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Little French Masterpieces 
 
 I. Prosper M€rimee 
 II. Gustave Flaubert 
 III. Th€ophile Gautier 
 IV, Honore de Balzac 
 V. Alphonse Daudet 
 
 VI. Guy de Maupassant 
 
LITTLE FRENCH MASTERPIECES 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 From a steel engraving 
 
Xittle ifrcncb flDaeterplcces 
 
 Edited by 
 
 Alexander Jessup 
 
 Alphonse Daudet 
 
 An Introduction by 
 
 , William Peterfield Trent 
 
 Tiie Translatioii by ' ' 
 
 George Burnham Ives 
 
 G. P. Putnam's Sons 
 
 New York and London 
 
 XLbc fcnicF^erbocftcr press 
 
 1909 
 
Copyright, 1903 
 
 BY 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
 Zh€ Knicketbocfcer press, flew l^orfc 
 
Introduction 
 
 C^ii) 
 
 9/6/ 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 (1840- 1 897) 
 
 IT is not necessary to say that the task of 
 selecting representative stories of Daudet 
 is rendered difficult chiefly by the remarkable 
 fecundity, variety, and sustained power of his 
 genius. But while it is not necessary to say 
 this, in saying it one really gives the best 
 reason for undertaking such a task of selec- 
 tion. For a writer characterised by fecundity, 
 variety, and sustained power is obviously a 
 master of his own kind, and it is always pleas- 
 ant and profitable to endeavour, even if it be 
 for the thousandth time, to make the work of 
 a master better known. Now in this busy 
 age and in this world of many books — even 
 of many truly good books — it is idle to expect 
 that the complete work, or a large part of the 
 work of any master, save perhaps of a few 
 
Introduction 
 
 supreme ones, can get itself read by more 
 than a comparatively small section of the read- 
 ing public. Yet the large, busy public is by 
 no means totally indifferent to the work of 
 the great writers of whom it has heard in a 
 more or less vague way, and it is generally 
 willing to acquaint itself with that work when 
 a convenient opportunity offers. Experience 
 has shown that there is no better way to in- 
 terest the public in a writer or a group of 
 writers than by presenting it with well-chosen 
 volumes of selections. Think of how many 
 lovers of poetry Palgrave's Golden Treasury 
 has made — surely far more than the old edi- 
 tions of The British Poets in a hundred or 
 more volumes ever succeeded in making. 
 Just so in the case of Daudet, it seems idle 
 to expect that our own large, alien public can 
 find the time to read, whether in the original 
 or in translation, the whole of his two most 
 important collections of stories and sketches — 
 the Letters from My Mill (1869) and the 
 Monday Tales (1873). Much less can it be 
 
Introduction 
 
 expected to read the prose fantasies collected 
 with his poems, or the tales to be found in 
 Artists* Wives, in the volume entitled La 
 Fedor, with its descriptive sub-title, Pages 
 from Life, or elsewhere among his unfortun- 
 ately still scattered works.* [See page xxiv.] 
 For various reasons that need not be de- 
 tailed, it has seemed best to take the tales and 
 sketches here chosen to represent Daudet from 
 the two volumes named first above. One 
 reason is particularly cogent, to wit, that it 
 was these two collections that Daudet took 
 pains to revise and enlarge, transferring to 
 them stories that appeared first in other col- 
 lections. For example, the definitive Letters 
 from My Mill was augmented by several pieces 
 taken from the Sketches and Landscapes that 
 originally followed Robert Helmont, but are 
 no longer to be found with that interesting 
 study of war time. So also several stories 
 were transferred from the Letters to an Ab- 
 sentee to the Monday Tales. Although Dau- 
 det, sometimes with good reason, withdrew 
 
 [xi] 
 
Introduction 
 
 from circulation not a few of his stories and 
 sketches, it is idle to think that in the case of so 
 great a writer they will remain in oblivion, and 
 it is much to be wished that the work of pre- 
 paring the needed definitive and inclusive edi- 
 tion of his writings should be begun at once. 
 No thorough study of his evolution as a short- 
 story writer can now be made without the 
 trouble and expense of securing books long 
 out of print. 
 
 The two main series of stories {Letters from 
 My Mill and Monday Tales) contain between 
 sixty and seventy pieces, of which not quite a 
 third have been selected. It is, of course, to 
 be hoped that the new reader of Daudet will 
 be induced to read both collections in full, and 
 fhat he will pass on to at least two of the in- 
 imitably humorous Tartarin books — Tartarin 
 of Tarascon and Tartarin on the Alps — and to 
 the long series of Daudet's excellent novels — 
 to Fromont.Jr., and Risler, Sr,, io Jack, to The 
 Nabob, to Kings in Exile, to Numa Roumestan, 
 if to no others. Yet why append the qualify- 
 
Introduction 
 
 ing phrase? The reader who has read these 
 books of Daudet is not likely to wish to omit 
 even the books of what is often called his 
 decline — for example, The Immorlal, with its 
 scathing satire on the French Academy. Nor 
 will such a reader, if he be fairly able to com- 
 prehend Continental views on relationships 
 not fully discussed by Englishmen and Amer- 
 icans, care to take leave of Daudet without 
 having read what is probably his strongest 
 and most artistic book — the much discussed 
 Sapho. And if he have become a true ad- 
 mirer of Daudet the man — which is what 
 nearly all his readers become — he will be 
 standing greatly in his own light if he do not 
 read that most charming of youthful auto- 
 biographies, marred though it be by the. ro- 
 mantic, fictitious ending, the inimitable Little 
 What *s His Name. But this is no place for 
 a catalogue of Daudef s writings. 
 
 If, however, the reader of the nineteen 
 stories that follow is not able, for one cause 
 or another, to develop his acquaintance with 
 
 [xiii] 
 
Introduction 
 
 Daudet into intimacy, he ma}^ comfort him- 
 self with the thought that he knows the great 
 Frenchman in what is to many of his admirers 
 his most attractive capacity. It is already 
 quite apparent that a number of Daudet's 
 elaborate novels are not wearing well, and it 
 is a question whether more than two or three 
 of them are well enough constructed to bid de- 
 fiance to time. One may cherish a lively hope 
 that Tartarin in his best estate is destined to 
 live long as a care-dispeller, one may fear that 
 the world will never cease to need the lessons 
 taught by Sapho, one may believe that The 
 Nabob, with its wonderfully effective scenes 
 and two or three admirably painted portraits, 
 may survive so as by fire. But even Daudet's 
 most devoted readers may well be wary of pre- 
 dicting a very long life for many of his other 
 novels, even for Numa Rotimestan, with its ex- 
 cellent elements of the true comedy of manners, 
 even for Fromont, Jr., and Risler, Sr,, with 
 its distinct power of characterisation, expressed 
 especially in the selfish visionary, Delobelle, 
 
 [xiv] 
 
Introduction 
 
 the actor out of employment and living on his 
 vanity and his wife and daughter. 
 
 It requires much less critical confidence and 
 courage to predict a very long life, if not practi- 
 cal immortality, for Daudet's best short stories. 
 His two chief collections represent in epitome 
 the main elements that critics have discovered 
 in the man and his work. They represent 
 Daudet the poet, with his exquisite fancy, his 
 winning charm, his subtle, indescribable style, 
 his susceptibility to all that is lovely and joy- 
 ous in nature and in human life; in short, in 
 his sunny, mercurial Provencal temperament. 
 This Daudet is seen in full measure in Letters 
 from My Mill, if indeed this book be not the 
 most charming he ever wrote, the one we 
 most often and willingly reread, the one we 
 should choose for a companion if we were 
 limited in our choice. But there was another 
 Daudet more or less superimposed upon this 
 sunny, poetic Daudet, true child of Provence. 
 Upon few Frenchmen of a generation ago did 
 the terrible years of the Franco-Prussian War 
 
 [xv] 
 
Introduction 
 
 and the Commune produce a more sobering 
 impression than upon Daudet. The romanti- 
 cist and poet deepened into a realistic observer 
 of human life in all its phases. Impressions 
 and fancies were more and more supplanted 
 by accurate notes, later carefully worked up 
 into novels that dealt in increasing measure 
 with the tragic, the sordid, the ironical features 
 of life. The poet and humourist did not, of 
 course, disappear; but they struggled with the 
 realist, the satirist, one might almost say, the 
 naturalist. This matured, deepened Daudet, 
 who finds his home and chief interests in 
 seething Paris rather than in peaceful Prov- 
 ence, is seen, not to the full, but to a marked 
 degree and very attractively in the Monday 
 Tales, The two stories which a majority of 
 his readers would select as the most pathetic 
 he ever wrote, The Last Class and The Siege 
 of Berlin, are in this volume. That terrible, 
 almost exaggerated indictment of incompe- 
 tence in high places, The Game of Billiards, 
 is also there, and so is the effective, if somewhat 
 
 [xvl] 
 
Introduction 
 
 overwrought, Vision of the Judge of Colmar, 
 not here translated, but worth reading as 
 an impressive variation on the theme of Dr. 
 Hale's The Man Without a Country. Monday 
 Tales contains, moreover, some wonderfully 
 vivid sketches of the gruesome sights that 
 met Daudet's eyes during the siege, and thus 
 preludes the realistic work of later years. Yet 
 it has its fantasies and its comedies also. What 
 could be better of ifs kind than The Little 
 Pies} What better than that vivid reminis- 
 cence of childish mendacity. The Pope is 
 Dead, the forerunner of the posthumous First 
 Journey, First Falsehood, itself a curious vari- 
 ation on the theme of Balzac's A Start in Life ? 
 Still, it can hardly be denied that it is not the 
 lighter things — even such delightful concep- 
 tions as that of the Parisian clock that trans- 
 forms the manners and morals of a respectable 
 Munich family {The Bougival Clock) — that 
 give the collection of Monday Tales its domin- 
 ant tone. The book takes its colour for 
 many of us from The Last Class, from The 
 
 [xvii] 
 
Introduction 
 
 Siege of Berlin, from pathetic sketches like 
 Mothers, from other pictures of the siege, 
 especially from the poignant story here given, 
 The Child Spy, 
 
 But, important as Monday Tales is among 
 Daudet's books and among the world's notable 
 collections of stories, it seems to yield pre- 
 cedence as a book to his earlier collection. 
 Letters from My Mill. The old windmill, 
 the writer's local habitation, and the Southern 
 setting, whether of Provence proper or of 
 Corsica or of Algeria, lend the book a unity 
 (more apparent, it is true, than real) and an 
 individuality that Monday Tales does not 
 possess. Perhaps its nearest analogue in our 
 own literature is Hawthorne's Mosses from an 
 Old Manse, which has a more felicitous title 
 and doubtless appeals to introspective temper- 
 aments more than Daudet's expansive master- 
 piece does. The main point is, however, 
 that both- books possess an atmosphere, if we 
 may so phrase it; in the one case a typically 
 Northern, in the other, a typically Southern 
 
 [xviii] 
 
Introduction 
 
 atmosphere. It is a curious fact that for the 
 Southern analogue to Hawthorne's delightful 
 book, we should have to go to French litera- 
 ture, and not to that other American master 
 of the short story, with his Southern rearing, 
 Edgar Allan Poe. But Poe was at home in a 
 land that has no local colour, and the curious 
 fact just noted becomes all the more curious 
 when we remember what a reception Baude- 
 laire and other Frenchmen have given to Poe's 
 tales. It is pleasant to think of the two 
 republics interchanging books instead of shots, 
 of our lending the French the Tales of the 
 Grotesque and Arabesque, of their lending us 
 the Letters from My Mill. 
 
 As has already been said, the Daudet of the 
 Letters is the sunny Provencal poet, the ex- 
 pansive genius who admits us to a charming 
 intimacy. It would be a mistake, however, 
 to suppose that the tales and sketches this 
 poet gives us are mere happy improvisations 
 thrown off in moments of inspiration by an 
 easy, affluent writer full of life and youth. 
 
 [xix] 
 
Introduction 
 
 If they were merely this they would still be 
 charming, but one would have good cause to 
 doubt the permanence of their charm. It is 
 because we know from his biographers that 
 Daudet put his best art into these slight stories, 
 that he would spend a day wrestling with an 
 intractable sentence or paragraph, and because 
 we know from the best French critics and 
 feel in our own imperfect way that his style 
 is in every sense individual, flexible, sustained, 
 and exquisite without a trace of weakness, 
 that we are as sure as we can be in such 
 matters that the Letters from My Mitt will 
 live. We are sure also that such stories as 
 The Last Class and The Siege of Berlin 
 will live also, but of the permanence of 
 Monday Tales as a whole, much more of such 
 a collection as Artists' Wives, we may well 
 have a reasonable doubt. 
 
 Twelve of our nineteen pieces have been 
 selected from the Letters and there are still 
 wonderfully good things left. The Stars is 
 an idyll no reader is likely to forget, and 
 
 Cxx] 
 
Introduction 
 
 immediately upon it follows that pathetic do- 
 mestic tragedy of the sound-hearted country 
 youth and the depraved town girl {L'Arlesi- 
 enne). The ''touch of nature" that makes 
 the whole world kin is found in full measure 
 in Bixion's Portfolio; and much of the sultry, 
 drowsy beauty of the semi-tropics in At 
 Milianah, As for the dozen miniature master- 
 pieces here presented, appreciative criticism 
 seems superfluous. Will one soon forget the 
 knife-grinder shrinking from the jeers and 
 taunts of his fellow passengers, or the pathetic 
 secret of the old miller, or that delightfully 
 told apologue of the rash pet of Monsieur 
 Seguin, or the vengeance of the Pope's mule, 
 or the Plutarch of the lighthouse-keeper, or the 
 truly effective sermon of the Abbe Martin, the 
 Jonathan Edwards of Cucugnan, or the appeal- 
 ing picture of the old couple, or/the pathetic 
 irony of the death of the little Dauphin ? J" 
 Surely no one can forget these things, and 
 just as surely when stories and sketches stand 
 out as clearly in after months and years as 
 
 |xxi] 
 
Introduction 
 
 these do, they are to be regarded as master- 
 pieces and as masterpieces of a particularly 
 rare kind. For unless a slight story be ex- 
 traordinarily w^ll told it slips the mind with 
 surprising facility. But there are still four 
 pieces to mention, none of them inferior, 
 perhaps all of them not merely equal but 
 superior to the tales that have preceded them. 
 The Legend of the Man uith the Golden 
 Brain is a striking example of the blending 
 of bizarre fancy with deep imagination. The 
 Three Low Masses points its moral with a 
 grotesque humour and a picturesque descript- 
 ive power, to say nothing of dramatic force, 
 that are rarely found in combination. The 
 Two Inns opens up in its eight short pages 
 an almost limitless vista of suffering and 
 patience. Surely Matthew Arnold's phrase 
 ''piercing pathos" applies here if it does to 
 anything in literature. Finally, the irony of 
 The Elixir of the Reverend Father Gaucher, 
 tempered as it is by Daudet's humour and 
 kindliness, leaves us with a satisfying sense 
 
 [xxii] 
 
Introduction 
 
 of that fecundity, variety, and sustained power 
 of his genius which was claimed at the be- 
 ginning of this unnecessary Introduction. 
 
 In conclusion, let us make no mistake about 
 our phrase '* sustained power." Readers of 
 one of M. Lemaitre's delightful appreciations 
 of Daudet will doubtless have carried away 
 the word *' charm" as best connoting the 
 character of Daudet's genius and of the effects 
 it produces upon his admirers. Probably no 
 critic has ever written of Daudet without 
 using this indefinable word, or some word 
 or phrase equivalent to it. Daudet's work, 
 whether in his novels or in his stories, lacks 
 the range and the tremendous, overwhelming, 
 titanic impressiveness of Balzac's. For some 
 of us it lacks the firm, the ineluctable art of 
 Maupassant. But it would seem a mistake to 
 suppose that his genius therefore lacks sus- 
 tained power. There are many kinds of 
 power, and that exerted by charm is not the 
 least potent of them, and perhaps the most 
 continuously satisfying and beneficent. Of 
 
 rxxiii] 
 
Introduction 
 
 this powerful charm, even if it does stop 
 short of enchantment, Daudet, in his brief 
 stories at least, possesses an abundance, and 
 because of this fact his Letters from My Mill 
 bids fair to become a possession forever, not 
 merely for France but for the world. 
 
 A/Tf^*'^-^^^. 
 
 * Since the above was written, 
 a complete edition of Daudet's 
 works, in eighteen volumes, 
 has been announced in Paris. 
 W. P. T. 
 
 [xxiv] 
 
Letters from My Mill 
 
 (1869) 
 
 [11 
 
The Beaucaire Diligence 
 
 t«) 
 
The Beaucaire Diligence 
 
 IT was the day of my arrival here. I had 
 taken the Beaucaire diligence, a respecta- 
 ble old vehicle which had not far to go before 
 reaching home again, but which sauntered all 
 along the way, in order to have the appear- 
 ance at night of arriving from a long distance. 
 There were five of us on the imperial, with- 
 out counting the driver. 
 
 First, a drover from Camargue, a short, 
 thick-set, hairy man, with an odour of herds, 
 and with large bloodshot eyes, and silver 
 rings in his ears ; next, two natives of Beau- 
 caire, a baker and his son-in-law, both very 
 red-faced and short-breathed, but with mag- 
 nificent profiles, like two Roman medals with 
 the image of Vitellius. Lastly, on the box- 
 seat with the driver, a man— no, a cap, an 
 enormous rabbit-skin cap, which did not say 
 
 [6] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 much ana gazed at the road with a distressed 
 expression. 
 
