wax-tapers and ring the first bell for the mass; for it's nearly
midnight and we must not be behind time."

This conversation took place on a Christmas night in the year of grace
one thousand six hundred and something, between the Reverend Dom
Balaguere (formerly Prior of the Barnabites, now paid chaplain of the
Lords of Trinquelague), and his little clerk Garrigou, or at least him
whom he took for his little clerk Garrigou, for you must know that the
devil had on that night assumed the round face and soft features of
the young sacristan, in order the more effectually to lead the
reverend father into temptation, and make him commit the dreadful sin
of gluttony. Well then, while the supposed Garrigou (hum!) was with
all his might making the bells of the baronial chapel chime out, his
reverence was putting on his chasuble in the little sacristy of the
chateau; and with his mind already agitated by all these gastronomic
descriptions, he kept saying to himself as he was robing:

"Roasted turkeys, ... golden carp, ... trout as big as that!..."

Out of doors, the soughing night wind was carrying abroad the music of
the bells, and with this, lights began to make their appearance on the
dark sides of Mount Ventoux, on the summit of which rose the ancient
towers of Trinquelague. The lights were borne by the families of the
tenant farmers, who were coming to hear the midnight mass at the
chateau. They were scaling the hill in groups of five or six together,
and singing; the father in front carrying a lantern, and the women
wrapped up in large brown cloaks, beneath which their little children
snuggled and sheltered. In spite of the cold and the lateness of the
hour these good folks were marching blithely along, cheered by the
thought that after the mass was over there would be, as always in
former years, tables set for them down in the kitchens. Occasionally
the glass windows in some lord's carriage, preceded by torch-bearers,
would glisten in the moon-light on the rough ascent; or perhaps a mule
would jog by with tinkling bells, and by the light of the misty
lanterns the tenants would recognize their bailiff and would salute
him as he passed with:

"Good evening, Master Arnoton."

"Good evening. Good evening, my friend."

The night was clear, and the stars were twinkling with frost; the
north wind was nipping, and at times a fine small hail, that slipped
off one's garments without wetting them, faithfully maintained the
t