ff and the
scrivener.... Oh, you are really lucky to be among their number,
reverend!... There's nothing like sniffing these lovely turkeys, the
smell of the truffles follows me around.... Mm....

--Come, come, my child, let us beware of the sin of gluttony,
especially on Christmas Eve.... Hurry up, light the candles, and ring
the first bell for mass, as midnight is upon us, and we mustn't be
late....

This conversation took place one Christmas Eve in the year of our Lord
sixteen hundred and God knows what, between the reverend Dom Balaguere,
old prior of the Barnabites, then service chaplain of the Sires of
Trinquelage, and his minor cleric Garrigou. At least he thought it was
his minor cleric Garrigou, for, as you may know, that night the devil
himself took on the round face and bland features of the young
sacristan, in order to tempt the reverend father into the terrible sin
of gluttony. So, as the _so-called_ Garrigou was swinging his arms to
ring the seigneurial chapel's bells, the reverend managed to put his
chasuble back on in the small chateau sacristy, and with a spirit
already troubled by gastronomic anticipation, he excited it even more
as he dressed himself, by going over the menu,

--Roast turkeys ... golden carp ... trout as fat as your arm....

Outside the night-wind blew and broadcasted the music of the bells, as
the lights began to appear on the dark side of Mount Ventoux,
surmounted by the old towers of the Trinquelage. Tenant farmers'
families were walking to hear midnight mass at the chateau. They sang
as they climbed the hillside in small groups, the fathers in the lead,
holding the lantern, their wives, wrapped up against the wind in large,
brown mantles, which also acted as a shelter for the children when they
snuggled up. Despite the dark and the cold, all these brave folk walked
on joyfully, sustained by the thought that, just like every other year,
after the mass, there would be a table stocked up for them in the
kitchen downstairs. During the hard climb, a lord's coach, with its
leading torch-bearers, and its windows shimmering in the moonlight,
occasionally went by. Once, a mule with bells trotted past and the
farmers were able to recognise their bailiff by the light of their
lanterns, and greeted him as he passed:

--Good evening, Master Arnoton!

--Good evening, my dears!

The night was clear, the stars seemed intensified by the cold, and the
wind was stinging. Very fine ice crysta