 All those people knew one another and 
 talked aloud of their affairs very freely. The 
 man from Camargue said that he had come 
 from Nimes, summoned by the examining 
 magistrates because of a blow with a pitch- 
 fork that he had dealt a shepherd. Tempers 
 are quick in Camargue. And what about 
 Beaucaire! Would you believe that our two 
 Beaucairians actually threatened to cut each 
 other's throats on the subject of the Blessed 
 Virgin ? It seems that the baker was from a 
 parish devoted from time immemorial to the 
 Madonna, to her whom the Proven(;als call 
 the Good Mother, and who carries the little 
 Jesus in her arms; the son-in-law, on the 
 contrary, sang in the choir of a brand-new 
 church, consecrated to the Immaculate Con- 
 ception, that lovely smiling image which is 
 represented with her arms hanging at her 
 sides and her hands full of rays of light. The 
 quarrel arose from that fact. You should 
 
 [61 
 
The Beaucaire Diligence 
 
 have seen how those two good Catholics 
 abused each other and their Madonnas : 
 
 *'A pretty creature your Immaculate 
 One is! " 
 
 '' Get out with your Good Mother! '* 
 
 **She saw some fine doings in Palestine, 
 that hussy of yours! " 
 
 *'And what about yours, hey? The ugly 
 witch! Who knows what she didn't do? 
 Ask St. Joseph." 
 
 Nothing save the gleaming of knives was 
 lacking to make us fancy that we were on the 
 wharfs at Naples; and in faith, I believe that 
 that edifying theological contest would have 
 ended in that way if the driver, had not in- 
 terposed. 
 
 **Let us alone with your Madonnas," he 
 said laughingly to the Beaucairians; ** that's 
 all women's nonsense; men ought not to 
 bother with it." 
 
 Thereupon he cracked his whip, with a 
 skeptical expression which brought everybody 
 over to his opinion. 
 
 C7J 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 The discussion came to an end, but the 
 baker, having got started, felt that he must 
 spend the rest of his ammunition, and, turn- 
 ing to the unfortunate cap, which sat silent 
 and melancholy in its corner, he said with a 
 bantering expression: 
 
 *' And how about your wife, knife-grinder — 
 which parish does she favour ? " 
 
 Evidently there was some very comical al- 
 lusion in that question, for the whole imperial 
 roared with laughter. The knife-grinder did 
 not laugh. He did not seem to have heard. 
 Observing that, the baker turned to me: 
 
 '* You don't know his wife, do you, mon- 
 sieur ? She 's a queer kind of a church woman ! 
 There are n't two like her in Beaucaire." 
 
 The laughter redoubled. The knife-grinder 
 did not budge; he simply said in a low tone, 
 without raising his head : 
 
 '* Hold your tongue, baker.** 
 
 But that devil of a baker did not propose 
 
 to hold his tongue, and he continued with 
 
 greater zest : 
 
 [83 
 
The Beaucaire Diligence 
 
 ** Bless my soul! the fellow isn't to be 
 pitied for having a wife such as she. No man 
 can be bored for an instant with her. Think 
 of it ! a beauty who has herself abducted every 
 six months, she always has something to tell 
 you when she comes home. It 's a curious 
 little household, I tell you. Just imagine, 
 monsieur, that they had n't been married a 
 year, when paff ! the wife goes off to Spain 
 with a chocolate-peddler. The husband was 
 left alone in his house, to weep and drink. 
 He was like a madman. After some time, 
 the charmer came back to the province dressed 
 as a Spanish woman, with a little tambourine. 
 We all said to her: * Keep out of his way, or 
 he will kill you.' Kill her! not much! they 
 went to living together again as quietly as 
 you please, and she taught him to play the 
 tambourine." 
 
 There was a fresh outburst of laughter. The 
 knife-grinder in his corner muttered again, 
 without raising his head: 
 
 ** Hold your tongue, baker." 
 
 [91 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 The baker paid no heed, but continued: 
 ** Perhaps you think, monsieur, that after 
 her return from Spain the charmer kept still. 
 Not a bit of it; her husband had taken the 
 thing so well that it made her inclined to try 
 it again. After the Spaniard, it was a military 
 officer, then a boatman on the Rhone, then a 
 musician, then a — I don't know whom. The 
 amusing part of it is that the same comedy is 
 acted every time. The wife goes off, the hus- 
 band weeps; she returns and he is consoled. 
 And they keep on abducting her, and he keeps 
 on taking her back. Don't you think that the 
 fellow has patience.^ I must say, however, 
 that the little woman 's mighty pretty — a 
 genuine morsel for a cardinal : dainty, and 
 lively, and well-built; and a white skin, too, 
 and nut-brown eyes that always laugh when 
 she looks at a man. Faith, my Parisian, if 
 
 you ever pass through Beaucaire " 
 
 ' * Oh ! hold your tongue, baker, I beg you ! " 
 said the poor knife-grinder once more, in a 
 heartrending tone. 
 
 [10] 
 
The Beaucaire Diligence 
 
 At that moment the diligence stopped. We 
 were at the farm Des Anglores. The two men 
 from Beaucaire alighted, and I promise you 
 that I did not try to detain them. That wag 
 of a baker! we could hear him laugh after he 
 was in the farmyard. 
 
 When they had gone the imperial seemed 
 empty. We had left the man from Camargue 
 at Aries; the driver was walking beside the 
 horses. The knife-grinder and I were alone, 
 each in his corner, saying not a word. It was 
 hot, and the leather of the hood was scorch- 
 ing. At intervals I felt my eyes close and my 
 head become heavy; but it was impossible to 
 sleep. I had always in my ears that ''hold 
 your tongue, I beg you," so gentle, yet so 
 heartrending. He did not sleep, either, the 
 poor man; from behind I could see his broad 
 shoulders quivering, and his hand, a long, 
 colourless, stupid hand, tremble on the back 
 of his seat, like the hand of an old man. He 
 was weeping. 
 
 ** Here you are at home, Parisian," the driver 
 (11] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 suddenly called to me; and with the end of 
 his whip he pointed to my green hill with the 
 mill perched upon it like a great butterfly. 
 
 I made haste to alight. As I passed the 
 knife-grinder 1 tried to look under his cap; I 
 was anxious to see his face before leaving 
 him. As if he had understood my thought, 
 the wretched man abruptly raised his head 
 and fastening his eyes upon mine, he said in 
 a hollow voice: 
 
 **Look well at me, my friend, and if you 
 hear one of these days that there has been 
 trouble at Beaucaire, you will be able to say 
 that you know the man who did it." 
 
 His face was sad and lifeless, with little 
 faded eyes. There were tears in those eyes, 
 but in the voice there was hatred. Hatred is 
 the wrath of the weak! If I were the knife- 
 grinder's wife, I should be on my guard. 
 
 ti2] 
 
Master Cornille's Secret 
 
 [I3l 
 
Master Cornille's Secret 
 
 FRANCE! MAMAI, an old fifer, who comes 
 sometimes to pass the evening with me 
 and drink mulled wine, told me the other 
 evening of a little village drama which my 
 mill witnessed some twenty years ago. The 
 good man's story impressed me, and 1 pro- 
 pose to try to tell it to you as 1 heard it. 
 
 Imagine for a moment, dear readers, that 
 you are seated before a jar of perfumed wine, 
 and that it is an old fifer who is speaking. 
 
 Our province, my dear monsieur, has not 
 always been a dead place, entirely unknown 
 to fame, as it is to-day. Long ago there was 
 a big business done here in grinding grain, 
 and the people from all the farms within a 
 circuit of ten leagues brought us their grain to 
 grind. The hills all around the village were 
 covered with windmills. To right and left 
 
 [15] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 one could see nothing but the sails turning 
 about in the mistral above the pines, long 
 strings of little donkeys laden with bags 
 climbing the hills and stretching out along the 
 roads; and it was pleasant to hear all through 
 the week the cracking of the whips on the 
 hilltops, the creaking of the canvas, and the 
 Dia hue! of the millers' men. On Sundays 
 we went to the mills in groups. ,The millers 
 treated to muscat. The millers' wives were 
 as lovely as queens, with their lace necker- 
 chiefs and their gold crosses. I used to carry 
 my fife, and we danced farandoles till it was 
 pitch-dark. Those mills, you see, were the 
 pleasure and wealth of our province. 
 
 Unluckily, some Frenchmen from Paris con- 
 ceived the idea of setting up a steam flour- 
 mill on the road to Tarascon. Very fine and 
 new it was; the people fell into the habit of 
 sending their grain there, and the poor wind- 
 mills were left without work. For some 
 time they tried to keep up the struggle, but 
 steam was the stronger, and one after another, 
 
 C16J 
 
Master Cornille's Secret 
 
 pecatre! they were all obliged to close. We 
 saw no more strings of little donkeys. The 
 millers' pretty wives sold their gold crosses. 
 No more muscat! no more farandoles ! No 
 matter how hard the mistral might blow, 
 the sails did not move. Then, one fine day, 
 the commune ordered all those shanties torn 
 down, and vines and olive-trees were planted 
 where they stood. 
 
 But, amid all the distraction, one little mill 
 held out and continued to turn bravely on its 
 hill, in despite of the steam-millers. That was 
 Master Cornille's mill, the same one in which 
 we are passing the evening at this moment. 
 
 Master Cornille was an old miller, who had 
 lived for sixty years in flour and was crazy 
 over his trade. The setting up of the steam- 
 mills made him act like a madman. For a 
 week he ran about the village, collecting peo- 
 ple round him and shouting at the top of his 
 lungs that they intended to poison Provence 
 with the flour from the steam-mills. 
 
 '* Don't go, there," he would say; ''those 
 
 a tl71 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 villains use steam to make bread, steam, 
 which is an invention of the devil, while I 
 work with the mistral and the tramontana, 
 which are the breath of the good Lord "; and 
 he would spout a lot of fine words in praise 
 of windmills, but no one listened to them. 
 
 Then, in a towering rage, the old man shut 
 himself up in his mill, and lived alone like 
 a wild beast. He would n't even keep with 
 him his granddaughter Vivette, a child of fif- 
 teen, who since the death of her parents had 
 no one but her grandfather in the world. The 
 poor child was obliged to earn her living and 
 to hire herself out among the farms for the 
 harvest, the silkworm season, or the olive 
 picking. And yet her grandfather seemed to 
 love the child dearly. He often travelled four 
 leagues on foot in the heat of the sun to see 
 her at the farm where she was working, and 
 when he was with her, he would pass hours 
 at a time gazing at her and weeping. 
 
 In the province, people thought that the old 
 miller had been led by avarice to send Vivette 
 
 [18] 
 
Master Cornille's Secret 
 
 away; and it did not do him credit to allow 
 his grandchild to travel about that way from 
 one farm to another, exposed to the brutality 
 of the labourers and to all the trials of young 
 women in service. People thought it very 
 wrong, too, that a man of Master Cornille's 
 reputation, who up to that time had shown 
 the greatest self-respect, should go about 
 through the streets like a regular gypsy, bare- 
 footed, with a cap all holes and a blouse all 
 in rags. The fact is that on Sunday, when 
 we saw him come in to mass, we were 
 ashamed for him, we old men; and Cornille 
 felt it so keenly that he did n't dare to come 
 and sit in the warden's pew; he always re- 
 mained at the back of the church, near the 
 holy-water vessel, with the poor. 
 
 There was something in Master Cornille's 
 life we could n't understand. For a long time 
 no one in the village had carried him any 
 grain, and yet the sails of his windmill were 
 always in motion as before. In the evening, 
 people met the old miller on the roads driving 
 
 [19] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 before him his donkey loaded with fat bags 
 of flour. 
 
 **Good evening, Master Cornille," the peas- 
 ants would call out to him; **is business still 
 good ? " 
 
 '* Still good, my children," the old man 
 would reply, with a jovial air. *' Thank God, 
 we have no lack of work." 
 
 Then, if any one asked where in the devil so 
 much work could come from, he would put a 
 finger to his lips and answer gravely: 
 
 ** Hush! 1 am working for exportation." 
 
 No one could ever get anything more from 
 him. 
 
 As for putting one's nose inside his mill, it 
 was n't to be thought of. Even little Vivette 
 herself never went in there. 
 
 When people passed in front of it, they al- 
 ways found the door closed, the huge sails 
 moving, the old ass browsing on the platform, 
 and a great thin cat taking a sun-bath on the 
 window-sill, and glaring at them with a 
 wicked expression. 
 
 [201 
 
Master Cornille's Secret 
 
 All this smelt of mystery, and made people 
 talk a great deal. Every one had his own ex- 
 planation of Master Cornille's secret, but the 
 general report was that there were even more 
 bags of silver in the mill than bags of grain. 
 
 After a while, however, everything came to 
 light; this is how it happened: 
 
 One fine day, as I was playing on my fife 
 for the young people to dance, I noticed that 
 my eldest boy and little Vivette had fallen in 
 love with each other. At heart I was not dis- 
 pleased, because after all the name of Cornille 
 was held in honour among us, and then it 
 would have pleased me to see that pretty little 
 bird of a Vivette trotting about my house. 
 But as our lovers had often had opportunities 
 to be together, I determined, for fear of acci- 
 dents, to settle the business at once, and I 
 went up to the mill to say a word to the 
 grandfather. Ah ! the old sorcerer! you should 
 have seen how he received me! It was im- 
 possible for me to induce him to open his 
 
 [21] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 door. I explained my reasons after a fashion, 
 through the keyhole; and all the time I was 
 talking, there was that lean villain of a cat 
 snorting like a devil over my head. 
 
 The old man did n't give me time to finish, 
 but shouted to me most impolitely to go back 
 to my fife; that if I was in such a hurry to 
 marry my boy, I could go and look for a girl 
 at the steam-mill. As you can imagine, the 
 blood went to my head when 1 heard such 
 rough talk; but 1 was wise enough to restrain 
 myself, and leaving the old fool in his mill, I 
 returned to inform the children of my discom- 
 fiture. The poor lambs could n't believe it; 
 they asked me as a favour to allow them to go 
 up together to the mill and speak to the grand- 
 father. I had n't the courage to refuse, and^ 
 off my lovers went. 
 
 Just as they reached the mill. Master Cornille 
 had gone out. The door was securely locked ; 
 but the old fellow, when he went away, had 
 left his ladder outside, and suddenly it occurred 
 to the children to go in by the window and 
 
 [S8J 
 
Master Cornille's Secret 
 
 see what there might be inside that famous 
 mill. 
 
 What a strange thing! the main room of 
 the mill was empty. Not a sack, not a par- 
 ticle of grain; not the slightest trace of flour 
 on the walls or on the spider-webs. They 
 could n't even smell that pleasant, warm odour 
 of ground wheat that makes the air of a mill 
 so fragrant. The shaft was covered with dust 
 and the huge thin cat was sleeping on it. 
 
 The lower room had the same aspect of 
 poverty and neglect: a wretched bed, a few 
 rags, a crust of bread on one stair, and in a 
 corner three or four bursted sacks, with rub- 
 bish and plaster stickmg out. 
 
 That was Master Cornille's secret! it was 
 that plaster that he paraded at night on the 
 roads, to save the honour of the mill and to 
 make people think that he made flour there. 
 Poor mill ! poor Cornille 1 Long ago the steam- 
 millers had robbed them of their last customer. 
 The sails still turned, but the mill ground 
 nothing. 
 
 1S3J 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 The children returned to me all in tears and 
 told me what they had seen. It tore my heart 
 to listen to them. Without a moment's loss 
 of time I ran to the neighbours; I told them 
 the story in two words, and we agreed in- 
 stantly that we must carry to Cornille's mill 
 all the wheat there was in the houses. No 
 sooner said than done. The whole village 
 started off, and we arrived at the top of the 
 hill with a procession of donkeys loaded with 
 grain, and real grain, too! 
 
 The mill was wide-open. In front of the 
 door Master Cornille sat on a bag of plaster, 
 weeping, with his face in his hands. He had 
 discovered on returning home that during his 
 absence some one had entered his mill and 
 discovered his sad secret. 
 
 ''Poor me!" he said. **Now there 's no- 
 thing left for me to do but to die. The mill 
 is dishonoured.*' 
 
 And he sobbed as if his heart would break, 
 calling his mill by all sorts of names, speaking 
 to it as if it was a living person. 
 
 [34] 
 
Master Cornille's Secret 
 
 At that moment the donkeys arrived on the 
 platform and we all began to shout as we did 
 in the palmy days of the millers: 
 
 *' Holla! mill there! holla! Master Cornille! " 
 
 And the bags were piled up before the door 
 and the fine red grain strewed the earth in all 
 directions. 
 
 Master Cornille stared with all his eyes. He 
 took up some grain in the hollow of his old 
 hand, and said, laughing and weeping at once: 
 
 *Mt is grain! Lord God! real grain! Leave 
 me; let me look at it." 
 
 Then, turning to us: 
 
 '* Ah ! 1 knew that you 'd come back to me. 
 All those steam-millers are thieves." 
 
 We proposed to carry him in triumph to 
 the village. 
 
 *'No, no, my children," he said; ''first of 
 all I must give my mill something to eat. 
 Just think! it 's so long since he has had any- 
 thing between his teeth ! " 
 
 And it brought the tears to the eyes of us 
 all to see the poor old man rush about to right 
 
 [25] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 and left, emptying the sacks, looking after the 
 millstone, while the grain was crushed and the 
 fine wheaten dust rose to the ceiling. 
 
 I must do our people justice: from that day 
 we never allowed the old miller to lack work. 
 Then one morning Master Cornille died, and 
 the sails of our last mill ceased to turn — this 
 time forever. When Cornille was dead, no 
 one followed in his footsteps. What can you 
 expect, monsieur ? Everything has an end in 
 this world, and we must believe that the day 
 of windmills has passed, like that of barges on 
 the Rhone, parliaments, and jackets with big 
 flowers. 
 
The Goat of Monsieur Seguin 
 
 [211 
 
The Goat of Monsieur Seguin 
 
 To M, Pierre Gringoire, Lyrical Poet at Paris 
 
 YOU will always be the same, my poor 
 Gringoire! 
 
 Think of it! you are offered the place of 
 reporter on a respectable Paris newspaper, 
 and you have the assurance to refuse! Why, 
 look at yourself, unhappy youth! look at that 
 worn-out doublet, those dilapidated breeches, 
 that gaunt face, which cries aloud that it is 
 hungry. And this is where your passion for 
 rhyme has brought you! this is the result of 
 your ten years of loyal service among the 
 pages of my lord Apollo! Are n't you 
 ashamed, finally ? 
 
