Troubadour Tales 12

Troubadour Tales 12

Meantime Count Boni felt himself in a very delicate position. As

Geoffrey’s overlord, it was his duty to punish him for taking the

sword, even though it had been restored to its rightful owner; but as

the sword had been taken because the little boy wished to keep Count

Boni himself from the chance of being killed, how could he inflict

severe punishment upon him? Indeed, this question was so difficult that

the count concluded he must take time to think it over, and meantime

he held Geoffrey prisoner at the château. This did not prevent the boy

from having the kindest treatment and the freedom of the grounds, where

he enjoyed many a merry romp with little Isabeau, who was happy as a

bird, and thought Geoffrey the nicest and most wonderful boy in all

the world because he had succeeded in preventing the duel. Nor was

the least cloud cast over their glee when one day they heard that the

wicked Hugo had died in a fit of apoplexy, brought on by one of his

terrible rages. In fact, if the truth must be told, they went off by

themselves and had a shamelessly gay extra romp in celebration of the

news.

 

Thus several weeks had passed, when one day there arrived at the

château a messenger from the king, demanding the custody of a peasant

boy by the name of Geoffrey.

 

Poor Geoffrey was again badly frightened, thinking that this time

surely he would receive punishment! But his fears were turned to

delight when Count Boni told him that the king had sent, not to

imprison him, but to have him live in the royal household. The

messenger explained to Boni that when the heralds returned to Paris,

they told King Louis the story of the little boy, and that he was

greatly pleased with the lad’s bravery and devotion, and wished to have

him brought to the palace.

 

[Illustration]

 

So Geoffrey became a page of King Louis, and was very, very happy. He

was happy, too, because he could now send back to those he loved at

home much more for their comfort than he could as a little serving boy

at the Guillaume-le-Conquérant inn. And then, sometimes, when one of

his messengers had an errand to Dives, the good king would let Geoffrey

go along, and he would then make a little visit to his family, and

would see his dear Count Boni and little Isabeau, who never ceased to

take the greatest pride and interest in him.

 

By and by, King Louis discovered how sweet a voice he possessed, and

that it had been well-trained for church music. This pleased the king

much, as he was very devout in his worship, and did a great deal

during his reign to improve the music in the cathedrals of France. So

Geoffrey was at once placed under masters, and he sang for a number

of years in the king’s own chapel, becoming one of the most famous

little choristers of the realm. Later on, as he grew to manhood, he

passed from being a page, to a squire; and after that, he was appointed

man-at-arms in the bodyguard of the king, who grew to love and trust

him greatly.

 

Some years later still, when King Louis again set forth for the East,

on the crusade from which he was never to return, Geoffrey was among

the most faithful of the followers who took ship with him. And when the

poor king lay dying, before the walls of the far-away city of Tunis, it

was Geoffrey whose tenderness and devotion helped to comfort the last

days of the stricken monarch.

 

When all was over, and the little band of crusaders once more returned

to their homes in France, none among them was more loved and respected

than the Viscount Geoffrey; for shortly before his death the good King

Louis had, with his own hand, bestowed knighthood upon the little

peasant boy, declaring that he had won the distinction, not only

because of his great bravery and his honorable life, but also because

of the exceeding sweetness and gentleness of his character.

 

 

 

 

FELIX

 

WHO SOUGHT HIS LOST SHEEP AT CHRISTMASTIDE

BY A WAY THAT LED TO HIS

HEART’S DESIRE AND MADE

HIM A FAMOUS CARVER

OF OLD PROVENCE

 

 

A very long while ago, perhaps as many as two hundred years, the little

Provençal village of Sur Varne was all bustle and stir, for it was the

week before Christmas; and in all the world, no one has known better

how to keep the joyous holiday than have the happy-hearted people of

Provence.

 

Everybody was busy, hurrying to and fro, gathering garlands of myrtle

and laurel, bringing home Yule logs with pretty old songs and

ceremonies, and in various ways making ready for the all-important

festival.

 

Not a house in Sur Varne but in some manner told the coming of the

blessed birthday, and especially were there great preparations in

the cottage of the shepherd, Père Michaud. This cottage, covered

with white stucco, and thatched with long marsh-grass, stood at the

edge of the village; olive and mulberry trees clustered about it,

and a wild jasmine vine clambered over the doorway, while on this

particular morning all around the low projecting eaves hung a row of

tiny wheat-sheaves, swinging in the crisp December air, and twinkling

in the sunlight like a golden fringe. For the Père Michaud had been

up betimes, making ready the Christmas feast for the birds, which no

Provençal peasant ever forgets at this gracious season; and the birds

knew it, for already dozens of saucy robins and linnets and fieldfares

were gathering in the Père’s mulberry-trees, their mouths fairly

watering with anticipation.

