her arms, gave her weight to it, and began to climb. A feeling came over her that there
would never be anything better in the world for her than this; to be pulling Jacques on her sled, with the tender, burning
sky before her, and on each side, in the dusk, the kindly lights from neighbours’ houses. If the Count should go back with
the ships next summer, and her father with him, how could she bear it, she wondered. On a foreign shore, in a foreign city
(yes, for her a foreign shore), would not her heart break for just this? For this rock and this winter, this feeling of
being in one’s own place, for the soft content of pulling Jacques up Holy Family Hill into paler and paler levels of blue
air, like a diver coming up from the deep sea.
VIII
On the morning of the twenty-fourth of December Cécile lay snug in her trundle-bed, while her father lit the fires and
prepared the chocolate. Although the heavy red curtains had not yet been drawn back, she knew that it was snowing; she had
heard the crunch of fresh snow under the Pigeon boy’s feet when he brought the morning loaf to the kitchen door. Even before
that, when the bell rang for five o’clock mass, she knew by its heavy, muffled tone that the air was thick with snow and
that it was not very cold. Whenever she heard the early bell, it was as if she could see the old Bishop with his lantern at
the end of the bell-rope, and the cold of the church up there made her own bed seem the warmer and softer. In winter the old
man usually carried a little basin as well as his lantern. It was his custom to take the bowl of holy water from the font in
the evening, carry it into his kitchen, and put it on the back of the stove, where enough warmth would linger through the
night to keep it from freezing. Then, in the morning, those who came to early mass would not have a mere lump of ice to peck
at. Monseigneur de Laval was very particular about the consecrated oils and the holy water; it was not enough for him that
people should merely go through the forms. Cécile did not always waken at the first bell, which rang in the coldest hour of
the night, but when she did, she felt a peculiar sense of security, as if there must be powerful protection for Kebec in
such steadfastness, and the new day, which was yet darkness, was beginning as it should. The punctual bell and the stern old
Bishop who rang it began an orderly procession of activities and held life together on the rock, though the winds lashed it
and the billows of snow drove over it.
With the sound of the crackling fire a cool, mysterious fragrance of the forest, very exciting because it was under a
roof, came in from the kitchen, — the breath of all the fir boughs and green moss that Cécile and Blinker had brought in
yesterday from the Jesuits’ wood. Today they would unpack the crèche from France, — the box that had come on La Licorne in
midsummer and had lain upstairs unopened for all these months.
Auclair brought the chocolate and placed it on a little table beside his daughter’s bed. They always breakfasted like
this in winter, while the house was getting warm. This morning they had finally to decide where they would set out the
crèche. Weeks ago they had agreed to arrange it in the deep window behind the sofa, — but then the sofa would have to be put
on the other side of the room! This morning they found the thought of moving the sofa, where Madame Auclair used so often to
recline, unendurable. It would quite destroy the harmony of their salon. The room, the house indeed, seemed to cling about
that sofa as a centre.
There was another window in the room, — seldom uncurtained, because it opened directly upon the side wall of the baker’s
house, and the outlook was uninteresting. It was narrow, but Auclair said he could remedy that. As soon as his shop was put
in order, he would construct a shelf in front of the window-sill, but a little lower; then the scene could be arranged in
two terraces, as was
would never be anything better in the world for her than this; to be pulling Jacques on her sled, with the tender, burning
sky before her, and on each side, in the dusk, the kindly lights from neighbours’ houses. If the Count should go back with
the ships next summer, and her father with him, how could she bear it, she wondered. On a foreign shore, in a foreign city
(yes, for her a foreign shore), would not her heart break for just this? For this rock and this winter, this feeling of
being in one’s own place, for the soft content of pulling Jacques up Holy Family Hill into paler and paler levels of blue
air, like a diver coming up from the deep sea.
VIII
On the morning of the twenty-fourth of December Cécile lay snug in her trundle-bed, while her father lit the fires and
prepared the chocolate. Although the heavy red curtains had not yet been drawn back, she knew that it was snowing; she had
heard the crunch of fresh snow under the Pigeon boy’s feet when he brought the morning loaf to the kitchen door. Even before
that, when the bell rang for five o’clock mass, she knew by its heavy, muffled tone that the air was thick with snow and
that it was not very cold. Whenever she heard the early bell, it was as if she could see the old Bishop with his lantern at
the end of the bell-rope, and the cold of the church up there made her own bed seem the warmer and softer. In winter the old
man usually carried a little basin as well as his lantern. It was his custom to take the bowl of holy water from the font in
the evening, carry it into his kitchen, and put it on the back of the stove, where enough warmth would linger through the
night to keep it from freezing. Then, in the morning, those who came to early mass would not have a mere lump of ice to peck
at. Monseigneur de Laval was very particular about the consecrated oils and the holy water; it was not enough for him that
people should merely go through the forms. Cécile did not always waken at the first bell, which rang in the coldest hour of
the night, but when she did, she felt a peculiar sense of security, as if there must be powerful protection for Kebec in
such steadfastness, and the new day, which was yet darkness, was beginning as it should. The punctual bell and the stern old
Bishop who rang it began an orderly procession of activities and held life together on the rock, though the winds lashed it
and the billows of snow drove over it.
With the sound of the crackling fire a cool, mysterious fragrance of the forest, very exciting because it was under a
roof, came in from the kitchen, — the breath of all the fir boughs and green moss that Cécile and Blinker had brought in
yesterday from the Jesuits’ wood. Today they would unpack the crèche from France, — the box that had come on La Licorne in
midsummer and had lain upstairs unopened for all these months.
Auclair brought the chocolate and placed it on a little table beside his daughter’s bed. They always breakfasted like
this in winter, while the house was getting warm. This morning they had finally to decide where they would set out the
crèche. Weeks ago they had agreed to arrange it in the deep window behind the sofa, — but then the sofa would have to be put
on the other side of the room! This morning they found the thought of moving the sofa, where Madame Auclair used so often to
recline, unendurable. It would quite destroy the harmony of their salon. The room, the house indeed, seemed to cling about
that sofa as a centre.
There was another window in the room, — seldom uncurtained, because it opened directly upon the side wall of the baker’s
house, and the outlook was uninteresting. It was narrow, but Auclair said he could remedy that. As soon as his shop was put
in order, he would construct a shelf in front of the window-sill, but a little lower; then the scene could be arranged in
two terraces, as was
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