A Versailles Christmas Tide - Mary Stuart Boyd
The fact that it had met with approbation appeared to encourage the
little tree. The change may have been imaginary, but from the moment it
passed into our possession the branches seemed less despondent, the
needles more erect.
"Will you put toys on it?" the youthful porter asked suddenly.
"Yes; it is for a sick boy--a boy who has fever. Have you ever had an
_arbre de Noel_?"
"_Jamais_," was his conclusive reply: the tone thereof suggesting that
that was a felicity quite beyond the range of possibility.
The tree secured, there began the comparatively difficult work of
finding the customary ornaments of glass and glitter to deck it. A
fruitless search had left us almost in despair, when, late on Monday
afternoon, we joyed to discover miniature candles of red, yellow, and
blue on the open-air stall in front of a toy-store. A rummage in the
interior of the shop procured candle clips, and a variety of glittering
bagatelles. Laden with treasure, we hurried back to the hotel, and began
the work of decoration in preparation for the morning.
During its short stay in our room at the hotel, the erstwhile despised
little tree met with an adulation that must have warmed the heart within
its rough stem. When nothing more than three coloured glass globes, a
gilded walnut, and a gorgeous humming-bird with wings and tail of spun
glass had been suspended by narrow ribbon from its branches, Rosine, the
pretty Swiss chambermaid, chancing to enter the room with letters, was
struck with admiration and pronounced it "tres belle!"
And Karl bringing in a fresh _panier_ of logs when the adorning was
complete, and silly little delightful baubles sparkled and twinkled from
every spray, putting down his burden, threw up his hands in amazement
and declared the _arbre de Noel_ "magnifique!"
This alien Christmas-tree had an element all its own. When we were
searching for knick-knacks the shops were full of tiny Holy Babes lying
cradled in waxen innocence in mangers of yellow corn. One of these
little effigies we had bought because they pleased us. And when, the
decoration of the tree being nearly finished, the tip of the centre stem
standing scraggily naked called for covering, what more fitting than
that the dear little Sacred _Bebe_ in his nest of golden straw should
have the place of honour?
It was late on Christmas Eve before our task was ended. But next morning
when Karl, carrying in our _petit dejeuner_, turned on the electric
light, and our anxious gaze sought our work, we found it good.
Then followed a hurried packing of the loose presents; and, a _fiacre_
having been summoned, the tree which had entered the room in all
humility passed out transmogrified beyond knowledge. Rosine, duster in
hand, leant over the banisters of the upper landing to watch its
descent. Karl saw it coming and flew to open the outer door for its
better egress. Even the stout old driver of the red-wheeled cab creaked
cumbrously round on his box to look upon its beauties.
[Illustration: Alms and the Lady]
The Market was busy in the square as we rattled through. From behind
their battlemented wares the country mice waged wordy war with the town
mice over the price of merchandise. But on this occasion we were too
engrossed to notice a scene whose picturesque humour usually fascinated
us, for as the carriage jogged over the rough roads the poor little
_arbre de Noel_ palpitated convulsively. The gewgaws clattered like
castanets, as though in frantic expostulation, and the radiant
spun-glass humming-birds quivered until we expected them to break from
their elastic fetters and fly away. The green and scarlet one with the
gold-flecked wings fell on the floor and rolled under the seat just as
the cab drew up at the great door of the school.
The two Red-Cross prisoners who, now that the dominating heat of fever
had faded, were thinking wistfully of the forbidden joys of home, had no
suspicion of our intention, and we wished to surprise them. So, burdened
with our treasure, we slipped in quietly.
From her lodge window the concierge nodded approval. And at the door of
the hospital the good Soeur received us, a flush of pleasure glorifying
her tranquil face.
Then followed a moment wherein the patients were ordered to shut their
eyes, to reopen them upon the vision splendid of the _arbre de Noel_.
Perhaps it was the contrast to the meagre background of the tiny
school-hospital room, with its two white beds and bare walls, but,
placed in full view on the centre table, the tree was almost imposing.
Standing apart from Grand'mere's primulas and cyclamen as though,
conscious of its own inferiority, it did not wish to obtrude, it had
looked dejected, miserable. During its sojourn at the hotel the
appreciation of its meanness had troubled us. But now, in the shabby
little chamber, where there were no rival attractions to detract from
its glory, we felt proud of it. It was just the right size for the
surroundings. A two-franc tree, had Grand'mere possessed one, would have
been Brobdignagian and pretentious.
