it is difficult to say enough. To be the offered lamb, or indeed the
offered lamb’s mother, for both always went together, was the greatest
honor and glory that could possibly happen to a Provençal sheep, and
so little Félix was fairly bursting with pride and delight. And so it
was, too, that he was now busying himself washing their wool, which he
determined should shine like spun silver on the great night.
He tugged away, scrubbing and brushing and combing the thick fleeces,
now and then stopping to stroke Beppo’s nose, or to box Ninette’s
ears when she became too impatient, and at last, after much labor,
considered their toilets done for the day; then, giving each a handful
of fresh hay to nibble, he left the fold and trudged into the cottage.
“Well, little one,” said the Misè, “hast thou finished thy work?”
“Yes, mother,” answered Félix; “and I shall scrub them so each day till
the Holy Night! Even now Ninette is white as milk, and Beppo shines
like an angel! Ah, but I shall be proud when he rides up to the altar
in his little cart! And, mother, dost thou not really think him far
handsomer than was Jean’s lamb, that stupid Nano, in the procession
last year?”
“There, there,” said the Misè, “never thou mind about Jean’s lamb, but
run along now and finish thy crèche.”
[Illustration]
Now, in Provence, at the time when Félix lived, no one had ever heard
of such a thing as a Christmas tree; but in its stead every cottage had
a “crèche”; that is, in one corner of the great living-room, the room
of the fireplace, the peasant children and their fathers and mothers
built upon a table a mimic village of Bethlehem, with houses and people
and animals, and, above all, with the manger, where the Christ Child
lay. Every one took the greatest pains to make the crèche as perfect
as possible, and some even went so far as to fasten tiny angels to
the rafters, so that they hovered over the toy houses like a flock of
white butterflies; and sometimes a gold star, hung on a golden thread,
quivered over the little manger, in memory of the wonderful star of the
Magi.
In the Michaud cottage the crèche was already well under way. In the
corner across from the fireplace the Père had built up a mound, and
this Félix had covered with bits of rock and tufts of grass, and little
green boughs for trees, to represent the rocky hillside of Judea;
then, half-way up, he began to place the tiny houses. These he had
cut out of wood and adorned with wonderful carving, in which he was
very skilful. And then, such figures as he had made, such quaint little
men and women, such marvelous animals, camels and oxen and sheep and
horses, were never before seen in Sur Varne. But the figure on which
he had lavished his utmost skill was that of the little Christ Child,
which was not to be placed in the manger until the Holy Night itself.
Félix kept this figure in his blouse pocket, carefully wrapped up
in a bit of wool, and he spent all his spare moments striving to
give it some fresh beauty; for I will tell you a secret: poor little
Félix had a great passion for carving, and the one thing for which he
longed above all others was to be allowed to apprentice himself in the
workshop of Père Videau, who was the master carver of the village,
and whose beautiful work on the portals of the great church was the
admiration of Félix’s heart. He longed, too, for better tools than the
rude little knife he had, and for days and years in which to learn to
use them.
But the Père Michaud had scant patience with these notions of the
little son’s. Once, when Félix had ventured to speak to him about
it, he had insisted rather sharply that he was to stick to his
sheep-tending, so that when the Père himself grew old he could take
charge of the flocks and keep the family in bread; for the Père had
small faith in the art of the carver as being able to supply the big
brown loaves that the Misè baked every week in the great stone oven. So
Félix was obliged to go on minding the flocks; but whenever he had a
moment of his own, he employed it in carving a bit of wood or chipping
at a fragment of soft stone.
But while I have stopped to tell you all this, he had almost finished
the crèche; the little houses were all in place, and the animals
grouped about the holy stable, or else seeming to crop the tufts of
moss on the mimic rocky hillside. Over the manger with its tiny wisp
of hay, twinkled a wonderful star that Félix had made from some golden
beads that the Misè had treasured for years as part of her peasant
bridal finery.
Altogether, the crèche was really very prettily arranged, and after
giving several final touches, Félix stood back and surveyed it with
much satisfaction.
“Well, well!” said the Père Michaud, who had just entered the cottage,
“’tis a fine bit of work thou hast there, my son! Truly ’tis a brave
crèche! But,” he added, “I trow thou hast not forgotten the live sheep
in the fold whilst thou hast been busy with these little wooden images
here?”
