The ProvenÇal Almanac, welcomed by the country-people, delighted in by the patriots, highly favoured by the learned and eagerly looked forward to by the artistic, rapidly gained a footing with the public, and the publication, which the first year had numbered five hundred copies, quickly increased to twelve hundred, three thousand, five, seven, and then ten thousand, which figure remained the lowest average during a period of from fifteen to twenty years.

As this periodical was essentially one for the family circle, this figure represents, I should judge, at least fifty thousand readers. It is impossible to give any idea of the trouble, devotion and pride which both Roumanille and I bestowed unceasingly on this beloved little work during the first forty years. Without mentioning the numerous poems which were published in it, and those Chronicles wherein were contained the whole history of the FÉlibre movement, the quantity of tales, legends, witticisms, and jokes culled from all parts of the country made this publication a unique collection. The essence of the spirit of our race was to be found here, with its traditions and characteristics, and were the people of Provence to one day disappear, their manner of living and thinking would be rediscovered, faithfully portrayed such as they were, in this Almanac of the FÉlibres.

Roumanille has published in a separate volume, “Tales of Provence,” the flower of those attractive stories he contributed in profusion to the Almanac. I have never collected my tales, but will here give a few specimens of those which were among the most popular of my contributions, and which have been widely circulated in translations by Alphonse Daudet, Paul ArÈne, E. Blavat, and other good friends.

THE GOOD PILGRIM
LEGEND OF PROVENCE

I

Master Archimbaud was nearly a hundred years old. He had been formerly a rugged man of war, but now, crippled and paralysed with age, he never left his bed, being unable to move.

Old Master Archimbaud had three sons. One morning he called the eldest to him and said:

“Come here, Archimbalet! While lying quiet in my bed and meditating, for the bedridden have time for reflection, I remembered that once in the midst of a battle, finding myself in mortal danger, I vowed if God delivered me to go on a pilgrimage to Rome.... Alas, I am as old as earth! and can no longer go on a journey; I wish, my son, that thou wouldst make that pilgrimage in my stead; sorely it troubles me to die without accomplishing my vow.”

The eldest son replied:

“What the devil has put this into your head, a pilgrimage to Rome and I don’t know where else! Father, eat, drink, lie still in your bed and say as many Paternosters as you please! but the rest of us have something else to do.”

The next morning, Master Archimbaud called to him his second son:

“Listen, my son,” he said; “meditating here on my bed and reviewing the past—for, seest thou, in bed one has leisure for thinking—I remembered that once, in a fight, finding myself in mortal danger, I vowed to God to make the great journey to Rome.... Alas! I am old as earth! I can no longer go to the wars. Greatly I desire that thou wouldest in my stead make the pilgrimage to Rome.”

The second son replied:

“Father, in two weeks we shall have the hot weather! Then the fields must be ploughed, the vines dressed, the hay cut. Our eldest must take the flocks to the mountains; the youngest is nought but a boy. Who will give the orders if I go to Rome, idling by the roads? Father, eat, sleep, and leave us in peace.”

Next morning good Master Archimband called his youngest son:

“EspÉrit, my child, approach,” said he; “I promised the good God to make a pilgrimage to Rome.... But I am old as earth! I can no longer go to the wars.... I would gladly send thee in my place, poor boy. But thou art too young, thou dost not know the way; Rome is very far, my God! should some misfortune overtake thee ...!”

“My father, I will go,” answered the youth.

But the mother cried:

“I will not have thee go! This old dotard, with his war and his Rome, will end by getting on our nerves; not content with grumbling, complaining and moaning the whole year through, he will send now this poor dear innocent where he will only get lost.”

“Mother,” said the young son, “the wish of a father is an order from God! When God commands, one must go.”

And EspÉrit, without further talk, went and filled a small gourd with wine, took some bread and onions in his knapsack, put on his new shoes, chose a good oaken stick from the wood-house, threw his cloak over his shoulder, embraced his old father, who gave him much good advice, bade farewell to all his relations, and departed.

II

But before taking the road, he went devoutly to hear the blessed Mass; and was it not wonderful that on leaving the church he found on the threshold a beautiful youth who addressed him in these words:

“Friend, are you not going to Rome?”

“I am,” said EspÉrit.

“And I also, comrade: If it pleases you, we could make the journey together.”

“Willingly, my friend.”

Now this gracious youth was an angel sent by God. EspÉrit and the angel then set forth on

the road to Rome; and thus, joyfully, through sunshine and shower, begging their bread and singing psalms, the little gourd at the end of a stick, they arrived at last in the city of Rome.

Having rested, they paid their devotions at the great church of Saint Peter, they visited in turn the basilicas, the chapels, the oratories, the sanctuaries, and all the sacred monuments, kissed the relics of the Apostles Peter and Paul, of the virgins, the martyrs, and also of the true Cross, and finally, before leaving, they saw the Pope, who gave them his blessing.