[Illustration: Adoration]
A donor who is handicapped by the knowledge that the gifts he selects
must within a few weeks be destroyed by fire, is rarely lavish in his
outlay. Yet our presents, wrapped in white paper and tied with blue
ribbons, when arranged round the flower-pot made a wonderful show, There
were mounted Boers who, when you pressed the ball at the end of the
air-tube, galloped in a wobbly, uncertain fashion. The invalids had good
fun later trying races with them, and the Boy professed to find that his
Boer gained an accelerated speed when he whispered "Bobs" to him. There
were tales of adventure and flasks of eau-de-Cologne and smart virile
pocket-books, one red morocco, the other blue. We regretted the
pocket-books; but their possession made the recipients who, boylike,
took no heed for the cleansing fires of the morrow, feel grown-up at
once. And they yearned for the advent of the first day of the year, that
they might begin writing in their new diaries. For the Sister there was
a miniature gold consecrated medal. It was a small tribute of our
esteem, but one that pleased the devout recipient.
[Illustration: Thankfulness]
Suspended among the purely ornamental trinkets of the tree hung tiny net
bags of crystallised violets and many large chocolates rolled up in
silver paper. The boys, who had subsisted for several days on nothing
more exciting than boiled milk, openly rejoiced when they caught sight
of the sweets. But to her patients' disgust, the Soeur, who had a pretty
wit of her own, promptly frustrated their intentions by counting the
dainties.
"I count the chocolates. They are good boys, wise boys, honest boys, and
I have every confidence in them, but--I count the chocolates!" said the
Soeur.
[Illustration: One of the Devout]
As we passed back along the Rue de la Paroisse, worshippers were
flocking in and out of Notre Dame, running the gauntlet of the unsavoury
beggars who, loudly importunate, thronged the portals. Before the quiet
nook wherein, under a gold-bestarred canopy, was the tableau of the
Infant Jesus in the stable, little children stood in wide-eyed
adoration, and older people gazed with mute devotion.
Some might deem the little spectacle theatrical, and there was a slight
irrelevance in the pot-plants that were grouped along the foreground,
but none could fail to be impressed by the silent reverence of the
congregation. No service was in process, yet many believers knelt at
prayer. Here a pretty girl returned thanks for evident blessings
received; there an old spinster, the narrowness of whose means forbade
her expending a couple of sous on the hire of a chair, knelt on the
chilly flags and murmured words of gratitude for benefits whereof her
appearance bore no outward indication.
We had left the prisoners to the enjoyment of their newly acquired
property in the morning. At gloaming we again mounted the time-worn
outside stair leading to the chamber whose casement bore the ominous red
cross. The warm glow of firelight filled the room, scintillating in the
glittering facets of the baubles on the tree; and from their pillows two
pale-faced boys--boys who, despite their lengthening limbs were yet
happily children at heart--watched eager-eyed while the sweet-faced
Soeur, with reverential care, lit the candles that surrounded the Holy
_Bebe_.
CHAPTER V
LE JOUR DE L'ANNEE
The closing days of 1900 had been unusually mild. Versailles townsfolk,
watching the clear skies for sign of change, declared that it would be
outside all precedent if Christmas week passed without snow. But,
defiant of rule, sunshine continued, and the new century opened
cloudless and bright.
[Illustration: De L'eau Chaude]
Karl, entering with hot water, gave us seasonable greeting, and as we
descended the stair, pretty Rosine, brushing boots at the open window of
the landing, also wished us a smiling _bonne nouvelle annee_. But within
or without there was little token of gaiety. Sundry booths for the sale
of gingerbread and cheap _jouets_, which had been erected in the Avenue
de St. Cloud, found business languishing, though a stalwart countryman
in blouse and sabots, whose stock-in-trade consisted of whirligigs
fashioned in the semblance of _moulins rouges_ and grotesque blue
Chinamen which he carried stuck into a straw wreath fixed on a tall
pole, had no lack of custom.
