Free The Avignon Quintet by Lawrence Durrell

beside himself with joy because there were no unexpected hitches or delays. Moreover in two days’ time Toby and Rob (the Gog and Magog of our company) were due to arrive and bring with them the light-hearted laughter and inconsequence which made them such excellent company.
    We sat now, the three of us cross-legged on the floor before the fire, eating chestnuts and drinking whisky and talking about nothing and everything. Never had old Verfeuille seemed so warmly welcoming. If we had an inner pang as we remembered Piers’ decisions for the future we did not mention them to each other. It would not have been fair to the time and the place to intrude our premonitions and doubts upon it. But underneath the excitement we were worried, we had a sense of impending departure, of looming critical change in our affairs – in this newly found passion as well. As if sensing this a little Piers said, during a silence “Cheer up, children. Yesterday we went out and selected the Yule Log – a real beauty this year.” He described to me the little ceremony in which the oldest and the youngest member of the whole household go out hand in hand to choose the tree which will be felled for Christmas, and then return triumphantly to the house bearing it with, of course, the assistance of everyone. It was paraded thrice around the long supper table and then laid down before the great hearth, while old Jan undertook to preside over the ceremony of the libation which he did with great polish, filling first of all a tall jar of vin cuit . Describing it Piers acted him to the life, in half-humorous satire – his smiling dignity and serenity as he bowed his head over the wine to utter a prayer while everyone was deeply hushed around him, standing with heads bowed. Then he poured three little libations on the log, to Father, Son and Holy Ghost, before crying out with all the vigour he could muster in his crackly old voice:
Cacho-fio!
Bouto-fio!
Alègre! Alègre!
Dieu nous alègre!
Yule Log Burn
Joy Joy
God give us Joy.
    And as he reached the last words of the incantation which were “Christmas has arrived” a huge bundle of vine-trimmings was set alight under the ceremonial log and the whole fireplace flamed up, irradiating the merry faces of the company, as if they too had caught fire from sympathy with the words; and now everyone embraced anew and clapped hands, while the old man once more filled the ceremonial bowl with wine, but this time passed it about as a loving-cup, beginning with little Tounin the youngest child: and so on in order of seniority until at last it came back to his hand. Then he threw back his head and drained it to the dregs, the firelight flashing on his brown throat. Suddenly Piers, despite himself, was seized with a pang of sadness and tears came into his eyes: “How the devil am I going to leave them, do you think? And what is going to happen to us, to It?” It was not the time for such questions and I told him so. I finished my drink and consulted my watch. In a little while it would be in order to tackle the second half of the ceremony which consisted in decking out the crèche with the candles and figurines. I was glad of the diversion, for this little aside of his had wakened all kinds of doubts in me – about the future which awaited us, the separations … Sylvie appeared with her arms full of things, dressed now in the full peasant dress of Avignon and looking ravishing. Everyone clapped her. “Hurry and dress”, she told us, “before we do the Holy Family.”
    It did not take long. My own rooms were on the eastern side of the house. Thoughtful hands had placed a copper warming pan full of coals in my bed, while a small fire, carefully shielded by a guard, crackled in the narrow hearth. I lit my candles and quickly put on the traditional black velvet coat which Piers had given me, with its scarlet silk lining; also the narrow stove-pipe pantaloons, dark sash and pointed black shoes – tenue de rigueur