While so many misfortunes were threatening the city, the inhabitants
were quietly keeping Christmas.
Notwithstanding the uneasiness the opinion of the watchman had given,
notwithstanding the alarm caused by terror of the pirates, in every
house, poor or rich, preparations were being made for the patriarchal
feast.
We have spoken of the magnificent cradle which had long been in course
of preparation through the untiring industry of Dame Dulceline.
It was at last finished and placed in the hall of the dais, or hall of
honour in Maison-Forte.
Midnight had just sounded. The woman in charge was impatiently awaiting
the return of Raimond V., his daughter, Honorât de Berrol, and other
relations and guests whom the baron had invited to the ceremony.
All the family and guests had gone to La Ciotat, to be present at the
midnight mass.
Abbé Mascarolus had said mass in the chapel of the castle for those who
had remained at home.
We will conduct the reader to the hall of the dais, which occupied
two-thirds of the long gallery which communicated with the two wings of
the castle.
It was never opened except on solemn occasions.
A splendid red damask silk covered its walls. To supply the place of
flowers, quite rare in that season, masses of green branches, cut from
trees and arranged in boxes, hid almost entirely the ten large arched
windows of this immense hall.
At one end of the hall rose a granite chimneypiece, ten feet high and
heavily sculptured.
Notwithstanding the season was cold, no fire burned in this vast
fireplace, but an immense pile, composed of branches of vine, beech,
olive, and fir-apples, only waited the formality of custom to throw
waves of light and heat into the grand and stately apartment.
Two pine-trees with long green branches ornamented with ribbons,
oranges, and bunches of grapes, were set up in boxes on each side of
the chimney, and formed above the mantelpiece a veritable thicket of
verdure.
Six copper chandeliers with lighted yellow wax candles only partially
dissipated the darkness of the immense room.
At the other end, opposite the chimney, rose the dais, resembling
somewhat the canopy of a bed, with curtains, hangings, and cushions of
red damask, as were, too, the mantle and gloves, a part of the equipment
of office.
The red draperies covered, with their long folds, five wooden steps,
which were hidden under a rich Turkey carpet.
Ordinarily the armorial chair of Raimond V. was placed on this
elevation, and here enthroned, the old gentleman, as lord of the manor,
administered on rare occasions justice to high and low. On Christmas
Day, however, the cradle of the infant Jesus occupied this place of
honour.
A table of massive oak, covered over with a rich oriental drapery,
furnished the middle of the gallery.
On this table could be seen an ebony box handsomely carved, with a coat
of arms on its lid. This box contained the book of accounts, a sort of
record in which were written the births and all other important family
events.
Armchairs and benches of carved oak, with twisted feet, completed the
furniture of this hall, to which its size and severe bareness gave an
imposing character.
Dame Dulceline and Abbé Mascarolus had just finished placing the cradle
under the dais. This marvel was a picture in relief about three feet
square at the base and three feet high. The faithful representation
of the stable where the Saviour was born would have been too severe a
limitation to the poetical conceptions of the good abbé.
So, instead of a stable, the holy scene was pictured under a sort of
arcade sustained by two half ruined supports. In the spaces between the
stones, real little stones artistically cut, were hung long garlands of
natural vines and leaves, most beautifully intertwined.
A cloud of white wax seemed to envelope the upper part of the arcade.
Five or six cherubs about a thumb high, modelled in wax painted
a natural colour, and wearing azure wings made of the feathers of
humming-birds, were here and there set in the cloud, and held a streamer
of white silk, in the middle of which glittered the words, embroidered
in letters of gold: Gloria in Jezcelriir.
The supports of the arcade rested on a sort of carpet of fine moss,
packed so closely as to resemble green velvet, and in front of this
erection was placed the cradle of the Saviour of the world; a real,
miniature cradle, covered over with the richest laces. In it reposed the
infant Jesus.
Kneeling by the cradle, the Virgin Mary bent over the Babe her maternal
brow, the white veil of the Queen of Angels falling over her feet and
hiding half of her azure coloured silk robe.
