The Second Christmas Megapack

by Robert Reginald

  He was as excited over the thought of this plan as Rosemary would have been had she known. And lest there should be a hitch, or he should not have time to accomplish all, he was out of bed by half past six—that mysterious hour of dawn when across the glimmering sea Corsica can be seen, floating like a heaped basket of violets in waves of transparent gold.

  Last night he had anxiously enquired of the concierge whether the Monte Carlo shops would be open on Christmas morning, and had been informed that they would. Otherwise, Hugh Egerton would have been capable of battering down the doors, helping himself to the things he wanted, and leaving enough money to pay for damages as well as purchases.

  After all, he was ready long before the shutters of those attractive plate glass windows were taken away; but he was not sorry for that. He had the joy of walking down to the Condamine and gazing up at other windows far more attractive, and saying to the closed green blinds, “Merry Christmas, merry Christmas, my darling—mine for always, now!”

  Then he darted back to rolls and coffee; beamed on the waiters, gave them fat five franc pieces merely for beaming in return; and arrived in the Galerie Charles Trois just as the shop windows were opening radiant Christmas eyes.

  The first visit he paid was to the florist’s; and to save time in choosing he simply said, “I’ll take all those things you have in the window, please.”

  There were about two hundred francs worth of roses, the same of white lilacs, and enough lilies of the valley, nestling in baby leaves of yellow green, to clean out any save a well-filled pocket book; but that was all the better. The more he could spend today, the more was Hugh Egerton pleased. He gave “Madame Clifford’s” address, and wrote something in English on his visiting card. The flowers were to go at once; at once, mind; not in fifteen minutes, but now, this very now.

  “How much in love is that handsome young Monsieur!” thought the Mademoiselle of the shop, with a little sigh for some of the wonders of the world which she had missed, and must always miss. Her heels were appallingly high, and her waist was incredibly small; but she had a heart; and there was no heart which would not have softened to Hugh, and wished him the best of good luck, this day.

  The next window which attracted the young man’s eye, was one which displayed just such a dress as he had vaguely pictured yesterday, for a dear companion on the terrace. It was white, of course; and he was not sure, but he thought it was made of cloth. Anyway there was a lot of embroidery on it, full of little holes, which somehow contrived to be extraordinarily fetching. It had a mantle which hung in soft folds, marvellously intricate, yet simple in effect; and he could have fallen upon the neck of the stout, powdered lady in black silk who assured him that the costume could be worn without alteration by any “dame de jolie taille.”

  He bought it instantly, and then seized upon precisely such a “long white thing” of ermine as he had seen in his mind’s eye. A “granny” muff went with it. (Really the people of the shop must have had prophetic souls!) And there was a white hat, with a gold buckle, and a long white ostrich feather which looked as if it had been born to shade the face of Evelyn Clifford.

  When these “confections” had been secured, Madame of the black satin and powdered nose assured Monsieur that his Christmas purchases would be incomplete without a certain blouse which, to an untutored eye, appeared to be a combination of sea-foam and rose-leaves. There was a belt, too, crusted with seed pearls; and a hanging bag to match. Oh, certainly Monsieur would take these, and anything else which Madame could conscientiously recommend. She could, and did, recommend several other things; and no doubt it was a mere coincidence that they happened to be among the most expensive in the shop. She also won Hugh’s gratitude by being able to produce a coat and a frock in which a little girl of five, already beautiful, would be more akin to fairyhood than ordinary childhood, and might become the “exception that would prove the rule” to an unbelieving Jane.

  The cloak was pale blue; and another shop had to be searched for a hat to be worn with it, but Madame was most kind in directing Monsieur where to find one. Her sister would serve him, therefore he would be well served.

  On the way, he passed a jeweller’s; and exactly the right string of pearls, and the right “swallow brooch” stared him in the face, in the window. It was odd, how all the prettiest things in the world, of whatever description, looked as if they ought to belong to Evelyn and Rosemary Clifford. There was a gold bag, too; but that was a detail, for really the principal thing he had called for was a ring with a single diamond in it—and perhaps—well, yes—that little sapphire band to keep it on a slender finger.

