The alcove on which it opened was hung with cobwebs. The floor was littered; drawers gaping awry disclosed a medley of candle ends, tinsel flowers, vases and books. But on shelves across the end, my eye caught glowing colours of vestments, green and gold and purple, lying in the same folds, apparently, in which M. le Curé had left them when he went forth into captivity three years ago. In a corner cabinet were sundry images, broken for the most part, and among them that of a wax doll, broken-armed and blackened with age, but encased in a bell of glass. In an opposite corner, behind a scaffolding, I found another treasure; a tiny thatched hut upon a standard, evidently designed to be borne in processions. Ivy, turned crisp and brown, entwined its four pillars, and chestnut leaves, silvered with dust, made an appliqué upon the thatch. The God of Gardens, the Festival of the First Fruits, perhaps,—had I not come here upon a Roman survival in old Picardy? But, suddenly, I saw with other eyes; here were the cross and the Christ-child; I had stumbled on the Christmas crèche.
Time pressed; I noted again the faded blazons which flanked the saints on either wall—a closed crown, a shield embossed with seven fleurs-de-lis, and upheld by two leopards—shut the outer door, and took my way to the Château. One can see that the Château of Canizy is ancient, by its two stone turrets and its Gothic arch. At least, it is so ancient that no one in the village remembers the family whose royal escutcheon adorns its chapel walls. It is but lately a ruin, however, at the wanton hands of the Germans. In a stable in the farmyard, I found the family I had come to visit, formerly domestics of the estate.
The old, bent grandmother, vacant-eyed and silent, sat in a corner nearest the fire. The mother, whom I never saw without her black cap, shook hands and dusted off a chair. The daughter, lovely as a beam of sunshine in that dark interior, offered me wine.
“But no,” I protested, “it is late,” and having paid for the knitting of a pair of stockings, which was my errand, I continued, “Tell me, please. I have just come from the sacristy. There is a little house there.”
“The crèche!”
“There is also a doll.”
“Yes, the little Jesus!”
“Have you then all you need for the crèche, and would you like a mass for Noël?”
At that even the grandmother’s eyes lighted.
“A mass! We have not had one for three years!”