The great food question never bulks so largely in the public interest as
at the close of a year, so perhaps it was but natural that the greatest
appreciation of the festive traditions of the season should be evinced
by the shops devoted to the sale of provender. Turkeys sported scarlet
bows on their toes as though anticipating a dance rather than the oven;
and by their sides sausages, their somewhat plethoric waists girdled by
pink ribbon sashes, seemed ready to join them in the frolic. In one
cookshop window a trio of plaster nymphs who stood ankle-deep in a pool
of crimped green paper, upheld a huge garland of cunningly moulded wax
roses, dahlias, and lilac, above which perched a pheasant regnant. This
trophy met with vast approbation until a rival establishment across the
way, not to be outdone, exhibited a centrepiece of unparalleled
originality, consisting as it did of a war scene modelled entirely in
lard. Entrenched behind the battlements of the fort crowning an
eminence, Boers busied themselves with cannon whose aim was carefully
directed towards the admiring spectators outside the window, not at the
British troops who were essaying to scale the greasy slopes. Half way up
the hill, a miniature train appeared from time to time issuing from an
absolutely irrelevant tunnel, and, progressing at the rate of quite a
mile an hour, crawled into the corresponding tunnel on the other side.
At the base of the hill British soldiers, who seemed quite cognisant of
the utter futility of the Boer gunnery, were complacently driving off
cattle. Captious critics might have taken exception to the fact that the
waxen camellias adorning the hill were nearly as big as the battlements,
and considerably larger than the engine of the train. But fortunately
detractors were absent, and such trifling discrepancies did not lessen
the genuine delight afforded the spectators by this unique design which,
as a card proudly informed the world, was entirely the work of the
employes of the firm.
It was in a patisserie in the Rue de la Paroisse that we noticed an
uninviting compound labelled "Pudding Anglais, 2 fr. 1/2 kilo." A little
thought led us to recognise in this amalgamation a travesty of our old
friend plum-pudding; but so revolting was its dark, bilious-looking
exterior that we felt its claim to be accounted a compatriot almost
insulting. And it was with secret gratification that towards the close
of January we saw the same stolid, unhappy blocks awaiting purchasers.
[Illustration: The Mill]
The presence of the customary Tuesday market kept the streets busy till
noon. But when the square was again empty of sellers and buyers
Versailles relapsed into quietude. I wonder if any other town of its
size is as silent as Versailles. There is little horse-traffic. Save for
the weird, dirge-like drone of the electric cars, which seems in perfect
consonance with the tone of sadness pervading the old town whose glory
has departed, the clang of the wooden shoes on the rough pavement, and
the infrequent beat of hoofs as a detachment of cavalry moves by,
unnatural stillness seems to prevail.
Of street music there was none, though once an old couple wailing a
plaintive duet passed under our windows. Britain is not esteemed a
melodious nation, yet the unclassical piano is ever with us, and even in
the smallest provincial towns one is rarely out of hearing of the
insistent note of some itinerant musician. And no matter how far one
penetrates into the recesses of the country, he is always within reach
of some bucolic rendering of the popular music-hall ditty of the year
before last. But never during our stay in Versailles, a stay that
included what is supposedly the gay time of the year, did we hear the
sound of an instrument, or--with the one exception of the old couple,
whom it would be rank flattery to term vocalists--the note of a voice
raised in song.
With us, New Year's Day was a quiet one. A dozen miles distant, Paris
was welcoming the advent of the new century in a burst of feverish
excitement. But despite temptations, we remained in drowsy Versailles,
and spent several of the hours in the little room where two pallid
Red-Cross knights, who were celebrating the occasion by sitting up for
the first time, waited expectant of our coming as their one link with
the outside world.
[Illustration: The Presbytery]
It was with a sincere thrill of pity that at _dejeuner_ we glanced round
the _salle-a-manger_ and found all the Ogams filling their accustomed
solitary places. Only Dunois the comparatively young, and presumably
brave, was absent. The others occupied their usual seats, eating with
their unfailing air of introspective absorption. Nobody had cared enough
for these lonely old men to ask them to fill a corner at their tables,
even on New Year's Day. To judge by their regular attendance at the
hotel meals, these men--all of whom, as shown by their wearing the red
ribbon of the Legion of Honour, had merited distinction--had little
hospitality offered them. Most probably they offered as little, for,
throughout our stay, none ever had a friend to share his breakfast or
dinner.
The bearing of the hotel guests suggested absolute ignorance of one
another's existence. The Colonels, as I have said in a previous chapter,
were exceptions, but even they held intercourse only without the hotel
walls. Day after day, month after month, year after year as we were
told, these men had fed together, yet we never saw them betray even the
most cursory interest in one another. They entered and departed without
revealing, by word or look, cognisance of another human being's
presence. Could one imagine a dozen men of any other nationality thus
maintaining the same indifference over even a short period? I hope
future experience will prove me wrong, but in the meantime my former
conception of the French as a nation overflowing with _bonhomie_ and
_camaraderie_ is rudely shaken.