“Nay, father,” answered Félix, “that I have not”—but here the Misè
called them both to the midday meal, which she had spread smoking hot
on the shining deal table.
When this was finished Félix arose, and, as the Père wished, once more
went out to the fold to see how the sheep, especially his little Beppo,
were faring.
As he pushed open the swinging door, Ninette, who was lazily dozing
with her toes doubled up under her fleece, blinked her eyes and looked
sleepily around; but Beppo was nowhere to be seen.
“Ninette!” demanded Félix, fiercely, “what hast thou done with my
Beppo?”
At this Ninette peered about in a dazed sort of way, and gave an
alarmed little “Baa!” For she had not before missed Beppo, who, while
she was asleep, had managed to push open the door of the fold and
scamper off, no one knew just where.
Félix gazed around in dismay when he realized that his lamb, the chosen
one, who had brought such pride and honor to him, was gone!
“Beppo!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, “Beppo! Beppo-o!”
But no trace could he see of the little bundle of fleece he had
scrubbed and combed so carefully that morning.
He stood irresolute a moment; then, thinking that if Beppo really were
running off, not a second was to be lost, he set out at a brisk pace
across the sheep-meadow. He had no idea in what direction the truant
lamb would be likely to stray, but on he went, calling every little
while in a shrill voice, “Beppo!” Now and then he fancied that he
saw in the distance a glimpse of white; but once it proved to be the
Misè Fouchard’s linen hung to dry on a currant-bush, and again it was
a great white stone—but no Beppo; and all the while Félix kept on,
quite forgetting that Beppo’s weak, woolly legs could not possibly have
carried him so great a distance.
By and by he had left the village meadows far behind, and was skirting
the great marsh. Sometimes he shaded his eyes with his hand and looked
far across this low wet land to see if perhaps Beppo had strayed into
its uncertain foothold; but nothing could he see but the waving rushes
and the tall bitterns wading about on long, yellow legs.
And still he pressed heedlessly on farther and farther, till, after a
while, he found himself thrusting through a thick coppice of willow
boughs.
“Oh,” thought Félix, “what if poor Beppo has strayed into this
woodland!” Tired as he was, he urged himself on, searching among the
trees; and it was not until he had wandered on and on, deeper and
deeper into the wood, that he realized that the dusk had fallen, and
that he must be a very, very long way from Sur Varne.
Félix then began to grow uneasy. He stood still and looked anxiously
about him; the dark forest trees closed around him on all sides, and he
was quite unable to remember from which direction he had entered the
wood.
Now, Félix was really a very brave little fellow, but it must be owned
his heart misgave him, and he fairly quaked as he peered through the
gathering darkness; for in those days the forests of Provence were
known to harbor many dangerous animals, especially wild boars and
wolves. He pricked up his ears, and now and then thought he heard in
the distance the stealthy tread of some four-footed forest prowler, and
once he was sure he caught the deep howl of a wolf.
That ended his hesitation. He looked quickly around, and grasping the
low boughs of a slender sapling, managed to swing himself up into a
tall chestnut tree that grew close by; and there he clung, clutching
the thick branches with might and main, feeling very cold and hungry
and miserable, his heart all the while sinking clear down into his
little peasant shoes.
And indeed he had cause for fear, for, not a great while after he had
thus hidden himself, a gaunt wolf really did pass close by, sniffing
and peering, till poor Félix gave up all hope of escaping with his
life; but, luckily, the wolf did not see him, and at last slowly crept
on through the underwood.
How long the little boy stayed in the perilous shelter of the
chestnut-tree he never knew, but it seemed untold ages to him. After a
while the moon rose, and shed a faint light through the close-lapping
branches; then, by and by, Félix’s ears, strained to listen for every
lightest sound, caught the echo of distant trampling, as of horses’
hoofs, and presently two horsemen came in sight, pricking their way
cautiously along a narrow bridle-path.
He did not know whom they might prove to be, but wisely thinking that
anything would be better than staying in a tree all night at the mercy
of hungry wolves, he waited till the first rider came quite close, and
then he plucked up courage to call out faintly:
“Oh, sir, stop, I pray thee!”
At this, the rider, who was none other than the noble Count Bernard of
Bois Varne, quickly drew rein and, turning, called to his companion:
“Ho, Brian! Heardest thou aught?”
“Nay, my Lord,” answered Brian, who was some paces behind, “naught save
the trampling of our own horses’ hoofs.”
