by Eugène Sue
“Ah, you see, Dame Dulceline, there is always, at the base of our ancient religious customs, something consoling for the humble, the weak, and the suffering, and also something imposing as a lesson for the happy and the rich and the powerful of this world. This cradle, for instance, is the symbol of the birth of the divine Saviour. He was the poor child of a poor artisan, and yet some day he was to be as far above the most powerful of men as the heavens are above the earth. So you see, Dame Dulceline, upon the anniversary day of the redemption, the poor and rustic cradle of the infant Saviour takes the place of honour in the ceremonial hall of the noble baron.”
“Ah, I understand, M. Abbé, they put the infant Jesus in the place of the noble baron, to show that the lords of this world should be first to bow before the Saviour!”
“Without doubt, Dame Dulceline, in thus doing homage to the Lord through the symbol of his power, the baron preaches by example the communion and equality of men before God.”
Dame Dulceline remained silent a moment, thinking of the abbé’s words, then, satisfied with his explanation, she proposed another question to him, which in her mind was more difficult of solution.
“M. Abbé,” asked she, with an embarrassed air, “you say that at the base of all ancient customs there is always a lesson; can there be one, then, in the custom of Palm Sunday, when foundling children run about the streets of Marseilles with branches of laurel adorned with fruit? For instance, last year, on Palm Sunday, — I blush to think of it even now, M. Abbé, — I was walking on the fashionable promenade of Marseilles with Master Tale-bard-Talebardon, who was not then the declared enemy of monseigneur, and, lo! one of the unfortunate little foundlings stopped right before me and the consul, and said, with a sweet voice, as he kissed our hands, ‘Good morning, mother! good morning, father!’ By St Dulceline, my patron saint, M. Abbé, I turned purple with shame, and Master Talebard-Talebardon did, too. I beg your pardon, respectfully, for alluding to the coarse jokes of Master Laramée, who accompanied us, on the subject of this poor foundling’s insult! But this Master Laramée has neither modesty nor shame. I could not help repulsing with horror this nursling of public charity, and I pinched his arm sharply, and said to him: ‘Will you be silent, you ugly little bastard?’ He felt his fault, for he began to weep, and when I complained of his indecent impudence to a grave citizen, he replied to me: ‘My good lady, such is the custom here; on Palm Sunday foundlings have the privilege of running through the streets, and saying, ‘father and mother,’ to all whom they may meet.”
“That is really the custom, Dame Dulceline,” said the abbé.
“Well, it may be the custom, M. Abbé, but is that not a very impertinent and improper custom, to permit unfortunate little children without father or mother to walk up and say ‘mother’ to honest, discreet persons like myself, for example, who prefer the peace of celibacy to the disquietudes of family? As to the morality of this custom, I pray you explain it, M. Abbé. I look for it in vain with all my eyes. I can see nothing in it but what is outrageously indecent!”
“And you are mistaken, Dame Dulceline,” said Abbé Mascarolus; “this custom is worthy of respect, and you were wrong to treat that poor child so cruelly.”
“I was wrong? That little rascal comes and calls me mother, and I permit it? Why, then, thanks to this custom, there would—”
“Thanks to this custom,” interrupted the abbé, “thanks to the privilege that these little unfortunates have, of being able to say, one day in the year, ‘father and mother’ to those they meet, — those dear names that they never pronounce, which, perhaps, may have never passed their lips — alas! how many there are, and I have seen them, who say these words with tears in their eyes, as they remember that, when that day is past, they cannot repeat the blessed words! And sometimes it happens, Dame Dulceline, that strangers, moved to pity by such innocence and sorrow, or being touched by the caressing words, have adopted some of these unfortunates; others have given abundant alms, because this innocent appeal for charity is almost always heard. You see, Dame Dulceline, that this custom, too, has a useful end, — a pious signification.”
