FRANCE: Too Old for Christmas

Parisian news photographers, Montparnasse salesgirls and, above all, thousands of confident, confiding children agreed as one that benevolent old Adrien Claude was the best Father Christmas that Paris had ever seen. His flowing white beard and the kindness that danced in his twinkling blue eyes were as genuine as those of the legendary Christmas saint himself. When Adrien made his appearance last year in the toy department of one of the biggest department stores on the Left Bank, children left the firm grip of parental hands with a shout of joy to clamber into his lap, pull his beard and whisper their hopes into his ear. As far as the merchants of the Left Bank were concerned, the definitive Père Noë had come to Paris to stay. Adrien’s own old heart was bursting with happiness and good news to take to his wife Pauline in the hospital along with the little presents of fruit and candy he always brought her.

Good news had become a rare luxury for Pauline Claude and her Adrien. Eight years ago they had both become too old and feeble to hold their jobs any longer as joint caretakers of a rickety apartment house. Soon afterward, Pauline had gone to a permanent bed in the hospital. Adrien himself had become too weak to do even the odd jobs that were left to him. The presents he brought his wife on his regular trips to the hospital often meant going without meals himself. Yet, childless for 43 years of marriage, they both loved children, and their greatest happiness came each year at Christmas time when Adrien was asked to don his red suit and play Santa at the store and at private parties and small, out-of-the-way shops.

One day last month, as the Christmas season rolled around again, Adrien Claude stopped by the hospital as usual to see his wife. She lay in bed, staring straight ahead. “I am sorry,” said the doctor to Adrien. “She does not know you any more.” Adrien stared and stared, then he shuffled away, his legs moving uncertainly, his hands shaking, his face drawn and haggard. The department store manager regretfully allowed him to quit, got a new man to play Santa Claus. Children clambered obediently to his lap, and business went on as usual. But, from time to time, a palsied old man with a white beard could be seen peering anxiously in the store window only to shuffle away with head bent. A salesgirl thought she recognized him, but she could not be sure.

One day last week, after his old-age pension had come in, Adrien Claude paid off his last few tiny debts. “I am too old for Christmas,” he told a friend as he gave him the few francs he owed. He went up to his chilly garret apartment, put his cat outside the door, sealed the windows tight and put his shoes by the fireplace, where all good French children put their shoes on Christmas Eve, hoping they will be filled by Father Christmas. Then he lit the stove in the airless room, lay down on the bed and waited for death. It came before morning.