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 château. 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 château 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 winked, went
and came, twinkled at all the windows, and seemed, on the sombre
background of the building, like sparks running through the cinders of
burnt paper. Once past the drawbridge and the postern, it was necessary,
in order to gain the chapel, to traverse the first courtyard, full of
coaches, of valets, of sedan-chairs, and bright with the flare of