The old woman bowed her head in silence, and finally replied to the good chaplain:
“You are a clever man, M. Abbé; you are right. See what it is to have knowledge! Now I repent of having repulsed the child so cruelly. Next Palm Sunday I will not fail to carry several yards of good, warm cloth, and nice linen, and this time, I promise you, I will not act the cruel stepmother with the poor children who call me mother! But if that old sot, Laramée, makes any indecent joke about me, as sure as he has eyes I will prove to him that I have claws!”
“That would prove too much, Dame Dulceline. But, since monseigneur does not yet return, and since we are discussing the customs of our good old Provence, and their usefulness to poor people, come, now, what have you observed on the day of St Lazarus, concerning the dance of St Elmo?”
“What do you want me to tell you, M. Abbé? Now I distrust myself; before your explanation I railed against the custom of foundlings on Palm Sunday, now I respect it.”
“Say always, Dame Dulceline, that the sin of ignorance is excusable. But what is your opinion concerning the dance of St Elmo?”
“Bless me, M. Abbé, I understand nothing about it! I sometimes ask myself what is the good, the day of the feast of St. Elmo, of dressing up, at the expense of the city or community, all the poor young boys and girls as handsomely as possible. That is not all. Not content with that, these young people go from house to house, among the rich citizens and the lords, asking to borrow something. This one wants a gold necklace, that one a pair of diamond earrings, another a silver belt, another a hatband set with precious stones, or a sword-belt braided in gold. Ah, well! in my opinion, — but I may change it in an hour, — M. Abbé, it is wrong to lend all these costly articles to poor people and artisans who have not a cent.”
“Why so? Since the feast of St. Lazarus has been celebrated here, have you ever heard, Dame Dulceline, that any of those precious jewels have been lost or stolen?”
“Good God in Heaven! Never, M. Abbé, neither here, nor in Marseilles, nor in all Provence, I believe. Thank God, our youth is honest, after all! For instance, last year Mlle. Reine loaned her Venetian girdle, which Stephanette says cost more than two thousand crowns. Ah, well! Thereson, the daughter of the miller at Pointe-aux-Cailles, who wore this costly ornament during all the feast, came and brought it back before sunset, although she had permission to keep it till night. And for this same feast of St. Lazarus, monseigneur loaned to Pierron, the fisherman of Maison-Forte, his beautiful gold chain, and his medallion set with rubies, that Master Laramée cleans, as you told him to do, with teardrops of the vine.”
“That is true; and if one can mix with these teardrops of the vine a tear of a stag killed in venison season, Dame Dulceline, the rubies will shine like sparks of fire.”
“Ah, well, M. Abbé, Pierron, the fisherman, brought back faithfully that precious chain even before the appointed hour. I repeat, M. Abbé, our youth is an honest youth, but I do not see the use of risking the loss, not by theft, but by accident, of beautiful jewels, for the pleasure of seeing these young people dance the old Provençal dances in the streets and roads, to the sound of tambourines and cymbalettes and flutes, that play the national airs, ooubados and bedocheos, until you are deaf.”
“Ah, well, Dame Dulceline,” said Mascarolus, smiling sweetly, “you are going to learn that you were wrong not to see in this custom, too, a lesson and a use. When mademoiselle loaned to Thereson, the poor daughter of a miller, a costly ornament, she showed a blind confidence in the girl; now, Dame Dulceline, confidence begets honesty and prevents dishonesty. That is not all; in giving Thereson the pleasure of wearing this ornament for one day, our young mistress showed her at the same time the charm and the nothingness of it, and then, as this pleasure is not forbidden to the poor people, they do not look on it with jealousy. This custom, in fact, establishes delightful r
elations between rich and poor, which are based on probity, confidence, and community of interest What do you think now of the dance of St. Elmo, Dame Dulceline?”
“I think, M. Chaplain, that, although I have no jewels but a cross and a gold chain, I will lend them with a good heart to young Madelon, the best worker in my laundry, on the next feast of St. Lazarus, because every time I take this gold cross out of its box the poor girl devours it with her eyes, and I am sure that she will be wild with joy. But I am getting bewildered, M. Abbé; I brought some pure oil to fill the two Christmas lamps, which mademoiselle is to light, and I was about to forget them.”
