‘Alas, the Reverend Father needed all his arithmetic to keep the Tempter at bay!

‘Evensong in the distillery was unique.

‘All went well during the day-time. The Father heated his furnaces and stills, sorted carefully the herbs, those incomparable herbs of Provence, delicate, intoxicating, serrated, warmed and scented through and through with the meridional sun. But at eventide, when the herbs were infused, and the Elixir simmering in the huge copper cauldrons, the Father’s martyrdom began.

‘Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty!

‘The drops fell from the pipe one by one into a silver-gilt goblet. “This is the Prior’s limit,” said Gaucher, swallowing them at a gulp. “Simply insipid,” was the verdict. “It’s only when you get to the twenty-first drop that the spirit begins to tickle.”

‘Oh, the longing after the twenty-first drop!

‘ “Lead us not into temptation,” groaned the Father, as he fell upon his knees at the far end of the distillery, repeating the Paternoster with unctuous vehemence. As the temperature of the liquid rose, its aroma was heightened. As the fumes circled round the head of the kneeling monk, a subtle fascination drew him irresistibly to the steaming cauldrons. He stood spell-bound, with dilated nostrils, as he reverently stirred the scintillating green and gold nectar. He saw in the glittering bubbles dancing on the emerald flood the alluring twinkles of Aunt Bégon’s witch-like eyes.

‘ “Just one more drop,” and another, and so on, until the goblet was full to the brim. Then he fell back into a large arm-chair, and, stretched at his ease with half-closed eyes, sipped drop by drop the soul- damning potion, muttering between alternate fits of sinning and repentance:

‘ “Lost, lost, irretrievably lost!”

‘Having drained the last drop, lo and behold, at the bottom of the cup was a complete edition of Aunt Bégon’s comic ditties! They were “The Three Little Gossips who went out for a Spree,” “The Maid and the Monk who met in the Wood,” and of course the immortal “Patatin, Patatan” of the White Monk.

‘The next morning he was accosted by his fellow sleepers with:

‘ “Father Gaucher, you had fairy dreams last night!”

‘Then followed tears, despair, fasting, hair shirts, penance. But all to no purpose. Every night the Tempter triumphed.

‘The Fathers were inundated with orders. They came from Nîmes, Aix, Avignon, Marseilles. The languishing Convent became a hive of industry. A well-organized division of labour was established. The Brothers became packers, labellers, book-keepers, carters. Fewer beads were told, fewer Masses said. The souls of the departed were left to their Redeemer’s keeping, the bodies of the living fortified with the bread of toil.

‘On one fine Sunday morning, as the Treasurer was reading his yearly financial statement before a full Chapter, the eyes of the Canons glistening, their ears tingling with joy, their faces wreathed with smiles, Father Gaucher burst into the assembly.

‘ “I’ve done with the Elixir! Let him make it who will! I’ll go back to the cows.”

‘The Prior was stunned.

‘ “What do you mean, Father Gaucher?”