The count looked all around, and seeing nothing, thought himself
mistaken in the sound, and began to pace on. Then Félix in terror gave
another shout, this time louder, and at the same moment a little twig
he was pressing with his elbow broke away and dropped, striking against
the count’s stirrup; for the bridle-path wound directly under the tree
where Félix was perched.
The count instantly checked his horse again, and, peering up into the
boughs overhead, he caught sight of Félix, his yellow hair wet with dew
and shining in the moonlight, and his dark eyes wide with fear.
[Illustration]
“Heigh-ho!” exclaimed the count, in blank amazement. “Upon my word,
now! what art thou—boy or goblin?”
At this Félix gave a little sob, for he was very tired and very cold.
He hugged the tree tightly, and steadying himself against the boughs,
at last managed to falter out:
“Please thee, sir, I am Félix Michaud, and my lamb Beppo, who was to
ride in the Christmas procession, ran off to-day, and—and—I have been
hunting him, I think, ever since—since yesterday!” Here poor Félix
grew a trifle bewildered; it seemed to him so very long ago since he
had set out in search of Beppo. “And I live in Sur Varne.”
At this the count gave a long whistle.
“At Sur Varne!” he exclaimed. “If thou speakest truly, my little man,
thou hast indeed a sturdy pair of legs to carry thee thus far.” And
he eyed curiously Félix’s dusty little feet and leathern leggings,
dangling limply from the bough above him.
“Dost thou know how far distant is Sur Varne from this forest?”
“Nay, sir,” answered Félix; “but I trow ’tis a great way.”
“There thou art right,” said the count; “’tis a good two leagues, if it
is a pace. But how now? Thou canst not bide here to become the prey of
hungry wolves, my little night-owl of the yellow hair!”
And thereupon Count Bernard dexterously raised himself in his stirrups,
and, reaching upward, caught Félix in his arms and swung him down plump
on the saddle-bow in front of him; then, showing him how to steady
himself by holding the pommel, he turned to Brian, his squire, who
while all this was going on had stood by in silent astonishment, and
giving the order to move, the little cavalcade hastened on at a rapid
pace in order to get clear of the forest as quickly as possible.
Meantime the Count Bernard, who was really a very kind and noble lord,
and who lived in a beautiful castle on the farther verge of the
forest, quite reassured Félix by talking to him kindly, and telling him
of the six days’ journey from which he and his squire, Brian, were just
returning, and how they had been delayed on the way until nightfall.
“And, by my faith!” said Count Bernard, “’twas a lucky hour for thee
that snapped my horse’s saddle-girth! else we should have passed this
wood by midday—and then, little popinjay, what wouldst thou have done
had we not chanced along to pluck thee from out thy chilly nest? Hey?
Wolves had been but poor comrades for such as thee!”
At this Félix began to shiver, and the count hastened to add:
“Nay, my little man, I did but jest with thee! Thou shalt sleep this
night in the strong castle of Bois Varne, with not even a mouse to fret
thy yellow head; and, what is more, thou shalt see the fairest little
maid that ever thou hast set eyes on!”
And then he told him of his little daughter, the Lady Elinor, and how
she would play with Félix and show him the castle, and how on the
morrow they would see about sending him home to Sur Varne.
And all the while the count was talking they were trotting briskly
onward, till by and by they emerged from the forest and saw towering
near at hand the castle of Bois Varne. The tall turrets shone and
shimmered in the moonlight, and over the gateway of the drawbridge hung
a lighted cresset—that is, a beautiful wrought-iron basket, in which
blazed a ruddy torch of oil to light them on their way.
At sight of this the count and Brian spurred on their horses, and were
soon clattering across the bridge and into the great paved courtyard.
The count flung his bridle to a little page who hastened out to meet
him, and then, springing from his saddle, lightly lifted Félix and
swung him to the ground. He then took the boy by the hand and led him
into the great hall of the castle.
To Félix this looked marvelously beautiful. Christmas garlands of
myrtle hung on the walls, and a great pile of freshly cut laurel boughs
lay on a bench, ready for the morrow’s arranging. But that which took
his eyes most of all was the lovely carving everywhere to be seen. The
benches and tables were covered with it; the wainscot of the spacious
room was richly adorned; and over and about the wide fireplace great
carved dragons of stone curled their long tails and spread their wings
through a maze of intricate traceries. Félix was enchanted, and gazed
around till his eyes almost ached.
