“Succeeded in what? In stopping the quarrel?”
“You know well enough what I mean,” and she pointed to the broken fragments of the ewer on the table.
I pretended not to understand, and, with the most innocent expression, declared that I had not the least idea what she meant, but I could not help laughing, and she boxed my ears for an old rascal.
“I couldn’t stand the sight of it another minute,” I said, “it was really too hideous; either that ewer or I had to perish!”
“The one that remains is none too handsome.”
“That does not trouble me, you know, for I don’t have to look at him.”
Christmas Eve.
Now as the winter draws on the shortening days are like precious stuffs folded away into the coffer of the nights, only to reappear, already growing longer, on St. Lucy’s Day. The seasons have turned once more on their well-oiled hinges, the door has shut and opened again, and through the crack the new year begins to shine.
As I sit this Christmas Eve under the great chimney-hood, I am as it were at the bottom of a well, and can look up and see the bright stars winking in the sky, and from far off comes the sound of the bells ringing for midnight mass. I love to think that the Child was born at this dead hour when all the world was still. His voice speaks to us of the coming day and of the New Year, and Hope, with her warm wings, broods over the frozen night and softens it.
My children have all gone to church, but I have missed it for the first time in my life, and I am here alone with my dog Citron, and the household cat Patapon. A little while ago we were all gathered round the hearth, and I was telling Glodie wonderful fairy tales. You should see her open her round eyes at the story of Bout-de-Canard and the little bald chicken, or of the boy who made a fortune out of his cock by selling it to people who wanted to know when the day was coming, so that they could carry it away in their carts. It was too amusing to see her, and the others listening and laughing, every one putting in his word.