whose spirit
suggests the Christ, a Bishop, yet a simple priest, whose life deserves
more words than does the whole of Saint-Jerome, once his
Cathedral-church. He was a Cure of Brignoles, one of those keen, yet
simple-hearted and hard-working priests who often bless Provencal towns.
He had no great ambitions, no patronage, no ties except a far-off
brother who was an upstart general of that most upstart Emperor,
Napoleon. One day while the priest was pottering in his little
garden,--as Provencal Cures love to dig and work,--a letter was handed
him, marked "thirty sous of postage due." He was outraged. His shining
old soutane fell from the folds in which he had prudently tucked it, he
shrugged his shoulders and protested,--"A great expense indeed for a
trivial purpose. Where should he find another thirty sous for his poor?
He never wrote letters. Therefore by no argument of any school of logic
could he be compelled to receive them. Obviously this was not for him."
The unexpected letter was one for which his brother had asked and which
Napoleon had signed, a decree which made him Bishop.

Long afterwards this simple, saintly prelate saved a man from crime, and
history relates that this same man died at Waterloo as a good and
faithful soldier fighting for the fatherland. His benefactor, that loyal
servant of Christ and His Church, soon followed him in death, and unlike
many a Saint whom this earth forgets his memory lives on, not only in
the little city of the snow-clad Alps, but in the hearts of those who
read of his good deeds. For Monseigneur Miollis of Digne is truly
Monseigneur Bienvenu of "Les Miserables," and only the soldier of
Waterloo was glorified in Jean Valjean.

[Sidenote: Forcalquier.]

If it is difficult to picture sleepy, stately Aix as one of the most
brilliant centres of mediaeval Europe, and the garrisoned castle of
Tarascon filled with the gay courtiers and fair ladies of King Rene's
Court, it will be almost impossible to walk in the smaller Provencal
"cities," and see in imagination the cavalcades of mailed soldiers who
clattered through the streets on their way to the castle of some
near-by hill-top, my lord proudly distinguishable by his mount or the
length of his plume, a delicate Countess languishing between the
curtains of her litter, or a more sprightly one who rode her palfrey and
smiled on the staring townsfolk. It is almost impossible to conceive
that the four daughters of Raymond Bereng