It was Christmas Eve in Rheims,
France, nearly five hundred
years ago. The spires of
the great cathedral towered
high in the sky over a throng
of people who had gathered
in a square before the church,
celebrating the joyous Noel.
Laughing children darted
through the crowd as groups
of youths and maidens
sang carols and danced
to the music of a lute
and tambourine.
Everywhere faces shone
with such happiness, it
did not seem possible
there could be, in all
of Rheims, one sad and
lonely heart.
Yet there were four.
Three of them lived in
a squalid old shed by
the river.
Though its outward
appearance was dismal,
the inside was neat
and clean.
Its one room served
as living room, dining
room, bedroom and kitchen
for three people, but
the rough stone floor
was carefully swept,
and the patched covers
on the straw mattresses
in the corner were
spotlessly clean.
A rough table, broken
chair, stool and
rickety bench were the
only furniture in the room.
In a far corner stood
a small charcoal brazier
whose weak flame served
not only to cook the
meals but to
warm the hut.
The one touch of beauty
in the little room was
supplied by a tiny
shrine, built on a shelf
at the rear wall.
A few field flowers
in a bowl stood in front
of it, and from
the shelf hung a heavily
embroidered scarlet sash
which had once held
a knights' shield.
A young woman was bending
over a small spinning
wheel, a boy of seven
was setting the table
with their few cracked
dishes, and a girl a year
or so older was stirring
a kettle over the brazier.
The lady, whose beauty
shone through in spite
of her ragged clothing,
was Madame la Contesse
Marie de Malincourt, and
the boy and girl, her son
and daughter, Louis
and Jeanne.
As she worked, the lady
was thinking sadly of
Christmas only a year
before, when everything
had been so different.
Then she had lived in a great
castle, and as on every
Christmas Eve, she and her
husband and children had
gone down to the castle
gate to greet the crowd
assembled.
The old, the ailing, and
the poor would gather
there, and the Malincourts
would go into the crowd
giving to each villager
gifts of warm clothing,
healing herbs and food.
Even Louis and Jeanne
would give something from
their own toys to the
village children.
Then war had swept over
their happy valley; the
castle had been attacked
and robbed. Lady Marie's
husband had been led away
in chains while she and
the children had fled
down a secret passageway
out in the night and away
to the village.
She found it deserted,
the villagers frightened
away by the attackers.
During the months that
followed, the three had
wandered along the highway
trading away their
belongings bit by bit in
return for food
and lodging.
Even Lady Mari's coat
had gone to the wife of
a rich merchant, and the
pretty clothing of Louis
and Jeanne had been replaced
by coarse peasant wear.
Only one thing remained
of their belongings
- the cover of her husband's
shield, which little Louis
had brought from the
castle that dreadful night.
"Father gave it to me to
keep until he comes back,"
he said and through all
the terrors of their flight
he had clung to it.
It was dear to all of them,
for it was their only
reminder of their father
and the life they
had shared together.
"Mother," said Jeanne
suddenly, interrupting
her mother's thoughts,
"it is Christmas tonight."
"Yes, sighed Lady Maire,
"but there will be no
toys or sweets for you
and little Louis
the Noel."
"We don't need them," the
children answered. "We
have you, Mother, and
we can keep Christmas
in our heart.
Their mother looked up
at them and smiled.
"Yes, though life is hard,"
she said, "we still
have each other, and
even though we miss
your father, I'm sure
there are others in
Rheims tonight that
miss their lived ones also.
I just wish we had
something to give the poor
as we once did..."
A thoughtful silence
filled the room.
"Mother," Jeanne said
excitedly, "I know
something we can give."
As she talked she picked
up the small tallow
candle from the table and
hurried to one window
of the hut.
"See," she went on, "I will
put it on the sill and
perhaps someone who
passes, someone like
ourselves, will be
happier because of this
little gift of light.
There - see how it shines
out on the snow," and
she stood back to
survey her work.
"You are a good child,
Jeanne," said Lady Marie,
then smiling gently,
she resumed her work.
Down in the great square,
among all the lights and
gaiety, was another
sad heart. It beat in
the breast of a little
lad of nine, a boy in
ragged clothes whose bare
feet were thrust into
clumsy wooden clogs.
He was utterly alone in
the world, without money
or friends, cold hungry
and miserable.
When he tried to tell
his story to some
of the milling people
around him, no one
took any interest in him,
other than to frown
at him or elbow him
out of the way.
At last, in utter despair,
he began to tramp the
streets, stopping now
and then to gaze
at the splendid houses
and to seek help.
But there was no welcome
in any of them for
the poor lonely child.
It was dark in the streets
of Rheims now, and the
air was growing colder,
but the little child
trampled on, trying
desperately to find shelter
before the night closed
in. At last, far off
down by the river, he saw
a tiny gleam of light
appear suddenly at a
window and he hurried
toward it. As he neared it,
the boy saw it was only
a small tallow candle at
the window of a hovel,
the poorest hut in all
Rheims, but the steady
light brought a sudden glow
to his heart and he ran
forward and knocked
at the door.
It was quickly opened
by a little girl, and at
once two other people
had risen to greet
him. In another moment
he found himself seated
on a stool beside the
charcoal brazier.
The little girl was
warming one of his cold
hands in her palms,
while her brother was
holding the other, and a
beautiful woman, kneeling
at his feet, drew off
the wooden shoes and
rubbed his icy feet.
When he was thoroughly
warmed, the little girl
dished up into three
bowls and a cracked cup
the stew which had been
simmering on the fire.
There was only a little
of it, but she passed
the fullest bowl to
the stranger.
After a word of blessing,
they ate their stew, and
never had the thick soup
tasted so rich and
so satisfying.
As they finished, a
sudden flowing light
filled the room, greater
than the brightness of
a thousand candles.
There was a sound of
angel voices, and the
stranger had grown so
radiant they could hardly
bear to look at him.
"Thou, with thy little
candle, have lighted
the Christ child on
his way to Heaven,"
said their guest, his
hand on the door latch.
"This night your dearest
prayer shall be
answered," and in
another instant he
was gone.
The countess and her
children fell to their
knees and prayed, and
there they still were
many minutes later
when a knight in armor
gently pushed open
the door and entered
the hut.
"Mari! Jeanne! Louis!"
he cried in a voice
of love. "Don't you
know me after all
these weary months of
prison and barrel?
How I have searched for you!"
Immediately his family
clustered around him
with embraces and kisses.
"But, Father, how did you
find us here?" cried
little Louis at last.
"A ragged lad I met on
the highway told me
where you live," answered
the knight.
"The Christ child," said
Marie reverently, and
told him the story.
And so, forever after,
they and all their
descendants, have burned
a candle in the window
on the eve of Noel, to
light the solitary Christ
child on his way.
The End
Clement C. Moore
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