irst bell for Mass; midnight is very near, and we must
not be late."

This conversation was held on Christmas night, in the year of grace
sixteen hundred and sixteen, between the reverend Dom Balaguere,
formerly prior of Barnabites, now chaplain in the service of the Sires
de Trinquelague, and his clerk Garrigou; or at least what he supposed
was his clerk Garrigou, because you will learn that the devil had that
night taken on the round face and wavering traits of the young
sacristan, the better to tempt the reverend Father to commit the
dreadful sin of gluttony. Now, while the supposed Garrigou (hum! hum!)
rung, with all his might, the bells of the seignorial chapel, the
reverend Father put on his chasuble in the little sacristy of the
chateau; and, his mind already becoming troubled by the gastronomic
descriptions he had heard, he repeated to himself:

"Roasted turkeys; golden carp; trout as large as that!"

Outside, the night wind blew, scattering the music of the bells, and one
by one lights began to appear in the shadows about the flanks of Mont
Ventoux, upon the summit of which rose the ancient towers of
Trinquelague. These lights were carried by the farmers on their way to
attend midnight Mass at the chateau. They climbed the paths in groups of
five or six, the father leading, lantern in hand, the women enveloped in
their big brown mantles, where their infants nestled for shelter. In
spite of the hour and the cold all these honest people marched
cheerfully on, sustained by the thought that when they came out from the
Mass they would find, as they did each year, tables spread for them
below in the kitchens. Now and again on the rough ascent, the coach of
some seigneur, preceded by torch-bearing porters, reflected in its
glasses the cold moonlight; or, maybe, a mule trotted along shaking his
bells, and in the light of the lanterns covered with frost, the farmers
recognized their bailiff and saluted him as he passed:

"Good-evening, good-evening, Master Arnoton."

"Good-evening, good-evening, my children."

The night was clear, the stars were polished with cold, the wind stung,
and a fine sleet, which glistened on the clothes without wetting them,
kept faithfully the tradition of Christmases white with snow. Raised
there aloft, the chateau appeared like the goal of all things, with its
enormous mass of towers and gables, the belfry of its chapel mounting
into the blue-black sky, and a crowd of small lights that