Troubadour Tales

by Evaleen Stein

the duel. Nor wasthe least cloud cast over their glee when one day they heard that thewicked Hugo had died in a fit of apoplexy, brought on by one of histerrible rages. In fact, if the truth must be told, they went off bythemselves and had a shamelessly gay extra romp in celebration of thenews.

  Thus several weeks had passed, when one day there arrived at thechâteau a messenger from the king, demanding the custody of a peasantboy by the name of Geoffrey.

  Poor Geoffrey was again badly frightened, thinking that this timesurely he would receive punishment! But his fears were turned todelight when Count Boni told him that the king had sent, not toimprison him, but to have him live in the royal household. Themessenger explained to Boni that when the heralds returned to Paris,they told King Louis the story of the little boy, and that he wasgreatly pleased with the lad’s bravery and devotion, and wished to havehim brought to the palace.

  So Geoffrey became a page of King Louis, and was very, very happy. Hewas happy, too, because he could now send back to those he loved athome much more for their comfort than he could as a little serving boyat the Guillaume-le-Conquérant inn. And then, sometimes, when one ofhis messengers had an errand to Dives, the good king would let Geoffreygo along, and he would then make a little visit to his family, andwould see his dear Count Boni and little Isabeau, who never ceased totake the greatest pride and interest in him.

  By and by, King Louis discovered how sweet a voice he possessed, andthat it had been well-trained for church music. This pleased the kingmuch, as he was very devout in his worship, and did a great dealduring his reign to improve the music in the cathedrals of France. SoGeoffrey was at once placed under masters, and he sang for a numberof years in the king’s own chapel, becoming one of the most famouslittle choristers of the realm. Later on, as he grew to manhood, hepassed from being a page, to a squire; and after that, he was appointedman-at-arms in the bodyguard of the king, who grew to love and trusthim 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 amongthe most faithful of the followers who took ship with him. And when thepoor king lay dying, before the walls of the far-away city of Tunis, itwas Geoffrey whose tenderness and devotion helped to comfort the lastdays of the stricken monarch.

  When all was over, and the little band of crusaders once more returnedto their homes in France, none among them was more loved and respectedthan the Viscount Geoffrey; for shortly before his death the good KingLouis had, with his own hand, bestowed knighthood upon the littlepeasant boy, declaring that he had won the distinction, not onlybecause of his great bravery and his honorable life, but also becauseof 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 littleProvençal village of Sur Varne was all bustle and stir, for it was theweek before Christmas; and in all the world, no one has known betterhow to keep the joyous holiday than have the happy-hearted people ofProvence.

  Everybody was busy, hurrying to and fro, gathering garlands of myrtleand laurel, bringing home Yule logs with pretty old songs andceremonies, and in various ways making ready for the all-importantfestival.

  Not a house in Sur Varne but in some manner told the coming of theblessed birthday, and especially were there great preparations inthe cottage of the shepherd, Père Michaud. This cottage, coveredwith white stucco, and thatched with long marsh-grass, stood at theedge of the village; olive and mulberry trees clustered about it,and a wild jasmine vine clambered over the doorway, while on thisparticular morning all around the low projecting eaves hung a row oftiny wheat-sheaves, swinging in the crisp December air, and twinklingin the sunlight like a golden fringe. For the Père Michaud had beenup betimes, making ready the Christmas feast for the birds, which noProvençal peasant ever forgets at this gracious season; and the birdsknew it, for already dozens of saucy robins and linnets and fieldfareswere gathering in the Père’s mulberry-trees, their mouths fairlywatering with anticipation.

  Within the cottage the good dame, the Misè Michaud, with wide sleevesrolled up and kirtle tucked back, was hard at work making all manner ofholiday sweetmeats; while in the huge oven beside the blazing hearththe great Christmas cakes were baking, the famous _pompou_ and almondpâtés, dear to the hearts of the children of old Provence.

  Now and then, as the cottage door swung open on the dame’s variouserrands, one might hear a faint “Baa, baa!” from the sheepfold, wherelittle Félix Michaud was very busy also.

  Through the crevices of its weather-beaten boards came the sound ofvigorous scrubbing of wool, and sometimes an impatient “Ninette!Ninette!—thou silly sheep! Wilt thou never stand still?” Or else, ina softer tone, an eager “Beppo, my little Beppo, dost thou know? Dostthou know?” To all of which there would come no answer save the lamb’sweak little “Baa, baa!”

  For Ninette, Beppo’s mother, was a silly old sheep, and Beppo was avery little lamb; and so they could not possibly be expected to knowwhat a great honor had suddenly befallen them. They did not dream that,the night before, Père Michaud had told Félix that his Beppo (for Beppowas Félix’s very own) had been chosen by the shepherds for the “offeredlamb” of the Christmas Eve procession when the holy midnight mass wouldbe celebrated in all its festival splendor in the great church of thevillage.

  Of the importance of this procession in the eyes of the peasant folkit is difficult to say enough. To be the offered lamb, or indeed theoffered lamb’s mother, for both always went together, was the greatesthonor and glory that could possibly happen to a Provençal sheep, andso little Félix was fairly bursting with pride and delight. And so itwas, too, that he was now busying himself washing their wool, which hedetermined 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’sears when she became too impatient, and at last, after much labor,considered their toilets done for the day; then, giving each a handfulof 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 tillthe Holy Night! Even now Ninette is white as milk, and Beppo shineslike an angel! Ah, but I shall be proud when he rides up to the altarin his little cart! And, mother, dost thou not really think him farhandsomer than was Jean’s lamb, that stupid Nano, in the processionlast year?”

  “There, there,” said the Misè, “never thou mind about Jean’s lamb, butrun along now and finish thy crèche.”

  Now, in Provence, at the time when Félix lived, no one had ever heardof such a thing as a Christmas tree; but in its stead every cottage hada “crèche”; that is, in one corner of the great living-room, the roomof the fireplace, the peasant children and their fathers and mothersbuilt upon a table a mimic village of Bethlehem, with houses and peopleand animals, and, above all, with the manger, where the Christ Childlay. Every one took the greatest pains to make the crèche as perfectas possible, and some even went so far as to fasten tiny angels tothe rafters, so that they hovered over the toy houses like a flock ofwhite butterflies; and sometimes a gold star, hung on a golden thread,quivered over the little manger, in memory of the wonderful star of theMagi.

  In the Michaud cottage the crèche was already well under way. In thecorner across from the fireplace the Père had built up a mound, andthis Félix had covered with bits of rock and tufts of grass, and littlegreen boughs for trees, to represent the rocky hillside of Judea;then, half-way up, he began to place the tiny houses. These he hadcut out of wood and adorned with wonderful carving, in which h
e wasvery skilful. And then, such figures as he had made, such quaint littlemen and women, such marvelous animals, camels and oxen and sheep andhorses, were never before seen in Sur Varne. But the figure on whichhe 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 upin a bit of wool, and he spent all his spare moments striving togive it some fresh beauty; for I will tell you a secret: poor littleFélix had a great passion for carving, and the one thing for which helonged above all others was to be allowed to apprentice himself in theworkshop of Père Videau, who was the master carver of the village,and whose beautiful work on the portals of the great church was theadmiration of Félix’s heart. He longed, too, for better tools than therude little knife he had, and for days and years in which to learn touse them.

  But the Père Michaud had scant patience with these notions of thelittle son’s. Once,