Produced by Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) ODETTE _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ Crown 8vo. 6s. each VAINGLORY “The author of this book has a gift for trenchant satire ... one cannot help feeling that Mr. Firbank must have gone straight to life for some of these people.” _New Witness._ INCLINATIONS “Mr. Ronald Firbank’s fiction bears a strong resemblance to the work of the Futurists in painting.” _Glasgow Herald._ “The book is pleasant, vivacious and stimulating throughout.” _Scotsman._ CAPRICE (In preparation) GRANT RICHARDS LTD. ST. MARTIN’S ST. LONDON W.C. [Illustration: AVE MARIA] ODETTE A FAIRY TALE FOR WEARY PEOPLE BY RONALD FIRBANK WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS BY ALBERT BUHRER LONDON GRANT RICHARDS LIMITED ST. MARTIN’S STREET 1916 _IN ALL THE WORLD TO THE DEAREST OF MOTHERS_ Odette: A Fairy Tale for Weary People I In the long summer evenings, when the shadows crept slowly over the lawn, and the distant towers of the cathedral turned purple in the setting sun, little Odette d’Antrevernes would steal out from the old grey chateau to listen to the birds murmuring “good-night” to one another amongst the trees. Far away, at the end of the long avenue of fragrant limes, wound the Loire, all amongst the flowery meadows and emerald vineyards, like a wonderful looking-glass reflecting all the sky; and across the river, like an ogre’s castle in a fairy tale, frowned the chateau of Luynes, with its round grey turrets and its long, thin windows, so narrow, that scarcely could a princess in distress put forth her little white hand to wave to the true knight that should rescue her from her terrible fate. Just until the sun disappeared behind the trees, veiled in a crimson cloud, little Odette would remain in the shadowy garden, then quickly and mysteriously she would slip back into the old grey chateau; where, in the long, dim drawing-room, before two wax candles, she would find her Aunt Valerie d’Antrevernes embroidering an altar cloth for the homely lichened village church, that one could see across the rose garden from the castle windows. “Where have you been, my child?” her aunt would ask her, glancing up from the lace altar cloth that fell around her in a snowy cloud. And Odette, in her pretty baby voice, would reply: “I have been listening to the birds saying their evening prayers,” and then silently she would sit on a low hassock at her aunt’s feet, and tell herself fairy stories until Fortune, her Creole nurse, should come and carry her off to bed.