Mise Fougueiroun--a plump embodiment of Benevolence--stood beside a table on which was a great heap of her own _fougasso_, and big baskets filled with dried figs and almonds and celery, and a genial battalion of bottles standing guard over all. One by one the vassals were called up--there was a strong flavour of feudalism in it all--and to each, while the Vidame wished him a "_Boni festo!_" the housekeeper gave his Christmas portion: a _fougasso_, a double-handful each of figs and almonds, a stalk of celery, and a bottle of _vin cue_[2]--the cordial that is used for the libation of the yule-log and for the solemn yule-cup; and each, as he received his portion, made his little speech of friendly thanks--in several cases most gracefully turned--and then was off in a hurry for his home. Most of them were dwellers in the immediate neighbourhood; but four or five had before them walks of more than twenty miles, with the same distance to cover in returning the next day. But great must be the difficulty or the distance that will keep a Provencal from his own people and his own hearth-stone at Christmas-tide! In illustration of this home-seeking trait, I have from my friend Mistral the story that his own grandfather used to tell regularly every year when all the family was gathered about the yule-fire on Christmas Eve: It was back in the Revolutionary times, and Mistral the grandfather--only he was not a grandfather then, but a mettlesome young soldier of two-and-twenty--was serving with the Army of the Pyrenees, down on the borders of Spain. December was well on, but the season was open--so open that he found one day a tree still bearing oranges. He filled a basket with the fruit and carried it to the Captain of his company. It was a gift for a king, down there in those hard times, and the Captain's eyes sparkled. "Ask what thou wilt, _mon brave_," he said, "and if I can give it to thee it shall be thine." Quick as a flash the young fellow answered: "Before a cannon-ball cuts me in two, Commandant, I should like to go to Provence and help once more to lay the yule-log in my own home. Let me do that!" Now that was a serious matter. But the Captain had given his word, and the word of a soldier of the Republic was better than the oath of a king. Therefore he sat down at his camp-table and wrote: Army of the Eastern Pyrenees, December 12, 1793. We, Perrin, Captain of Military Transport, give leave to the citizen Francois Mistral, a brave Republican soldier, twenty-two years old, five feet six inches high, chestnut hair and eyebrows, ordinary nose, mouth the same, round chin, medium forehead, oval face, to go back into his province, to go all over the Republic, and, if he wants to, to go to the devil!