“Madame will want the cabinet for Christmas,” repeated Hyacinthe to himself, and fell to work harder than ever, though it was so cold in the shed that his breath hung in the air like a little silvery cloud.  There was a tiny window on his right, through which, when it was clear of frost, one looked on Terminaison; and that was cheerful, and made him whistle.  But to the left, through the chink of the ill-fitting door, there was nothing to be seen but the forest, and the road dying under the snow.

Brandy was good at the Cinq Chateaux and Pierre L’Oreillard gave Hyacinthe plenty of directions, but no further help with the cabinet.

“That is to be finished for Madame at the festival, sluggard,” said he every day, cuffing Hyacinthe about the head, “finished, and with a prettiness about the corners, hearest thou, ourson?”

“Yes, Monsieur,” said Hyacinthe in his slow way; “I will try to finish it.  But if I hurry I shall spoil it.”

Pierre’s little eyes flickered.  “See that it is done, and done properly.  I suffer from a delicacy of the constitution and a little feebleness of the legs these days, so that I cannot handle the tools properly.  I must leave this work to thee, gacheur.  And stand up and touch a hand to thy cap when I speak to thee, slow-worm.”

“Yes, monsieur,” said Hyacinthe wearily.

It is hard to do all the work and to be beaten into the bargain.  And fourteen is not very old.  Hyacinthe worked on at the cabinet with his slow and exquisite skill.  But on Christmas eve he was still at work, and the cabinet unfinished.

“The master will beat me,” thought Hyacinthe, and he trembled a little, for Pierre’s beatings were cruel.  “But if I hurry, I shall spoil the wood, and it is too beautiful to be spoiled.”

But he trembled again when Pierre came into the workshop, and he stood up and touched his cap.

“Is the cabinet finished, imbecile?” asked Pierre.  And Hyacinthe answered in a low voice, “No, it is not finished yet, monsieur.”

“Then work on it all night, and show it to me completed in the morning, or thy bones shall mourn thine idleness,” said Pierre, with a wicked look in his little eyes.  And he shut Hyacinthe into the shed with a smoky lamp, his tools, and the sandalwood cabinet.

It was nothing unusual.  He had been often left before to finish a piece of work overnight while Pierre went off to his brandies.  But this was Christmas eve, and he was very tired.  Even the scent of the sandalwood could not make him fancy he was warm.  The world seemed to be a black place, full of suffering and despair.

“In all the world, I have no friend,” said Hyacinthe, staring at the flame of the lamp.  “In all the world, there is no one to care whether I live or die.  In all the world, no place, no heart, no love.  O kind God, is there a place, a love for me in another world?”

I hope you feel very sorry for Hyacinthe, lonely, and cold, and shut up in the workshop on the eve of Christmas.  He was but an overgrown, unhappy child.  And I think with old Madame that for unhappy children, at this season, no help seems too divine for faith.