 Be a reporter, you idiot; be a reporter! 
 You will earn honest crowns, you. will have 
 your special seat at Brebant's, and you will be 
 
 [29J 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 able to appear every first night with a new 
 feather in your cap. 
 
 No? You will not? You propose to re- 
 main perfectly free to the end? Well! just 
 listen to the story of Monsieur Seguin's goat. 
 You will see what one gains by attempting to 
 remain free. 
 
 Monsieur Seguin had never had good luck 
 with his goats. He lost them all in the same 
 way ; some fine morning they broke their cord 
 and went off to the mountain, and there the 
 wolf ate them. Neither their master's petting, 
 nor fear of the wolf, nor anything else de- 
 terred them. They were, it would seem, 
 independent goats, determined to have fresh 
 air and liberty at any price. 
 
 Honest Monsieur Seguin, who was unable 
 to understand the temperament of his beasts, 
 was dismayed. He said: 
 
 *M am done; the goats are bored at my 
 house, and I won't keep another one." 
 
 However, he did fiot get discouraged, and 
 
 [301 
 
The Goat of Monsieur Seguin 
 
 after losing six goats all in the same way, he 
 bought a seventh; but that time he was very 
 careful to buy a very young one, so that it 
 would be more likely to become accustomed 
 to living with him. 
 
 Ah! Monsieur Seguin's little kid was such a 
 pretty thing, Gringoire! with her soft eyes, 
 her little beard like a subaltern's, her gleaming 
 black hoofs, her striped horns, and her long 
 white hair, which formed a sort of greatcoat! 
 She was almost as lovely as Esmeralda's goat 
 — do you remember, Gringoire ? And then, 
 so docile, too, and affectionate, allowing her- 
 self to be milked without moving, without 
 putting her foot into the pail. A perfect little 
 love of a kid! 
 
 Monsieur Seguin had an enclosure behind 
 his house, surrounded by hawthorn. There 
 he placed his new boarder. He fastened her 
 to a stake, in the place where the grass was 
 the richest, taking care to give her a long rope; 
 and from time to time he went to see if she 
 was all right. The kid was very happy and 
 
 [81] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 browsed with such zest that Monsieur Seguin 
 was overjoyed. 
 
 ** At last," thought the poor man, *M have 
 one that will not be bored here! " 
 
 Monsieur Seguin was mistaken; his kid 
 was bored. 
 
 One day she said to herself, looking up at 
 the mountain: 
 
 *' How happy they must be up there! what 
 pleasure to gambol about in the heather, with- 
 out this infernal cord that galls one's neck! 
 It is all right for the donkey or the ox to graze 
 in an enclosed place, but goats need plenty of 
 room." 
 
 From that moment, the grass in the enclo- 
 sure seemed distasteful. Ennui assailed the 
 kid. She grew thin, her milk became scanty. 
 It was painful to see her pulling at her cord all 
 day long, with her head turned towards the 
 mountain, her nostrils dilated, and bleating 
 sadly. 
 
 Monsieur Seguin noticed that something was 
 the matter with the kid, but he did not know 
 
 [32] 
 
The Goat of Monsieur Seguin 
 
 what it was. One morning as he finished 
 milking her, the kid turned her head and said 
 to him in her dialect: 
 
 *' Listen, Monsieur Seguin; I am dying in 
 your enclosure; let me go to the mountain.'' 
 
 *'Ah! mon Dieu! this one, too!" cried 
 Monsieur Seguin in stupefaction; and the 
 shock caused him to drop his pail; then, seat- 
 ing himself on the grass beside his kid, he 
 said : 
 
 **What, Blanquette, do you want to leave 
 me?" 
 
 And Blanquette replied: 
 
 **Yes, Monsieur Seguin." 
 
 ** Have n't you enough grass here } " 
 
 '*0h, yes! Monsieur Seguin." 
 
 *' Perhaps you are tied too short; do you 
 want me to lengthen the rope ? " 
 
 *Mt is n't worth while, Monsieur Seguin." 
 
 ** What is it that you want, then .^" 
 
 **I want to go to the mountain, Monsieur 
 Seguin." 
 
 **Why, you wretched creature, don't you 
 
 3 [33] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 know that there is a wolf in the mountain ? 
 What will you do when he comes?" 
 
 *' 1 will butt him with my horns, Monsieur 
 Seguin." 
 
 ' ' The wolf does n't care for your horns. He 
 has eaten goats with horns much longer than 
 yours. Don't you remember poor Renaude 
 who was here last year ? A fine goat, as 
 strong and ill-tempered as any he-goat. She 
 fought with the wolf all night, and then in the 
 morning the wolf ate her." 
 
 ''Pecatre! poor Renaude! but that does n't 
 make any difference to me. Monsieur Seguin; 
 let me go to the mountain." 
 
 ''Divine mercy! ''exclaimed Monsieur Se- 
 guin; "what on earth does somebody do to 
 my goats .^ Still another one that the wolf 
 will end by eating! But no! 1 will save you 
 in spite of yourself, you hussy! and as I am 
 afraid that you will break your rope, 1 am 
 going to shut you up in the stable, and you 
 shall always stay there." 
 
 Thereupon Monsieur Seguin carried the kid 
 
 [841 
 
The Goat of Monsieur Seguin 
 
 to a dark stable, the door of which he locked 
 securely. Unluckily he forgot the window, 
 and he no sooner had his back turned than the 
 little creature took her leave. 
 
 Do you laugh, Gringoire? Parbleu! of 
 course you do; you are of the faction of the 
 goats, against poor Monsieur Seguin. We 
 will see if you laugh in a moment. 
 
 When the white kid arrived in the mount- 
 ain there was general rejoicing. Never had 
 any of the old fir-trees seen anything so 
 pretty. They welcomed her like a little queen. 
 The chestnuts bent to the ground to caress 
 her with their branches. The golden heather 
 opened for her to pass, and gave forth the 
 sweetest perfume that it could. The whole 
 mountain celebrated her arrival. 
 
 You can imagine, Gringoire, whether our 
 kid was happy! No more ropes, no more 
 stakes, nothing to prevent her from gambol- 
 ing and grazing at her pleasure. That was 
 the place where the grass grew! above the 
 tips of her horns, my dear fellow! And such 
 
 135] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 grass! fine and sweet, made up of a thousand 
 different plants. It was a very different thing 
 from the grass in the enclosure. And the 
 flowers — great blue bellflowers, purple fox- 
 gloves with long stamens, a whole forest of 
 wild flowers, overflowing with intoxicating 
 juices. 
 
 The white kid, half tipsy, played about 
 there with her legs in the air, and rolled down 
 the slopes, with the falling leaves and the 
 chestnuts; then, of a sudden, she sprang to 
 her feet with one leap. Away she went, with 
 her head thrust forward, through the under- 
 brush and the thickets, sometimes on a peak, 
 sometimes in the bottom of a ravine, up and 
 down and everywhere. You would have 
 said that there were ten of Monsieur Seguin's 
 kids in the mountain. 
 
 The fact is that Blanquette was afraid of 
 nothing. She crossed with one bound broad 
 torrents which spattered her, as she passed, 
 with misty spray and foam. Then, dripping 
 wet, she stretched herself out on a flat rock 
 
 [36] 
 
The Goat of Monsieur Seguin 
 
 and allowed the sun to dry her. Once, as 
 she crept to the edge of a plateau with some 
 clover in her teeth, she spied below her, in 
 the plain, Monsieur Seguin's house with the 
 enclosure behind it. That made her laugh, 
 until she cried. 
 
 **How tiny it is!" she said; *'how was T 
 ever able to live there ? " 
 
 Poor dear! finding herself perched up there 
 so high, she believed herself to be at least as. 
 large as the world. 
 
 In fact that was a great day for Monsieur 
 Seguin's kid. About midday, as she ran to 
 right and left, she happened upon a band of 
 chamois which were busily engaged in eat- 
 ing wild grapes. Our little white-robed va- 
 grant created a sensation. They gave her the 
 best place at the vine, and those gentlemen 
 were all very gallant. Indeed it seems — this 
 between ourselves, Gringoire — that a young 
 chamois with a black coat had the good for- 
 tune to please Blanquette. The two lovers 
 lost themselves in the woods for an hour or 
 
 [27] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 two, and if you would know what they said 
 to each other, go ask the chattering streams 
 that flow invisibly under the moss. 
 
 Suddenly the wind freshened. The mount- 
 ain turned purple; it was evening. 
 
 ** Already!" said the little kid; and she 
 stopped, much surprised. 
 
 The fields below were drowned in mist. 
 Monsieur Seguin's enclosure disappeared in 
 the haze, and of the cottage she could see 
 only the roof, with a thread of smoke. She 
 listened to the bells of a flock being driven 
 home, and her heart was heavy. A falcon, 
 flying homeward, brushed her with his wings 
 as he passed. She started. Then there arose 
 a howl in the mountain: 
 
 '*Hou! hou!" 
 
 She thought of the wolf; during the day 
 the wild creature had not given him a thought. 
 At the same moment a horn blew in the 
 valley. It was good Monsieur Seguin making 
 a last effort. 
 
 **Hou! hou!" howled the wolf. 
 
 [38] 
 
The Goat of Monsieur Seguin 
 
 **Come back! come back!" cried the horn. 
 
 Blanquette longed to go back; but when 
 she remembered the stake, the rope, and the 
 hedge about the enclosure, she thought that 
 she could never again become accustomed to 
 that life, and that it was better to stay where 
 she was. 
 
 The horn ceased to blow. 
 
 The kid heard a rustling of leaves behind 
 her. She turned and saw in the darkness two 
 short, straight ears and two gleaming eyes. 
 It was the wolf. 
 
 He sat there on his haunches, enormous, 
 motionless, gazing at the little white kid and 
 licking his chops in anticipation. As he felt 
 sure that he should eat her, the wolf was in 
 no hurry; but when she turned, he began to 
 laugh wickedly. 
 
 *'Ha! ha!" Monsieur Seguin's little kid!" 
 and he passed his great red tongue over his 
 lean chops. 
 
 Blanquette felt that she was lost. For a 
 
 [39] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 moment, as she remembered the story of old 
 Renaude, who had fought all night only to 
 be eaten in the morning, she thought that it 
 would be better to be eaten then ; then, think- 
 ing better of it, she stood on guard, her head 
 down and her horns forward, like the brave 
 Seguin goat that she was. Not that she had 
 any hope of killing the wolf, — kids do not 
 kill wolves — but simply to see if she could 
 hold out as long as Renaude. 
 
 Thereupon the monster came forward and 
 the little horns began to play. 
 
 Ah! the dear little kid, how courageously 
 she went at it! More than ten times — I am 
 not lying, Gringoire — she compelled the wolf 
 to retreat in order to take breath. During 
 these momentary respites, the little glutton 
 hastily plucked another blade of her dear 
 grass; then she returned to the battle with her 
 mouth full. This lasted all night. From time 
 to time Monsieur Seguin's kid glanced at the 
 stars dancing in the clear sky and said to 
 herself: 
 
 [40] 
 
The Goat of Monsieur Seguin 
 
 ** Oh ! if only I can hold out until dawn ! " 
 
 One after another the stars went out. 
 Blanquette fought with redoubled fury with 
 her horns, the wolf with his teeth. A pale 
 gleam appeared on the horizon. The hoarse 
 crowing of a cock came up from a farm. 
 
 '* At last! " said the poor creature, who was 
 only awaiting the dawn to die; and she lay 
 down in her lovely white coat all spotted 
 with blood. 
 
 Thereupon the wolf threw himself upon 
 the little kid and ate her. 
 
 Adieu, Gringoire! 
 
 The story you have heard is not a fable of 
 my invention. If ever you come to Provence 
 our farmers will often speak to you of *'the 
 goat of Monsieur Seguin, that fought the wolf 
 all night, and then, in the morning, the wolf 
 ate her up." 
 
 You understand, Gringoire : 
 
 " And then, in the morning, the wolf ate 
 her up.'* 
 
 [411 
 
The Pope's Mule 
 
 f«i 
 
The Pope's Mule 
 
 OF all the clever sayings, proverbs, or saws 
 with which our Provence peasants em- 
 bellish their discourse, I know of none more 
 picturesque or more peculiar than this. Within 
 a radius of fifteen leagues of my mill, when 
 anybody mentions a spiteful, vindictive man, 
 he will say: *'Look out for that man! he is 
 like the Pope's mule, that keeps her kick for 
 seven years." 
 
 I tried for a long time to find out the source 
 of that proverb, what that Papal mule might 
 be, and that kick kept for seven years. No 
 one here was able to give me any information 
 on that subject, not even Francet Mamai, my 
 fife-player, who, however, has the whole leg- 
 endary history of Provence at his finger-ends. 
 Francet agrees with me that there is probably 
 some old tradition of Provence behind it; but 
 
 [45] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 he has never heard it mentioned except in the 
 proverb. 
 
 ''You v^on't find that anywhere except in 
 the Grasshoppers' Library," said the old fifer, 
 with a laugh. 
 
 I thought the suggestion a good one, and 
 as the Grasshoppers' Library is right at my 
 door, I shut myself up there for a week. 
 
 It is a wonderful library, splendidly stocked, 
 open to poets day and night, the attendants 
 being little librarians with cymbals, who play 
 for you all the time. I passed some delight- 
 ful days there, and after a week of investiga- 
 tion — on my back — I ended by discovering 
 what I wanted to know, that is to say, the 
 story of my mule and of that famous kick 
 stored up for seven years. The tale is a pretty 
 one, although slightly ingenuous, and I am go- 
 ing to try to tell it to you as I read it yester- 
 day morning in a manuscript of the colour of 
 the weather, which had a pleasant smell of 
 dry lavender, with long gossamer-threads for 
 book-marks. 
 
The Pope's Mule 
 
 He who never saw Avignon in the time of 
 the Popes has seen nothing. Never was there 
 such a city for gayety, life, animation, and a 
 succession of fetes. There were, from morn- 
 ing till night, processions, pilgrimages, streets 
 strewn with flowers and carpeted with mag- 
 nificent tapestries, cardinals arriving by the 
 Rhone, with banners flying; gayly bedecked 
 galleys, the soldiers of the Pope singing in 
 Latin on the squares, and the bowls of men- 
 dicant f riars: and then, from roof to cellar of 
 the houses that crowded humming about the 
 great Papal palace, like bees about their hive, 
 there was the tick-tack of the lace-makers' 
 looms, the rapid movement of the shuttles 
 weaving gold thread for the vestments, the lit- 
 tle hammers of the carvers of burettes, the key- 
 boards being tuned at the lute-makers', the 
 songs of the $empstressej; and, overhead, the 
 clang of the bells, and always a tambourine or 
 two jingling down by the bridge. For with 
 us, when the common people are pleased, they 
 must dance and dance; and as the streets in 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 the city in those days were too narrow for the 
 farandole, the fifes and the tambourines sta- 
 tioned themselves on Avignon Bridge, in the 
 cool breezes from the Rhone; and there the 
 people danced and danced, day and night. 
 Ah! the happy days! the happy city! Hal- 
 berds that did not wound, state prisons where 
 they put wine to cool. No famine; no wars. 
 That is how the Popes of the Comtat gov- 
 erned the people; that is why the people re- 
 gretted them so bitterly. 
 
 There was one especially, a good old fellow, 
 whom they called Boniface. Ah! how many 
 tears were shed in Avignon when he died! 
 He was such a good-natured, affable prince! 
 He laughed so heartily from the back of his 
 mule! And when you passed him — ^though 
 you were simply a poor little digger of mad- 
 der, or the provost of the city — he would give 
 you his blessing so courteously! He was a 
 genuine Pope of Yvetot, but of a Provencal 
 Yvetot, with a something shrewd in his laugh- 
 
 (48] 
 
The Pope's Mule 
 
 ter, a sprig of marjoram in his biretta, and 
 never a sign of a Jeanneton. The only Jeanne- 
 ton that the old man had ever been known to 
 have was his vineyard, a tiny vineyard which 
 he had planted himself, three leagues from 
 Avignon, among the myrtles of Chateau Neuf. 
 Every Sunday, after vespers, the excellent 
 man went to pay court to it; and when he 
 v/as there, seated in the warm sun, with his 
 mule by his side and his cardinals lying at the 
 foot of the stumps all about, then he would 
 order a bottle of native wine opened, — that 
 fine, ruby-coloured wine which was called 
 afterwards the Chateau Neuf of the Popes, — 
 and he would drink it in little sips, looking at 
 his vineyard with a tender expression. Then, 
 when the bottle was empty and the day drew 
 to a close, he would return merrily to the 
 city, followed by all his chapter; and when 
 he rode over Avignon Bridge, through the 
 drums and farandoles, his mule, stirred by 
 the music, would f^ill into a little skipping 
 amble, while he himself marked the time of 
 4 r49i 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 the dance with his cap, which scandalised his 
 cardinals terribly, but caused the people to 
 say: *' Ah! the kind prince! ah! the dear old 
 Pope!" 
 
 Next to his vineyard at Chateau Neuf, the 
 thing that the Pope loved best on earth was 
 his mule. The good man fairly doted on the 
 beast. Every night, before going to bed, he 
 would go to see if his stable was securely 
 fastened, if anything was lacking in the crib; 
 and he never rose from the table until a huge 
 bowl of wine a la Francaise, with plenty of 
 sugar and spices, had been prepared under 
 his own eye, which he carried to the mule 
 himself, despite the comments of his cardinals. 
 It should be said, too, that the beast was worth 
 the trouble. It was a fine black mule, dappled 
 with red, sure-footed, with a glossy coat, a 
 broad, full rump; and she carried proudly her 
 slender little head, all bedecked with plumes, 
 and ribbons, and silver bells and streamers; 
 and as gentle as an angel withal, with a mild 
 
 [50] 
 
The Pope's Mule 
 
 eye and two long ears always in motion, 
 which gave her a most amiable aspect. All 
 Avignon respected her, and when she passed 
 through the streets there was no attention 
 which the people did not pay her; for they 
 all knew that that was the best way to be in 
 favour at court, and that, with her innocent 
 look, the Pope's mule had led more than one 
 to wealth; witness Tistet Vedene and his 
 wonderful adventures. „J 
 
 This Tistet Vedene was in truth an impu- 
 dent rascal, whom his father, Guy Vedene, 
 the gold-carver, had been obliged to turn out 
 of his house, because he refused to do any 
 work and led the apprentices astray. For six 
 months he was seen dragging his jacket 
 through all the gutters of Avignon, but prin- 
 cipally in the neighbourhood of the Papal 
 palace; for the rogue had had for a long while 
 a scheme of his own about the Pope's mule, 
 and you will see what a mischievous scheme 
 it was. 
 
