In the morning of the day preceding Christmas a lurking, yet
ill-repressed, excitement pervaded the Chateau and all its dependencies.
In the case of the Vidame and Mise Fougueiroun the excitement did not
even lurk: it blazed forth so openly that they were as a brace of
comets--bustling violently through our universe and dragging into their
erratic wakes, away from normal orbits, the whole planetary system of
the household and all the haply intrusive stars.
With my morning coffee came the explanation of a quite impossible smell
of frying dough-nuts which had puzzled me on the preceding day: a
magnificent golden-brown _fougasso_, so perfect of its kind that any
Provencal of that region--though he had come upon it in the sandy wastes
of Sahara--would have known that its creator was Mise Fougueiroun. To
compare the _fougasso_ with our homely dough-nut does it injustice. It
is a large flat open-work cake--a grating wrought in dough--an inch or
so in thickness, either plain or sweetened or salted, fried delicately
in the best olive-oil of Aix or Maussane. It is made throughout the
winter, but its making at Christmas time is of obligation; and the
custom obtains among the women--though less now than of old--of sending
a _fougasso_ as a Christmas gift to each of their intimates. As this
custom had in it something more than a touch of vainglorious emulation,
I well can understand why it has fallen into desuetude in the vicinity
of Vielmur--where Mise Fougueiroun's inspired kitchening throws all
other cook-work hopelessly into the shade. As I ate the "horns" (as its
fragments are called) of my _fougasso_ that morning, dipping them in my
coffee according to the prescribed custom, I was satisfied that it
deserved its high place in the popular esteem.
When I joined the Vidame below stairs I found him under such stress of
Christmas excitement that he actually forgot his usual morning
suggestion--made always with an off-hand freshness, as though the matter
were entirely new--that we should take a turn along the lines of the
Roman Camp. He was fidgeting back and forth between the hall (our usual
place of morning meeting) and the kitchen: torn by his conflicting
desires to attend upon me, his guest, and to take his accustomed part in
the friendly ceremony that was going on below. Presently he compromised
the divergencies of the situation, though with some hesitation, by
taking me down with him into Mise Fougueiroun's domain--where he became
frankly cheerful when he found that I was well received.
Although the morning still was young, work on the estate had been ended
for the day, and about the door of the kitchen more than a score of
labourers were gathered: all with such gay looks as to show that
something of a more than ordinarily joyous nature was in train. Among
them I recognized the young fellow whom we had met with his wife
carrying away the yule-log; and found that all of them were workmen upon
the estate who--either being married or having homes within walking
distance--were to be furloughed for the day. This was according to the
Provencal custom that Christmas must be spent by one's own fire-side;
and it also was according to Provencal custom that they were not
suffered to go away with empty hands.
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!
"With an order like that in his pocket," said Mistral, "you can fancy
how my grandfather put the leagues behind him; and how joyfully he
reached Maillane on the lovely Christmas Eve, and how there was danger
of rib-cracking from the hugging that went on. But the next day it was
another matter. News of his coming had flown about the town, and the
Mayor sent for him.
"'In the name of the law, citizen,' the Mayor demanded, 'why hast thou
left the army?'
"Now my grandfather was a bit of a wag, and so--with never a word about
his famous pass--he answered: 'Well, you see I took a fancy to come and
spend my Christmas here in Maillane.'
"At that the Mayor was in a towering passion. 'Very good, citizen,' he
cried. 'Other people also may take fancies--and mine is that thou shalt
explain this fancy of thine before the Military Tribunal at Tarascon.
Off with him there!'
"And then away went my grandfather between a brace of gendarmes, who
brought him in no time before the District Judge: a savage old fellow in
a red cap, with a beard up to his eyes, who glared at him as he asked:
'Citizen, how is it that thou hast deserted thy flag?'
"Now my grandfather, who was a sensible man, knew that a joke might be
carried too far; therefore he whipped out his pass and presented it, and
so in a moment set everything right.
"'Good, very good, citizen!' said old Redcap. 'This is as it should be.
Thy Captain says that thou art a brave soldier of the Republic, and that
is the best that the best of us can be. With a pass like that in thy
pocket thou canst snap thy fingers at all the mayors in Provence; and
the devil himself had best be careful--shouldst thou go down that way,
as thy pass permits thee--how he trifles with a brave soldier of
France!'
"But my grandfather did not try the devil's temper," Mistral concluded.
"He was satisfied to stay in his own dear home until the Day of the
Kings was over, and then he went back to his command."