superb Chene Liege! And like a woman the more
you strip her the better she is, the finer she grows;
leave her intact and she withers away . . .' And one
evening he was actually seen to embrace the stout,
unresponsive waist of a cork-tree. What a scandal,
the lascivious, drunken old rogue! Could nothing be
done with that shameless Eusebe?
The weeks passed; scarlet cherries were sold in the
streets, and baskets of succulent, moist, green almonds.
The maquis began to smell vital on the hills, while
the rhythmical whirr of enamoured cingalas in the
Cure's garden so distracted his mind that he shut all
his windows when writing a sermon. To the thickets
came endless nightingales, singing snatches of song
even while it was yet daylight, in memory of the
kindly act of Saint Loup who had once restored its
life to a fledgling: Traise God in His Golden Saints;3
they sang, Traise God ... in ... His Golden
. . . His Golden Saints.' For whatever the Cure
might choose to think, all the birds of Provence be-
lieved in that legend. The couleuvres, irresistibly
drawn to the sun, slid out of the woods and began
to uncoil their handsome and conspicuous lengths —
most unwisely. Christophe's lizards up at the old
citadel, lay sprawled on the stones, their throats
palpitating, their eyes ablink, their tongues darting
for flies; while below, through the tortuous streets
of the town lumbered farm carts drawn by cream-
coloured oxen.
And meanwhile there was always Anatole Kahn
dressed in his unsuitable northern clothes which,
for some strange reason, he never discarded. Ah,
yes, there was always Anatole Kahn, affable, smiling,
but growing more insistent, for slowly but surely he
was making his way with these good-natured, indo-
lent southern people. His shop was so very conveni-
ently placed, and then it was easy to buy from a shop
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