Presently in came running a little girl, laughing with delight.
Bounding up into Count Bernard’s arms, she hugged and kissed him in
true Provençal fashion. Then, catching sight of Félix:
“Ah, _mon père_,” she exclaimed, “and where foundest thou thy pretty
new page?”
“Nay, sweetheart,” answered the count, looking down at Félix’s yellow
hair, “’tis no page, but a little goldfinch we found perched in a
chestnut tree as we rode through the forest.”
Then, smiling at the Lady Elinor’s bewilderment, he told her the little
boy’s story, and she at once slipped down and greeted him kindly.
Then, clapping her hands with pleasure at finding a new playmate, she
declared he must come to see the Christmas crèche which she was just
finishing.
“Not so fast, _ma chère_!” interposed the count, “we must sup first,
for we are famished as the wolves we left behind us in the forest.” And
thereupon he called in the steward of the castle, who soon set out a
hearty supper on one of the long tables.
Elinor sat close by, eagerly chattering as they ate, and the moment
Félix had swallowed the last morsel, she seized him by the hand and
hastened across the hall, where her crèche was built upon a carved
bench. The poor little Lady Elinor had no mother, and her father, the
count, had been gone for several days; and although in the castle were
many serving men and women and retainers, yet none of these presumed to
dictate to the little mistress; and so she had put her crèche together
in a very odd fashion.
“There!” said she, “what thinkest thou of it, Félix? Of a truth, I
fancy somewhat is wanting, yet I know not how to better it!”
“Yes,” said Félix, bashfully, “it may be I can help thee.”
And so he set to work rearranging the little houses and figures, till
he succeeded in giving a life-like air to the crèche, and Lady Elinor
danced with delight.
While placing the little manger he happened to remember the figure of
the Christ Child still in his blouse pocket; this he timidly took out
and showed the little girl, who was charmed, and still more so when he
drew forth a small wooden sheep and a dog, which were also in the same
pocket, and which he begged her to keep.
The Lady Elinor was so carried away with joy that she flew to the side
of the count, and, grasping both his hands, dragged him across the room
to show him the crèche and the wonderful figures carved by Félix. Félix
himself was covered with confusion when he saw the count coming, and
would gladly have run from the hall, but that was impossible; so he
stood still, his eyes averted and his face crimson.
“See, _mon père_!” said Elinor, “see this, and this!” And she held up
the carvings for the count’s inspection.
[Illustration]
Count Bernard, who had good-naturedly crossed the room to please his
daughter, now opened his eyes wide with surprise. He took the little
figures she handed him and examined them closely, for he was a good
judge of artistic work of this kind. Then he looked at Félix, and at
length he said:
“Well, little forest bird, who taught thee the carver’s craft?”
“No one, sir,” faltered Félix; “indeed, I wish, above all things, to
learn of the Père Videau, the master carver; but my father says I must
be a shepherd, as he is.”
Here a tear rolled down Félix’s cheek, for he was half frightened and
terribly tired.
“Well, well,” said the count, “never mind! Thou art weary, little one;
we will talk of this more on the morrow. ’Tis high time now that both
of you were sound asleep. Hey, there! Jean! Jacques! Come hither and
take care of this little lad, and see to it that he hath a soft bed and
a feather pillow!”
The next morning the children ate a merry breakfast together, and after
it Count Bernard took Félix aside and asked him many questions of his
life and his home. Then, by and by, knowing how anxious the boy’s
parents would be, he ordered his trusty squire, Brian, to saddle a
horse and conduct Félix back to Sur Varne.
Meantime the little Lady Elinor begged hard that he stay longer in
the castle for her playfellow, and was quite heartbroken when she
saw the horse standing ready in the courtyard. Indeed, she would not
be satisfied until her father, the count, who could not bear to see
her unhappy, had promised to take her over some day to see Félix
in Sur Varne. Then she smiled and made a pretty farewell courtesy,
and suddenly snatching from her dark hair a crimson ribbon of Lyons
taffeta, she tied it about Félix’s sleeve, declaring:
“There! thou must keep this token, and be my little knight!” for the
Lady Elinor had many lofty notions in her small curly head.