The paschal lamb, his four feet bound with a rose coloured ribbon, was
laid at the foot of the cradle; behind it the kneeling ox thrust his
large head, and his eyes of enamel seemed to contemplate the divine
Infant.
The ass, on a more distant plane, and half hidden by the posts of the
arcade, behind which it stood, also showed his meek and gentle head.
The dog seemed to cringe near the cradle, while the shepherds, clothed
in coarse cassocks, and the magi kings, dressed in rich robes of
brocatelle, were offering their adoration.
A fourth row of little candles, made of rose-scented wax, burned around
the cradle.
An immense amount of work, and really great resources of imagination,
had been necessary to perfect such an exquisite picture. For instance,
the ass, which was about six thumbs in height, was covered in mouse-skin
which imitated his own to perfection. The black and white ox owed his
hair to an India pig of the same colour, and his short and polished
black horns to the rounded nippers of an enormous beetle.
The robes of the magi kings revealed a fairy-like skill and patience,
and their long white hair was really veritable hair, which Dame
Dulceline had cut from her own venerable head.
As to the figures of the cherubs, the infant Jesus, and other actors in
this holy scene, they had been purchased in Marseilles from one of those
master wax-chandlers, who always kept assorted materials necessary in
the construction of these cradles.
Doubtless it was not high art, but there was, in this little monument of
a laborious and innocent piety, something as simple and as pathetic
as the divine scene which they tried to reproduce with such religious
conscientiousness.
The good old priest and Dame Dulceline, after having lit the last
candles which surrounded the cradle, stood a moment, lost in admiration
of their work.
“Never, M. Abbé,” said Dame Dulceline, “have we had such a
beautiful cradle at Maison-Forte.”
“That is true, Dame Dulceline; the representation of the animals
approaches nature as closely as is permitted man to approach the marvels
of creation.”
“Ah, M. Abbé, why did it have to be that the accursed Bohemian, who
they say is an emissary of the pirates, should give us the secret of
making glass eyes for these animals?”
“What does it matter, Dame Dulceline? Perhaps some day the miscreant
will learn the eternal truth. The Lord employs every arm to build his
temple.”
“Pray tell me, M. Abbé, why we must put the cradle under the dais
in the hall of honour. Soon it will be forty years since I began making
cradles for Maison-Forte des Anbiez. My mother made them for Raimond
IV., father of Raimond V., for as many years. Ah, well! I have never
asked before, nor have I even asked myself why this hall was always
selected for the blessed exposition.”
“Ah, you see, Dame Dulceline, there is always, at the base of our
ancient religious customs, something consoling for the humble, the weak,
and the suffering, and also something imposing as a lesson for the happy
and the rich and the powerful of this world. This cradle, for instance,
is the symbol of the birth of the divine Saviour. He was the poor child
of a poor artisan, and yet some day he was to be as far above the most
powerful of men as the heavens are above the earth. So you see, Dame
Dulceline, upon the anniversary day of the redemption, the poor and
rustic cradle of the infant Saviour takes the place of honour in the
ceremonial hall of the noble baron.”
“Ah, I understand, M. Abbé, they put the infant Jesus in the place of
the noble baron, to show that the lords of this world should be first to
bow before the Saviour!”
“Without doubt, Dame Dulceline, in thus doing homage to the Lord
through the symbol of his power, the baron preaches by example the
communion and equality of men before God.”
Dame Dulceline remained silent a moment, thinking of the abbé’s
words, then, satisfied with his explanation, she proposed another
question to him, which in her mind was more difficult of solution.
