“This erudite and veracious traveller pretends that by leaving bunches of grapes, gathered on the day which marks the middle of September, in a jug of pure oil for seven months, the oil will acquire such a peculiar property that whenever it burns in a lamp whose light is thrown on the wall or the floor, thousands of bunches of grapes will appear on this wall or floor, perfect in colour, but as deceptive as objects painted on glass.” Dame Dulceline was just about to testify her admiration for the good and credulous chaplain, when she heard in the court the sound of carriage and horses, which announced the return of Raimond V. She disappeared precipitately. The door opened, and Raimond V. entered the gallery with several ladies and gentlemen, friends and their wives, who had also been present at the midnight mass in the parochial church of La Ciotat. The baron and the other men were in holiday attire, and the women in that dress which going and coming on horseback rendered necessary, inasmuch as carriages were very rare. Although the countenance of Raimond V. was always joyous and cordial when he welcomed his guests at Maison-Forte, an expression of sadness from time to time now came over his features, for he had relinquished all hope of seeing his brothers at this family festival. The guests of the baron all admired the cradle Dame Dulceline had prepared with so much skill, and the chaplain received the praises of the company with as much modesty as gratitude. Honorât de Berrol appeared more melancholy than ever. Reine, on the contrary, realising the necessity for making him forget the refusal of her hand, which she had at last decided upon, by means of various evidences of kindness and friendship, treated the young man with cousinly esteem and affection. Nevertheless, she was conscious of a painful embarrassment; she had not yet informed the baron of her determination not to marry Honorât de Berrol. She had only obtained her father’s consent to have the nuptials delayed until the return of the commander and Father Elzear, who, from what was implied in their last letters, might arrive at any moment. Eulogies on the cradle seemed inexhaustible, when the baron, approaching the company of admiring guests, said: “My opinion is, ladies, that we had better begin the _cachofué_, for this hall is very damp and cold, and the fire is only waiting to blaze!” The _cachofué_, or _feu caché_, was an old Provençal ceremony, which consisted of bringing in a Christmas log and lighting it every evening until the New Year. This log was lighted and extinguished, so that it would last the given time. “Yes, yes, the _cachofué_, baron!” exclaimed the ladies, gaily. “You are to be the actor in the ceremony, so the time to begin depends on you.”