 One day, when his Holiness all alone was 
 
 [511 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 riding by the ramparts on his steed, behold 
 my Tistet approaches him, and says, clasping 
 his hands with an air of admiration: 
 
 *'Ah! 7non Dieu! what a fine mule you 
 have, Holy Father! Just let me look at her. 
 Ah! what a lovely mule, my Pope! the Em- 
 peror of Germany has not her like." 
 
 And he patted her and spoke softly to her, 
 as to a maiden: 
 
 *'Come, my jewel, my treasure, my 
 pearl." 
 
 And the excellent Pope, deeply moved, 
 said to himself: 
 
 *'Whata nice little fellow! How nice he 
 is with my mule! " 
 
 And what do you suppose happened the 
 next day } Tistet Ved^ene exchanged his old 
 yellow jacket for a fine lace alb, a violet silk 
 hood, and shoes with buckles; and he entered 
 the household of the Pope, to which only sons 
 of nobles and nephews of cardinals had ever 
 been admitted. That is what intrigue leads 
 to! But Tistet Vedene did not stop there. 
 
 [52] 
 
The Pope's Mule 
 
 Once in the Pope's service, the rascal contin- 
 ued the game that had succeeded so well. 
 Insolent with everybody else, he reserved his 
 attention and care for the mule alone; and 
 he was always to be seen in the courtyard of 
 the palace, with a handful of oats or a bunch 
 of clover, whose purple clusters he shook as 
 he glanced at the Holy Father's balcony, as if 
 he would say: ''Look! for whom is this?" 
 The result was that the excellent Pope finaHy, 
 feeling that he was growing old, left it to him 
 to look after the stable and to carry the mule 
 her bowl of wine a la Fran^aise ; which did 
 not make the cardinals laugh. 
 
 Nor the mule either — it did not make her 
 laugh. Now, when the time for her wine 
 arrived, she always saw five or six little clerks 
 of the household enter her stable and hastily 
 bury themselves in the straw with their 
 hoods and their lace; then, after a moment, 
 a delicious odour of (^aramel and spices 
 filled the stable, and Tistet Vedene appeared, 
 
 [53] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 carefully carrying the bowl of wine a la 
 FratK^aise, Then the poor beast's martyrdom 
 began. 
 
 That perfumed wine which she loved so 
 dearly, which kept her warm, which gave 
 her wings, they had the fiendish cruelty to 
 bring to her manger, to let her inhale it, and 
 then, when her nostrils were full of it, off it 
 went! the beautiful rose-coloured liquor dis- 
 appeared down the throats of those young 
 rogues. And if they had only contented 
 themselves with stealing her wine! but all 
 those little clerks were like devils when they 
 had been drinking. One pulled her ears, 
 another her tail; Quiquet mounted her back, 
 Beluguet tried his cap on her head, and not 
 one of the scamps reflected that with a sudden 
 kick the excellent beast could have sent them 
 all into the polar star, or even farther. But 
 no! not for nothing is one the Pope's male, 
 the mule of benedictions and indulgences. 
 Let the boys do what they would, she did not 
 lose her temper, and she bore a grudge to 
 
 [54] 
 
The Pope's Mule 
 
 Tistet Vedene alone. But he — when she felt 
 him behind her, her hoofs fairly itched, and in 
 good sooth there was reason for it. That 
 ne'er-do-well of a Tistet played her such 
 cruel tricks ! He conceived such fiendish ideas 
 after drinking! 
 
 Would you believe that one day he took it 
 into his head to make her go up with him 
 into the belfry, way up to the highest point 
 of the palace! And this that I am telling you 
 is not a fable — two hundred thousand Prov- 
 encals saw it. Just imagine the terror of that 
 wretched beast, when, after twisting blindly 
 about for an hour on a winding staircase, 
 and climbing I know not how many stairs, 
 she suddenly found herself on a platform 
 dazzling with light; and a thousand feet below 
 her, a whole fantastic Avignon, the stalls in 
 the market no larger than walnuts, the Pope's 
 soldiers in front of their barracks like red 
 ants, and yonder, over a silver thread, a little 
 microscopic bridge where the people danced 
 and danced. Ah! the poor creature! what a 
 
 [55] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 panic! All the windows in the palace shook 
 with the bray that she uttered. 
 
 ** What's the matter? What are they 
 doing to her?" cried the good Pope, rushing 
 out upon the balcony. 
 
 **Ah! Holy Father, this is what's the 
 matter! Your mule — mon Dieu! what will 
 become of us! — your mule has gone up into 
 the belfry." 
 
 *'A11 alone?" 
 
 **Yes, Holy Father, all alone. See! look 
 up there. Don't you see the ends of her ears 
 hanging over, like two swallows ! " 
 
 *' Merciful Heaven!" exclaimed the poor 
 Pope, raising his eyes. **Why, she must 
 have gone mad! Why, she will kill herself! 
 Will you come down here, you wretched 
 creature ? " 
 
 Pecaire! She would have asked nothing 
 better than 'to have come down; but how? 
 As to the staircase, that was not to be thought 
 of; it is possible to go up such things; but in 
 going down there is a chance to break one's 
 
 [56] 
 
The Pope's Mule 
 
 legs a hundred times. And the poor mule 
 was in despair; as she wandered about the 
 platform with her great eyes filled with vertigo, 
 she thought of Tistet Vedene. 
 
 ** Ah! You villain, if I escape, what a kick 
 to-morrow morning! " 
 
 That idea of a kick restored a little of her 
 courage; save for that, she could not have 
 held out. At last they succeeded in taking 
 her down; but it was a difficult task. They 
 had to lower her in a litter, with ropes and a 
 jack-screw. And you can imagine what a 
 humiliation it was for the Pope's mule to be 
 suspended at that height, swinging about 
 with her hoofs in the air, like a butterfly at 
 the end of a string. And all Avignon looking 
 at her! 
 
 The wretched beast did not sleep that night. 
 It seemed to her all the time that she was 
 walking about on that infernal platform, with 
 the city laughing below her; then she thought 
 of that infamous Tistet Vedene, and of the 
 dainty kick that she proposed to give him in 
 
 [57] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 the morning. Ah! my friends, what a kick! 
 they would see the smoke at Pamperigouste. 
 
 Now, while this pleasant reception was in 
 store for him at the stable, what do you 
 suppose Tistet Vedene was doing ? He was 
 going down the Rhone, singing, on one of the 
 Pope's galleys, on his way to the Court of 
 Naples, with a party of young nobles whom the ' 
 city sent every year to Queen Joanna, for train- 
 ing in diplomacy and in refined manners. Tistet 
 was not of noble birth; but the Pope desired to 
 reward him for the care he had bestowed upon 
 his mule, and above all for the activity he had 
 dispjayed during the day of rescue, 
 -^imagine the mule's disappointment the next 
 morning! 
 
 ''Ah! the villain! he suspected something! " 
 she thought, as she shook her bells savagely; 
 ''but never mind, you scoundrel! you shall 
 have it when you come back, that kick of 
 yours; I will keep it for you! " 
 
 And she did keep it for him. 
 
 After Tistet's departure, the mule resumed 
 
 [58] 
 
The Pope's Mule 
 
 her quiet mode of life and her former habits. 
 No more Quiquet or Beluguet in her stable. 
 The blissful days of wine d la Fraufaise had 
 returned, and with them good humour, the 
 long siestas, and the little dancing step when 
 she crossed Avignon Bridge. Since her mis- 
 fortune, however, she was always treated 
 rather coldly in the city. People whispered 
 together as she passed; the old folks shook 
 their heads, and the children laughed as they 
 pointed to the belfry. Even the worthy Pope 
 himself had not his former confidence in his 
 friend, and when he allowed himself to take a 
 little nap on her back, on Sundays, when he 
 returned from his vineyard, he always had 
 this thought: *' Suppose I should wake up on 
 the platform up there! " 
 
 The mule saw that and she was unhappy 
 over it, although she said nothing; but when 
 the name of Tistet Vedene was mentioned 
 in her presence, her long ears quivered, and 
 with a short laugh she would sharpen the iron 
 of her little shoes on the pavemerrL 
 
 [59] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 Seven years passed thus; and then, at the 
 end of those seven years, Tistet Vedene re- 
 turned from the Court of Naples. His time 
 there was not at an end; but he had learned 
 that the Pope's chief mustard-bearer had died 
 suddenly at Avignon, and as the office seemed 
 to him a good one, he returned in great haste 
 to apply for it. 
 
 When that schemer of a Vedene entered the 
 great hall of the palace, the Holy Father had 
 difficulty in recognising him, he had grown 
 so tall and so stout. It should be said also 
 that the Pope had grown old too, and that he 
 could not see well without spectacles. 
 
 Tistet was not frightened. 
 
 **What.^ don't you recognise me, Holy 
 Father.^ It is Tistet Vedene." 
 
 *' Vedene.^" 
 
 **Why yes, you know, the one who used 
 to carry the French wine to your mule." 
 
 *'0h, yes! 1 remember. A good little fel- 
 low, that Tistet Vedene! And what does he 
 
 want of us now ? " 
 
 reo) 
 
The Pope's Mule 
 
 **0h! a mere nothing, Holy Father. I 
 came to ask you — by the way — have you 
 still your mule ? And is she well ? Good ! — 
 1 came to ask you for the place of the chief 
 mustard-bearer, who has just died." 
 
 .*'You, chief mustard-bearer! why, you are 
 too young. How old are you ? " 
 
 ** Twenty years and two months, illustri- 
 ous pontiff; just five years older than your 
 mule. Ah! blessed palm of God! the excel- 
 lent beast! If you only knew how I loved 
 that mule! how I sighed for her in Italy! — 
 Won't you let me see her ? " 
 
 ''Yes, my child, you shall see her," said 
 the kind-hearted Pope, deeply touched. " And 
 as you are so fond of the excellent beast, I 
 propose that you shall live near her. From 
 this day, I attach you to my person as chief 
 mustard-bearer. My cardinals will make an 
 outcry, but so much the worse! 1 am used 
 to it. Come to us to-morrow, when vespers 
 is done, and we will deliver the symbols of 
 your office, in the presence of our chapter, 
 
 i6ll 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 and then — I will take you to see the mule, 
 and you shall come to the vineyard with us 
 both. Ha! ha! — Now go!'* 
 
 If Tistet Vedene was pleased when he left 
 the great hall, I need not tell you how im- 
 patiently he awaited the ceremony of the 
 morrow. Meanwhile, there was some one 
 in the palace still happier than he and even 
 more impatient; that was the mule. From 
 the hour of Vedene's return until vespers of 
 the following day, the bloodthirsty creature 
 did not cease stuffing herself with oats, and 
 kicking at the wall with her hind feet. She, 
 too, was preparing for the ceremony. 
 
 On the morrow, then, when vespers was at 
 an end, Tistet Vedene entered the courtyard 
 of the Papal palace. All the high clergy were 
 there, the cardinals in their red robes, the 
 advocate of the devil in black velvet, 
 the convent abbes with their little mitres, 
 the churchwardens of the Saint-Agrico, the 
 violet hoods of the household, the lower 
 clergy too, the Pope's soldiers in full uniform, 
 
 [C2J 
 
The Pope's Mule 
 
 the three brotherhoods of penitents, the her- 
 mits from Mount Ventoux with their fierce 
 eyes, and the little clerk who walks behind 
 them carrying the bell, the Flagellants naked 
 to the waist, the red-faced sacristans in gowns 
 like judges — all, yes, all, even to those who 
 hand the holy-water, and he who lights and 
 he who extinguishes the candles; not one 
 was missing. Ah! it was a grand installa- 
 tion! Bells, fireworks, sunlight, music, and, 
 as always, those mad tambourine-players lead- 
 ing the dance yonder on Avignon Bridge. 
 
 When Vedene appeared in the midst of the 
 assemblage, his presence and his handsome 
 face aroused a murmur of admiration. He 
 was a magnificent Proveni^al, of the blond 
 type, with long hair curled at the ends and a 
 small, unruly beard which resembled the shav- 
 ings of fine metal from the graving-tool of his 
 father the goldsmith. The report was current 
 that the fingers of Queen Joanna had some- 
 times toyed with that light beard; and Sire 
 de Vedene had in truth the vainglorious air 
 
 [68] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 and the distraught expression of men whom 
 queens have loved. That day, to do honour 
 to his nation, he had replaced his Neapolitan 
 clothes by a jacket with a pink border a la 
 Proveufale, and in his hood floated a long 
 plume of the Camargue ibis. 
 
 Immediately upon his entrance, the chief 
 mustard-bearer bowed with a noble air, and 
 walked toward the high dais, where the Pope 
 awaited him, to deliver the symbols of his 
 office: the spoon of yellow wood and the 
 saffron-coloured coat. The mule was at the 
 foot of the staircase, all saddled and ready to 
 start for the vineyard. When he passed her, 
 Tistet Vedene smiled affably and stopped to 
 pat her two or three times in a friendly way 
 on the back, looking out of the corner of his 
 eye to see if the Pope noticed him. The po- 
 sition was excellent. The mule let fly: 
 
 '* There! take that, you villain! For seven 
 years I have been keeping it for you! " 
 
 And she gave him a terrible kick, so terrible 
 that the smoke of it was seen from far Pam- 
 
 IG41 
 
The Pope's Mule 
 
 perigouste, an eddying cloud of blond smoke 
 in which fluttered an ibis-feather — all that 
 remained of the ill-fated Tistet Vedene! 
 
 A mule's kick is not ordinarily so disastrous; 
 but she was a Papal mule; and then, think 
 of it! she had kept it for him for seven years. 
 There is no finer example of an ecclesiastical 
 grudge. 
 
 (66J 
 
The Lighthouse of the Sanguinaires 
 
 [67) 
 
The Lighthouse of the 
 Sanguinaires 
 
 LAST night I was unable to sleep. The 
 mistral was in angry mood, and the 
 outbursts of its loud voice kept me awake 
 until morning. The whole mill creaked, 
 heavily swaying its mutilated sails, which 
 whistled in the wind like the rigging of a 
 ship. Tiles flew from its dilapidated roof. 
 In the distance the pines with which the hill 
 is covered waved to and fro and rustled in the 
 darkness. One might have fancied oneself 
 at sea. 
 
 It reminded me perfectly of my notable in-- 
 somnia three years ago, when I was living at 
 the lighthouse on the Sanguinaires — on the 
 Corsican coast at the mouth of the Bay of 
 Ajaccio. 
 
 Another charming little corner that, which 
 I had found, to dream, and to be alone. 
 
 [69] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 Imagine an island of a reddish colour and of 
 uncivilised aspect; the lighthouse at one end, 
 at the other an old Genoese tower, where an 
 eagle lived in my day. Below, at the water's 
 edge, a ruined lazaretto, overgrown every- 
 where by weeds ; and then, ravines, maqtns, 
 high cliffs, a few wild goats, and small Cor- 
 sican horses gamboling about with flying 
 manes; and lastly, high in the air, amid a 
 whirlwind of sea-birds, the lighthouse with its 
 platform of white masonry, where the keep- 
 ers walked to and fro, the green door with 
 its arched top, the little cast-iron tower, and 
 above, the huge lantern flashing in the sun- 
 light and giving light even during the day. 
 Such was the island of the Sanguinaires as I 
 saw it again last night while I listened to the 
 roaring of my pines. It was to that en- 
 chanted isle that I used sometimes to retire, 
 when I longed for fresh air and solitude, be- 
 fore I owned a mill. 
 
 What did I do there ? What I do here, or 
 even less. When the mistral or the tramon- 
 
 [TO] 
 
Lighthouse of the Sanguinaires 
 
 tana did not blow too hard, I would seat my- 
 self between two rocks at the water's edge, 
 amid the gulls, and blackbirds, and swallows, 
 and I would stay there almost all day in 
 that sort of stupor and delicious prostration 
 which are born of gazing at the sea. You 
 know, do you not, that pleasant intoxication 
 of the mind ? You do not think; nor do you 
 dream. Your whole being escapes you, flies 
 away — is scattered about. You are the gull 
 that plunges into the sea, the spray that floats 
 in the sunlight between two waves — the 
 white smoke of yonder steamer rapidly dis- 
 appearing, that little coral boat with the red 
 sail, that drop of water, that fleck of mist — 
 anything except yourself. Oh! how many 
 hours of half-slumber and of mental disper- 
 sion have I passed on my island! 
 
 On the days when the wind was high, the 
 shore no longer being tenable, I would shut 
 myself up in the courtyard of the lazaretto, 
 a small, melancholy courtyard, fragrant with 
 rosemary and wild absinthium; and there, 
 
 [71] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 sheltered behind a fragment of the old wall, I 
 would allow myself to be gently overcome by 
 the vague perfume of neglect and sadness 
 which floated about with the sunlight in the 
 stone cells, open on all sides like ancient 
 tombs. From time to time, the closing of a 
 gate, a light leap in the grass — it was a goat 
 coming to browse, out of the wind. On 
 seeing me, she would stop in alarm, and 
 stand there before me, sharp-eyed, with her 
 horns in the air, looking down on me with a 
 childlike expression. 
 
 About five o'clock, the speaking-trumpet of 
 the keepers summoned me to dinner. Then 
 I would take a narrow path through the 
 maquis, rising almost perpendicularly from 
 the sea, and I would return slowly to the 
 lighthouse, turning at every step to gaze at 
 the boundless horizon of water and of lights 
 which seemed to expand as I went higher. 
 
