she is rising sixty, who is arrayed always with an exquisite neatness in
the dress--the sober black-and-white of the elder women, not the gay
colours worn by the young girls--of the Pays d'Arles; and--although
shortness and plumpness are at odds with majesty of deportment--she has,
at least, the peremptory manner of one long accustomed to command. As is
apt to be the way with little round women, her temper is of a brittle
cast and her hasty rulings sometimes smack of injustice; but her nature
(and this also is characteristic of her type) is so warmly generous that
her heart easily can be caught into kindness on the rebound. The Vidame,
who in spite of his antiquarian testiness is something of a philosopher,
takes advantage of her peculiarities to compass such of his wishes as
happen to run counter to her laws. His Machiavellian policy is to draw
her fire by a demand of an extravagant nature; and then, when her lively
refusal has set her a little in the wrong, handsomely to ask of her as
a favour what he really requires--a method that never fails of success.

By my obviously sincere admiration of the Chateau and its surroundings,
and by a discreet word or two implying a more personal admiration--a
tribute which no woman of the Pays d'Arles ever is too old to accept
graciously--I was so fortunate as to win Mise Fougueiroun's favour at
the outset; a fact of which I was apprised on the evening of my
arrival--it was at dinner, and the housekeeper herself had brought in a
bottle of precious Chateauneuf-du-Pape--by the cordiality with which she
joined forces with the Vidame in reprobating my belated coming to the
Chateau. Actually, I was near a fortnight behind the time named in my
invitation: which had stated expressly that Christmas began in Provence
on the Feast of Saint Barbara, and that I was expected not later than
that day--December 4th.

"Monsieur should have been here," said the housekeeper with decision,
"when we planted the blessed Saint Barbara's grain. And now it is grown
a full span. Monsieur will not see Christmas at all!"

But my apologetic explanation that I never even had heard of Saint
Barbara's grain only made my case the more deplorable.

"Mai!" exclaimed Mise Fougueiroun, in the tone of one who faces suddenly
a real calamity. "Can it be that there are no Christians in monsieur's
America? Is it possible that down there they do not keep the Christmas
feast at all?"

To cover my confusion, the Vidame int