feeble, Madame, as you see, to walk far," said the old man, who seemed now anxious to be very amiable.

"But you talked of taking him to the police office," said the young woman, in a low voice, "the idea! to frighten a bébé like that."

"Hush, hush," said the old man, "all was to be done for the best. You shall see him, your dear child, Madame," he went on, bustling about.

"But tell me first – a moment – " said auntie, "What did he come for? Did he buy the picture?"

"The picture," repeated the old man, "no, surely. It was the glass jugs, the little gentleman wanted, and he had his money all right – I took but the just price, Madame – I would not deceive any one."

"They are very dear to my mind," said the young woman, "but there – I know nothing about old things. This is not our shop, Madame – I look in in passing, to see the grandfather sometimes, that is all."

"And Baby came to buy some jugs, you say," repeated auntie. There was a confused remembrance in her mind of something Baby had said about jugs, something he had asked her to look at the day they had stood at the shop window, but which she had since forgotten. Her only idea in coming to the little old shop had been the picture. "You said he came to buy some jugs?" she said again.

"Yes, Madame," said the old man "two glass jugs – Venetian glass."

"Ah!" said auntie, and then she remembered it all – about the glass jugs that Baby had broken at home, and what he had said to her about those in the shop window being like them. "And the picture?" she said, "is it no longer there? But first, let me have my little boy. He is in the garden, you say?"

She looked round, for there was no sign of a garden. The window of the little room in which they were, looked out only on to a blank wall.

"This way, Madame," said the young woman, opening a door at the side. It led into a little dark passage, and, at the end of it, there was another door, standing open, and through this door came the sound of children's voices.

Auntie stood still a moment to listen – the first words made her smile.

"Him wants to go home now," said the well-known voice. "Little girl, why won't you listen? Him wants to go home, and so does Minet. Doesn't you hear?"

The little girl must have been very much puzzled, for auntie heard her trying her best, in her baby talk, to make this queer little stranger understand that they were to stay out in the garden till her mother called them in.

"Him wants to go home, and so does Minet," repeated poor Baby, and his voice began to quiver and shake, as if he were going to cry. Auntie could stand it no longer. She hurried out into the little garden.

"You shall go home now, Baby dear," she said. "Auntie has come to fetch you."

Baby looked up eagerly at the sound of a well-known voice. He ran to her and held up his little face for a kiss. He looked very pleased, but not at all surprised. It was one of Herr Baby's funny ways, that he almost never seemed surprised.

"Him is so glad you's come," he said. "You'll help him to carry home the shiny jugs, for Minet's raver tired, and him might have to carry her and the money-box. But you won't tell mother about the jugs, will you? You'll let him run in wif them him's self, won't you, auntie? Won't mother be pleased?"

"But you must tell me all about it, dear," said auntie; "did you come off all alone to get the glasses? Why didn't you ask some one to come with you?"

Baby looked a little troubled.

"Him didn't come alone," he said. "Him told Minet, and Minet comed too, only her's werry tired. And it were for the party, auntie," he added, looking up wistfully, "Lisa said mother had no pitty jugs for her's party. And oh, auntie, p'ease do be kick, 'fear we shall be too late."

Auntie took his hand and led him back into the shop, where the old man was wrapping up the jugs with a great show of soft paper, that auntie should see how careful he was.

"Has my little boy paid you?" she asked.

"Oh yes," said Herr Baby, understanding, though she did not speak English. "See in him's money-box;" he held out the money-box with some difficulty for, having Minet under the other arm, it was not easy for him to get his hands free; "him had two yellow pennies, one big and one little, him gived the big one for the shiny jugs."

"Was that the price of the jugs?" auntie asked the man.

"No, Madame, I have the change to give the little gentleman. See here," and he held out two large silver coins, the size of crowns, which auntie took.

"I don't think the jugs are dear," she said, with a smile, turning to the young woman, who looked pleased. "And some day," she went on, "we will come to see you, and bring you some little thing for your little girl, as you have been so kind to my little boy. Come now, Baby dear, we must get home as quick as we can."

"But the little girl, the pitty little girl," said Herr Baby, "him must say good-bye to her."

"There she is beside you," said auntie, thinking, of course, that he meant the young woman's little girl, "say good-bye to her."

"No, no," said Baby, "him doesn't mean her. Him means the pitcher little girl, her," he went on, pointing to the young woman, "her gottened her down for him to see, 'cos him were trying to reach up to kiss her."

That was why the picture was no longer in the window then? Where was it? Auntie turned round as she felt Baby pulling her.

"Her's there," he said, pointing to a chair on which the picture had been set down hurriedly with the face the other way. Auntie turned it round. Dear little face! It smiled at her again with the pretty half wistful, half wise expression, which had so taken her fancy. Now it seemed to her to be saying —

"I am so glad you have found him. I knew where he was. I am so glad to have helped you to find him;" and when Baby lifted his little face to kiss, with his rosy living lips, the picture of the child, who had once been living and loving like him, I can hardly tell you the strange feeling that went through auntie's heart.

"She must have been a dear good little girl, whoever she was," she thought to herself. "It would be nice to leave a sweet feeling behind one in the world long after one is dead, such as that little face gives. I should like to have that picture. I must see about it."