 Above it was delightful. I can still see that 
 pleasant dining-room with its floor of broad 
 
 [72] 
 
Lighthouse of the Sanguinaires 
 
 flags, with its oaken wainscoting, the bouil- 
 labaisse smoking in the centre, the door wide- 
 open on the white terrace, and the setting sun 
 streaming in. The keepers were always 
 there, awaiting my arrival to sit down to din- 
 ner. There were three of them, a Marseillais 
 and two Corsicans, all short and bearded, 
 with the same tanned and wrinkled faces and 
 the same goatskin caps; but entirely different 
 in manner and in mood. 
 
 The ways of life of these men betrayed at 
 once the difference between the two races. 
 The Marseillais, active and industrious, always 
 full of business, always in motion, ran about 
 the island from morning till night, gardening, 
 fishing, collecting gull's-eggs, lying in wait 
 in the maquis to milk a goat on the wing; 
 and always some aioli or stew in process of 
 manufacture. 
 
 The Corsicans, on the other hand, did abso- 
 lutely nothmg outside their duties as keepers; 
 they looked upon themselves as functionaries, 
 and passed the whole of every day in the 
 
 fTSl 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 kitchen, playing endless games of scopa, paus- 
 ing only to light their pipes with a solemn 
 air, and to cut with scissors, in the hollow 
 of their hand, the huge leaves of green 
 tobacco. 
 
 For the rest, Marseillais and Corsicans alike 
 were honest, simple, artless fellows, full of 
 attentions for their guest, although after all 
 he must have seemed to them a most extra- 
 ordinary personage. 
 
 Think of it! the idea of shutting oneself 
 up in a lighthouse for pleasure! And they 
 found the days so long, and were so happy 
 when it was their turn to go ashore. In the 
 summer, that great happiness happened once 
 a month. Ten days ashore for every thirty 
 days at the light, that is the rule; but in 
 winter there is stormy weather, and the rules 
 do not hold. The wind blows, the sea rises, 
 the Sanguinaires are white with foam, and 
 the keepers on duty are blockaded two or 
 three months in succession, and sometimes 
 
 under terrible circumstances. 
 
 r.74] 
 
Lighthouse of the Sanguinaires 
 
 ''This is what happened to me, monsieur," 
 said old Bartoli one day while we were eat- 
 ing dinner, — **this is what happened to me 
 five years ago, at this very table that we are 
 sitting at, one winter's night, as it is now. 
 That night, there was only two of us in the 
 light, a man named Tcheco and myself. The 
 others were ashore, sick or on leave, I forget 
 which now. We were finishing our dinner 
 as quietly as possible. All of a sudden my 
 comrade stops eating, looks at me a minute 
 with a funny expression, and pouf ! down 
 he falls on the table with his arms out. I 
 go to him, and shake him, and call him: 
 
 ''M say, Tche! OTche!' 
 
 **Not a word! He was dead. You can 
 imagine my state. I sat there more than an 
 hour, dazed and trembling beside that corpse, 
 and then all of a sudden the thought came to 
 me: 'And the light!' I had just time to go 
 up into the lantern and light it. It was dark 
 already. Such a night, monsieur! the sea 
 and the wind did n't have their natural voices. 
 
 [751 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 Every minute it seemed to me as if some- 
 body was calling to me on the stairs. And 
 with it all, such a fever and such a thirst! 
 But you could n't have induced me to go 
 down ; I was too much afraid of death. How- 
 ever, at daybreak my courage came back a 
 little. I put my comrade on his bed, with 
 a sheet over him, then I said a bit of a prayer 
 and set the alarm signal. Unluckily the sea 
 was too high; it didn't make any difference 
 how much I signalled, nobody came. And 
 there I was alone in the lighthouse with my 
 poor Tche, and God only knows how long. 
 I hoped I could keep him with me till the 
 boat came; but after three days, it wasn't 
 possible. What was I to do.^ Carry him 
 outside ? Bury him ? The rock was too 
 hard, and there 's so many crows on the 
 island. It was a pity to abandon that good 
 Tcheco to them. Then it occurred to me to 
 take him down to one of the cells in the 
 lazaretto. That sad task took me a whole 
 afternoon, and I tell you it took courage. 
 r76) 
 
Lighthouse of the Sanguinaires 
 
 Look you, monsieur, even to-day, when I go 
 down to that part of the island on a windy 
 afternoon, it seems to me as if I had the dead 
 man still on my shoulders." 
 
 Poor old Bartoli; the sweat rolled down his 
 cheeks, just from thinking of it. 
 
 Our meals passed in this way, with plenty 
 of conversation: the lighthouse, the sea, stories 
 of shipwreck and of Corsican bandits. Then, 
 at nightfall, the keeper who had the first 
 watch lighted his little lamp, took his pipe, 
 his drinking-cup, a huge volume of Plutarch 
 with red edges — the whole library of the 
 Sanguinaires — and disappeared. A moment 
 later, there was throughout the house a rat- 
 tling of chains and pulleys and great clock 
 weights being wound up. 
 
 During that time, I sat outside on the 
 terrace. The sun, already very low, sank 
 more and more quickly towards the water, 
 dragging the whole horizon after it. The 
 wind freshened, the island turned purple. 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 In the sky, close to me, a great bird flew 
 heavily by: it was the eagle from the Geno- 
 ese tower returning home. Little by little 
 the mist rose from the sea. Soon one could 
 see only the white rim of foam around the 
 island. Suddenly, over my head, a great 
 flood of soft light gushed forth. The lantern 
 was lighted. Leaving the whole island in 
 shadow, the clear light fell upon the sea, 
 and I sat there lost in darkness, beneath those 
 great luminous rays which barely splashed me 
 as they passed. But the wind grew fresher 
 and fresher. I had no choice but to go inside. 
 I closed the great door by feeling, and secured 
 the iron bars; then, still feeling my way, I 
 ascended a little iron staircase which rang and 
 trembled under my feet, and arrived at the 
 top of the lighthouse. There, there was light 
 enough, on my word. 
 
 Imagine a gigantic Carcel lamp7*with six 
 rows of wicks, around which the walls of the 
 lantern move slowly, some filled with an 
 enormous crystal lens, the others opening on 
 
 . [78] 
 
Lighthouse of the Sanguinaires 
 
 a great stationary sash, which shelters the 
 flame from the wind. On entering I was 
 dazzled. Those brasses and pewters, those 
 tin reflectors, the convex crystal walls turn- 
 ing with great bluish circles, all that quiver- 
 ing and clashing of lights made me dizzy for 
 a moment. 
 
 Gradually, however, my eyes became ac- 
 customed to it, and I would take my seat at 
 the foot of the lamp, beside the keeper, who 
 was reading his Plutarch aloud, for fear of 
 falling asleep. 
 
 Outside, darkness and the abyss. On the 
 small balcony which surrounds the lantern 
 the wind rushes howling like a madman. 
 The lantern creaks, the sea roars. On the 
 point of the island, over the reefs, the waves 
 break like cannon-shot. At times an invisible 
 finger raps on the glass: some night-bird, 
 attracted by the light, dashing his head agamst 
 the lens. In the warm, glowing lantern, no- 
 thing save the spitting of the flame, the drop- 
 ping of the oil, the noise of the chain as it 
 
Alphohse Daudet 
 
 unwinds, and a monotonous voice intoning 
 the life of Demetrius. 
 
 At midnight the keeper rose, casting a last 
 glance at his wicks, and we went down. On 
 the stairs we met the comrade of the second 
 watch coming up, rubbing his eyes; the cup 
 and the Plutarch were passed to him. Then, 
 before going to bed, we entered for a moment 
 the room .at the back, all littered with chains, 
 with great weights, with pewter reservoirs, 
 and with ropes; and there, by the light of his 
 little lamp, the keeper wrote on the lighthouse 
 log, that lay always open : 
 
 ''Midnight. Heavy sea. Storm. Sail in 
 the offing." 
 
 C80J 
 
The Curd of Cucugnan 
 
 181] 
 
The Cur^ of Cucugnan 
 
 EVERY year, at Candlemas, the Provencal 
 poets publish at Avignon a merry little 
 book filled to the covers with fine verses and 
 pretty tales. Last year's has just reached me, 
 and I find in it a delicious fabliau, which I am 
 going to try to translate for you, shortening 
 it a little. Hold out your sacks, Parisians. 
 It is the very cream of Provencal flour that 
 I am going to serve you this time. 
 
 Abbe Martin was Cure of Cucugnan. 
 
 As good as bread, as honest as gold, he 
 loved his flock like a father; in his eyes his 
 Cucugnan would have been paradise on earth, 
 if the people had given him a little more satis- 
 faction. But alas! the spiders spun their webs 
 in his confessional, and on glorious Easter day 
 the consecrated wafers lay untouched in the 
 
 1883 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 holy pyx. The good priest's heart was torn, 
 and he constantly prayed to God that he might 
 not die before he had brought back his scat- 
 tered flock to the fold. 
 
 Now you are about to see that God heard 
 him. 
 
 One Sunday, after the Gospel, Monsieur 
 Martin ascended the pulpit. 
 
 *' Brethren,'' he said, **you may believe me 
 or not, as you please; the other night I, mis- 
 erable sinner that I am, found myself at the 
 gate of paradise. 
 
 '*1 knocked; St. Peter opened the gate. 
 
 '* ' Ah! is it you, my dear Monsieur Martin,' 
 he said; 'what good wind blows you here? 
 And what can 1 do for you ? ' 
 
 '* Blessed St. Peter, who keep the record 
 and the keys,* could you tell me, if I am not 
 too inquisitive, how many of the people of 
 Cucugnan you have here in paradise.?' 
 
 *' *I cannot refuse you anything. Monsieur 
 Martin; sit down and we will look over the 
 book together.' 
 
 [341 
 
The Cure of Cucugnan 
 
 *'And St. Peter took down his big book, 
 opened it, and put on his spectacles. 
 
 "'Now let us see: Cucugnan, you say.. 
 Cu-Cu-Cucugnan, here we are. Cucugnan. 
 My worthy Monsieur Martin, the page is 
 entirely blank. Not a soul; no more Cucug- 
 nanese than there are fish-bones in a turkey.' 
 
 "'What! nobody from Cucugnan here.^ 
 Nobody? It is impossible! Pray look again.' 
 
 " *No one, holy man. Look for yourself,, 
 if you think that 1 am jesting.' 
 
 >*Tstamped the ground, pecatre! and, with 
 dasped hands, I prayed for mercy. There- 
 upon St. Peter said: 
 
 " * Look you, Monsieur Martin, you must n't 
 turn your heart upside down like this, for you 
 might burst a blood-vessel. It is n't your fault, 
 after all. Your Cucugnanese, you see, must 
 be doing their little quarantine in purgatory 
 for sure.' 
 
 '"Oh! in the name of charity, great St. 
 ^ Peter, let me at least see them, and console^ 
 them ! ' 
 
 [86] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 *** Willingly, my friend. Here, put on 
 these sandals at once, for the roads are not 
 very good. That's all right; now, walk 
 straight ahead. Do you see the bend in the 
 road yonder? You will find there a silver 
 gate all studded with black crosses, at the 
 right. Knock, and it will be opened. y4deS' 
 siasf keep well and hearty! ' 
 
 ''And I walked on and on. What a jour- 
 ney! My hair stands on end even to think of 
 it. A narrow path, full of thorns, of shiny 
 insects, and of hissing serpents, led me to the 
 silver gate. 
 
 **Tap! tap! 
 
 ***Who knocks?' asked a hoarse, mourn- 
 ful voice. 
 
 '* * The Cure of Cucugnan/ 
 
 '''Of what?' 
 
 " 'Of Cucugnan.' 
 
 "'Ah! Come in.' 
 
 "I went in. A tall, handsome angel, with 
 wings as black as night and a robe as brilliant 
 as day, with a diamond key hanging at his 
 
 [86J 
 
The Cure of Cucugnan 
 
 girdle, was writing — era, era — in a book 
 larger than that of St. Peter. 
 
 **'Well, what do you want, and whom 
 have you come to see .?' asked the angel. 
 
 ** ' Beautiful angel of God, I wish to know 
 — I am very inquisitive, perhaps — if you 
 have the Cucugnanese here ? ' 
 
 '"'The who?' 
 
 ***The Cucugnanese, the people from Cu- 
 cugnan; I am their pastor.' 
 
 ** * Ah! Abbe Martin, is it not.?*' 
 
 ** * At your service, Monsieur angel.' 
 
 ** * Cucugnan, you say ' 
 
 *' And the angel opened his great book and 
 turned the leaves, moistening his finger with 
 saliva, so that the leaves would slip better. 
 
 ** 'Cucugnan,' he said with a deep sigh; 
 * Monsieur Martin, we have no one from Cu- 
 cugnan in purgatory.' 
 
 '**Jesus! Mary! Joseph! no one from Cu- 
 cugnan in purgatory! Great God! where are 
 they, then ?' 
 
 *'*Why, holy man, they are in paradisCc 
 
 [87] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 Where in the deuce do you suppose they 
 are?' 
 
 ** * But I have just come from paradise.' 
 
 " * You have just come from there! well ? ' 
 
 '* * Well! they are not there. Ah! Blessed 
 Mother of the angels! ' 
 
 '**What do you suppose, monsieur le 
 cure ? If they are neither in paradise nor in 
 purgatory, as there is no half-way place, they 
 must be ' 
 
 '''Blessed crucifix! Jesus, Son of David! 
 y4i/ ail is it possible.^ Can it be that great 
 St. Peter lied.^ Still, I did not hear the 
 cock crow! Ai! poor I ! how can I go to 
 paradise if my Cucugnanese are not there ?* 
 
 " 'Look you, my poor Monsieur Martin, as 
 you wish to be sure of all this, let it cost what 
 it may, and to see the truth with your own 
 eyes, take this path, and run if you know how 
 to- run. You will find on the left a great gate- 
 way. There you will learn everything. God 
 grant it! ' 
 
 *^And the angel closed the gate. 
 
 [88] 
 
The Cur6 of Cucugnan 
 
 I *Mt was a long path, all paved with red-hot 
 embers. I staggered as if I had been drinking; 
 at every step I stumbled; I was drenched; 
 every hair on my body had its drop of sweat 
 and I was panting with thirst. But thanks to 
 the sandals which kind St. Peter had lent 
 me, I did not burn my feet. 
 
 '* When 1 had made enough missteps clump- 
 ing along, I saw at my left a gate — no, a 
 gateway, an enormous gateway, open wide, 
 like the door of a huge oven. Oh! such a 
 spectacle, my children! There nobody asked 
 me my name; and there was no register. You 
 enter there in crowds, and without obstacle, 
 my brethren, as you enter the wine-shops on 
 Sunday. 
 
 '* The sweat poured from me in great drops, 
 and yet 1 was stiff with. cold; I shuddered. 
 My hair stood on end. I smelt burning, roast- 
 ing flesh, something like the smell which 
 spreads through Cucugnan when Eloy the 
 horseshoer burns the hoofs of an old ass, to 
 shoe her. I lost my breath in that putrid, 
 
 189] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 scorching air; I heard a horrible outcry : groans 
 and howls and oaths. 
 
 * * * Well ! are you coming in, or are n*t you ? ' 
 asked a horned demon, pricking me with his 
 fork. 
 
 * ' * I ? lam not coming in. I am a friend of 
 God.' 
 
 ***You are a friend of God? Well then, 
 you scabby beast, what are you doing here ?' 
 
 ***! have come — ah! don't mention it, 
 for I can hardly stand on my legs — I have 
 come — I have come a long way, to ask you 
 humbly, if — if, by any chance — you happen 
 to have here any one — any one from — from 
 Cucugnan?' 
 
 '* * Ah! God*s fire! you play the fool, as if 
 you did n't know that all Cucugnan is here. 
 See, you ugly crow, look about you, and you 
 will see how we deal with your precious flock 
 here.' 
 
 ** And I saw in the midst of a frightful whirl- 
 wind of flame : 
 
 '*Tall Coq-Galine — you all know him, 
 
 [90] 
 
The Cure of Cucugnan 
 
 brethren — Coq-Galine, who used to get 
 drunk s6 often, and shook his fleas on his 
 poor Clairon. 
 
 H-saw Catarinet, that little hussy, with her 
 nose in the air, who slept all alone in the barn. 
 You remember her, my rascals! But let us 
 go on ; I have said too much of her. 
 
 '*! saw Pascal Doigt-de-Poix, who made 
 his oil with Monsieur Julien's olives. 
 
 **I saw Babet the gleaner, who, when she 
 gleaned, in order to make up her bundle more 
 quickly, took handfuls from the sheaves. 
 
 **I saw Master Grapasi, who oiled the 
 wheel of his barrow so carefully. 
 
 **And Dauphine, who sold the water from 
 his well so dear. 
 
 **And4.eTortillard, who, when he met me 
 carrying the Sacrament, went his way, with 
 his cap on his head and his pipe in his mouth, 
 as proud as Artaban, as iY"4i^ had met a 
 dog. 
 
 ** And Coulau with his Zette, and Jacques, 
 and Pierre, and Toni " 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 Intensely moved, white with fear, the con- 
 gregation groaned, as they saw, through the 
 open jaws of hell, this one his father, this one 
 his mother, this one his grandmother, and this 
 one his sister. 
 
 *' ' You must see, brethren,' continued wor- 
 thy Abbe Martin, ' you must realise that this 
 cannot last. I have charge of your souls, and 
 I am determined to save you from the abyss 
 into which you are in a fair way to plunge 
 head foremost. To-morrow I shall go to work 
 — no later than to-morrow. And work will 
 not be lacking. This is how I shall go about it. 
 In order that all may go well, we must do 
 everything in an orderly manner. We will 
 work row by row, as they do at Jonquieres 
 when they dance. 
 
 ** To-morrow, Monday, I will confess the 
 old men and the old women. That is nothing. 
 
 ** Tuesday, the children. That will not 
 take long. 
 
 '* Wednesday, the boys and girls. That 
 may take some time. 
 