The day of the year would have passed without anything to distinguish it
from its fellows had not the proprietor, who, by the way, was a Swiss,
endeavoured by sundry little attentions to reveal his goodwill. Oysters
usurped the place of the customary _hors d'oeuvres_ at breakfast, and
the meal ended with _cafe noir_ and cognac handed round by the
deferential Iorson as being "offered by the proprietor," who, entering
during the progress of the _dejeuner_, paid his personal respects to his
_clientele_.
The afternoon brought us a charming discovery. We had a boy guest with
us at luncheon, a lonely boy left at school when his few
compatriots--save only the two Red-Cross prisoners--had gone home on
holiday. The day was bright and balmy; and while strolling in the park
beyond the Petit Trianon, we stumbled by accident upon the _hameau_, the
little village of counterfeit rusticity wherein Marie Antoinette loved
to play at country life.
Following a squirrel that sported among the trees, we had strayed from
the beaten track, when, through the leafless branches, we caught sight
of roofs and houses and, wandering towards them, found ourselves by the
side of a miniature lake, round whose margin were grouped the daintiest
rural cottages that monarch could desire or Court architect design.
History had told us of the creation of this unique plaything of the
capricious Queen, but we had thought of it as a thing of the past, a toy
whose fragile beauty had been wrecked by the rude blows of the
Revolution. The matter-of-fact and unromantic Baedeker, it is true, gives
it half a line. After devoting pages to the Chateau, its grounds,
pictures, and statues, and detailing exhaustively the riches of the
Trianons, he blandly mentions the gardens of the Petit Trianon as
containing "some fine exotic trees, an artificial lake, a Temple of
Love, and a hamlet where the Court ladies played at peasant life."
It is doubtful whether ten out of every hundred tourists who, Baedeker
in hand, wander conscientiously over the grand Chateau--Palace, alas! no
longer--ever notice the concluding words, or, reading its lukewarm
recommendation, deem the hamlet worthy of a visit. The Chateau is an
immense building crammed with artistic achievements, and by the time the
sightseer of ordinary capacity has seen a tenth of the pictures, a third
of the sculpture, and a half of the fountains, his endurance, if not all
his patience, is exhausted.
I must acknowledge that we, too, had visited Versailles without
discovering that the _hameau_ still existed; so to chance upon it in the
sunset glow of that winter evening seemed to carry us back to the time
when the storm-cloud of the Revolution was yet no larger than a man's
hand; to the day when Louis XVI., making for once a graceful speech,
presented the site to his wife, saying: "You love flowers. Ah! well, I
have a bouquet for you--the Petit Trianon." And his Queen, weary of the
restrictions of Court ceremony--though it must be admitted that the
willful Marie Antoinette ever declined to be hampered by
convention--experiencing in her residence in the little house freedom
from etiquette, pursued the novel pleasure to its furthest by commanding
the erection in its grounds of a village wherein she might the better
indulge her newly fledged fancy for make-believe rusticity.
About the pillars supporting the verandah-roof of the chief cottage and
that of the wide balcony above, roses and vines twined lovingly. And
though it was the first day of January, the rose foliage was yet green
and bunches of shrivelled grapes clung to the vines. It was lovely then;
yet a day or two later, when a heavy snowfall had cast a white mantle
over the village, and the little lake was frozen hard, the scene seemed
still more beautiful in its ghostly purity.
At first sight there was no sign of decay about the long-deserted
hamlet. The windows were closed, but had it been early morning, one
could easily have imagined that the pseudo villagers were asleep behind
the shuttered casements, and that soon the Queen, in some charming
_deshabille_, would come out to breathe the sweet morning air and to
inhale the perfume of the climbing roses on the balcony overlooking the
lake, wherein gold-fish darted to and fro among the water-lilies; or
expect to see the King, from the steps of the little mill where he
lodged, exchange blithe greetings with the maids of honour as they
tripped gaily to the _laiterie_ to play at butter-making, or sauntered
across the rustic bridge on their way to gather new-laid eggs at the
farm.
