CHAPTER III

It was Christmas Eve. All day the rain had fallen in a steady down-pour, but at about four o'clock the wind had suddenly changed, the sky cleared, and Nice had been treated to one of the glorious sunsets for which the place is famous. The wind blew in sharp gusts through the streets, giving an almost wintry feeling to the air, and Maisie, who had gone out for a brisk walk with her father, gave little skips of delight, declaring that it was really beginning to feel like Christmas.

But in Maman Remo's tiny house, where the wind found its way through every crack, it was not so pleasant. Indeed, it was most uncomfortably chilly, for the fire in the stove had gone out, and there was nobody to relight it. Maman Remo had not yet come home, and Celeste had been forbidden to go near the stove. When Pierre was at home he usually attended to the fire, but now the little blind girl was quite alone. It was growing dark, too, but that Celeste did not notice, for to her night and day were all the same, but the afternoon had seemed unusually long, and she was beginning to wonder what could have kept Maman Remo out so late.

"It cannot possibly have taken her all this time to bring home the clean clothes to the hotels," she said to herself. "I wish she would come."

But there was nothing to be gained by wishing, and so, being a practical little person, not given to fretting over what could not be helped, Celeste tried to think of something else. To-morrow would be Christmas, and she would go to the little American girl's Christmas Tree. How pleased Maman Remo had been to hear of the invitation! "Then you will have a happy Christmas, my little one," she had said. "Certainly I will take you to the hotel, and chat with the good Madame Strobel until you are ready to return." It was very kind of Maman Remo to be so much interested, for this would be a very sad Christmas to her. Troublesome and disobedient as Pierre had often been, his mother loved him dearly, and the thought of her only child wandering penniless through the country, perhaps suffering from cold and hunger, was a very terrible one to the poor woman. Celeste could hear her crying every night when she thought the child was asleep, and she found that it would not do to think much about Maman Remo if she wanted to be cheerful on Christmas Eve. So she fell back on her one never failing resource when she was sad or gay; she began to sing. She chose the gayest song she knew, and again, as on the day when Maisie and her aunt had made their call, the strains of "_Noel, Noel, tous chantantes Noel!_" echoed through the little house. When she reached the end of her song, she sang it over again. Indeed, she sang it half a dozen times, for it was one of her favorites, and she did not want to sing any but Christmas songs on Christmas Eve. But at last her throat grew tired, and she felt that she could not sing any more. Then it was very quiet in the little house. Outside the wind whistled and howled, shaking the crazy windows in their frames, but inside the only sound to break the stillness was the ticking of the old wooden clock. Celeste could hear the ticking, but she could not see the time. A mouse scuttled across the floor, with a little squeak, and the child shivered, and her heart began to beat uncomfortably fast. She was never afraid to be left alone in the house in the day-time, but after dark it was different, and she felt sure it must be after dark now. What could be keeping Maman Remo out so late?

At last her quick ear caught the sound of an approaching footstep; the handle of the door was turned, and some one came in.

"Maman Remo," cried Celeste, joyfully, "is it Maman Remo?"

"Surely, my little one; who else should it be? I am sorry to be so late, but I was detained. Were you afraid?"

"Oh, no," said Celeste cheerfully, "not really afraid, but a little anxious. Your voice sounds tired, Maman."

"Ah, yes, I am tired--very tired, and it is cold. I will hasten to light the fire."

"How I wish I could do it for you while you rest," said Celeste, regretfully. But Maman Remo shook her head.

"No, no, that is strictly forbidden," she said, with decision. "Remember the poor blind woman Madame Dupont told us about, who was burned to death trying to light a fire, that her husband and son should find a warm house. Ah, but I am sorry you have been cold, my little one."

"It has not been so bad," Celeste assured her, "and it will soon be warm now. Where have you been to keep you so late?"

"I have told you I was detained. Children should not ask questions. Now bring me the matches and some wood, that you can do without danger."

Maman Remo's tone was cheerful, but perhaps it was as well that Celeste could not see how white and tired her face looked. The child ran eagerly for the matches, and the woman bent over the stove, trying to warm herself at the burned out embers. There was a worried, almost frightened look in her eyes, and in spite of all her efforts to appear as usual, the little blind girl felt sure something was wrong.

She stood by in silence while Maman Remo lighted the lamp, and started the fire, and the troubled look deepened in her own face.

