III

On a gray October morning Martin received permission from his mother to go down and play with Ida Dupont.

Mr. Dupont had two small rooms, one flight up. At this time of day he was away at rehearsal, so Martin and Ida were alone.

It was a dark and somber day. The inner room lay in semi-twilight, with a high Venetian blind in front of the window. When one pushed aside a corner of the blind, one could see between two gray house gables a part of the great black church cupola. Bing bong! went the bells.

Ida showed Martin a peepshow box with tinted pictures. There were white castles and gardens with colored lanterns in long gleaming rows, yellow and red and blue. There were strange cities with churches and bridges, and steamboats and big ships on a wide river. And there were halls illuminated with radiant candelabra, but what looked like lights were just little holes made with pins. It all looked so big and alive when one saw it in the box. It almost moved; there was surely something magical about it.

“I got that from mamma,” declared Ida.

“But where is your mamma?”

“She’s away.”

Martin looked surprised.

“How⁠—away?”

“She has gone off with a strange gentleman. But sometimes she writes me letters that papa reads to me, and sometimes I get pretty things from her that she sends.”

Martin became very inquisitive. He wanted to learn more but didn’t know just how he ought to ask.

However, Ida now caught Martin by both shoulders and looked very impressive.

“Do you know what we’ll do now?” she asked. “We’ll dress up.”

She pulled out a bureau drawer and began to take out red bodices of satin, silk, and rep with a multitude of ribbons and rosettes; silk gloves, silk stockings, and long veils of lace⁠—pink, blue, and white.

“I got this from mamma, too, when she was in the ballet.”

She took a thin, light blue veil with silver spangles and draped it around Martin’s head. Then he was given a red bodice, a shawl of silver gauze, and a white skirt.

“My, but you look funny!” said Ida. “Just like a girl.”

Martin looked at himself in the glass and they both roared with laughter.

“Come here,” said Ida, “and I’ll put mustaches on you.”

Martin didn’t think mustaches would fit, if he was to be a girl. But Ida didn’t mind about that; she blackened a cork over a candle and traced big black mustaches on Martin, then she put black eyebrows on herself. After that they looked into the mirror again and laughed.

“It’s so handsome to have black eyebrows,” said Ida. “Don’t you think I’m handsome?”

“Uhm,” said Martin.

Ida was full of resources.

“If you’ll be terribly nice, we’ll have a banquet.”

She went to a cupboard and hunted out a half-filled bottle of wine and a couple of green glasses. Then she laid the cloth on a toilet table and filled the glasses.

Martin’s eyes grew big.

“Does your papa let you?”

“Oh, yes. He lets me do whatever I like. My papa is nice. Is your papa nice?”

“Yes,” answered Martin.

They clinked glasses and drank. It was a sweet and pleasant wine, and its dark red shone splendidly in the green glasses.

Outside it had begun to snow. There were great heavy flakes; the window sill was already white. It was the first snowfall, and the church bells rang in the black cupola: Bing bong, bing bong! Martin and Ida knelt on a chair with their arms around each other’s necks and their noses pressed against the pane.

But Ida poured out more wine and clinked glasses with Martin. Then she took down an old violin from the wall and began to play, and while she played she danced and swayed, wearing a white veil. It sounded very queer the way Ida played the violin. Martin held his ears, laughed, sung, and screamed. But then Martin began to notice a creepy feeling down his back, and he recalled that his mother had said Ida Dupont had fleas.

… Martin was in the sleeping alcove, peeping about. Farthest away in the semidarkness was an image of the madonna behind two half-burned wax candles, and below hung a crucifix.

Martin stared in astonishment.

“What’s that?” he asked.

Ida became very solemn and answered in a low voice, nearly whispering, “That is our religion.”

Mr. Dupont was a Catholic.

“Wait,” said Ida, “sit over there and be quiet, and I’ll teach you our religion.”

Ida swathed herself in pink tulle with gold spangles. Then she advanced and lighted the candles under the madonna, two calm bright flames. On a little stand below the crucifix she lighted a pastille of incense. In long blue clouds the incense curled from under the curtain of the alcove, and the air grew heavy with a strong spicy fragrance.

The madonna glowed like a theatre queen with red, blue, and gold, and the stars on her mantle blinked and sparkled in the light of the wax candles.

Martin shivered with delight.

But Ida fell on her knees before the madonna. Her thick, dark-red plaits glowed like bright copper in the candlelight. She muttered something which Martin did not understand, and made strange gestures with her hands.

“What’s that?” inquired Martin; “why do you act so?”

“Tst! That is our religion.”

And Ida stayed on in the alcove. Her large black eyes had a sparkling glow. But Martin had an odd feeling of heaviness in the head.

“Come here and join in,” bade Ida. “Don’t you think it’s beautiful?”

Martin sat down on the edge of the bed and tried to imitate Ida’s gestures. But soon he began to nod. His head was so heavy, so heavy.

When Mr. Dupont came home, the two children were lying asleep on the bed. The wax candles had burned out.