t wine and jars of picholine olives. The elixir sold in a big way,
and the house of the White Canons soon became wealthy. St. Pacome's
tower was rebuilt. The Prior gloried in a new mitre, the church was
fitted with finely worked stained glass; and in the fine filigree stone
work of the bell tower, a whole range of bells, large and small, rang
out their first fulsome peal on one fine Easter morning.

Brother Gaucher, the poor lay Brother, whose rustic charms, who had so
enlivened the chapter, is no longer to be found there. From now on, he
is known only as the Reverend Father Gaucher, a capable man of great
learning. He lives apart from the many petty concerns of the cloister,
locked all day in his distillery, while thirty monks scour the
mountainside collecting pungent herbs for him.... The distillery was in
an old unused chapel at the very bottom of the Canons' garden, and no
one, not even the Prior himself, had a right of access. The innocence
of the good Fathers had transformed it into a place of mystery and
wonder. If, on occasion, a bold and curious young monk made use of the
climbing vines to reach the rose window of the door, he would scramble
down soon enough, alarmed by the sight of Father Gaucher, who looked
like a bearded magician, leaning over his flames, holding his
elixir-strength-gauge. All around, there were pink stoneware retorts,
huge stills, coiled glass condensers, and all sorts of bizarre
equipment, which gleamed eerily in the red light from the stained glass
windows....

At nightfall, as the last angelus bell was ringing, the door of this
mysterious place silently opened, and the Reverend Father Gaucher
emerged to attend the evening church service. It warmed the heart to
see him greeted with such joy as he crossed the monastery grounds. The
brothers rushed to be at his side. They said:

--Hush! That's the Father with his secret!...

The Treasurer used to join him and spoke to him humbly....

With these adulations ringing in his ears, the Father walked on,
mopping his brow, and placed his wide brimmed tricorne hat on the back
of his head, where it gave all the appearance of a halo, and looked
complacently around at the great courtyard planted with orange trees,
and the new working weathercocks on the blue roofs. In the sparklingly
white cloister--between the elegant columns decorated with flowers--the
Canons, in new clothes, were filing past in pairs, in renewed health
and well-being.

--It's