days,” continued the secretary, “when every vehicle was horse-drawn, a mouse could cross half Europe really in luxury. How delightful it was to get up into a well-appointed coach, make a snug little nest among the cushions, slip out at regular intervals to a nose-bag! Farm carts were even better; there one had room to stretch one’s legs, and meals were simply continuous! Even railway carriages, of the old wooden sort, weren’t too uncomfortable—”
“Now they make them of metal,” put in a mouse at the back. “Has anyone here ever tried nibbling steel plate?”
“And at least trains were speedy,” went on the secretary. “Now, as our friend points out, they are practically impossible to get a seat in. As for motorcars, apart from the fact that they often carry dogs, in a motorcar one always feels so conspicuous. A ship, you say? We are a hundred miles from the nearest port! Without a single mail coach or even private carriage on the roads, how long would it take, Chairwoman, to cover a hundred miles in a succession of milk floats?”
“As a matter of fact,” said the chairwoman blandly, “I was thinking of an aeroplane.”
Every mouse in the hall gasped. An aeroplane! To travel by air was the dream of each one; but if trains were now difficult to board, an aeroplane was believed impossible!
“I was thinking,” added the chairwoman, “of Miss Bianca.”
The mice gasped again.
Everyone knew who Miss Bianca was, but none had ever seen her.
What was known was that she was a white mouse belonging to the ambassador’s son, and lived in the schoolroom at the embassy. Apart from that, there were the most fantastic rumours about her: for instance, that she lived in a porcelain pagoda: that she fed exclusively on cream cheese from a silver bonbon dish: that she wore a silver chain round her neck, and on Sundays a gold one. She was also said to be extremely beautiful, but affected to the last degree.
“It has come to my knowledge,” proceeded the chairwoman, rather enjoying the sensation she had caused, “that the ambassador has been transferred, and that in two days’ time he will leave for Norway by air! The Boy of course travels with him, and with the Boy travels Miss Bianca – to be precise, in the Diplomatic Bag. No one on the plane is going to examine that; she enjoys diplomatic immunity. She is thus the very person to undertake our mission.”
By this time the mice had had time to think. Several of them spoke at once.
“Yes, but—” they began.
“But what?” asked the chairwoman sharply.
“You say, ‘the very person’,” pronounced the secretary, speaking for all. “But is that true? From all one hears, Miss Bianca has been bred up to complete luxury and idleness. Will she have the necessary courage, the necessary nerve? This Norwegian, whoever he is, won’t know to get in touch with her, she will have to get in touch with him. Has she even the necessary wits? Brilliant as your plan undoubtedly is, I for one have the gravest doubts of its practicalness.”
“That remains to be seen,” said the chairwoman. She had indeed some doubts herself; but she also had great faith in her own sex. In any case, she wasn’t going to be led into argument. “Is there anyone,” she called briskly, “from the embassy here with us now?”
For a moment all waited; then there was a slight scuffling at the back as though someone who didn’t want to was being urged by his friends to step forward, and finally a short, sturdy young mouse tramped up towards the platform. He looked rough but decent. No one was surprised to learn (in answer to the chairwoman’s questioning) that he worked in the pantry.
“I suppose you, Bernard, have never seen Miss Bianca either?” said the chairwoman kindly.
“Not me,” mumbled Bernard.
“But you could reach her?”
“I dare say,” admitted Bernard – shuffling his big feet.
“Then reach her you must, and without delay,” said the chairwoman. “Present the compliments of the meeting, explain the situation, and bid her instantly seek out the bravest mouse in Norway, and dispatch him back here to the Moot-house.”
Bernard shuffled his feet again.
“Suppose she doesn’t want, ma’am?”
“Then you must persuade her, my dear boy,” said the chairwoman. “If necessary, bully her! – What’s that you have on your chest?”
Bernard squinted self-consciously down. His fur was so thick and rough, the medal scarcely showed.
“The Tybalt Star, ma’am …”
“For Gallantry in the Face of Cats,” nodded the chairwoman. “I believe I remember the incident … A cat nipped on the tail, was it not, thus permitting a nursing mother of six to regain her hole?”
“She was my sister-in-law,” muttered Bernard, flushing.
“Then I can’t believe you’re not a match for Miss Bianca!” cried the chairwoman.
With that (after several votes of thanks), the meeting broke up; and Bernard, feeling important but uneasy, set off back to the embassy.
At least his route to the Boy’s schoolroom presented no difficulties. There was a small service lift running directly up from the pantry itself, used to carry such light refreshments as glasses of milk, chocolate biscuits, and tea for the Boy’s tutor. Bernard waited till half-past eight, when the last glass of milk went up (hot), and went up with it by clinging to one of the lift-ropes. As soon as the flap above opened he nipped out and slipped into the nearest shadow to wait again. He waited a long, long time; he heard the Boy put to bed in an adjoining room, and a wonderful rustle of satin as the Boy’s mother came to kiss him goodnight. (Bernard was of course waiting with his eyes shut; nothing draws attention to a mouse like the gleam of his eyes.) Then at last all was still, and forth he crept for a good look round.
In one respect at least rumour had not lied. There in an angle of the great room, on a low stool nicely out of floor draughts, stood a porcelain pagoda.
IT WAS THE most exquisite residence Bernard had ever seen, or indeed could ever have imagined. Its smooth, gleaming walls were beautifully painted with all sorts of small flowers – violets, primroses and lilies-of-the-valley – and the roof rose in tier upon tier of curly gilded eaves, from each corner of which hung a golden bell. Round about was a pleasure-ground, rather like a big birdcage, fenced and roofed with golden wires, and fitted with swings, seesaws and other means of gentle relaxation. Bernard’s eyes felt as big as his ears as he diffidently approached – and he himself felt a very rough, plain mouse indeed.
“Miss Bianca!” he called softly.
From inside the pagoda came the faintest of rustling sounds, like silk sheets being pulled over someone’s head; but nobody appeared.
“Don’t
