--Oh that's really excellent! Thank you so much, Prior! And without asking for more, Father Gaucher went happily back to his stills, walking on air. Actually, from that moment, every evening, at the end of the last service of the day, the celebrant never forgot to add: --Let us pray for our unfortunate Father Gaucher, who is sacrificing his soul for the benefit of the community.... Pray for us, Lord.... And while, on all the white hoods of the Brothers, prostrated in the shade of the naves, the prayer fluttered like a slight breeze on snow, elsewhere, at the back of the monastery, behind the flickering reddened glass of the distillery, Father Gaucher could be heard singing at the top of his voice, In Paris, there was a White Canon, Who went all the way with a black nun.... * * * * * ... Here, the good priest paused, horrified: --Mercy me! If my parishioners could only hear me! IN THE CAMARGUE I DEPARTURE There is a huge buzzing at the chateau. The messenger has just brought word from the keeper, half in French and half in Provencal, announcing that there had already been two or three fine flights of herons, and water-fowl, and that the season's first birds weren't in short supply. "You're coming hunting with us", my friendly neighbours wrote to me; and this morning, at the unearthly hour of five o'clock, their large wagon, loaded with rifles, dogs, and provisions, came to pick me up at the bottom of the hill. Off we go on the road to Arles, which is a bit dry and the trees have mostly lost their leaves by this time in December. The pale green shoots of the olive trees are hardly visible, and the garish green of the oaks is a bit too wintry and artificial. The stables are beginning to stir into life, while very early risers light up the windows in the farms before day break. In the gaps in the stones amongst the ruins of Mont-Majeur abbey, the sea eagles, still drowsy, stretch their wings. Despite the hour, the old peasant women are coming from the Ville-de-Beaux, trotting along in their donkey carts. We pass them alongside the ditches. They have to go six country kilometres to sit on the steps of St. Trophyme to sell their small packets of medicinal herbs collected on the mountain....