Félix could only stammer out an embarrassed good by, for in the
presence of this lively little maid he found himself quaking more than
when he feared the terrible wolves of the forest. In another moment
Brian lifted him to the saddle, and, springing up behind, took the
bridle-rein, and off they went.
When, after several hours’ riding, they drew near Sur Varne, Félix
showed Brian the way to the Michaud cottage, and you can fancy how
overjoyed were the Père and Misè to see the travelers; for they had
been nearly beside themselves with grief, and had searched all night
for their little son.
Of course almost the first question Félix asked was about Beppo, and he
felt a great load taken off his mind when he learned that the little
truant, who really had not strayed very far from the village, had been
found and brought home by one of the shepherds, and was even then
penned up safe and sound in the sheepfold.
After a good night’s sleep Félix was quite rested from his journey. He
was busy the next day in helping to garland the Yule log, in giving
Ninette and Beppo an extra scrubbing and brushing, and in all the final
happy preparations for the great holiday.
And so Christmas Eve came. It was a lovely starlit night, and on all
sides one could hear the beautiful Christmas songs of old Provence,
that all the peasants and the children sing as they troop along the
roads on their way to the great church of the village; for thither
every one flocks as the expected hour draws on.
Within the church all was a blaze of light; hundreds of tall wax tapers
shone and twinkled and shed their golden glow over the altar, and a
wonderful crèche with its manger and almost life-size figures stood on
another special altar of its own.
Then presently the stately service began, and went on with song and
incense, and the sweet chanting of children’s voices, till suddenly
from the upper tower of the church a joyous peal of bells rang in the
midnight! All at once, through the dense throng of worshipers nearest
the door a pathway opened, and in came four peasants playing on pipes
and flutes and flageolets a quaint old air made up nearly three hundred
years before by good King René for just such a ceremony as was to
follow.
After the pipers walked ten shepherds, two by two, each wearing a long
brown cloak, and carrying a staff and lighted candle; that is, all save
the first two, and these bore, one a basket of fruit, melons and grapes
and pears of sunny Provence, while the other held in his hands a pair
of pretty white pigeons with rose-colored eyes and soft, fluttering
wings.
And then, behind the shepherds came—what do you suppose?—Ninette!
Ninette, her fleece shining like snow, a garland of laurel and myrtle
about her neck, and twigs of holly nodding behind her ears; while bound
about her woolly shoulders a little harness of scarlet leather shone
against the white with dazzling effect; and fastened to the harness,
and trundling along at Ninette’s heels, came the gayest of little
wooden carts. It was painted in the brightest colors. Its wheels were
wrapped with garlands, and in it, curled up in a fat fleecy ball, lay
Beppo! Tied about his neck in a huge bow was a crimson ribbon of Lyons
taffeta, with a sprig of holly tucked into its loops.
Beppo lay quite still, looking about him with a bewildered, half-dazed
expression, and just behind his cart came ten more shepherds with
staves and candles, while following them was a great throng of peasant
folk and children, among them Félix, all carrying lighted tapers, and
radiant with delight; for this was the Procession of the Offered Lamb,
and to walk in its train was considered by all the greatest honor and
privilege.
And especially did the shepherd folk love the beautiful old custom
which for centuries the people of Provence had cherished in memory of
the time, long ago, when the real Christ Child lay in the manger of
Bethlehem, and the shepherds of Judea sought him out to worship him,
and to offer him their fruits and lambs as gifts.
And so, on, up the long aisle, the procession slowly moved; the pipers
playing, and Ninette marching solemnly along, only now and then pausing
to thrust her nose between the Père Michaud and his companion, who
walked directly in front of her. Ninette pattered on as if she had trod
the floors of churches all her life; and as for Beppo, only once did he
stir, and then he gave a faint “Baa!” and tried to uncurl himself and
stand up; but just then the queer little cart gave a joggle which quite
upset his shaky lamb legs, and down he sank, and kept quiet throughout
the rest of the time.
When the procession reached the altar the musicians stopped playing,
and the first two shepherds, kneeling, presented the pigeons and the
basket of fruit; and then the little cart was wheeled up so as to bring
Beppo directly in front of all, and the whole company knelt as the
priest blessed the offerings.
After this beautiful ceremony which ended the service, the players
again struck up King René’s tune, and the procession, shepherds,
Ninette, Beppo, peasants, and all, once more moved on, this time down
the outer aisle and toward the great open portal.