"Have you had any news of Pierre to-day?" she inquired, timidly, when the fire had been coaxed into a blaze, and she and Maman Remo were warming themselves before it.

"Not one word. I fear he has left us forever--my poor Pierre."

Maman Remo heaved a sigh, but her voice sounded preoccupied, and Celeste feared it could not be only anxiety about Pierre that was troubling her kind friend to-night.

"Are we going to the midnight mass?" she asked, after a moment's pause.

Maman Remo started as if the question had brought her thoughts back from somewhere a long way off.

"Midnight mass," she repeated, vaguely. "Ah, surely, I had forgotten. Would it disappoint you very much to stay at home to-night, my little one? It is cold and I am very tired."

"Oh, no," said Celeste, eagerly, "I should not mind at all. I am sorry you are so tired, dear Maman; I am afraid you work too hard."

"It is not the work that troubles me," said Maman Remo, with another sigh. "I have worked hard all my life. If I can only keep my health, I shall not mind anything else."

"Are you not well, then--have you the pain in your back again?" Celeste spoke quickly, and her face grew very grave.

But Maman Remo did not seem disposed to talk about herself. With an effort she shook off the weariness or depression which seemed to be troubling her, and without answering Celeste's question, she began hurrying about preparing the frugal supper of brown bread and milk, which composed their usual evening meal. Celeste was very quiet all through supper, but oddly enough, Maman Remo, who was usually so quick to notice the child's every mood, did not seem to observe it. She was really disappointed about the midnight mass, to which she had been looking forward for weeks, but she did not want Maman Remo to know she cared. Then, too, she was worried, though she could not have explained why even to herself. It was very strange to hear Maman Remo, who had always been so strong, complain of being tired. Was it only the anxiety about Pierre that was troubling her, or was there some other cause, of which she, Celeste, knew nothing? She had always been old for her age--many blind children are--and perhaps few little girls of twelve are often visited by such serious reflections as those which troubled Celeste on that Christmas Eve.

"You do not eat your supper. Are you not hungry this evening?"

Maman Remo's tone sounded impatient, but it was the impatience of anxiety.

"I am not very hungry," Celeste answered, laying down her spoon. "I am never so hungry when I have stayed in the house all day."

"Perhaps you tire of the same food every day, but meat is so dear this winter."

"I do not care for meat," Celeste protested. "Have you eaten a good supper yourself?"

"Oh, good enough. It does not matter about me, but you must not lose your appetite. When I was your age I could eat nails."

"Nails would be very bad for the digestion," said Celeste, laughing. "But if you have finished, may I not clear the table and wash the dishes?"

Maman Remo said she might, and while Celeste bustled about, busy with the little household tasks she loved, the woman watched her sadly, with an expression in her eyes that it was well the little blind girl could not see. Once two big tears rolled slowly down her cheeks, only to be hastily brushed away, with a muttered exclamation, "What am I coming to? Crying at my time of life!" And then she rose hurriedly, and insisted on helping Celeste with the dishes.

Celeste was relieved to find her friend more like herself, and in her relief she began to sing. Maman Remo winced as the first words of "_Noel, Joyeuse Noel_," awoke the echoes in the little house, but before Celeste had reached the last verse, a look of something like peace had come into the woman's troubled face.

"Sing something else," she said; "I like to hear you." And Celeste, delighted at the request, sang song after song for the next half hour, at the end of which time Maman Remo sent her to bed.

"You must sleep well so as to be ready for the little American girl's Christmas Tree," she said, kindly.

Celeste smiled reassuringly.

"I should be ready for that even if I sat up all night," she said. "Oh, Maman dearest, won't it be beautiful? I cannot touch the candles, certainly, but I shall feel their warmth on my face, and smell the good smell. There will be chocolates on the tree, I am sure, and perhaps the little American will give me some to take home, like those she gave Antoine. And I shall wear my Sunday dress, and my shoes and woolen stockings. Oh, to-morrow will be a happy day, will it not, Maman?"

"Yes, yes, certainly; why should it not be, except that my Pierre is away?"