“M. Abbé,” asked she, with an embarrassed air, “you say that at
the base of all ancient customs there is always a lesson; can there be
one, then, in the custom of Palm Sunday, when foundling children run
about the streets of Marseilles with branches of laurel adorned with
fruit? For instance, last year, on Palm Sunday,--I blush to think of
it even now, M. Abbé,--I was walking on the fashionable promenade
of Marseilles with Master Tale-bard-Talebardon, who was not then the
declared enemy of monseigneur, and, lo! one of the unfortunate little
foundlings stopped right before me and the consul, and said, with a
sweet voice, as he kissed our hands, ‘Good morning, mother! good
morning, father!’ By St Dulceline, my patron saint, M. Abbé, I turned
purple with shame, and Master Talebard-Talebardon did, too. I beg
your pardon, respectfully, for alluding to the coarse jokes of Master
Laramée, who accompanied us, on the subject of this poor foundling’s
insult! But this Master Laramée has neither modesty nor shame. I could
not help repulsing with horror this nursling of public charity, and I
pinched his arm sharply, and said to him: ‘Will you be silent, you
ugly little bastard?’ He felt his fault, for he began to weep, and when
I complained of his indecent impudence to a grave citizen, he replied
to me: ‘My good lady, such is the custom here; on Palm Sunday foundlings
have the privilege of running through the streets, and saying, ‘father
and mother,’ to all whom they may meet.”
“That is really the custom, Dame Dulceline,” said the abbé.
“Well, it may be the custom, M. Abbé, but is that not a very
impertinent and improper custom, to permit unfortunate little children
without father or mother to walk up and say ‘mother’ to honest, discreet
persons like myself, for example, who prefer the peace of celibacy to
the disquietudes of family? As to the morality of this custom, I pray
you explain it, M. Abbé. I look for it in vain with all my eyes. I can
see nothing in it but what is outrageously indecent!”
“And you are mistaken, Dame Dulceline,” said Abbé Mascarolus;
“this custom is worthy of respect, and you were wrong to treat that
poor child so cruelly.”
“I was wrong? That little rascal comes and calls me mother, and I
permit it? Why, then, thanks to this custom, there would--”
“Thanks to this custom,” interrupted the abbé, “thanks to the
privilege that these little unfortunates have, of being able to say, one
day in the year, ‘father and mother’ to those they meet,--those dear
names that they never pronounce, which, perhaps, may have never passed
their lips--alas! how many there are, and I have seen them, who say
these words with tears in their eyes, as they remember that, when that
day is past, they cannot repeat the blessed words! And sometimes it
happens, Dame Dulceline, that strangers, moved to pity by such innocence
and sorrow, or being touched by the caressing words, have adopted some
of these unfortunates; others have given abundant alms, because this
innocent appeal for charity is almost always heard. You see,
Dame Dulceline, that this custom, too, has a useful end,--a pious
signification.”
The old woman bowed her head in silence, and finally replied to the good
chaplain:
“You are a clever man, M. Abbé; you are right. See what it is to have
knowledge! Now I repent of having repulsed the child so cruelly. Next
Palm Sunday I will not fail to carry several yards of good, warm cloth,
and nice linen, and this time, I promise you, I will not act the cruel
stepmother with the poor children who call me mother! But if that old
sot, Laramée, makes any indecent joke about me, as sure as he has eyes
I will prove to him that I have claws!”
“That would prove too much, Dame Dulceline. But, since monseigneur
does not yet return, and since we are discussing the customs of our good
old Provence, and their usefulness to poor people, come, now, what
have you observed on the day of St Lazarus, concerning the dance of St
Elmo?”
“What do you want me to tell you, M. Abbé? Now I distrust myself;
before your explanation I railed against the custom of foundlings on
Palm Sunday, now I respect it.”
“Say always, Dame Dulceline, that the sin of ignorance is excusable.
But what is your opinion concerning the dance of St Elmo?”
“Bless me, M. Abbé, I understand nothing about it! I sometimes ask
myself what is the good, the day of the feast of St. Elmo, of dressing
up, at the expense of the city or community, all the poor young boys and
girls as handsomely as possible. That is not all. Not content with that,
these young people go from house to house, among the rich citizens and
the lords, asking to borrow something. This one wants a gold necklace,
that one a pair of diamond earrings, another a silver belt, another a
hatband set with precious stones, or a sword-belt braided in gold. Ah,
well! in my opinion,--but I may change it in an hour,--M. Abbé, it is
wrong to lend all these costly articles to poor people and artisans who
have not a cent.”
“Why so? Since the feast of St. Lazarus has been celebrated here, have
you ever heard, Dame Dulceline, that any of those precious jewels have
been lost or stolen?”
