Dear spotless little stockings, viewed with joy,
Pure memories of my darling girl and boy,
How tenderly though silently you tell
Of lightsome, pattering footsteps loved so well!
[Laughs to himself softly.]
Ah, me! that I, a noble great in rank,
Should thus at midnight play the mountebank!
And all because I guess how young Henri,
With curious eagerness, resolves to see
That mystic Saint of Christmas, whom no eye
Discerns, whom some believe in, some deny!
Zounds! what a foolish father I have grown!
Does Henri sleep, or will he come alone,
Just as the clock strikes twelve, in night array,
This fire-lit hall's weird shadows to survey?
Well, if he comes, the wicked rogue shall find
A Santa Claus quite suited to his mind.—
And yet, while fancying his childish glee,
A strange, unpleasant thought oppresses me:
Suppose it chanced that while I lingered here
The real Kris Kringle should himself appear!
That situation would indeed be fine
For one decked out in mimic robes like mine.
Still, since this garb was easy to obtain
From old ball costumes of our last King's reign,
And since I knew how Henri's heart was set
On seeing the good Saint whom so few have met,
I quietly determined for one hour
To frolic thus, forgetting state and power.
[Listens intently at R.]
A movement in the turret overhead.—
Some servant, doubtless, climbing to his bed.
Hark! steps! I'll fly at once—the sound grows near.
Too late. I am seen. Confusion!—who is here?
[Enter Gaspard at R. He is disguised as Santa Claus. He wears a pair of taffetas breeches uncouthly rolled up to his knees, gray yarn stockings, and an old jacket trimmed with rusty silver buttons. He has a broad hat shading his face, and carries upon his back some sort of huge stuffed sack. He stoops affectedly while walking, and employs the slow, tottering pace of an aged man. Just as he appears on stage, and while the Baron retreats bewilderedly toward L., twelve loud, solemn strokes sound, as if from a distant clock.]
Gaspard (who has observed the Baron) [aside].
Ah! Heaven, who can it be, in mercy's name?
That pack of toys, long beard, and stooping frame
'Tis Santa Claus, by everything that's queer!
My knees are failing me; I quake with fear.
Baron (watching Gaspard) [aside].