“Speaking of oil, Dame Dulceline, do not forget to fill well with oil that jug in which I have steeped those two beautiful bunches of grapes. I wish to attempt the experiment cited by M. de Maucaunys.”
“What experiment, M. Abbé?”
“This erudite and veracious traveller pretends that by leaving bunches of grapes, gathered on the day which marks the middle of September, in a jug of pure oil for seven months, the oil will acquire such a peculiar property that whenever it burns in a lamp whose light is thrown on the wall or the floor, thousands of bunches of grapes will appear on this wall or floor, perfect in colour, but as deceptive as objects painted on glass.” Dame Dulceline was just about to testify her admiration for the good and credulous chaplain, when she heard in the court the sound of carriage and horses, which announced the return of Raimond V.
She disappeared precipitately. The door opened, and Raimond V. entered the gallery with several ladies and gentlemen, friends and their wives, who had also been present at the midnight mass in the parochial church of La Ciotat.
The baron and the other men were in holiday attire, and the women in that dress which going and coming on horseback rendered necessary, inasmuch as carriages were very rare.
Although the countenance of Raimond V. was always joyous and cordial when he welcomed his guests at Maison-Forte, an expression of sadness from time to time now came over his features, for he had relinquished all hope of seeing his brothers at this family festival.
The guests of the baron all admired the cradle Dame Dulceline had prepared with so much skill, and the chaplain received the praises of the company with as much modesty as gratitude.
Honorât de Berrol appeared more melancholy than ever.
Reine, on the contrary, realising the necessity for making him forget the refusal of her hand, which she had at last decided upon, by means of various evidences of kindness and friendship, treated the young man with cousinly esteem and affection.
Nevertheless, she was conscious of a painful embarrassment; she had not yet informed the baron of her determination not to marry Honorât de Berrol. She had only obtained her father’s consent to have the nuptials delayed until the return of the commander and Father Elzear, who, from what was implied in their last letters, might arrive at any moment.
Eulogies on the cradle seemed inexhaustible, when the baron, approaching the company of admiring guests, said: “My opinion is, ladies, that we had better begin the cachofué, for this hall is very damp and cold, and the fire is only waiting to blaze!”
The cachofué, or feu caché, was an old Provençal ceremony, which consisted of bringing in a Christmas log and lighting it every evening until the New Year. This log was lighted and extinguished, so that it would last the given time.
“Yes, yes, the cachofué, baron!” exclaimed the ladies, gaily. “You are to be the actor in the ceremony, so the time to begin depends on you.”
“Alas! my friends, I hoped indeed that this honoured ceremony of our fathers would have been more complete, and that my brother the commander would have brought with him my good brother Elzear. But that is not to be thought of for this night at least.”
“The Lord grant that the commander may arrive soon with his black galley,” said one of the ladies to the baron. “These wicked pirates, whom we all dread, would not dare make a descent if they knew he was in port.” “The pirates to the devil, good cousin!” cried the baron, gaily. “The watchman is spying them from the height of Cape l’Aigle; at his first signal all the coast will be in arms. The port of La Ciotat is armed; the citizens and fishermen are keeping Christmas with only one hand, they have the other on their muskets; my cannon and small guns are loaded, and ready to fire on the entrance to the port, if these sea-robbers dare show themselves. Manjour! my guests and cousins, if I had obeyed the Marshal of Vitry, at this hour my house would be disarmed and out of condition to defend the city.”
“And you did very bravely, baron,” said the lord of Signerol, “to act as you did. Now the example has been given and the marshal will meddle no longer with our affairs.”
“Manjour! I hope so indeed. If he does, we will meddle with his,” said the baron. “But where is my young comrade of the cachofué?” added he. “I am the eldest, but I must have the youngest to go for the Christmas log.”
