Five minutes later the assembled lords, and the chaplain among them, had taken their seats in the great hall. The castle, brilliantly illumined, echoed with songs and laughter; and the venerable Dom Balaguère drove his fork resolutely into a capon's wing, drowning the remorse for his sin in the savory juice of meats and the soothing draughts of old wine. He ate and drank so heartily, the dear good man, that he died of a spasm that very night, without even having had time to repent. By morning he reached heaven, where the thrills of the past night's ecstasies lingered still in the air, and I leave you to imagine how he was received. "Get thee gone, thou wretched Christian!" said Saint Peter; "thy sin is great enough to wipe out the virtues of a lifetime! Ah, so thou wouldst swindle us out of a Mass! Very well, then, three hundred Masses shalt thou say, nor shalt thou enter into Paradise until three hundred Christmas Masses have been celebrated in thine own chapel, and in the presence of all those who sinned with thee and through thee." And this is the true legend of Dom Balaguère, as it is told in the land of the olive-tree. The castle of Trinquelague has long ceased to exist; but the chapel stands erect on the crest of Mount Ventoux, in a clump of evergreen oaks. The wind sways its unhinged door; the grass grows over the threshold; there are nests in the angles of the altar, and on the sills of the high ogive windows, whose jewelled panes have long since disappeared. Still, it seems that every year at Christmas supernatural, mysterious lights hover among the ruins; and on their way to midnight Mass and the Christmas supper, the peasants see this spectre of a chapel lighted by invisible tapers, which burn in the open air, even in the wind and under the snow. You may laugh if you will, but a wine-dresser of the district, named Garrigue, a descendant of Garrigou, no doubt, has often told me that on one particular Christmas night, being somewhat in liquor, he had lost his way on the mountain somewhere near Trinquelague, and this is what he saw: until eleven o'clock nothing. Everything was silent and dark. Suddenly at midnight the chimes rang out from the old steeple,--strange, uncanny chimes, that seemed to be ringing a thousand miles away. Soon lights began to tremble along the road, and vague shadows moved about. Under the portal of the chapel there were sounds of footsteps and muffled voices:-- "Good-night, Master Arnoton!" "Good-night, good-night, my children!"