A Versailles Christmas-Tide

A Versailles Christmas-Tide

Project Gutenberg's A Versailles Christmas-Tide, by Mary Stuart Boyd
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Title: A Versailles Christmas-Tide
Author: Mary Stuart Boyd
Release Date: January 23, 2004 [EBook #10813] [Date last updated:
December 22, 2004]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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VERSAILLES CHRISTMAS-TIDE ***

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Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

A VERSAILLES CHRISTMAS-TIDE
By
Mary Stuart Boyd

With Fifty-three Illustrations by A.S. Boyd
1901

Contents
I. The Unexpected Happens II. Ogams III. The Town IV. Our Arbre de
Noël V. Le Jour de l'Année VI. Ice-bound VII. The Haunted Château
VIII. Marie Antoinette IX. The Prisoners Released

Illustrations
The Summons Storm Warning Treasure Trove The Red Cross in the
Window Enter M. le Docteur Perpetual Motion Ursa Major Meal
Considerations The Two Colonels The Young and Brave Malcontent
The Aristocrat Papa, Mama, et Bébé Juvenile Progress Automoblesse
oblige Sable Garb A Football Team Mistress and Maid Sage and
Onions Marketing Private Boxes A Foraging Party A Thriving
Merchant Chestnuts in the Avenue The Tree Vendor The Tree Bearer
Rosine Alms and the Lady Adoration Thankfulness One of the Devout
De l'eau Chaude The Mill The Presbytery To the Place of Rest While
the Frost Holds The Postman's Wrap A Lapful of Warmth The Daily
Round Three Babes and a Bonne Snow in the Park A Veteran of the
Château Un, Deux, Trois Bedchamber of Louis XIV Marie Leczinska
Madame Adelaide Louis Quatorze Where the Queen Played Marie
Antoinette The Secret Stair Madame sans Tête Illumination L'Envoi
CHAPTER I
THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS
[Illustration: The Summons]
No project could have been less foreseen than was ours of wintering in
France, though it must be confessed that for several months our

thoughts had constantly strayed across the Channel. For the Boy was at
school at Versailles, banished there by our desire to fulfil a parental
duty.
The time of separation had dragged tardily past, until one foggy
December morning we awoke to the glad consciousness that that very
evening the Boy would be with us again. Across the breakfast-table we
kept saying to each other, "It seems scarcely possible that the Boy is
really coming home to-night," but all the while we hugged the
assurance that it was.
The Boy is an ordinary snub-nosed, shock-headed urchin of thirteen,
with no special claim to distinction save the negative one of being an
only child. Yet without his cheerful presence our home seemed empty
and dull. Any attempts at merry-making failed to restore its life. Now
all was agog for his return. The house was in its most festive trim.
Christmas presents were hidden securely away. There was rejoicing
downstairs as well as up: the larder shelves were stored with seasonable
fare, and every bit of copper and brass sparkled a welcome. Even the
kitchen cat sported a ribbon, and had a specially energetic purr ready.
Into the midst of our happy preparations the bad news fell with
bomb-like suddenness. The messenger who brought the telegram
whistled shrilly and shuffled a breakdown on the doorstep while he
waited to hear if there was an answer.
"He is ill. He can't come. Scarlet fever," one of us said in an odd, flat
voice.
"Scarlet fever. At school. Oh! when can we go to him? When is there a
boat?" cried the other.
There was no question of expediency. The Boy lay sick in a foreign
land, so we went to him. It was full noon when the news came, and
nightfall saw us dashing through the murk of a wild mid-December
night towards Dover pier, feeling that only the express speed of the
mail train was quick enough for us to breathe in.

But even the most apprehensive of journeys may hold its humours. Just
at the moment of starting anxious friends assisted a young lady into our
carriage. "She was going to Marseilles. Would we kindly see that she
got on all right?" We were only going as far as Paris direct. "Well, then,
as far as Paris. It would be a great favour." So from Charing Cross to
the Gare du Nord, Placidia, as we christened her, became our care.
She was a large, handsome girl of about three-and-twenty. What was
her reason for journeying unattended to Cairo we know not. Whether
she ever reached her destination we are still in doubt, for a more
complacently incapable damsel never went a-voyaging. The Saracen
maiden who followed her English lover from the Holy Land by