“Good God in Heaven! Never, M. Abbé, neither here, nor in Marseilles,
nor in all Provence, I believe. Thank God, our youth is honest, after
all! For instance, last year Mlle. Reine loaned her Venetian girdle,
which Stephanette says cost more than two thousand crowns. Ah, well!
Thereson, the daughter of the miller at Pointe-aux-Cailles, who wore
this costly ornament during all the feast, came and brought it back
before sunset, although she had permission to keep it till night. And
for this same feast of St. Lazarus, monseigneur loaned to Pierron, the
fisherman of Maison-Forte, his beautiful gold chain, and his medallion
set with rubies, that Master Laramée cleans, as you told him to do,
with teardrops of the vine.”
“That is true; and if one can mix with these teardrops of the vine a
tear of a stag killed in venison season, Dame Dulceline, the rubies will
shine like sparks of fire.”
“Ah, well, M. Abbé, Pierron, the fisherman, brought back faithfully
that precious chain even before the appointed hour. I repeat, M. Abbé,
our youth is an honest youth, but I do not see the use of risking
the loss, not by theft, but by accident, of beautiful jewels, for the
pleasure of seeing these young people dance the old Provençal dances in
the streets and roads, to the sound of tambourines and cymbalettes and
flutes, that play the national airs, ooubados and bedocheos, until you
are deaf.”
“Ah, well, Dame Dulceline,” said Mascarolus, smiling sweetly, “you
are going to learn that you were wrong not to see in this custom, too,
a lesson and a use. When mademoiselle loaned to Thereson, the poor
daughter of a miller, a costly ornament, she showed a blind confidence
in the girl; now, Dame Dulceline, confidence begets honesty and prevents
dishonesty. That is not all; in giving Thereson the pleasure of wearing
this ornament for one day, our young mistress showed her at the same
time the charm and the nothingness of it, and then, as this pleasure is
not forbidden to the poor people, they do not look on it with jealousy.
This custom, in fact, establishes delightful relations between rich and
poor, which are based on probity, confidence, and community of interest
What do you think now of the dance of St. Elmo, Dame Dulceline?”
“I think, M. Chaplain, that, although I have no jewels but a cross and
a gold chain, I will lend them with a good heart to young Madelon, the
best worker in my laundry, on the next feast of St. Lazarus, because
every time I take this gold cross out of its box the poor girl devours
it with her eyes, and I am sure that she will be wild with joy. But I
am getting bewildered, M. Abbé; I brought some pure oil to fill the
two Christmas lamps, which mademoiselle is to light, and I was about to
forget them.”
“Speaking of oil, Dame Dulceline, do not forget to fill well with oil
that jug in which I have steeped those two beautiful bunches of grapes.
I wish to attempt the experiment cited by M. de Maucaunys.”
“What experiment, M. Abbé?”
“This erudite and veracious traveller pretends that by leaving bunches
of grapes, gathered on the day which marks the middle of September, in
a jug of pure oil for seven months, the oil will acquire such a peculiar
property that whenever it burns in a lamp whose light is thrown on the
wall or the floor, thousands of bunches of grapes will appear on this
wall or floor, perfect in colour, but as deceptive as objects painted
on glass.” Dame Dulceline was just about to testify her admiration for
the good and credulous chaplain, when she heard in the court the sound
of carriage and horses, which announced the return of Raimond V.
She disappeared precipitately. The door opened, and Raimond V. entered
the gallery with several ladies and gentlemen, friends and their wives,
who had also been present at the midnight mass in the parochial church
of La Ciotat.
The baron and the other men were in holiday attire, and the women in
that dress which going and coming on horseback rendered necessary,
inasmuch as carriages were very rare.
Although the countenance of Raimond V. was always joyous and cordial
when he welcomed his guests at Maison-Forte, an expression of sadness
from time to time now came over his features, for he had relinquished
all hope of seeing his brothers at this family festival.
The guests of the baron all admired the cradle Dame Dulceline had
prepared with so much skill, and the chaplain received the praises of
the company with as much modesty as gratitude.
