CHAPTER i

IN a quiet curve of the coast of Provence, on a stretch
of that coast which before the war was seldom if ever
visited by strangers, lies the small seaport town of
Saint-Loup-sur-mer, cleansed by strong winds and
purified by sunshine. Its Patron — if one may credit
report — was a warrior-bishop of no mean attain-
ments, since of him it is told that he checked the
advance of Attila, Mighty Scourge of the Lord, though
by what precise method remains somewhat uncertain.
But his memory is mellowed by gentler legends even
as the years have mellowed his statues, so that of him
it is also told that he felt great concern for the sorrows
of women, and a great tenderness towards newborn
things, having once restored its life to a fledgling.
And since this bird was a nightingale it would come
with the darkness to sing in his garden: c Praise God in
His Golden Saints,3 it would sing, as everyone knew
very well at the time — that is to say, in the year 400,
when Saint Loup had not yet been privileged to hear
the harps and the angelic songs of heaven.
His town has a harbour with numerous vessels and
many simple activities; a fine view from such windows
as look over the quay and thus out beyond to a stretch
of blue water, and a wall of dark peaks from such as
look sideways or backward towards the long range of
the Maures, Saint Loup being partly encircled by
mountains. There is also the church with its open
B 17