 

Within the cottage the good dame, the Misè Michaud, with wide sleeves

rolled up and kirtle tucked back, was hard at work making all manner of

holiday sweetmeats; while in the huge oven beside the blazing hearth

the great Christmas cakes were baking, the famous _pompou_ and almond

pâtés, dear to the hearts of the children of old Provence.

 

Now and then, as the cottage door swung open on the dame’s various

errands, one might hear a faint “Baa, baa!” from the sheepfold, where

little Félix Michaud was very busy also.

 

Through the crevices of its weather-beaten boards came the sound of

vigorous scrubbing of wool, and sometimes an impatient “Ninette!

Ninette!—thou silly sheep! Wilt thou never stand still?” Or else, in

a softer tone, an eager “Beppo, my little Beppo, dost thou know? Dost

thou know?” To all of which there would come no answer save the lamb’s

weak little “Baa, baa!”

 

For Ninette, Beppo’s mother, was a silly old sheep, and Beppo was a

very little lamb; and so they could not possibly be expected to know

what a great honor had suddenly befallen them. They did not dream that,

the night before, Père Michaud had told Félix that his Beppo (for Beppo

was Félix’s very own) had been chosen by the shepherds for the “offered

lamb” of the Christmas Eve procession when the holy midnight mass would

be celebrated in all its festival splendor in the great church of the

village.

 

Of the importance of this procession in the eyes of the peasant folk

it is difficult to say enough. To be the offered lamb, or indeed the

offered lamb’s mother, for both always went together, was the greatest

honor and glory that could possibly happen to a Provençal sheep, and

so little Félix was fairly bursting with pride and delight. And so it

was, too, that he was now busying himself washing their wool, which he

determined should shine like spun silver on the great night.

 

He tugged away, scrubbing and brushing and combing the thick fleeces,

now and then stopping to stroke Beppo’s nose, or to box Ninette’s

ears when she became too impatient, and at last, after much labor,

considered their toilets done for the day; then, giving each a handful

of fresh hay to nibble, he left the fold and trudged into the cottage.

 

“Well, little one,” said the Misè, “hast thou finished thy work?”

 

“Yes, mother,” answered Félix; “and I shall scrub them so each day till

the Holy Night! Even now Ninette is white as milk, and Beppo shines

like an angel! Ah, but I shall be proud when he rides up to the altar

in his little cart! And, mother, dost thou not really think him far

handsomer than was Jean’s lamb, that stupid Nano, in the procession

last year?”

 

“There, there,” said the Misè, “never thou mind about Jean’s lamb, but

run along now and finish thy crèche.”

 

[Illustration]

 

Now, in Provence, at the time when Félix lived, no one had ever heard

of such a thing as a Christmas tree; but in its stead every cottage had

a “crèche”; that is, in one corner of the great living-room, the room

of the fireplace, the peasant children and their fathers and mothers

built upon a table a mimic village of Bethlehem, with houses and people

and animals, and, above all, with the manger, where the Christ Child

lay. Every one took the greatest pains to make the crèche as perfect

as possible, and some even went so far as to fasten tiny angels to

the rafters, so that they hovered over the toy houses like a flock of

white butterflies; and sometimes a gold star, hung on a golden thread,

quivered over the little manger, in memory of the wonderful star of the

Magi.

 

In the Michaud cottage the crèche was already well under way. In the

corner across from the fireplace the Père had built up a mound, and

this Félix had covered with bits of rock and tufts of grass, and little

green boughs for trees, to represent the rocky hillside of Judea;

then, half-way up, he began to place the tiny houses. These he had

cut out of wood and adorned with wonderful carving, in which he was

very skilful. And then, such figures as he had made, such quaint little

men and women, such marvelous animals, camels and oxen and sheep and

horses, were never before seen in Sur Varne. But the figure on which

he had lavished his utmost skill was that of the little Christ Child,

which was not to be placed in the manger until the Holy Night itself.

 

Félix kept this figure in his blouse pocket, carefully wrapped up

in a bit of wool, and he spent all his spare moments striving to

give it some fresh beauty; for I will tell you a secret: poor little

Félix had a great passion for carving, and the one thing for which he

longed above all others was to be allowed to apprentice himself in the