Honorât de Berrol appeared more melancholy than ever.
Reine, on the contrary, realising the necessity for making him forget
the refusal of her hand, which she had at last decided upon, by means of
various evidences of kindness and friendship, treated the young man with
cousinly esteem and affection.
Nevertheless, she was conscious of a painful embarrassment; she had not
yet informed the baron of her determination not to marry Honorât
de Berrol. She had only obtained her father’s consent to have the
nuptials delayed until the return of the commander and Father Elzear,
who, from what was implied in their last letters, might arrive at any
moment.
Eulogies on the cradle seemed inexhaustible, when the baron, approaching
the company of admiring guests, said: “My opinion is, ladies, that we
had better begin the _cachofué_, for this hall is very damp and cold,
and the fire is only waiting to blaze!”
The _cachofué_, or _feu caché_, was an old Provençal ceremony, which
consisted of bringing in a Christmas log and lighting it every evening
until the New Year. This log was lighted and extinguished, so that it
would last the given time.
“Yes, yes, the _cachofué_, baron!” exclaimed the ladies, gaily.
“You are to be the actor in the ceremony, so the time to begin depends
on you.”
“Alas! my friends, I hoped indeed that this honoured ceremony of our
fathers would have been more complete, and that my brother the commander
would have brought with him my good brother Elzear. But that is not to
be thought of for this night at least.”
“The Lord grant that the commander may arrive soon with his black
galley,” said one of the ladies to the baron. “These wicked pirates,
whom we all dread, would not dare make a descent if they knew he was in
port.” “The pirates to the devil, good cousin!” cried the baron,
gaily. “The watchman is spying them from the height of Cape l’Aigle;
at his first signal all the coast will be in arms. The port of La Ciotat
is armed; the citizens and fishermen are keeping Christmas with only one
hand, they have the other on their muskets; my cannon and small guns
are loaded, and ready to fire on the entrance to the port, if these
sea-robbers dare show themselves. Manjour! my guests and cousins, if I
had obeyed the Marshal of Vitry, at this hour my house would be disarmed
and out of condition to defend the city.”
“And you did very bravely, baron,” said the lord of Signerol, “to
act as you did. Now the example has been given and the marshal will
meddle no longer with our affairs.”
“Manjour! I hope so indeed. If he does, we will meddle with his,”
said the baron. “But where is my young comrade of the _cachofué?_”
added he. “I am the eldest, but I must have the youngest to go for the
Christmas log.”
“Here is the dear child, father,” said Reine, leading a beautiful
boy of six years, with large blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and lovely curls,
up to the baron. His mother, a cousin of the baron, looked at the boy
with pride, not unmixed with fear, for she suspected that he might
not be equal to the complicated rôle necessary to be played in this
patriarchal ceremony.
“Are you sure you understand what is to be done, my little Cæsar?”
asked the baron, bending over the little boy.
“Yes, yes, monseigneur. Last year, at grandfather’s house, I carried
the Christmas log,” replied the child, with a capable and resolute
air.
“The linnet will become a hawk, I promise you, my cousin,” said the
baron to the mother, delighted with the child’s self-confidence.
Raimond V. then took the little fellow by the hand, and, followed by his
guests, he descended to the door of Maison-Forte, which opened into the
inner court, before beginning the ceremony of the _cachofué_.
All the inmates and dependents of the castle, labourers, farmers,
fishermen, vine-dressers, servants, women, children, and old men, were
assembled in the court.
Although the light of the moon was quite bright, a large number of
torches, made of resinous wood fastened to poles, illuminated the court
and the interior buildings of Maison-Forte.
In the middle of the court were collected the combustibles necessary
to kindle an immense pile of wood, which was to be set on fire the same
moment that the _cachofué_ in the hall of the dais was lighted.
Raimond V. appeared before the assembly attended by four lackeys in
livery, who walked before him, bearing candlesticks with white wax
candles. He was followed by his family and his guests.
At the sight of the baron, cries of “Long live monseigneur!”
resounded on all sides.
In front of the door on the ground lay a large olive-tree, the trunk and
branches. It was the Christmas log.