There was no trouble or anxiety on Celeste's face when she bade Maman Remo good-night, and climbed the narrow, rickety stairs to the loft where the family slept. She was only a little girl, after all, and it was the night before Christmas. But when she had undressed, and crept into the hard little bed that she shared with Maman Remo, sleep did not come as it usually did the moment her head touched the pillow. It was colder than usual, for one thing, and the blankets were not thick. She shivered and drew the thin coverings closer, but still sleep did not come. What was it that was worrying Maman Remo? Was it only anxiety about Pierre, or was there something else besides? What would become of them if maman should ever be ill, especially now that Pierre had gone away? She was glad for her own part that Pierre had gone, for he had never been kind, but maman loved him. Besides, if Pierre did not come back, there would be no one to take her to the hotels to sing, and to play her accompaniments. It was very sad to be blind and poor at the same time. What a mistake the little American girl had made when she said she did not think it was so bad to be blind! If she were not blind she would not need Pierre to take her about. She could go by herself, and earn money to help maman. But the little American girl was rich, and rich people never understood such things. She had never been rich, but once, long ago, when her papa sang in the Paris opera, they had not been so poor. She could just remember the pretty, comfortable little home, with her mamma looking so pretty and gay, and Louis coming home from his lessons at the conservatory. Maman Remo said it was because her papa had been extravagant that they had lost all their money, and that her mamma had had to work so hard. It was all very sad and perplexing. She was sure that if she ever had money she would not be extravagant. Not that it was likely she ever would have any, unless Louis came home rich, as the little American had said he might. But that same little American had told her there were many poor people in America. Oh, how she did hope Louis was not very poor! He was so big and strong and handsome--it did not seem possible that he could be so very poor. If the good God would only let Louis come home, what care he would take of her and of Maman Remo too, and how happy they would all be.

When Celeste's reflections reached this point, her eyelids began to droop, and she was just dropping off into a doze, when she was startled wide awake again by the sound of a knock at the house door. It was such an unusual thing for Maman Remo to have visitors at that late hour, that Celeste sat up in bed, and listened, wondering who it could possibly be. She heard maman go to the door, and then followed the sound of voices, maman's, and that of another woman, which she recognized at once as Madame Dupont's. Madame Dupont was Antoine's mother, and a great friend of Maman Remo's. Celeste lay down again, with a feeling of relief. She did not know what she had feared, but was glad it was only Madame Dupont. But the knock had thoroughly aroused her, and she lay listening to the voices in the room beneath. There was a hole in the floor of the loft, into which she and Maman Remo had to be careful not to step, so that it was really quite impossible to help hearing every word that was spoken in the room downstairs.

Maman Remo had brought her visitor to a seat near the stove, and was expressing surprise that Madame Dupont should be out so late.

"I shall be up late to-night on account of the midnight mass," her friend explained, "and I thought I would just stop to wish you _Joyeuse Noel_. I have brought you a bit of meat for to-morrow's dinner. I found I had more than I needed, and it seemed a pity to waste it."

Celeste smiled when she heard this, for she was fond of meat. "Oh, the good Madame Dupont," she murmured, "how generous she is!"

Maman Remo thanked her friend heartily for the meat, but there was the same strange, tired sound in her voice that had troubled Celeste, and Madame Dupont noticed it, too. She noticed something else, which Celeste could not see, and that was how white and worn her good friend was looking, but she had heard of Pierre's running away, and thought she knew the reason.

"Where is Celeste?" she questioned cheerfully, anxious to keep the conversation in safe and pleasant channels.

"In bed and asleep long ago, poor little one."

"You are not taking her to mass, then? She is so fond of the music, I thought she would certainly go with you."

"I am not going myself to-night," said Maman Remo, with a sigh.

"Not going! And it is Christmas Eve."

"I am very tired. I have had a hard day, and I must rest, the doctor says."

"The doctor! You have been to him at last, then?" There was eager anxiety in Madame Dupont's voice.

"Yes, I went this afternoon, before I came home."

"Well, and what did he tell you?"

"He says I must go to the hospital for an operation, and the sooner I go the more chance there is that I shall not die."

Madame Dupont threw up her hands in dismay, and began pouring forth a torrent of exclamations of sympathy. In the room above, little Celeste sat up in bed, trembling from head to foot, and straining her ears to catch every word. Maman Remo waited until her friend had finished exclaiming and sympathizing, and then she said in a dull, tired voice--

"It is a serious operation, and even when it is over I shall have to stay in the hospital for several weeks. And when I come out I shall not be strong enough to work as I have been doing for a long time. I told the doctor I would rather die."