 [92] 
 
The Cure of Cucugnan 
 
 ** Thursday, the men. We will cut that 
 short. 
 
 ** Friday, the women. I will say: 'No 
 lies ! ' 
 
 ** Saturday, the miller! One day will not 
 be too much for him alone. 
 
 *' And if we have finished Sunday, we shall 
 be very lucky. 
 
 *' You see, my children, when the grain is 
 ripe, we must cut it; when the wine is drawn, 
 we must drink it. We have plenty of soiled 
 linen — it is our business to wash it and to 
 wash it thoroughly. 
 
 **That is the grace that I wish you. 
 Amen! '* 
 
 What was said was done. The washing 
 was done. 
 
 Since that memorable Sunday, the perfume 
 of the virtues of Cucugnan can be smelt ten 
 leagues away. 
 
 And the worthy pastor. Monsieur Martin, 
 happy and light-hearted, dreamed the other 
 night that, followed by his whole flock, he 
 
 [98] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 climbed in a gorgeous procession, amid lighted 
 candles, a cloud of fragrant incense, and choir- 
 boys singing the Te Deum, the brilliantly 
 lighted road to the City of God. 
 
 And this is the story of the Cure of Cucug- 
 nan, as I was ordered to tell it you by that 
 tall rascal of a Roumanille, who heard it 
 himself from some other jovial fellow. 
 
 IM| 
 
Old Folks 
 
 i«i 
 
Old Folks 
 
 " A letter, Father Azan ?" 
 i\ '*Yes, monsieur, it comes from Paris." 
 He was as proud as a peacock that it came 
 from Paris, was excellent Father Azan. But not 
 I. Something told me that that Parisian epis- 
 tle from Rue Jean-Jacques, falling upon my 
 table unexpectedly and so early in the morn- 
 ing, would make me lose my whole day. I 
 was not mistaken; see for yourself: 
 
 '*You must do me a favour, my friend. 
 You must close your mill for one day and go 
 at once to Eyguieres — Eyguieres is a large 
 village three or four leagues from you, just a 
 pleasant walk. On arriving there, you will 
 ask for the orphan convent. The next house 
 to the convent is a low house with gray 
 shutters, and a small garden behind. You 
 will go in without knocking — the door is 
 always open — and as you enter, you will say 
 
 7 [9T] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 in a very loud voice: **Good day, my good 
 people! I am Maurice's friend!' Then you 
 will see two old folks — oh! very old, immeas- 
 urably old — who will hold out their arms to 
 you from the depths of their great easy-chairs, 
 and you will embrace them for me, with all 
 your heart, as if they were your own people. 
 Then you will talk; they will talk about me; 
 nothing but me; they will tell you a thousand 
 foolish things, which you will listen to with- 
 out laughing. — You won't laugh, will you ? — 
 They are my grandparents, two people whose 
 whole life I am, and who have not seen me 
 for ten years. Ten years is a long while! but 
 what can you expect ? Paris holds me tight, 
 and their great age holds them. They are so 
 old, that if they should come to see me they 
 would fall to pieces on the way. Luckily, you 
 are in the neighbourhood, my dear miller, and, 
 while embracing you, the poor people will 
 think that they are embracing me to some 
 extent. I have so often written to them of 
 you and of the warm friendship " 
 
 [98] 
 
Old Folks 
 
 The devil take our friendship! It happened 
 to be magnificent weather that morning, but 
 not at all appropriate for walking on the 
 road; too much mistral and too little sun- 
 shine — a genuine Proven(;aI day. When 
 that infernal letter arrived, I had already 
 chosen my cagnard (place of shelter) between 
 two rocks, and 1 was dreaming of staying- 
 there all day, like a lizard, drinking light, and 
 listening to the song of the pines. However, 
 what was I to do ? 1 closed the mill, grum- 
 bling, and put the key under the door. My 
 stick and my pipe, and I was off. 
 
 1 reached Eyguieres about two o'clock. The 
 village was deserted; every soul was in the 
 fields. Under the elms of the farmyards, white 
 with dust, the grasshoppers were singing as 
 in the heart of Crau. There was an ass tak- 
 ing the air on the square, in front of the 
 mayor's office, and a flock of pigeons on 
 the church fountain; but no one to point out 
 to me the way to the orphanage. Luckily an 
 old fairy appeared of a sudden, sitting in her 
 
 [99] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 doorway and spinning. I told her what I 
 w^s looking for; and as that fairy was very 
 powerful, she had only to raise her distaff: 
 instantly the orphan convent rose before me 
 as if by magic. It was a high, gloomy, dark 
 building, proud to be able to show, above 
 its ogive doorway, an old cross of red sand- 
 stone with some Latin words around it. Be- 
 side it, I saw another smaller house. Gray 
 shutters and a garden behind. I recognised 
 it instantly, and I entered without knocking. 
 
 As long as I live 1 shall never forget that 
 long, quiet, cool corridor, with its pink walls, 
 the little garden quivering at the rear through a 
 curtain of light colour, and over all the panels 
 faded flowers and lyres. It seemed to me as 
 if 1 were entering the house of some old 
 bailiff of the days of Sedaine. Through a 
 half-opened door at the end of the corridor, 
 on the left, I could hear the ticking of a big 
 clock, and the voice of a child, but of a child 
 of schoolage, reading and pausing after each 
 \yprd : * ' Then — St. — I-re-nae-us — cried — 
 
 [100] 
 
Old Folks 
 
 I— am — the — grain — oi—tbc-'-Lbvd. — I—mv.st 
 — be — ground — by — the — teeth — of — these — 
 an-i-mals." 
 
 I approached the door softly and looked 
 in. 
 
 In the peaceful half-light of a small bed- 
 room, a good old man with red cheeks, 
 wrinkled to the ends of his fingers, was 
 sleeping in an easy-chair, with his mouth 
 open and his hands on his knees. At his 
 feet a little girl dressed in blue — big cape and 
 little cap, the costume of the convent — was 
 reading the life of St. Irenaeus from a book 
 larger than herself. That miraculous reading 
 had produced its effect upon the whole house- 
 hold. The old man was sleeping in his chair, 
 the flies on the ceiling, the canaries in their 
 cage at the window. The great clock snored, 
 tick-tack, tick-tack. There was nothing awake 
 in the whole chamber save a broad band 
 of light which entered, straight and white, 
 through the closed shutters, full of living 
 sparks and microscopic waltzes. Amid the 
 
 flOl] 
 
Alphpnse Daudet 
 
 g^n^er^l. drowsiness, the child gravely con- 
 tinued her reading: *' In-stant-ly — two — li- 
 ons—rushed — up — on — him — and — ate — 
 him — up." It was at that moment that 1 
 entered. The lions of St. Irenaeus rushing 
 into the room would not have produced 
 greater stupefaction than I did. A genuine 
 stage effect! The little girl shrieked, the great 
 book fell, the flies and canaries woke, the 
 clock struck, the old man sat up with a start, 
 greatly alarmed, and 1 myself, slightly dis- 
 turbed, halted in the doorway and shouted 
 very loud : 
 
 **Good day, good people! I am Maurice's 
 friend." 
 
 Oh, if you had seen the poor old man then; 
 if you had seen him come towards me with 
 outstretched arms, embrace me, shake my 
 hands, and run wildly about the room, ex- 
 claiming: 
 
 '" Mon Dieu! mon Dfeu ! " 
 
 Every wrinkle in his face laughed. His 
 iheeks flushed, and he stammered: 
 
 [102] 
 
Old Folks 
 
 '*Ah! monsieur; ah! monsieur." 
 
 Then he hurried towards the end of the 
 room, calling: 
 
 ' * Mamette ! Mamette ! " 
 
 A door opened, there was a mouselike 
 tread in the hall; it was Mamette. Nothing 
 could be prettier than that little old woman, 
 with her shell-shaped bonnet, her nun's gown, 
 and the embroidered handkerchief which she 
 held in her hand, to do me honour, after the 
 ancient fashion. It was a most touching thing 
 — they actually resembled each other. With 
 a tower of hair and yellow shells, he too 
 might have been named Mamette. But the 
 real Mamette must have wept bitterly during 
 her life, and she was even more wrinkled 
 than the other. Like the other, too, she had 
 with her a child from the orphanage, a little 
 nurse in a blue cape, who never left her; and 
 to see those two people cared for by those 
 two orphans was the most touching picture 
 that one could imagine. 
 
 When she came in, Mamette began by 
 
 [103] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 making me a low reverence, but the old man 
 cut it in two by a word: 
 
 **This is Maurice's friend." 
 
 Instantly she began to tremble and weep, 
 she lost her handkerchief, turned red, red as a 
 peony, even redder than he. Those old peo- 
 ple had but a single drop of blood in their 
 veins, and at the slightest emotion it rushed 
 to their. faces. 
 
 ** Quick, quick, a chair!" said the old wo- 
 man to her little one. 
 
 * 'Open the shutters, " cried the old man to his. 
 
 And, each taking me by a hand, they trot- 
 ted to the window, which was thrown wide 
 open that they might the better see me. The 
 easy-chairs were brought, and I stationed 
 myself between them on a folding-chair, the 
 little blue girls behind us, and the questioning 
 began. 
 
 **How is he? What is he doing .^ Why 
 doesn't he come to see us.^ Is he happy .^" 
 and patati! and patata! that sort of thing for 
 hours. 
 
 [104] 
 
Old Folks 
 
 For my part, 1 answered all their questions 
 to the best of my ability, giving such details 
 concerning my friend as I knew, and unblush- 
 ingly inventing those that I did not know;, 
 above all, being careful not to confess that I 
 had never noticed whether his window closed 
 tightly, or what colour the paper was on the 
 walls of his bedroom. 
 
 *'The paper of his bedroom! it is blue^ 
 madame, a light blue, with flowers." 
 
 ** Really.^" said the poor old woman, 
 deeply moved; and she added, turning to- 
 wards her husband: **He is such a good 
 boy ! " 
 
 *'0h, yes; he is a good boy!'* said the 
 other, enthusiastically. 
 
 And all the time I was talking, they ex- 
 changed little nods of the head, little sly 
 laughs, and winks, and significant glances; 
 or else the old man would stoop over and say 
 to me: 
 
 '* Speak louder. She's a little hard of 
 hearing." 
 
 [105] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 And she, on her side: 
 
 '*A little louder, please! he doesn't hear 
 very well." 
 
 Thereupon I would raise my voice; and 
 both would thank me with a smile; and in 
 those faded smiles, leaning towards me, seek- 
 ing in the depths of my eyes the image of 
 their Maurice, I, for my part, was deeply 
 moved to find that image in theirs — vague, 
 veiled, almost intangible, as if I saw my friend 
 smiling at me, a long way off, in a mist. 
 
 Suddenly the old man sat erect in his chair. 
 
 *' Why, it just occurs to me, Mamette — per- 
 haps he has not breakfasted!" 
 
 And Mamette, in dismay, tossed her arms 
 into the air: 
 
 *' Not breakfasted! Great Heaven! " 
 
 I thought that they were still talking about 
 Maurice, and I was about to reply that that ex- 
 cellent youth never waited later than noon for 
 his breakfast. But no, they were talking about 
 me; and you should have seen the commotion 
 when I confessed that 1 was still fasting. 
 
 [106] 
 
Old Folks 
 
 '*Lay the table quick, my little blues; the 
 table in the middle of the room, and the Sun- 
 day cloth, the tlowered plates. And let 's no* 
 laugh so much, if you please; and make 
 haste." 
 
 1 should say that they did make haste. 
 They had hardly had time to break three 
 plates when the breakfast was ready. 
 
 **A nice little breakfast," said Mamette, as 
 she led me to the table, *'but you will be all 
 alone. We have already eaten this morning-." 
 
 Poor old people! at no matter what time 
 you take them, they have always eaten that 
 morning. 
 
 Mamette's nice little breakfast consisted of 
 two fingers of milk, some dates, and a bar- 
 qnette, som.ething like a shortcake; enough to 
 support her and her canaries for at least a 
 week. And to think that I alone consumed 
 all those provisions! What indignation about 
 the little table! How the little blues whis- 
 pered as they nudged each other; and yonder 
 in their cage, how the canaries seemed to say 
 
 f 107 1 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 to each other: ''Oh! see that gentleman eat- 
 ing the whole barquette ! " 
 
 I did eat it all, in truth, and almost without 
 noticing it, occupied as 1 was in looking about 
 that light, peaceful room, where the air was 
 filled with an odour as of ancient things. 
 Above all, there were two little beds from 
 which I could not remove my eyes. Those 
 beds, almost cradles, I imagined as they looked 
 in the morning at daybreak, when they were 
 still hidden behind their great French curtains. 
 The clock strikes three. That is the hour 
 when all old people wake. 
 
 ''Are you asleep, Mamette?'* 
 
 "No, my dear." 
 
 ' ' Is n't Maurice a nice boy } " 
 
 "Oh! he is a nice boy, indeed." 
 
 And I imagined a long conversation like 
 that, simply from having seen those two little 
 beds standing side by side. 
 
 Meanwhile, there was a terrible drama tak- 
 ing place at the other end of the room, before 
 the cupboard. It was a matter of reaching on 
 
 [1081 
 
Old Folks 
 
 the top shelf a certain jar of brandied cherries, 
 which had been awaiting Maurice ten years, 
 and which they desired to open in my honour. 
 
 Despite the entreaties of Mamette, the old 
 man had insisted upon going to get the cher- 
 ries himself; and, having mounted a chair, to 
 his wife's great alarm, he was trying to reach 
 them. You can imagine the picture — the old 
 man trembling and standing on tiptoe, the 
 little blues clinging to his chair, Mamette be- 
 hind him, gasping, with outstretched arms, 
 and over all a faint perfume of bergamot, 
 which exhaled from the open cupboard and 
 .from the great piles of unbleached linen. It 
 was delightful. 
 
 At last, after many efforts, they succeeded 
 in taking the famous jar from the cupboard, 
 and with it an old silver cup, all marred and 
 dented, Maurice's cup when he was small. 
 They filled it for me with cherries to the brim ; 
 Maurice was so fond of cherries! and while 
 serving me the old man whispered in my ear 
 with the air of an epicurean: 
 
 [109] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 **You are very lucky, you are, to have a 
 chance to eat them. My wife made them 
 herself. You are going to taste something 
 good." 
 
 Alas! his wife had made them, but she had 
 forgotten to sweeten them. What can you 
 expect.^ People become absent-minded as 
 they grow old. Your cherries were atrocious, 
 my poor Mamette. But that did not prevent 
 me from eating them to the last one, without 
 a wink. 
 
 The repast at an end, I rose to take leave 
 of my hosts. They would have been glad to 
 keep me a little longer, to talk about the good • 
 boy; but the day was drawing to a close, the 
 mill was f^ir away, and I must go. 
 
 The old man rose as 1 did. 
 
 *' My coat, Mamette. I am going with him 
 to the square." 
 
 Surely Mamette believed in her heart that it 
 was already a little cool for him to escort me 
 to the square, but she made no sign. How- 
 ever, while she was helping him to put his 
 fiioi 
 
Old Folks 
 
 arms into the sleeves of his coat, a fine coat 
 of the colour of Spanish snuff, I heard the dear 
 creature whisper to him : 
 
 '* You won't stay out too late, will you?" 
 And he, with a little sly look: 
 '*Ha! ha! I don't know — perhaps." 
 At that they looked at each other with a 
 laugh, and the little blues laughed to see^them 
 laugh, and the canaries in their corner laughed 
 also in their way. Between ourselves, I be- 
 lieve that the odour of the cherries had intoxi- 
 cated them all a little. 
 
 The night was falling when the grandfather 
 and 1 went out. The little blue followed us 
 at a distance, to take him home; but he did 
 not see her and he was as proud as possible 
 to walk on my arm, like a man. Mamette, 
 with radiant face, saw that from her doorstep, 
 and as she watched us, she nodded her head 
 prettily, as if to say: 
 
 ''Never mind, he can still walk, my poor 
 old man! " 
 
 rnii 
 
The Death of the Dauphin 
 
 8 [118) 
 
The Death of the Dauphin 
 
 THE little Dauphin is sick; the little Dau- 
 phin is going to die. In all the churches 
 of the realm the Blessed Sacrament is exposed 
 ' night and day, and tall candles are burning for 
 the recovery of the royal child. The streets 
 in the old residence are sad and silent, the 
 bells no longer ring, the carriages go at a foot- 
 pace. About the palace the curious citizens 
 watch through the iron grills the porters with 
 gilt paunches talking in the courtyards with 
 an air of importance. 
 
 The whole chateau is in commotion. Cham- 
 berlains, majordomos, run hastily up and down 
 the marble staircases. The galleries are full 
 of pages and of courtiers in silk garments, who 
 go from group to group asking news in under- 
 tones. On the broad steps weeping maids of 
 honour greet one another with low courtesies, 
 
 [115] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 wiping their eyes with pretty embroidered 
 handkerchiefs. 
 
 In the orangery there is a great assemblage 
 of long-robed doctors. Through the windows 
 they can be seen flourishing their long black 
 sleeves and bending majestically their hammer- 
 like wigs. The little Dauphin's governor and 
 equerry walk back and forth before the door, 
 awaiting the decision of the faculty. Scullions 
 pass them by without saluting them. The 
 equerry swears like a heathen, the governor 
 recites lines from Horace. And meanwhile, 
 in the direction of the stables one hears a long, 
 plaintive neigh. It is the little Dauphin's 
 horse, calling sadly from his empty manger. 
 
 And the king ? Where is monseigneur the 
 king? The king is all alone in a room at the 
 end of the chateau. Majesties do not like to 
 be seen weeping. As for the queen, that is a 
 different matter. Seated at the little Dauphin's 
 pillow, her lovely face is bathed in tears, and 
 she sobs aloud before them all, as a linen- 
 draper's wife might do. 
 
 [1161 
 
The Death of the Dauphin 
 
 In his lace-bedecked crib the little Dauphin, 
 whiter than the cushions upon which he 
 lies, is resting now with closed eyes. They 
 think that he sleeps; but no. The little Dau- 
 phin is not asleep. He turns to his mother, 
 and seeing that she is weeping, he says to 
 her: 
 
 ** Madame queen, why do you weep? Is 
 it because you really believe that I am going 
 to die ?'' 
 
 The queen tries to reply. Sobs prevent her 
 from speaking. 
 