  The rings, in their delicate cases, he put into his pocket when he had paid; but the other purchases were to go in that very same now which had been impressed upon the florist; the sort of now to which Riviera shopkeepers are accustomed only when they deal with Americans.

  Then Madame’s sister was found, and a blue hat; and there was just time left for a frantic rush to a toyshop, round a corner and up a hill. Perhaps Doll Evie might be jealous of one rival, but there’s safety in numbers; and Hugh thought that a dozen assorted sizes, from life-size down, would keep a doll’s house from echoing with loneliness. As for the presents for the Éze children, Rosemary was to choose them herself by and by; but all these special things were to be served up, so to speak, at the Hôtel Pension Beau Soleil with early breakfast.

  When he had finished—which means, when he had bought everything he could think of—Hugh looked at his watch. It was half an hour to the minute since he had left his hotel.

  “I don’t see why it should take women a long time to shop,” said he to himself. “It seems to me the simplest thing in the world. You just see what you want, and then you buy it.”

  It was not until all the boxes and parcels must have arrived in the Condamine, that an agonizing thought struck Hugh. What if Evie should be offended with him for buying her things to wear? What if she should imagine him capable of thinking that the things she already had were not good enough when she was coming out with him?

  He suddenly felt a hundred years old. “Ass—worm—menagerie!” he anathematized himself.

  It was now nine thirty. At ten forty-five he was to call at the Hôtel Pension Beau Soleil, to take Evelyn and Rosemary to the English church. How could he bear the suspense till then—how endure it not to know whether he had ruined the Christmas which was to have been so perfect?

  He dashed into his own hotel, wrote five notes one after the other, tearing up each one before it was finished. It was no good explaining. If she didn’t understand nothing would make her. But would she understand? He knew now why some women said that all men were fools. They were quite right.

  If he had dared, he would have gone to her at once, to be put out of his misery, one way or the other. But he did not dare; so he waited, until he had persuaded himself that not only his watch, but the hotel clock and the Casino clock must be slow.

  Then he started, and suffered five suffocating minutes in the public sitting-room of the Beau Soleil. It was a hideous room, with abominable flowers sprawling over the wall paper and carpet, and all the windows were shut, but he did not notice these things; nor did he recognize the heavy scent that hung in the air as that which Mademoiselle de Lavalette affected. The lady of the roses had ceased to exist for him; but, if he had thought of her at all, he would have been glad that he had opened her pink leather bag when it was thin, and shut it up when it was very fat.

  At the end of the five minutes, the door opened, and gave to his eyes a vision; Evelyn and Rosemary in their new dresses and new hats.

  It was all he could do to keep from crying “Thank Heaven,” and to say a mere “Merry Christmas” instead.

  “Wicked, extravagant Boy,” exclaimed Evelyn. “Do you know, we are most unsuitably dressed? But we had to put the things on, hadn’t we? It was wrong of you to buy them, but—don’t look so terrified—it was sweet, too; and I know just the feeling that prompted you to do it. W
hat a dream-Christmas this is going to be.”

  And then she and Rosemary thanked him separately, for each individual thing he had given. It took some time, and they were nearly late for Church, but not quite.

  If Mademoiselle de Lavalette had been looking out of her window at a certain moment she would have been exceedingly surprised, not only by the transformation of Madame Clifford and la petite bête from church mice into visions, but still more by the sight of their companion.

  But hot rage and cold disappointment had given her a bad night.

  She had expected a guest for dinner. She had put on her prettiest frock, and had forbidden her mother the Comtesse to paint. She had ordered champagne, an extra entrée, and a bunch of flowers for the table. Yet the guest had neither come nor sent an excuse. She had stopped in the house all the evening, thinking that he might have been detained by an accident to his automobile; but the hours had dragged on emptily. Nothing happened except a bad headache, and a quarrel with her mother, who was ungratefully inclined to be sarcastic at her expense.

