joyous and most important festival of the year, always brought to Provence.
Every evening before supper, the baron made, in company with his daughter, what he called his inspection; that is, he went through the whole theatre of the various occupations with which we have been entertaining the reader, chatting familiarly with everybody, listening to requests and complaints, often impatient and sometimes flying into a passion and scolding, but always full of justice and kindness, and so cordial in his good-humour that his bursts of irritation were soon forgotten.
Raimond V. kept a large part of his domain in good condition. He sat up a long time at night to talk with his principal shepherds, labourers, farmers, and vinedressers, convinced of the wisdom of the two Provençal proverbs, worthy of the watchman on the cape of l’Aigle: Luci doou mestre engraisso lou chivaou,—the eye of the master fattens the horse. Bouen pastre, bouen ave,—good shepherd, good flock.
The old gentleman usually completed his circuit by a visit to the pharmacy, where he found Abbé Mascarolus, who gave him a sort of hygienic statement of the health of the inhabitants of the domain Des Anbiez.
To-day, he passed by the laundry, going directly to the pharmacy, accompanied by Reine. Preparations for the Christmas holidays were going on all through the castle, but the most important solemnity of all was reserved for the care of the venerable Dulceline, who had entreated the abbé to enlighten her with his counsels.
This was the cradle or crib, a sort of picture placed every Christmas day in the most beautiful room of the habitation,—castle, cottage, or mansion.
This picture represented the birth of the infant Jesus; there were the stable, the ox, the ass, St Joseph, and the Virgin holding on her knees the Saviour of the world.
Every family, poor or rich, deemed it absolutely requisite to have a cradle as elegant as could be afforded, ornamented with garlands and tinsel, and illuminated with a circle of candles.
As Raimond V. passed the laundry, he was surprised not to see Dulceline, and asked where she was.
“Monseigneur,” said a young girl with black eyes and cheeks the colour of a pomegranate, “Mile. Dulceline is in the chamber of the philters, with the abbé and Thereson; she is at work on the cradle, and forbids us to enter.”
“The devil!” said the baron, “the supper-bell has rung, and the abbé must say grace for us.”
He advanced to the door; it was fastened on the inside; he knocked.
“Come, come, abbé, supper is ready, and I am as hungry as the devil.”
“One moment, monseigneur,” said Dulceline, “we cannot open,—it is a secret.”
“What, abbé, you have secrets with Dulceline?” said the old gentleman, laughing.
“Ah, monseigneur, God save us! Thereson is with us,” screamed the old lady, offended at the baron’s pleasantry. As she opened the door, she presented a pale, wrinkled face, framed in a ruff and cap, worthy of the pencil of Holbein.
The abbé, fifty years old, was dressed in a black robe and cap, which fit his head closely and displayed his gentle face to advantage.
Thereson, as soon as the baron entered, hid the cradle under a cloth. The baron approached, and was about to lift it, when Dulceline cried, in a beseeching tone:
“Oh, monseigneur! permit us the pleasure of surprising you; rest assured this will be the most beautiful cradle that has ever adorned the great hall of Maison-Forte, and it ought to be, by Our Lady, since the commander and Father Elzear are coming such a distance to assist at the Christmas festivity.”
“Manjour! I shall be unhappy indeed if they do not come,” said the baron: “two years have passed since my brothers have spent a night or a day in our father’s house, and by St. Bernard, my patron, who assists me, the Lord will grant us a reunion this time!”
“God will hear you, monseigneur, and I join my prayers to yours,” said the abbé. Then he added: “Monseigneur, did you have a successful hunt?”
“Very good, abbé, see for yourself!” and the baron took the hare’s foot that Reine held in her hand, and showed it to the abbé.
“If mademoiselle does not desire to keep this foot,” said the abbé, “I will ask her for it, for my pharmacy, and will monseigneur tell me if it is the right or the left foot of the animal?”
“And what are you going to do with it, abbé?”
“Monseigneur,” said the good Mascarolus, pointing to an open volume on the table, “I have just received this book from Paris. It is the journal of M. de Maucaunys, a very illustrious and learned man, and I read here, page 317: ‘Recipe for the gout. Lay against the thigh, between the trousers and the shirt, on the side affected, two paws of a hare killed between Lady Day of September and Christmas, but with the important restriction, that the hind left paw must be used if it is the right arm which is ailing, and the right fore paw if it is the leg or the left thigh which is ailing: on the instant the application is made, the pain will cease.’”
“Stuff!” cried the baron, laughing with all his might. “This is a wonderful discovery; now the poachers will claim to be apothecaries, and they will catch hares only to cure the gout.”
The good abbé, quite embarrassed by the sarcasms of the baron, continued to read to keep himself in countenance, and added: “I see, baron, on page 177, wood-lice, given to dropsical nightingales, will cure them entirely.”
Here the laughter of the good gentleman was more uproarious. Reine, notwithstanding her preoccupation, could not repress a smile, and finally laughed with her father.
The Abbé Mascarolus smiled softly, and bore these innocent railleries with Christian resignation, and no longer tried to defend an empiricism which, no doubt, may find analogies in medical books of the present day.
Raimond V. took leave of the pharmacy to find pleasure elsewhere, when Laramée, majordomo and master of ceremonies, came to announce that supper had been waiting a long time.
Laramée, the advance guard of the baron’s escort through the gorges of Ollioules, had the physiognomy of a real pandour; his complexion reddened by wine-drinking, his rough voice, his white and closely cut hair, his long gray moustache, and his continual swearing, were by no means to the taste of Dulceline.
She received the entrance of the majordomo into the sanctuary of the abbé with a sort of muttered remonstrance, which at last changed to sharp and loud complaint, when she saw that Laramée had the indiscretion to approach the veil which covered the mysterious cradle and try to lift it.
“Well, well, Laramée,” said the baron, “Manjour, do you claim more privileges than your master, and insist upon seeing the wonders that Dulceline is hiding from our eyes? Come, come, take this lamp and light onr way.”
Then, turning to Mascarolus, Raimond V. said humorously: “Since, according to your fine book, wood-lice will cure dropsy in nightingales, you ought to try your remedy on this old scoundrel, who surely is threatened with dropsy, for he is a veritable old bottle, swollen with wine, ready to burst; as for the rest, like the nightingale, he will sing at night,—and the devil knows what songs!”
“Yes, monseigneur, and with a voice loud enough to wake the whole