 ''Pray do not weep, madame queen; you 
 forget that I am the Dauphin, and that dau- 
 phins cannot die like this." 
 
 The queen sobs more bitterly than ever, and 
 the little Dauphin begins to be alarmed. 
 
 *'l say," he says, *'I don't want Death to 
 come and take me, and I will find a way to 
 prevent his coming here. Let them send at 
 once forty very strong troopers to stand guard 
 around our bed! Let a hundred big guns 
 watch night and day, with matches lighted, 
 
 [117) 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 under our windows! And woe to Death if 
 it dares approach us! '* 
 
 To please the royal child the queen makes^'\^ 
 a sign. In a moment they hear the big guns 
 rumbling through the courtyard; and forty 
 tall troopers, halberds in hand, take their places 
 about the room. They are all old soldiers 
 with gray mustaches. The little Dauphin 
 claps his hands when he sees them. He re- 
 cognises one of them and calls him : 
 
 *' Lorrain! Lorrain!'* 
 
 The soldier steps forward towards the bed. 
 
 'M love you dearly, my old Lorrain. Let 
 me see your big sword. If Death tries to take 
 me you must kill him, won't you ?" 
 
 **Yes, monseigneur," Lorrain replies. And 
 two great tears roll down his bronzed cheeks. 
 
 At that moment the chaplain approaches 
 the little Dauphin and talks with him for a 
 long time in a low voice, showing him a 
 crucifix. The little Dauphin listens with an 
 expression of great surprise, then, abruptly 
 interrupting him, he says: 
 
 [118) 
 
The Death of the Dauphin 
 
 **I understand what you say, monsieur 
 I'abbe; but tell me, couldn't my little friend 
 Beppo die in my place, if I gave him a lot of 
 money ? " 
 
 The chaplain continues to speak in a low 
 voice, and the little Dauphin's expression 
 becomes more and more astonished. 
 
 When the chaplain has finished, the little 
 Dauphin replies with a deep sigh : 
 
 '*A11 this that you tell me is very sad, 
 monsieur I'abbe; but one thing consoles me, 
 and that is that up yonder, in the paradise of 
 the stars, I shall still be the Dauphin. I know 
 that the good Lord is my cousin, and that He 
 cannot fail to treat me according to my rank." 
 
 Then he adds, turning to his mother: 
 
 ** Let them bring me my richest clothes, my 
 doublet of white ermine and my velvet slippers! 
 I wish to make myself handsome for the 
 angels, and to enter paradise in the costume 
 of a Dauphin." 
 
 A third time, the chaplain leans towards the 
 little Dauphin and talks to him for a long time 
 
 [119) 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 in a low voice. In the midst of his harangue, 
 the royal child angrily interrupts : 
 
 '* Why then, to be Dauphin is to be nothing 
 at all!" 
 
 And, refusing to listen to anything more, 
 the little Dauphin turns towards the wall and 
 weeps bitterly. 
 
 [120} 
 
The Legend of the Man with the 
 Golden Brain 
 
 [121] 
 
The Legend of the Man with 
 the Golden Brain 
 
 ON reading your letter, madame, I had a 
 feeling of remorse. I was angry with 
 myself for the rather too doleful colour of my 
 stories, and I am determined to offer you to- 
 day something joyous, yes, wildly joyous. 
 
 For why should I be melancholy, after all ? 
 I live a thousand leagues from Parisian fogs, 
 on a hill bathed in light, in the land of 
 tambourines and muscat wine. About me, 
 everything is sunshine and music; I have 
 orchestras of finches, choruses of tomtits; in 
 the morning the curlews say: '^Cureli! cure- 
 li! "; at noon, the grasshoppers; and then the 
 shepherds playing their fifes, and the lovely 
 dark-faced girls whom I hear laughing among 
 the vines. In truth, the spot is ill-chosen to 
 paint in black; I ought rather to send to the 
 
 [123] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 ladies rose-coloured poems and baskets full 
 of love-tales. 
 
 But no! 1 am still too near Paris. Every 
 day, even among my pines, the capital 
 splashes me with its melancholy. At the 
 very hour that 1 write these lines, I learn of 
 the wretched death of Charles Barbara, and 
 my mill is mourning bitterly. Adieu, curlews 
 and grasshoppers! 1 have now no heart for 
 gayety. And. that is why, madame, instead of 
 the pretty, jesting story that I had determined 
 to tell you, you will have again to-day a 
 melancholy legend. 
 
 There was once a man who had a golden 
 brain; yes, madame, a golden brain. When 
 he came into the world, the doctors thought 
 that the child would not live, his head was so 
 heavy and his brain so immeasurably large. 
 He did live, however, and grew in the sun- 
 light like a fine olive-tree; but his great head 
 always led him astray, and it was heartrend- 
 ing to see him collide with all the furniture as 
 
 [124] 
 
The Man with the Golden Brain 
 
 he walked. Often he fell. One day he rolled 
 from the top of a flight of stairs and struck 
 his forehead against a marble step, upon 
 which his skull rang like a bar of metal. 
 They thought that he was dead; but on lifting 
 him up, they found only a slight wound, 
 with two or three drops of gold among his 
 fair hair. Thus it was that his parents first 
 learned that the child had a golden brain. 
 
 The thing was kept secret; the poor little 
 fellow himself suspected nothing. From time 
 to time he asked why they no longer allowed 
 him to run about in front of the gate, with the 
 children in the street. 
 
 '* Because they would steal you, my lovely 
 treasure! " his mother replied. 
 
 Thereupon the little fellow was terribly 
 afraid of being stolen; he went back to his 
 lonely play, without a word, and stumbled 
 heavily from one room to another. 
 
 Not until he was eighteen years old did his 
 parents disclose to him the miraculous gift 
 that he owed to destiny; and as they had 
 
 [125] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 educated and supported him until then, they 
 asked him, in return, for a little of his gold. 
 The child did not hesitate; on the instant — 
 how ? by what means ? the legend does not 
 say — he tore from his brain a piece of solid 
 gold as big as a nut, and proudly tossed it 
 upon his mother's knees. Then, dazzled by 
 the wealth that he bore in his head, mad 
 with desires, drunken with his power, he left 
 his father's house and went out into the world, 
 lavishing his treasure. 
 
 From the pace at which he lived, like a 
 prince, sowing gold without counting, one 
 would have said that his brain was inexhausti- 
 ble. It did become exhausted, however, and 
 little by little one could see his eyes grow dull, 
 his cheeks become more and more hollow. 
 At last, one morning, after a wild debauch, 
 the unfortunate fellow, alone among the rem- 
 nants of the feast and the paling candles, was 
 alarmed at the enormous hole he had already 
 made in his ingot; it was high time to stop. 
 
 [126] 
 
The Man with the Golden Brain 
 
 Thenceforth he led a new kind of life. The 
 man with the golden brain went off to live 
 apart, working with his hands, suspicious and 
 timid as a miser, shunning temptations, trying 
 to forget, himself, that fatal wealth which he 
 was determined never to touch again. Un- 
 fortunately a friend followed him into the 
 solitude and that friend knew his secret. 
 
 One night the poor man was awakened 
 with a start by a pain in his head, a frightful 
 pain. He sprang out of bed in deadly alarm, 
 and saw by the moonlight his friend running 
 away, with something hidden under his 
 cloak. 
 
 Another piece of his brain stolen from him! 
 
 Some time after, the man with the golden 
 brain fell in love, and then it was all over. He 
 loved with his whole heart a little fair-haired 
 woman, who loved him well, too, but who 
 preferred her ribbons and her white feathers 
 and the pretty little bronze tassels tapping the 
 sides of her boots. 
 
 In the hands of that dainty creature, half 
 
 [1271 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 bird and half doll, the gold pieces melted 
 merrily away. She had every sort of caprice; 
 and he could never say no; indeed, for fear 
 of causing her pain, he concealed from her 
 to the end the sad secret of his fortune. 
 
 '* We must be very rich," she would say. 
 
 And the poor man would answer: 
 
 '* Oh, yes! very rich! '' and he would smile 
 fondly at the little bluebird that was innocent- 
 ly consuming his brain. Sometimes, how- 
 ever, fear seized him; and he longed again to 
 be a miser; but then the little woman would 
 come hopping towards him and say: 
 
 **Come, my husband, you are so rich, buy 
 me something very costly." 
 
 And he would buy something very costly. 
 
 This state of affairs lasted two years; then, 
 one morning, the little woman died, no one 
 knew why, like a bird. The treasure was 
 almost exhausted; with what remained the 
 widower provided a grand funeral for his dear 
 dead wife. Bells clanging, heavy coaches 
 draped in black, plumed horses, silver tears 
 
 (128] 
 
The Man with the Golden Brain 
 
 on the velvet — nothing seemed too fine to 
 him. What mattered his gold to him now ? 
 He gave of it for the church, for the bearers, 
 for the w^omen who sold immortelles ; he gave 
 it on all sides, without bargaining. So that, 
 when he left the cemetery, almost nothing 
 was left of that marvellous brain, save a few 
 tiny pieces on the walls of his skull. 
 
 Then people saw him wandering through 
 the streets, with a wild expression, his hands 
 before him, stumbling like a drunken man. At 
 night, at the hour when the shops were 
 lighted, he halted in front of a large show- 
 window in which a bewildering mass of stars 
 and jewels glittered in the light, and he stood 
 there a long while gazing at two blue satin 
 boots bordered with swan's-down. ** I know 
 some one to whom those boots would give 
 great pleasure," he said to himself with a 
 smile; and, already forgetting that the little 
 woman was dead, he went in to buy them. 
 
 From the depths of her back-shop, the 
 dealer heard a loud outcry; she ran to the 
 
 8 [129] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 spot, and recoiled in terror at sight of a man 
 leaning against the window and gazing at her 
 sorrowfully with a dazed look. He held in 
 one hand the blue boots trimmed with swan's- 
 down, and held out to her the other hand all 
 bleeding, with scrapings of gold on the ends 
 of the nails. 
 
 Such, madame, is the legend of the man 
 with the golden brain. 
 
 Although it has the aspect of a fanciful tale, 
 it is true from beginning to end. There are 
 in this world many poor fellows who are 
 contented to live on their brains, and who pay 
 in refined gold, with their marrow and their 
 substance, for the most trivial things of life. 
 It is to them a pain recurring every day; and 
 then, when they are weary of suffering 
 
 [130] 
 
The Three Low Masses 
 
 [181] 
 
The Three Low Masses 
 
 A Christmas Tale 
 I 
 
 " n^WO truffled turkeys, Garrigou?" 
 
 1 *'Yes, father, two magnificent tur- 
 keys stuffed with truffles. I know something 
 about it, for I myself helped to stuff them. 
 One would have said that the skin would 
 burst when they were roasting, it was dis- 
 tended so.'* 
 
 ** Jesus-Maria! and I love turkeys so dearly, 
 Give me my surplice quickly, Garrigou. And 
 what else did you see in the kitchen besides 
 the turkeys ? " 
 
 ** Oh, all sorts of good things. Since noon, 
 we have done nothing but pluck pheasants, 
 lapwings, pullets, chickens, and heath-cocks. 
 Feathers flew in every direction. And then 
 
 [133] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 from the pond they brought eels, golden carp, 
 
 trout, and " 
 
 '* How big are the trout, Garrigou ?" 
 '* As big as that, father. Enormous! '* 
 " Mon Dieti ! it seems to me that I see 
 them. Did you put the wine in the cups .^" 
 *'Yes, father, I put the wine in the cups. 
 But indeed! it is no such wine as you will 
 drink before long, after the midnight mass, 
 ffyou could just look into the dining-hall at 
 the chateau, and see all those decanters, filled 
 with wines of all colours. And the silver plate, 
 the carved centrepieces, the flowers and the 
 candelabra! Never again will such a reveillon ' 
 be seen. Monsieur the marquis has invited all 
 the nobles of the neighbourhood. There will 
 be at least forty at the table, without counting 
 the notary and the bailiff. Ah ! you are very 
 fortunate to be one of them, father! Simply 
 from smelling those fine turkeys, the odour of 
 truffles follows me everywhere. Meuh! " 
 
 ^Reveillon, — a late supper; a supper after midnight; 
 specifically, a Christmas-eve feast or revel. — [Trans.] 
 
 [134 1 
 
The Three Lrow Masses 
 
 **Come, come, my boy! Let us beware of 
 the sin of gluttony, especially on the eve of the 
 Nativity. Go at once and light the candles, 
 and ring the first bell for mass; for midnight 
 is near at hand and we must not be late." 
 
 This conversation took place on Christmas 
 night in the year of grace one thousand six 
 hundred and something, between the Rev- 
 erend Dom Balaguere, former prior of the 
 Barnabites, and now stipendiary chaplain of 
 the Lords of Trinquelage, and his little clerk 
 Garrigou, or rather him whom he believed to 
 be his little clerk Garrigou; for you must 
 know that the devil on that evening had 
 assumed the round face and insignificant 
 features of the young sacristan, that he might 
 the more easily lead the father into temptation 
 and induce him to commit the frightful sin of 
 gluttony. And so, while the pretended Gar- 
 rigou (hum! hum!) made the bells of the 
 seignorial chapel ring out lustily, the rev- 
 erend father finished attiring himself in his 
 chasuble, in the little sacristy of the chateau; 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 and, with his mind already perturbed by all 
 these gastronomic details, he repeated to him- 
 self as he dressed: 
 
 ** Roast turkeys, golden carp, and trout as 
 big as that! " 
 
 Without, the night wind blew, scattering 
 abroad the music of the bells, and one after 
 another lights appeared in the darkness on 
 the sides of Mount Ventoux, on the summit 
 of which rose the ancient towers of Trin- 
 quelage. They were the families of the 
 farmers, coming to listen to the midnight 
 mass at the chateau. They climbed the hill 
 singing, in groups of five or six, the father 
 ahead, lantern in hand, the women enveloped 
 in their ample dark cloaks, in which the 
 children huddled together and sheltered them- 
 selves from the sharp air. Despite the hour 
 and the cold, all those people walked cheerily 
 along, upheld by the thought that, after the 
 mass, there would be a table laid for them 
 in the kitchens, as there was every year. 
 From time to time, on the steep slope, the 
 
 [136] 
 
The Three Low Masses 
 
 carriage of a nobleman, preceded by torch- 
 bearers, passed with its windows gleaming 
 in the moonlight like mirrors; or a mule 
 trotted by, jingling his bells, and by the light 
 of the mist-enveloped torches, the farmers 
 recognised their bailiff and saluted him as he 
 passed: 
 
 **Good evening, good evening, Master Ar- 
 noton! " 
 
 ''Good evening, good evening, my chil- 
 dren !'' 
 
 The night was clear, the stars glistered 
 more brightly in the frosty air; the wind had 
 a sting in it, and a fine hoarfrost, which clung 
 to the garments without wetting them, main- 
 tained faithfully the traditions of Christmas 
 white with snow. At the summit of the 
 hill, the chateau appeared as their destination, 
 with its enormous mass of towers and gables, 
 the steeple of its chapel rising into the blue- 
 black sky; and a multitude of little twink- 
 ling lights, going and coming, flickering at 
 every window, resembled, against the dark 
 
 [137] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 background of the building, sparks among 
 the ashes of burnt paper. 
 
 The drawbridge and postern passed, they 
 were obliged, in order to reach the chapel, to 
 go through the first courtyard, filled with 
 carriages, servants, bearers of sedan-chairs, 
 brilliantly lighted by the flame of the torches 
 and the blaze from the kitchens. One could 
 hear the grinding of the spits, the clattering 
 of the saucepans, the clink of the glasses and 
 silverware, being moved about in prepara- 
 tion for the banquet, and over it all, a warm 
 vapour, fragrant with the odour of roasting 
 flesh and the pungent herbs of complicated 
 sauces, led the farmers to say, with the chap- 
 Iain and the bailiff and everybody else: 
 
 '*What a fine reveillon we are going to 
 have after mass ! " 
 
 II 
 
 TING a ling! ting a ling, a ling! 
 That is the signal for the mass to begin. 
 In the chapel of the chateau, a miniature 
 
 [138] 
 
The Three Low Masses 
 
 r = 
 
 cathedral with intersecting arches and oaken 
 wainscoting reaching to the ceiling, the 
 tapestries have been hung and all the candles 
 lighted. And such a multitude! and such 
 toilets! First of all, seated in the carved pews 
 which surround the choir, is the Sire de Trin- 
 quelage, in a salmon-coloured silk coat, and 
 about him all the noble lords, his guests. Op- 
 posite, upon prie-dieus of silver, the old 
 dowager marquise in her gown of flame- 
 coloured brocade has taken her place, and the 
 young Dame de Trinquelage, with a lofty 
 tower of lace upon her head, fluted according 
 to the latest style at the French court. Lower 
 down, clad in black, with enormous pointed 
 wings and shaven faces, are seen Thomas 
 Arnoton the bailiff and' Master Ambroy the 
 notary, two sober notes among those shim- 
 mering silks and figured damasks. Then 
 come the stout majordomos, the pages, the 
 huntsmen, the stewards, and Dame Barbe 
 with all her keys hanging at her side upon a 
 
 slender silver ring. In the background, on 
 riooi 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 the benches, sit the lesser functionaries, the 
 maidservants and the farmers with their 
 families; and lastly, at the farther end, against 
 the door, which they open and close with 
 care, the scullions come between two sauces 
 to obtain a whiff of the mass, and to bring an 
 odour of reveillon into the church, which is all 
 in festal array and warm with the flame of so 
 many candles. 
 
 Was it the sight of those little white caps 
 which distracted the attention of the celebrant 
 of the mass; was it not rather Garrigou's bell, 
 that frantic little bell jingling at the foot of the 
 altar with infernal precipitation, which seemed 
 to be saying all the time: 
 
 *'Let us hurry, let us hurry. The sooner 
 we have finished, the sooner we shall be at 
 the table." 
 
