They came, walking two and two, with their coronets on their heads—dukes and duchesses, princes and princesses; they all kissed the child and pronounced the name which each had given him. Then the four-and-twenty names were shouted out, one after another, and written down, to be kept in the state records.
Everybody was satisfied except the little Prince, who moaned faintly under his christening robes, which nearly smothered him.
Though very few knew it, the Prince in coming to the chapel had met with an accident. A young lady of rank, whose duty it was to carry him to and from the chapel, had been so busy arranging her train with one hand, that she stumbled and let him fall. She picked him up—the accident was so slight it seemed hardly worth speaking of. The baby had turned pale, but did not cry. No one knew that anything was wrong. Even if he had moaned, the silver trumpets were loud enough to drown his voice. It would have been a pity to let anything trouble such a day.
Such a procession! Heralds in blue and silver; pages in crimson and gold; and a troop of little girls in dazzling white, carrying baskets of flowers, which they strewed all the way before the child and the nurse,—finally the four and twenty godfathers and godmothers, splendid to look at.
The prince was a mere heap of lace and muslin, and had it not been for a canopy of white satin and ostrich feathers, which was held over him whenever he was carried, his presence would have been unnoticed.
"It is just like fairyland," said one little flower-girl to another, "and I think the only thing the Prince wants now is a fairy godmother."
"Does he?" said a shrill, but soft and not unpleasant voice, and a person no larger than a child was seen.
She was a pleasant little, old, grey-haired, grey-eyed woman, dressed all in grey.
"Take care and don't let the baby fall again."
The grand nurse started, flushing angrily.