_Henri_ (_kissing her_).
Dear, kind Lucienne! I thought you would consent.
Now hear my plan. Although a dangerous one,
Its very spice of danger lends it fun.
Our nurse, Florine, till two o'clock at least
Will dance, most likely, at the village feast.
She's stolen away, and begged me not to tell;
And I, be sure, will keep her secret well.
We to our chambers will meanwhile repair.
And till the clock strikes twelve hold vigil there.
Then we shall both glide out on stealthy feet,
And--
_Lucienne_.
Feel my heart, Henri. Just hear it beat!
_Henri_.
Oh, nonsense! Think how glorious it will be
To find him here, and know 'tis really he!
They say that midnight is his favorite hour
To show the merry magic of his power.
And if we spy upon his movements then,
We'll see him here alive. Oh, think, Lucienne!
_Lucienne_ (_starting and looking about_).
But if your plan by any chance he knew,
What awful deed might Santa Claus not do?
Suppose that quickly as the turn of dice
His anger changed us into cats or mice?
Suppose as reindeers he should make us drag,
With monstrous horns, and feet that never flag,
The tinkling sled in which he journeys forth
Each Christmas-eve, from wild realms of the North?
_Henri_ (_laughing_).
A doleful penance for so slight a sin!--
Come; they who nothing venture, nothing win.
_Lucienne_.
But, mind, we'll only peep from either door;
We might indeed repent if we did more.
[Illustration: _Henri_.
TRUE, SISTER; FOR A LITTLE WHILE WE PART.
UNTIL THE CLOCK STRIKES TWELVE BE STOUT OF HEART.]
_Henri_ (_kissing her_).
True, sister; for a little while we part.
Until the clock strikes twelve be stout of heart.
_Lucienne_ (_as they separate_).
On kind old Santa Claus to play the spies?
_Henri_ (_taking candle from R._).
Our plan is made. Good-night till twelve o'clock.
_Lucienne_ (_taking candle from L._).
What noise was that? It gave me such a shock!
_Henri_ (_listening_).
A wainscot mouse that somehow came to grief.
Good-night.
_Lucienne_.
Good-night. I'm trembling like a leaf.
[_Exeunt_ Henri _and_ Lucienne _at R. and L. doors. Each carries
away candle, and the stage is now wrapped in dimness._
_Enter_ Gaspard _and_ Eloise _from R. corridor._ Gaspard _follows_
Eloise _in slow, attentive way. He wears a doublet of some dull
red material, with yarn stockings and low buckled shoes._ Eloise
_wears a dress that reaches above her ankles, and a dainty white
apron, into which she occasionally thrusts both hands._]
_Eloise_.
I pray you, Gaspard, cease these foolish airs,
These love-sick sighs and sentimental stares.
They've thrown Madame already in a pet;
She thinks me quite too young to marry yet.
_Gaspard_.
Unpitying girl! I scarcely can believe
You'd show such cruelty on Christmas-eve.
I'll hang no stocking ere I rest to-night;
If filled at all 'twould not be filled aright. [_Sighs deeply._]
_Eloise_ (_archly_).
And how would you prefer it filled, Sir Tease?
_Gaspard_.
How save with one kind smile from Eloise!
_Eloise_.
My smiles are not so cheaply gained as that.
Be off at once, and stop your silly chat!
'Tis nearly twelve--the hour, as rumor tells,
When Santa Claus begins his goblin spells.
Ah, could I once, with these two favored eyes,
The good Saint at his kindly task surprise,
I'd give--
_Gaspard_ (_eagerly_).
You'd give--well, what, Eloise?--your heart?
_Eloise_.
Why, certainly. But then you need not start.
There's no occasion to express content
By quite misunderstanding what I meant.
_Gaspard_ (_very agitatedly_).
I don't misunderstand--oh, not at all.
You meant that if by chance it should befall
Yourself, Eloise, at midnight here to stray,
And look on Santa Claus, you might repay
Such privilege by--
_Eloise_.
Ah, could I see the Saint,
Speeding his jovial pranks, with visage quaint,
'Twere hard to warn you where my grateful mood
Would place the limit of its gratitude.
_Gaspard_ [_aside_].
What if to-night, disguised with cunning art,
I should myself enact Kris Kringle's part?
_Eloise_.
Well, I must hurry on; the hour grows late.
[Illustration: _Gaspard_.
STEAL HERE BY TWELVE O'CLOCK, WITH CAUTIOUS PACE,
AND TURN YOUR LOOK TOWARD YONDER CHIMNEY-PLACE.]
_Gaspard_.
One moment, Eloise, I beg you wait.
The genial sprite whom you desire to meet
Perchance your longing gaze may really greet.
Steal here by twelve o'clock, with cautious pace,
And turn your look toward yonder chimney-place,
Then who shall say what marvel yet untold
'Twill be your happy fortune to behold?
_Eloise_ [_aside_].
The sly deceiver! Would he dare assume
The guise of Santa Claus, and in the gloom
Of this deserted hall delude my sense,
Hoping to dupe me by some bold pretense?
I half believe so. Well, if this were true,
How nicely such deception he should rue!
_Gaspard_.
You'll come, Eloise?
_Eloise_.