 The fact is that every time that that devil's 
 own bell rang, the chaplain forgot the mass 
 and thought only of the reveillon. He ima- 
 gined the bustling cooks, the ovens beneath 
 which a genuine forge fire was burning, the 
 
 [140] 
 
The Three Low Masses 
 
 steam ascending from the open saucepans, 
 and, bathed in that steam, two superb stuffed 
 turkeys, distended and mottled with truffles. 
 Or else he saw long lines of pages pass, 
 carrying dishes surrounded by tempting va- 
 pours, and entered with them the huge room 
 already prepared for the feast. O joy ! 
 there was the enormous table all laden, and 
 blazing with light; the peacocks with all 
 their feathers, the pheasants flapping their 
 golden wings, the ruby-coloured decanters, 
 the pyramids of fruit resplendent amid the 
 green branches, and those marvellous fish 
 of which Garrigou had told him (ah, yes! 
 Garrigou indeed!) lying upon a bed of fennel, 
 their scales glittering as if they were fresh 
 from the water, with a bunch of fragrant herbs 
 in their monstrous nostrils. So vivid was the 
 vision of those marvels, that it seemed to Dom 
 Balaguere that all those wonderful dishes were 
 actually before him on the borders of the 
 altar-cloth; and two or three times, he sur- 
 prised himself saying the Benedicite, instead 
 
 [141] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 of the Dominiis vobiscum! Aside from these 
 slight mistakes, the worthy man read the ser- 
 vice most conscientiously, without skipping 
 a line, without omitting a genuflexion; and 
 everything went well until the end of the 
 first mass; for you know that on Christmas 
 day the same celebrant must say three masses 
 in succession. 
 
 *'One!" said the chaplain to himself, with 
 a sigh of relief; then, without wasting a min- 
 ute, he motioned to his clerk, or to him whom 
 he believed to be his clerk, and — 
 
 Ting a ling, a ling, a ling! ting a ling! 
 
 The second mass had begun, and with it 
 began also Dom Balaguere's sin. 
 
 '* Quick, quick, let us make haste!'* cried 
 Garrigou's bell in its shrill little voice; and 
 that time the unhappy celebrant, wholly given 
 over to the demon of gluttony, rushed through 
 the service and devoured the pages with the 
 avidity of his over-excited appetite. In fren- 
 zied haste he stooped and rose, made the 
 signs of the cross and the genuflexions, and 
 
 [142] 
 
The Three Low Masses 
 
 abridged all the motions, in order to have 
 done the sooner. He barely put out his arms 
 in the Gospel, he barely struck his breast at 
 the Confiteor, The clerk and he vied with 
 each other to see which could gabble faster. 
 Verses and responses came rushing forth and 
 tripped over one another. Words half pro- 
 nounced, without opening the mouth, which 
 would have taken too much time, ended in 
 incomprehensible murmurs. 
 
 " Oremus ps — ps — ps ' ' 
 
 '' Mea culpa— pa — pa " 
 
 Like hurried vine-dressers, trampling the 
 grapes into the vat, they both wallowed in 
 the Latin of the mass, sending splashes in all 
 directions. 
 
 " Dom — scum ! " said Balaguere. 
 
 ** — Siutuo ! ** replied Garrigou ; and all the 
 time the infernal little bell jangled in their 
 ears like the bells that are put on post-horses 
 to make them gallop at the top of their speed. 
 As you may imagine, at that rate a low mass 
 is soon despatched. 
 
 [143] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 *'Two!" said the chaplain, breathlessly; 
 then, without taking time to breathe, flushed 
 and perspiring, he ran down the steps of the 
 altar, and 
 
 Ting a ling, ling! ting a ling, ling! 
 
 The third mass had begun. He had but a 
 few more steps to go to reach the banquet 
 hall; but alas ! as the reveillon drew nearer, 
 the ill-fated Balaguere was seized with a 
 frenzy of impatience and gluttony. His 
 vision became more vivid, the golden carp, 
 the roast turkeys were there before him; he 
 touched them; he — O Heaven! the dishes 
 smoked, the wines scented the air; and the 
 little bell, frantically shaking its clapper, 
 shouted to him: 
 
 '' Quicker, quicker, still quicker! " 
 
 But how could he go any quicker? His 
 lips barely moved. He no longer pronounced 
 the words. He could only cheat the good 
 Lord altogether and filch the mass from Him. 
 And that is what he did, the villain; passing 
 from temptation to temptation, he began by 
 
 [144] 
 
The Three Low Masses 
 
 skipping one verse, then two; then the Epis- 
 tle was too long, and he did not finish it; he 
 barely grazed the Gospel, passed the Credo 
 without going in, jumped over the Pater, 
 nodded to the Preface at a distance; and thus 
 by leaps and bounds rushed into eternal dam- 
 nation, still followed by the infamous Garri- 
 gou (get thee behind me, Satan !), who 
 seconded him with wonderful alacrity, raised 
 his chasuble, turned the leaves two by two, 
 collided with the desks, overturned the com- 
 munion-cups, and all the time shook the little 
 bell louder and louder, faster and faster. 
 
 You should have seen the dismayed look on 
 the faces of the whole congregation ! Obliged 
 to follow by the pantomime of the priest 
 the mass of which they did not hear a 
 word, some rose while the others knelt, re- 
 mained seated when the others were stand- 
 ing; and all the phases of that extraordinary 
 service were confused upon the benches in a 
 multitude of diversified attitudes. The Christ- 
 mas star, travelling along the roads of the sky 
 
 lo [145] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 towards the little stable, turned pale with 
 horror when it witnessed that confusion. 
 
 ''The abbe goes too fast. No one can fol- 
 low him," muttered the old dowager as she 
 nodded her head-dress in bewilderment. 
 
 Master Arnoton, his great steel spectacles on 
 his nose, looked through his prayer-book, 
 trying to find out where they might be. But 
 in reality, all those worthy folk, who also 
 were thinking of the feast, were not sorry 
 that the mass should travel at that lightning 
 speed; and when Dom Balaguere, with ra- 
 diant face, turned towards the congregation 
 and shouted at the top of his voice: ''He, 
 missa est/' the whole chapel as with one 
 voice responded with a ''Deo gratias'* so 
 joyous, so infectious, that they tancied them- 
 selves already at table honouring the first 
 toast of the reveillon. 
 
 1" 
 
 FIVE minutes later the throng of nobles 
 was seated in the great banquet-hall, the 
 
 [146] 
 
The Three Low Masses 
 
 chaplain among them. The chateau, illu- 
 minated from top to bottom, rang with songs 
 and shouts, and laughter and tumult; and the 
 venerable Dom Balaguere planted his fork in 
 the wing of a chicken, drowning his remorse 
 for his sin in floods of the Pope's wine and 
 in toothsome sauces. He ate and drank so 
 much, the poor holy man, that he died dur- 
 ing the night of a terrible attack, without 
 even time to repent; then in the morning, 
 he arrived in heaven, which was still all 
 astir with the festivities of the night; and I 
 leave you to imagine how he was received 
 there. 
 
 ''Depart from my sight, thou evil Christ- 
 ian! " said the Sovereign Judge, the Master of 
 us all. **Thy sin is monstrous enough to 
 efface a whole lifetime of virtue. Ah! thou 
 didst steal a mass from me. Even so! thou 
 shalt pay for three hundred masses in its 
 place, and thou shalt not enter paradise until 
 thou hast celebrated in thine own chapel 
 these three hundred Christmas masses, in the 
 
 [1473 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 presence of all those who have sinned with 
 thee and by thy fault." 
 
 And this is the true legend of Dom Bala- 
 guere, as it is told in the land of olives. The 
 chateau of Trinquelage does not exist to-day, 
 but the chapel still stands erect on the summit 
 of Mount Ventoux, in a clump of green oaks. 
 The wind sways its disjointed door, the grass 
 grows on the threshold; there are nests at the 
 corner of the altar and in the embrasures of the 
 tall windows, whence the stained glass long 
 since vanished. But it appears that every 
 year, at Christmas, a supernatural light wan- 
 ders among the ruins, and that as they go to 
 the midnight masses and the reveillons, the 
 peasants see that spectral chapel lighted by 
 invisible candles, which burn in the open air, 
 even in the snow and the wind. You may 
 laugh if you please, but a vine-dresser of the 
 neighbourhood, named Garrigue, doubtless a 
 descendant of Garrigou, tells me that one 
 Christmas eve, being a little tipsy, he lost his 
 
 [148] 
 
The Three Low Masses 
 
 way on the mountain towards Trinquelage; 
 and this is what he saw. Until eleven o'clock, 
 nothing. Everything was silent, dark, lifeless. 
 Suddenly, about midnight, a carillon rang out 
 at the top of the belfry; an old, old carillon, 
 which seemed to be ten leagues away. Soon, 
 on the road up the mountain, Garrigue saw 
 flickering flames and vague shadows. Be- 
 neath the porch of the chapel, people walked 
 and whispered: 
 
 ** Good evening, Master Arnoton ! " 
 *'Good evening, good evening, my chil- 
 dren." 
 
 When everybody had gone in, my vine- 
 dresser, who was very courageous, noise- 
 lessly drew near, and looking through the 
 broken door, saw a strange spectacle. All 
 those people whom he had seen pass were 
 arranged around the choir, in the rained nave, 
 as if the benches of olden time still existed. 
 Fine ladies in brocade, nobles belaced from 
 head to foot, peasants in gaudy jackets such 
 as our great-grandfathers wore, and all with a 
 
 [149 J 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 venerable, faded, dusty, weary aspect. From 
 time to time, night-birds, the ordinary oc- 
 cupants of the chapel, aroused by that blaze 
 of light, fluttered about the candles, whose 
 flames ascended straight towards heaven, as 
 indistinct as if they were burning behind 
 gauze; and one thing that amused Garrigue 
 greatly was a certain individual with great 
 steel spectacles, who kept shaking his old 
 black wig, upon which one of those birds 
 stood erect, with its feet entangled in the hair, 
 silently flapping its wings. 
 
 In the background, a little old man, with a 
 childish form, kneeling in the middle of the 
 choir, shook desperately a tongueless, voice- 
 less bell, while a priest, dressed in old gold, 
 went to and fro before the altar, repeating 
 prayers of which not a word could be heard. 
 Beyond a doubt it was Dom Balaguere, say- 
 ing his third low mass. 
 
 [150] 
 
The Two Inns 
 
 [1511 
 
The Two Inns 
 
 I WAS returning from Nimes, one July after- 
 noon. The heat was overwhelming. The 
 scorching white road stretched out as far as 
 the eye could see, a dusty line, between gar- 
 dens of olive-trees and of scrub-oaks, beneath 
 a huge sun of dull silver, which filled the whole 
 sky. Not a sign of shade, not a breath of 
 wind. Nothing save the vibration of the hot 
 air, and the shrill cry of the grasshoppers, a 
 mad, deafening music, at a hurried tempo, 
 which seemed the very resonance of that 
 boundless, luminous vibration. I had been 
 walking through this desert for two hours, 
 when suddenly a group of white houses de- 
 tached itself from the dust of the road before 
 me. It was what is called the relay of St. 
 Vincent: five or six farmhouses, long, red- 
 roofed barns, a watering-trough without 
 water, in a clump of meagre fig-trees^ and, on 
 
 [153] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 the outskirts of the hamlet, two large inns 
 looking at each other from opposite sides of 
 the street. 
 
 There was something striking in the 
 proximity of those two inns. On one side, a 
 iarge new building, full of life and animation, 
 all the doors thrown open, the diligence stop- 
 ping in front, the steaming horses being 
 unharnessed, the passengers drinking hastily 
 on the road, in the short shadow of the walls; 
 the courtyard crowded with mules and 
 vehicles; carters lying under the sheds, await- 
 ing the cool of the evening. Within, outcries, 
 oaths, blows of fists on the tables, the clink- 
 ing of glasses, the clicking of billiard-balls, the 
 popping of corks, and above all that uproar, 
 a jovial, ringing voice, singing so loud that 
 the windows shook: 
 
 " Pretty little Margoton, 
 As soon as dawn was waking, 
 Took her silver pitcher, 
 And went off to the well." 
 
 The inn opposite, on the contrary, was 
 
 [154] 
 
The Two Inns 
 
 silent and seemed deserted. Grass under the 
 gateway, shutters broken, over the door a 
 rusty twig of holly hanging like an old plume, 
 the door-step strewn with stones from the 
 road. It was all so poverty-stricken, so piti- 
 ful, that it seemed an act of charity to stop 
 there and drink a glass. 
 
 On entering, I found a long room, deserted 
 and dismal, which the dazzling light, entering 
 through three curtainless windows, rendered 
 even more dismal and deserted. A few 
 rickety tables, on which stood broken glasses 
 dull with dust, a dilapidated billiard-table, 
 holding out its four pockets as if asking alms, 
 a yellow couch, an old desk, slumbered there 
 in an oppressive and unhealthy heat. And 
 the flies! flies everywhere! I had never seen 
 so many: on the ceiling, clinging to the win- 
 dows, in the glasses, in swarms. When I 
 opened the door, there was a buzzing, a 
 humming of wings as if I were entering a hive. 
 
 At the end of the room, in a window-recess, 
 
 [155] 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 there was a woman standing close to the 
 window, busily occupied in looking out. I 
 called her twice: 
 
 **Ho there! hostess!'' 
 
 She turned slowly, and showed me the 
 face of a poverty-stricken peasant woman, 
 wrinkled and furrowed, earth-coloured, 
 framed by long lappets of rusty lace, such as 
 the old women in our neighbourhood wear. 
 She was not an old woman, though; but 
 much weeping had faded her completely, 
 
 **What do you want?" she asked, wiping 
 her eyes. 
 
 *'To sit down a moment and drink some- 
 thing." 
 
 She gazed at me in amazement, without 
 moving from her place, as if she did not 
 understand me. 
 
 **Is n't this an inn.^" 
 
 The woman sighed. 
 
 '* Yes, it is an inn, if you choose. But 
 why don't you go opposite, like all the rest ? 
 It is much more lively." 
 
 [156] 
 
The Two Inns 
 
 ''It is too lively for me. I prefer to stay 
 here with you." 
 
 And without waiting for her reply, I seated 
 myself at the table. 
 
 When she was quite sure that I was speaking 
 seriously, the hostess began to go and come 
 with a very busy air, opening doors, moving 
 bottles, wiping glasses, and disturbing the 
 flies. It was clear that a guest to wait upon 
 was an important event. At times the un- 
 happy creature would stop and take her head 
 in her hands, as if she despaired of ever 
 accomplishing anything. 
 
 Then she went into the rear room; I heard 
 her shaking great keys, fumbling with locks, 
 looking into the bread-box, blowing, dusting, 
 washing plates. From time to time a deep 
 sigh, a sob ill stifled. 
 
 After a quarter of an hour of this business, 
 I had before me a plate of raisins, an old loaf 
 of Beaucaire bread, as hard as sandstone, and 
 a bottle of sour new wine. 
 
 ** You are served," said the strange creature; 
 
 [157J 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 and she turned back at once to her place at 
 the window. 
 
 As I drank, I tried to make her talk. 
 
 *' You don't often have people here, do you, 
 my poor woman ? " 
 
 *'0h, no! never any one, monsieur. When 
 we were alone here, it was different; we had 
 the relay, we provided hunt-dinners during 
 the ducking-season, and carriages all the year 
 round. But since our neighbours set up in 
 business, we have lost everything. People 
 prefer to go opposite. They consider it too 
 dull here. It 's a fact that the house is n't 
 very pleasant. I am not good-looking, I have 
 fever and ague, and my two little girls are 
 dead. Over yonder, on the contrary, they 
 are laughing all the time. It is a woman from 
 Aries who keeps the inn, a handsome woman 
 with laces, and three bands of gold beads 
 round her neck. The driver of the diligence, 
 who is her lover, takes it to her place. And 
 then she has a lot of hussies for chamber- 
 maids, so that she gets lots of custom! She 
 
 [158] 
 
The Two Inns 
 
 has all the young men from Bezouces, Redes- 
 san, and Jonquieres. The carters go out of 
 their way to pass her house. And 1 stay here 
 all day without a soul, eating my heart out." 
 
 She said this in a distraught, indifferent 
 tone, with her forehead still resting against 
 the glass. There was evidently something 
 which interested her at the inn opposite. 
 
 Suddenly, on the other side of the road^ 
 there was a great commotion. The diligence 
 moved off through the dust. I heard the crack- 
 ing of the whip, the postillion's bugle, and 
 the girls who had run to the door calling out: 
 
 '' Adiousias I adiousias ! '* And over it all 
 the stentorian voice that I had heard before, 
 beginning again, louder than ever: 
 
 ** She took her silver pitcher, 
 And went off to the well ; 
 From there she could not see 
 Three soldiers drawing near." 
 
 At that voice the hostess trembled in every 
 limb, and, turning to me, she said in an 
 undertone: 
 
 (159) 
 
Alphonse Daudet 
 
 '*Do you hear? That's my husband. 
 Does n't he sing well ? " 
 
 I gazed at her in stupefaction. 
 
 **What.^ Your husband.^ Do you mean 
 to say that he goes there too ? " 
 
 Thereupon, with a heart-broken air, but 
 with the utmost gentleness, she replied: 
 
 '* What can you expect, monsieur? Men 
 are made that way; they don't like to see 
 people cry; and I cry all the time since my 
 little girls died. And then this great barrack, 
 where nobody ever comes, is so melancholy. 
 And so, when he is bored too much, my poor 
 Jose goes across the road to drink, and as he 
 has a fine voice, the woman from Aries makes 
 him sing. Hush! there he goes again." 
 
 And she stood there, as if in a trance, 
 trembling, with her hands outstretched, and 
 tears rolling down her cheeks, which made 
 her look uglier than ever, to hear her Jose 
 singing for the woman from Aries: 
 
 ** The first one said to her : 
 ' Good day, my pretty dear ! * " 
 Ci<>01 
 
Monday Tales 
 
 (1873) . 
 
 [183) 
 
The Last Class 
 
 [185]