“Here is the dear child, father,” said Reine, leading a beautiful boy of six years, with large blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and lovely curls, up to the baron. His mother, a cousin of the baron, looked at the boy with pride, not unmixed with fear, for she suspected that he might not be equal to the complicated rôle necessary to be played in this patriarchal ceremony.
“Are you sure you understand what is to be done, my little Cæsar?” asked the baron, bending over the little boy.
“Yes, yes, monseigneur. Last year, at grandfather’s house, I carried the Christmas log,” replied the child, with a capable and resolute air.
“The linnet will become a hawk, I promise you, my cousin,” said the baron to the mother, delighted with the child’s self-confidence.
Raimond V. then took the little fellow by the hand, and, followed by his guests, he descended to the door of Maison-Forte, which opened into the inner court, before beginning the ceremony of the cachofué.
All the inmates and dependents of the castle, labourers, farmers, fishermen, vine-dressers, servants, women, children, and old men, were assembled in the court.
Although the light of the moon was quite bright, a large number of torches, made of resinous wood fastened to poles, illuminated the court and the interior buildings of Maison-Forte.
In the middle of the court were collected the combustibles necessary to kindle an immense pile of wood, which was to be set on fire the same moment that the cachofué in the hall of the dais was lighted.
Raimond V. appeared before the assembly attended by four lackeys in livery, who walked before him, bearing candlesticks with white wax candles. He was followed by his family and his guests.
At the sight of the baron, cries of “Long live monseigneur!” resounded on all sides.
In front of the door on the ground lay a large olive-tree, the trunk and branches. It was the Christmas log.
Abbé Mascarolus, in cassock and surplice, commenced the ceremony by blessing the Christmas log, or the calignaou, as it was called in the Provençal language; then the child approached, followed by Laramée, who, in his costume of majordomo, bore on a silver tray a gold cup filled with wine.
The child took the cup in his little hands and poured, three times, a few drops of wine on the calignaou, or Christmas log, and recited, in a sweet and silvery voice, the old Provençal verse, always said upon this solemn occasion:
“‘Allègre, Diou nous allègre,
Cachofué ven, tou ben ven,
Diou nous fague la grace de veire l’an que ven,
Se si an pas mai, que signen pas men.’”
“Oh, let us be joyful, God gives us all joy;
Cachofué comes, and it comes all to bless;
God grant we may live to see the New Year;
But if we are no more, may we never be less!”
These innocent words, recited by the child with charming grace, were listened to with religious solemnity.
Then the child wet his lips with the wine in the cup, and presented it to Raimond V., who did likewise, and the cup passed from hand to h
and, among all the members of the baron’s family, until each one had wet his lips with the consecrated beverage.
Then twelve foresters in holiday dress lifted the calignaou, and carried it into the hall of the dais, while, in conformity to the law of the ceremony, Raimond V. held in his hand one of the roots of the tree, and the child held one of the branches; the old man saying, “Black roots are old age,” and the child answering, “Green branches are youth,” and the assistants adding in chorus, “God bless us all, who love him and serve him!”
The log, borne into the hall on the robust shoulders of the foresters, was placed in the immense fireplace, whereupon the child took a pine torch, and held it to a pile of fir-apples and boughs; a tall white flame sparkled in the vast, black hearth, and threw a joyous radiance to the farther end of the gallery.
“Christmas, Christmas!” cried the guests of the baron, clapping their hands.
“Christmas! Christmas!” repeated the vassals assembled in the interior court.
At the same moment, the pile of wood outside was kindled, and the tall yellow flames mounted in the midst of enthusiastic shouts, and whirls of a Provençal dance.
One other last ceremony was to take place, and then the guests would gather around the supper-table.
Reine advanced to the cradle, and Stephanette brought to her a wooden bowl filled with the corn of St. Barbara, which was already green. For it was the custom in Provence, every fourth of December, St Barbara’s day, to sow grains of corn in a porringer filled with earth frequently watered. This wet earth was exposed to a very high temperature, and the com grew rapidly. If it was green, it predicted a good harvest, if it was yellow, the harvest would be bad.