"No, no," cried Madame Dupont, the tears of sympathy streaming down her honest face, "you must not say that; it is not right to wish to die. The good God will surely find some way to help you, and you have friends, remember, dear Madame Remo, you have friends."

"Friends are very good," said Maman Remo, gratefully, "but I would rather die than be a burden to those who have enough for themselves. There is no one of my own left to care for me. My husband is dead, Pierre has gone away, and poor little Celeste, what could she do?"

At the mention of the name Celeste, Maman Remo's voice faltered for the first time, and her sentence ended in a sob.

"It is the thought of the child that is the hardest of all to bear," she said, when she had recovered her composure. "She is such a gentle, tender little thing, and who will there be to care for her in all the months that I cannot work? I promised her mother and her brother that I would always take care of her, and I have grown to love her as my own child."

"You will have to send her to the orphan asylum," said Madame Dupont, who, though she was fond of the little blind girl, did not feel disposed to offer her a home in her already crowded house. "Truly it is not a bad place. The three little Roberts were sent there when their parents died, and they all look well and happy."

But Maman Remo only shook her head mournfully, and refused to be comforted.

"You do not know my little Celeste," she said. "She is not like ordinary children. Her mother was a lady. You should have seen her, so pretty and refined, and her father was a great singer. It is not people like that who are sent to the asylum. The child would pine away and die."

"Then what will you do with her?" Madame Dupont inquired practically.

"I do not know, and that is what is driving me mad. If I could only find her brother, but alas, I have no idea what has become of him, or if I could afford to send her to the school for the blind in Paris. She longs to go there, and she would be happy among kind people; but the ticket to Paris costs almost a hundred francs, and where could I get a hundred francs? Besides, there would be no one to take her, and the child could not take such a journey alone."

"You might borrow the hundred francs," suggested Madame Dupont, "and repay it when you are able to work again, and some one going to Paris might be willing to look after the child on the journey."

"I do not like to be in debt," said Madame Remo, proudly. "I would borrow the money for the child's sake, though, if I were sure of being able to pay it back. But suppose I should never be strong again. The doctor says I shall be as well as ever in six months if I do as he wishes, but doctors are sometimes mistaken."

Madame Dupont was very sorry for her friend, but she could not think of any other alternative, and spent the rest of her visit in assuring Maman Remo that she was not half as ill as the doctor had said, and that as soon as the operation was successfully accomplished, she would certainly be quite as strong and well as usual. Maman Remo listened, and was somewhat comforted. It was a great relief to have told her trouble to a friend, and perhaps, after all, Madame Dupont, who had brought a large family successfully through numerous illnesses, might know more about such matters than a young doctor not yet thirty.

"There is one favor that I must beg of you," she said, with a sudden recollection, when Madame Dupont at last rose to go. "Do not say anything to Celeste about this until Christmas is over. Some Americans at the Hotel de Nice have invited her to a Christmas Tree, and the child is looking forward to the day with so much pleasure. I cannot have it spoiled for her."

And Madame Dupont promised readily.

When Maman Remo came upstairs, soon after her friend had left, Celeste was lying very still, and appeared to be fast asleep, but when she had undressed and crept into bed beside the motionless little figure, the child stirred, and nestled close to her.

"Did I wake you, my little one?" Maman Remo asked, anxiously. "I thought you were sound asleep."

"No, Maman, I am not asleep. It is so cold, and--and--may I lie in your arms to-night, just as I used to do when I was little?"

"Surely you may, my child, and I will keep you warm. Thank God, it will be warmer again to-morrow; the cold does not last here as in Paris. Now go to sleep, and when you wake in the morning it will be _Joyeuse Noel_."

"Yes, I know," said Celeste, softly, "and I must always be happy on Christmas, on account of my name, Celeste Noel. Good-night, Maman."

"Good-night, my little one."

Maman Remo was asleep in a few minutes. She was very tired, and even anxiety could not keep her awake, but for a long, long time Celeste lay thinking.

"Oh, dear God," she whispered at last, "please, please do find a way to help us. I cannot think of one, and Maman Remo cannot either, and we are both so very unhappy. But maman must not know until Christmas is over, because it would make her so sad, and she wants me to have _Joyeuse Noel_."

And then the little blind girl fell asleep.