The sunset glamour had faded and the premature dusk of mid-winter was
falling as, approaching nearer, we saw where the roof-thatch had
decayed, where the insidious finger of Time had crumbled the stone
walls. A chilly wind arising, moaned through the naked trees. The shadow
of the guillotine seemed to brood oppressively over the scene, and,
shuddering, we hastened away.
[Illustration: To the Place of Rest]
CHAPTER VI
ICE-BOUND
Even in the last days of December rosebuds had been trying to open on
the standard bushes in the sheltered rose-garden of the Palace. But with
the early nights of January a sudden frost seized the town in its icy
grip, and, almost before we had time to realise the change of weather,
pipes were frozen and hot-water bottles of strange design made their
appearance in the upper corridors of the hotel. The naked cherubs in the
park basins stood knee-deep in ice, skaters skimmed the smooth surface
of the canal beyond the _tapis vert_, and in a twinkling Versailles
became a town peopled by gnomes and brownies whose faces peeped quaintly
from within conical hoods.
Soldiers drew their cloak-hoods over their uniform caps. Postmen went
their rounds thus snugly protected from the weather. The doddering old
scavengers, plying their brooms among the great trees of the avenues,
bore so strong a resemblance to the pixies who lurk in caves and woods,
that we almost expected to see them vanish into some crevice in the
gnarled roots of the trunks. Even the tiny acolytes trotting gravely in
the funeral processions had their heads and shoulders shrouded in the
prevailing hooded capes.
[Illustration: While the Frost Holds]
To us, accustomed though we were to an inclement winter climate, the
chill seemed intense. So frigid was the atmosphere that the first step
taken from the heated hotel hall into the outer air felt like putting
one's face against an iceberg. All wraps of ordinary thickness appeared
incapable of excluding the cold, and I sincerely envied the countless
wearers of the dominant Capuchin cloaks.
[Illustration: The Postman's Wrap]
Our room was many-windowed, and no matter how high Karl piled the logs,
nor how close we sat to the flames, our backs never felt really warm. It
was only when night had fallen and the outside shutters were firmly
closed that the thermometer suspended near the chimney-piece grudgingly
consented to record temperate heat.
[Illustration: A Lapful of Warmth]
But there was at least one snug chamber in Versailles, and that was the
room of the Red-Cross prisoners. However extravagant the degrees of
frost registered without, the boys' sick-room was always pleasantly
warm. How the good Soeur, who was on duty all day, managed to regulate
the heat throughout the night-watches was her secret. A half-waking boy
might catch a glimpse of her, apparently robed as by day, stealing out
of the room; but so noiseless were her movements, that neither of the
invalids ever saw her stealing in. They had a secret theory that in her
own little apartment, which was just beyond theirs, the Soeur, garbed,
hooded, and wearing rosary and the knotted rope of her Order, passed her
nights in devotion. Certain it was that even the most glacial of
weathers did not once avail to prevent her attending the Mass that was
held at Notre Dame each morning before daybreak.
[Illustration: The Daily Round]
Frost-flowers dulled the inner glories of the shop windows with their
unwelcome decoration. Even in the square on market mornings business
flagged. The country folks, chilled by their cold drive to town,
cowered, muffled in thick wraps, over their little charcoal stoves,
lacking energy to call attention to their wares. The sage with the
onions was absent, but the pretty girl in the red hood held her
accustomed place, warming mittened fingers at a chaufferette which she
held on her lap. The only person who gave no outward sign of misery was
the boulangere who, harnessed to her heavy hand-cart, toiled
unflinchingly on her rounds.
In the streets the comely little _bourgeoises_ hid their plump shoulders
under ugly black knitted capes, and concealed their neat hands in clumsy
worsted gloves. But despite the rigour of the atmosphere their heads,
with the hair neatly dressed _a la Chinoise_, remained uncovered. It
struck our unaccustomed eyes oddly to see these girls thus exposed,
standing on the pavement in the teeth of some icy blast, talking to
stalwart soldier friends, whose noses were their only visible feature.
[Illustration: Three Babes and a Bonne]
The ladies of Versailles give a thought to their waists, but they leave
their ankles to Providence, and any one having experience of Versailles
winter streets can fully sympathise with their trust; for even in dry
sunny weather mud seems a spontaneous production that renders goloshes a
necessity. And when frost holds the high-standing city in its frigid
grasp the extreme cold forbids any idea of coquetry, and thickly lined
boots with cloth uppers--a species of foot-gear that in grace of outline
is decidedly suggestive of "arctics"--become the only comfortable wear.