  Half the night Mademoiselle had lain awake, wondering why the bird had not come hopping into the trap; and through the other half she had wondered anxiously if the bird would come tomorrow, with excuses which she might graciously accept. At last she had fallen asleep and dreamed ecstatic dreams about diamond necklaces and thousand franc notes. When the procession of three left the Beau Soliel on its way to the English Church, strings of diamonds were still being drawn through Mademoiselle’s head, charming though wreathed with patent curling pins.

  It was half past eleven when she was waked by the Comtesse ringing for petits pains and chocolate. A toilette was hastily made, without too much time being wasted on water; and Mademoiselle—all in black and white this morning, like a jeune fille in second mourning—hurried out to walk on the terrace at the fashionable hour. If she did not find the truant there, she said to herself, she would go into the Casino; for he was sure to be in one place or the other at this time of day, even though it was Christmas.

  She walked a little, but not much; for her high-heeled shoes were tight, and made her feel even more annoyed with the world and everyone in it—except herself—than she had been before she started. Presently she sat down on one of the green benches, and arranged a “peace on earth, goodwill to men” expression which pinched her lips almost as painfully as her shoes pinched her toes. She wore it unremittingly, nevertheless, even though many of the women who passed her, walking on the terrace, were prettier and younger and better dressed than she, and—more grievous still—were accompanied by agreeable-looking men, while she sat alone scarcely glanced at by the promenaders.

  She had just begun to think that she had better try the Casino, when down the steps from the upper terrace came three figures. There was something familiar about them all, but to see them together made them more than strange. Besides, the two she knew best were strange in another way. Their habit was to be shabby, though neat; now, there was no one on the terrace as beautifully dressed as this tall young woman and the slim little girl. No, it couldn’t be Madame Clifford and her petit choux; and yet—and yet—as they came nearer, near enough for Mademoiselle to recognize the man with them, she felt a horrid sensation as if something which she called her heart were dropping out of her bosom from sheer heaviness, leaving a vacuum.

  Hardly knowing what she did, she sprang up from her bench while they were still far off, and began walking towards them. There was a queer, singing noise in her head, and a feeling as if the skin were too tightly stretched across her forehead. Still, she smiled, and winked her long lashes to keep her eyes moist and soft.

  The sun was on Evelyn Clifford’s hair, burnishing it to a halo of gold under the white hat. She looked radiantly beautiful, and as happy as if her soul were singing a Christmas Carol. On the face of Hugh Egerton was a look which no woman could mistake, least of all such a woman as Julie de Lavalette; and it was not for her, never would be for her.

  Now she knew why her expected guest had not come last night, or remembered to send an excuse. Sick with jealousy and spite, she bowed as she passed, trying to look eighteen, and tenderly reproachful.

  Her bow was returned, indifferently by Evelyn, but by Hugh with eyes of steel, and a mouth of bronze. If he had cut her, he would have shown less contempt than in that stiff raising of the hat.

  Julie turned and walked straight down to the Condamine, forgetting that her shoes were tight.

  CHAPTER NINE: THE LAST WORD OF MADEMOISELLE

  Rosemary chose the toys for the children of the rock village, and then the “picnic” began.

  The car whizzed them up the zigzag road to La Turbie, while the noon sunshine still gilded Caesar’s Trophy. They lunched in the Moorish restaurant, and then sped on along the Upper Corniche, with a white sea of snow mountains billowing away to the right, and a sea of sapphire spreading to the horizon, on their left.

  Out from orange groves and olives they saw the hill of Éze rising like a horn; while on its almost pointed apex, the old town hung like some carved fetish, to keep away the witches.

  The car swooped down, and up again; but halfway up the rocky horn the wide white road turned into a stone paved mule path, old as the Romans. Evelyn and Rosemary climbed hand in hand, singing a Christmas carol, while Hugh carried the two huge baskets filled with toys, and sweets in little packets.

