ls slid down their clothes
without wetting them, which kept up the tradition of a white Christmas.
At the very top of the hill, the chateau marked the end of their
journey, with its mass of towers and gables. The chapel's clock rose
into a dark blue sky, and a host of tiny lights flickered in and out at
every window in the murky rear of the building, and looked like sparks
running along burning paper.... To reach the chapel, after crossing the
drawbridge and passing through the rear entrance, you had to cross the
main courtyard, full of coaches, valets, and sedan-chairs. It was all
lit up by the fire of the torches and flares from the kitchens, which
was also the source of a squeaking spit, clattering saucepans, the
chink of crystal and silverware shaken about during the laying of the
tables, and a warm steam smelling deliciously of roast meat and strong
herbs in fine sauces. This started the farmers, chaplain, bailiff, and
everybody else commenting:

--What a splendid Christmas Eve dinner there is in store for us!

II

The bell rings twice!...

Midnight mass is beginning. The candles are lit and the tapestries
draped from top to bottom of the interleaved arches and the oak
panelling in the chateau's chapel. It's a veritable cathedral in
miniature. And what a congregation there is! And what get-ups they have
on! The Sire of Trinquelage is dressed in salmon-pink taffeta in one of
the choir's sculptured stalls, with all the other invited noble Lords
sitting near him. Opposite, on a pair of velvet decorated prie-dieus,
the old dowager marquise in her flame-red, brocaded dress, and the
youthful Lady of Trinquelage, hair done up in a tower of crinkled lace
in the latest style of the French court, have taken their places; and
lower down, the bailiff, Thomas Arnoton, and the scrivener, Master
Ambroy are all in black, and clean shaven, with huge pointed wigs--two
quiet notes amongst the loud silks and brocaded damasks. Then the
well-fed major-domos, the pages, the stablemen, the stewards, and Lady
Barbe, with all her keys hanging by her side on a fine silver key-ring.
Then comes the lower orders on benches; the servants, the
tenant-farmers, and their families. Lastly, the male servers, who are
lined up against the door, quietly half opening and closing it again,
as they pop in and out between making sauces, so they can soak up a bit
of the atmosphere of the mass. As they do this, a whiff of Christmas
Eve dinner wafts int