Abbé Mascarolus, in cassock and surplice, commenced the ceremony by
blessing the Christmas log, or the _calignaou_, as it was called in the
Provençal language; then the child approached, followed by Laramée,
who, in his costume of majordomo, bore on a silver tray a gold cup
filled with wine.
The child took the cup in his little hands and poured, three times, a
few drops of wine on the _calignaou_, or Christmas log, and recited, in
a sweet and silvery voice, the old Provençal verse, always said upon
this solemn occasion:
“‘Allègre, Diou nous allègre,
Cachofué ven, tou ben ven,
Diou nous fague la grace de veire l’an que ven,
Se si an pas mai, que signen pas men.’”
“Oh, let us be joyful, God gives us all joy;
Cachofué comes, and it comes all to bless;
God grant we may live to see the New Year;
But if we are no more, may we never be less!”
These innocent words, recited by the child with charming grace, were
listened to with religious solemnity.
Then the child wet his lips with the wine in the cup, and presented it
to Raimond V., who did likewise, and the cup passed from hand to hand,
among all the members of the baron’s family, until each one had wet
his lips with the consecrated beverage.
Then twelve foresters in holiday dress lifted the calignaou, and carried
it into the hall of the dais, while, in conformity to the law of the
ceremony, Raimond V. held in his hand one of the roots of the tree, and
the child held one of the branches; the old man saying, “Black roots
are old age,” and the child answering, “Green branches are youth,”
and the assistants adding in chorus, “God bless us all, who love him
and serve him!”
The log, borne into the hall on the robust shoulders of the foresters,
was placed in the immense fireplace, whereupon the child took a pine
torch, and held it to a pile of fir-apples and boughs; a tall white
flame sparkled in the vast, black hearth, and threw a joyous radiance to
the farther end of the gallery.
“Christmas, Christmas!” cried the guests of the baron, clapping
their hands.
“Christmas! Christmas!” repeated the vassals assembled in the
interior court.
At the same moment, the pile of wood outside was kindled, and the tall
yellow flames mounted in the midst of enthusiastic shouts, and whirls of
a Provençal dance.
One other last ceremony was to take place, and then the guests would
gather around the supper-table.
Reine advanced to the cradle, and Stephanette brought to her a wooden
bowl filled with the corn of St. Barbara, which was already green. For
it was the custom in Provence, every fourth of December, St Barbara’s
day, to sow grains of corn in a porringer filled with earth frequently
watered. This wet earth was exposed to a very high temperature, and the
com grew rapidly. If it was green, it predicted a good harvest, if it
was yellow, the harvest would be bad.
Mlle, des Anbiez placed the wooden bowl at the foot of the cradle, and
on each side of this offering lit two little square silver lamps, called
in the Provençal tongue the lamps of Calenos, or Christmas lamps.
“St Barbara’s corn, green; fine harvests all the year!” cried
the baron: “so may my harvests and your harvests be, my guests and
cousins! Now to the table, yes, to the table, friends, and then come the
Christmas presents for friends and relations!”
Master Laramée opened the folding doors which led to the dining-room,
and announced supper. It is needless to speak of the abundance of this
meal, worthy in every respect of the hospitality of Raimond V.
What, however, we must not fail to remark, is that there were three
table-cloths, in conformity to another ancient custom.
On the smallest, which was in the middle of the table, in the style of a
centre-piece, were the presents of fruits and cakes that the members of
the family made to their head.
On the second, a little larger and lapping over the first, were arranged
the national dishes of the simplest character, such as bouillabaisse, a
fish-soup, famous in Provence, and broiled salt tunny.
Lastly, on the third cloth, which covered the rest of the table, were
the choicest dishes in abundance, and artistically arranged.
We will leave the guests of Raimond V. to the enjoyment of a patriarchal
hospitality as they discussed old customs, and grew excited over
arguments relating to freedom and ancient privileges, always so
respected and so valiantly defended by those who remain faithful to the
pathetic and religious traditions of the olden time.
That happy, peaceful evening was but too soon interrupted by the events
to which we will now introduce the reader.