The hurricane was progressing outside, and the port city of Vannes, France was being hit hard with chilling winds and plenty of booming thunder exploding in the atmosphere outside of Mathieu's window. Mathieu had never liked anything less than bright and cheerful, so the lightning and the shadows of the toys and trinkets on his shelves were way past the point of just scary! They were threatening and dangerous, and it wasn't long before the little French boy had had enough of the monstrous sound of leaves and branches slamming against his window. Soon, little Mathieu was running down the hallway just as quickly as his 5-year-old feet would carry him to the comfort of his Papa's arms.
On the way down the hall, which seemed to be a mile long on a night like this one, Mathieu began screaming at the rattling of the window about halfway down the hall. He curled up on the floor covering his ears and sat rocking on his heels, trying to drown out the explosions vibrating the house. He screamed again when he heard the door at the end of the hall fly open and hit the wall with a slam.
"Aaaahhhh!" the tiny Canada yelled and opened his eyes wide at the sight of France moving toward him in the dark just as quickly as he could.
"Mathieu! Mathieu! Qu'est-ce que passé?! Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas?!" (What happened?! What's wrong?) Francis asked frantically as he scooped up his little son and gently bounced him up and down with his arms around him and beneath his little bottom. Mathieu continued wailing and held his father as tightly as he could around his neck, gripping his nightshirt in tiny fistfuls.
Francis hated seeing his son this way, and he walked him throughout the illuminating house, still alight with the lightning strikes, continuing to bounce him and observing the streams of tears on the little French boy's cheeks.
"Shhhh-sh-sh-sh Mathieu, tout va bien, J'ai tu maintenent. Papa est ici." (everything is alright, I've got you. Papa's here.) Francis took his little Canada into the kitchen and held him close to the window, stroking his hair while he continued to lull him with soothing French. However, France's little nation would not under any circumstances look up from his Papa's chest pocket.
"Mathieu, come on now my little one. Look outside. I promise you won't be frightened."
"Non! Papa, I'm afraid! I want to go back to bed! I want to sleep with Papa!" The little country cried.
"Papa will take you to bed just as soon as you look, mon petit fils." France whispered kissing his tiny boy on his soft wavy hair, and Canada finally consented to pick up his head and peer out the window and glance at the persistent lightning. Immediately he squealed and whined at France, but tried his best not to close his eyes for fear that his punishment would be being sent back to his bedroom to sleep all alone.
"Do you see, mon cher? It's beautiful, non? The rain is what makes all of our roses and trees grow outside. And the lightning is like a great big fireworks display for you; it even comes with the big booms." France told his boy in a low and quiet voice.
"But Papa!-" Canada started
"Just try to see it that way, mon cher. Look one more time and listen." France tried again.
The little French-Canadian attempted once again to see the beauty in one of his worst nightmares by peering through the glass to look outside. As he gazed at the water dripping down the window and watched the lightning strikes blaze across the cloudy sky, he did start to see something. It was sort of beautiful! It was fascinating if nothing else to watch, and the little 5-year old was just about to tell his Papa that he thought so when the thunder shook the little home once more, and the noise was simply too much.
Mathieu gave another loud and steady cry, and his wailing continued as the monstrous sky continued to roar its ferocity at him. "Papaaaaa! I'm scared! Please Papa, please!" he screamed, and he continued to shriek in terror at this dreadful night he was being so wrongfully forced into living through.
"Alright my little Mathieu, Papa will get you to bed right away. But first let's get you some nice warm milk so you can get to sleep, non?" France suggested, sliding his little son into his high-chair and pouring some milk into a glass and then sticking it into the microwave for about 20 seconds.
The 30 seconds in the chair was pure horror, but he eagerly awaited the milk, as it always did feel so good and tasted so perfect. Of course, it was something Papa made, and being five years old, of course little Mathieu had no concept of what was truly prepared and what was heated. All he knew was that France was putting it in and pulling it out of the microwave to transform it into something magical just for him, and he couldn't wait to get out of his little wooden prison to drink it all up.
When his midnight beverage was finally warm enough, Francis set it on the counter and lifted his tiny country out of his high-chair to hold him close to his heart and whisper in French to him again to calm him down. He grabbed the glass on the way out of the kitchen and when he reached his own bedroom, the Frenchman sat it down on the nightstand next to a big rocking chair and sat in it with Mathieu in his lap. He handed the boy the cup and rocked him in the chair as he drank it, singing in French his favorite lullaby.
La petite poule grise
L'tait une p'tit' poul' (une petite poule)grise
Qu'allait pondre dans l'glise
Pondait un p'tit' coco
Que l'enfant mangeait tout chaud
Francis sang of a little grey hen who laid an egg that a little child would eat, with the chorus changing the color of the hen each time. Mathieu loved this little song and the tune always put him at ease so fast. Before long the milk was downed, and Mathieu was beginning to yawn quite frequently in France's arms. The quiet creaking of the rocking chair was lulling him in addition to his father's voice, and as France observed his son's sleepy behavior, he picked him up once more and laid him on the bed.
Covering Canada with the thick, warm quilt on the king-sized bed, France proceeded to kiss his head, right where that single and most distinct spiral curl rested before tucking him in and then curling up beside him.
By this point, the little blonde's violet eyes had been flickering from opened to closed between pangs of thunder and sheets of rain against the window screens. The little traces of fear were still apparent, and France could see it. He pulled his beautiful territory closer to him, and nestled him into his warm, strong chest that Canada was sure would protect him.
"Mathieu, Papa loves you very much. And I promise I will never let anything happen to you mon petit fils parfait. (my perfect little son) Go to sleep now, mon petit prince, and I promise I'll be right here in the morning. Bon nuit, mon cher." The Frenchman said in a low, sweet voice and with another kiss on the cheek, he consented to close his own eyes and drift off to sleep as well. However, not before he heard the words: "Bon nuit Papa. Je t'aime aussi." And with that, and one last exhausted little yawn, the sweet little nation fell into perfect sleep. Perfect because nothing could touch him. Nothing could scare him, or make him feel anything other than pure and warm bliss. Not as long as Papa was holding him so close to his heart, like he knew he always would.