Christmas Day came; and, after the Grand Mass was over, the great hall of the château was opened, and tables were spread with abundance of good cheer; there were presents for the little children too; and there were jongleurs who, instead of the customary love ditties, sang old Christmas carols in the soft Provençal dialect. Amidst the hilarity there was, what by no means was common in those
days, order and decorum. This was due in part to the restraint and awe inspired by the old château—opened for the first time in so many years; but more to the presence in their midst of the baron and the priest, who passed from one group to another with a kind word to each.
After a while the priest laid his hand on the baron’s arm:
“Let us retire to yonder oriel window—there we may sit in quiet and contemplate this merry scene.”
The baron gladly escaped from the crowd, but, as he seated himself, a sigh of weariness escaped him, and a cloud gathered on his brow.
“How happy you have made all these good people,” said the priest. “The merriment of children has something contagious in it, has it not?”
“What have I to do with the merriment of other people’s children—I, a poor childless old man?”
The baron spoke bitterly; for the first time in his life had he made an allusion to his griefs.
“But see these three pretty little children coming towards us,” the priest continued; “we did not see them as we passed through the hall.” And he beckoned them nearer—a little girl about eight years old, a little boy some two or three years younger, and the smallest just able to walk: beautiful children they were, but dressed in the ordinary dress of peasant children.
“Do not refuse to kiss these pretty little ones for the love of the little Child who was born to-day,” pleaded the priest, as he raised one on his own knee. “Now, my lord, if it were the poorest vassal in your domains, would he not be a happy man whom these pretty ones should call grandpapa?”