  Some small sentinel perched on high (perhaps hidden among the ruins of that fortress-castle where once the temple of Isis stood) must have spied the odd procession; for as the tall white girl and the little blue one, with the brown young man, reached the last step of the steep mule path, a tidal wave of children swept down upon them, out from the mystery of dark tunnelled streets.

  Such eyes were never seen as those that gleamed at the new comers, great with surprise and wonder; eyes of brown velvet with diamonds shining through; eyes like black wells, with mirrored stars in their unfathomed depths; eyes of wild deer; eyes of fierce Saracens; eyes of baby saints, all set in small bronze faces clear-cut as the profiles on ancient Roman coins.

  “Bella Madonna, bella Madonna!” piped a tiny voice, and forty other voices caught up the adoring cry.

  The brown children of the old rock village had poured down from their high eyrie to bombard the strangers from the world below; to stare, to beg, to laugh, to lisp out strange epithets in their crude patois; but at sight of the wonderful white lady and her gold-haired child they crowded back upon each other, hushed after their first cry into awed admiration for visitants from another world.

  Few tourists climbed to their dark fastness, and of those who came none had ever shone with such blinding radiance of white and gold.

  It was certain that the lovely lady was none other than the Madonna herself, and the child she had brought was some baby angel. The man alone was mortal. He had perhaps been bidden to show la bella Madonna the way to Éze.

  Rosemary, shy but happy, began giving out the toys, diving with both hands at once into the baskets which the fairy father held. Trumpets, bags of marbles, tops, and furry animals for the boys, according to their age (oh, Rosemary was a good judge, and never hesitated once!). Dolls for the girls, dolls by the dozen, dolls by the legion; and sweets for all.

  As the amazed children received their gifts, they fell respectfully back, as if they had received an order to give place to their companions, and others came forward, open mouthed, large eyed, ready to fall upon their knees if but one of their number should set an example.

  Still there were toys left, toys in abundance; the wondrous benefactors passed slowly on, always going up, up into the huddled village streets—tunnelled in rock or arched with stone, where eager, astonished faces peered from the mystery of shadowed doorways, and the hum of joy and admiration swelled to a sound like the murmur of the sea.

  Of grown folk there were not many. A few mothers with brown babies in their arms; a few mumbling crones, and bent old men with faces like strange masks; but the flow of children ne
ver ceased.

  As the children of Hamlin followed the Pied Piper to the sea, so the black-browed children of Éze followed the Christmas visitors from crooked street to crooked street, up to the castle ruins and back again. They did not shout as they took their gifts; but still the murmur ran from mouth to mouth: “Bella Madonna, bella Madonna.”

  At the end of an enchanted hour, when there was not a child in Éze who had not both hands full, the benefactors turned to go, with empty baskets. Massed on the plateau above the mule-path, the whole population of the village stood to watch them down the steep descent. As they went, the church bells of Éze boomed out, calling all pious souls, young and old, to vespers; and as if the loosened tongues of the bells loosened also the tongues of the children, at last there arose a cry.

  “Come again, Bella Madonna and little angel, come again. We shall pray to see you next Christmas Day, Bella Madonna and little angel. Don’t forget, next Christmas Day.”

  * * * *

  “I’m perfectly happy, dearest,” said Rosemary, when once more they sat in the car, spinning back from the shaded eyrie to the fair world where the sunshine lay.

  The others did not speak, but the same thought was in their hearts.

  When you are positively bursting with happiness the best outlet for the surplus quantity is to benefit somebody else; and there is no time like Christmas for a successful experiment.

  “What else can we do for somebody?” asked Hugh.

  “There’s Jane,” suggested Rosemary. “I told her this morning how I went out and found a father, and she said Pooh, he was all in my eye; and besides she’d never heard of fathers growing on blackberry bushes. But if we bought her a present, and you gave it to her yourself, she’d have to believe in you.”