Then EspÉrit with his companion went to rest under the porch of Saint Peter, and EspÉrit fell asleep. Now in his sleep the pilgrim saw in a dream his mother and his brothers burning in hell, and he saw himself with his father in the eternal glory of the Paradise of God.

“Alas! if this is so,” he cried, “I beseech thee, my God, that I may take out of the flames my mother, my poor mother, and my brothers!”

And God replied:

“As for thy brothers, it is impossible, for they have disobeyed my commandments; but thy mother, perhaps, if thou canst, before her death, make her perform three charities.”

Then EspÉrit awoke. The angel had disappeared.

In vain he waited, searched for him, inquired after him, nowhere could he be found, and EspÉrit was obliged to leave Rome all alone.

He went toward the sea-coast, where he picked up some shells with which he ornamented his cloak and his hat, and from there, slowly, by high roads and by-paths, valleys, and mountains, begging and praying, he came again to his own country.

III

It was thus he arrived at last at his native place and his own home. He had been away about two years. Haggard and wasted, tanned, dusty, ragged and bare-foot, with his little gourd at the end of his staff, his rosary and his shells, he was unrecognisable. No one knew him as he made his way to the paternal door and, knocking, said gently:

“For God’s sake, I pray of your charity give to the poor pilgrim.”

“Oh what a nuisance you are! Every day some of you pass here—a set of vagabonds, scamps, and vagrants!”

“Alas! my spouse,” said the poor old Archimbaud from his bed, “give him something: who knows but our son is perhaps even at this moment in the same need!”

Then the woman, though still grumbling, went off, and cutting a hunk of bread, gave it to the poor beggar.

The following day the pilgrim returned again to the door of his parents’ house, saying:

“For God’s sake, my mistress, give a little charity to the poor pilgrim.”

“What! you are here again!” cried the old woman. “You know very well I gave to you yesterday—these gluttons would eat one out of house and home.”

“Alas, good wife!” interposed the good old Archimbaud, “didst thou not eat yesterday and yet thou hast eaten again to-day? Who knows but our son may be in the same sad plight!”

And again his wife relenting went off and fetched a slice of bread for the poor beggar.

The next day EspÉrit returned again to his home and said:

“For God’s sake, my mistress, grant shelter to the poor pilgrim.”

“Nay,” cried the hard old body, “be off with you and lodge with the ragamuffins!”

“Alas, wife!” interposed again the good old Archimbaud, “give him shelter: who knows if our own child, our poor EspÉrit, is not at this very hour exposed to the severity of the storm.”

“Ah, yes, thou art right,” said the mother, softening, and she went at once and opened the door of the stable; then poor EspÉrit entered, and on the straw behind the beasts he crouched down in a corner.

At early dawn the following morning the mother and brothers of EspÉrit went to open the stable door.... Behold the stable was all illumined, and there lay the pilgrim, stiff and white in death, while four tall tapers burned around him. The straw on which he was stretched was glistening, the spiders’ webs, shining with rays, hung from the beams above, like the draperies of a mortuary chapel. The beasts of the stall, mules and oxen, pricked up startled ears, while their great eyes brimmed with tears. A perfume of violets filled the place, and the poor pilgrim, his face all glorious, held in his clasped hands a paper on which was written: “I am your son.”

Then all burst into tears, and falling on their knees, made the sign of the cross: EspÉrit was henceforth a saint.

(Almanach ProvenÇal, 1879.)

JARJAYE IN PARADISE

Jarjaye, a street-porter of Tarascon, having just died, with closed eyes fell into the other world. Down and down he fell! Eternity is vast, pitch-black, limitless, lugubrious. Jarjaye knew not where to set foot, all was uncertainty, his teeth chattered, he beat the air. But as he wandered in the vast space, suddenly he perceived in the distance, a light, it was far off, very far off. He directed himself towards it; it was the door of the good God.

Jarjaye knocked, bang, bang, on the door.

“Who is there?” asked Saint Peter.

“It’s me!” answered Jarjaye.

“Who—thou?”

“Jarjaye.”

“Jarjaye of Tarascon?”

“That’s it—himself!”

“But you good-for-nothing,” said Saint Peter, “how have you the face to demand entrance into the blessed Paradise, you who for the last twenty years have never said your prayers, who, when they said to you, ‘Jarjaye, come to Mass,’ answered ‘I only go to the afternoon Mass!’ thou, who in derision calledst the thunder, ‘the drum of the snails;’ thou did’st eat meat on Fridays, saying, ‘What does it matter, it is flesh that makes flesh, what goes into the body cannot hurt the soul;’ thou who, when they rang the Angelus, instead of making the sign of the cross like a good Christian, cried mocking, ‘A pig is hung on the bell’; thou who, when thy father admonished thee, ‘Jarjaye, God will surely punish thee,’ answered, ‘The good God, who has seen him? Once dead one is well dead.’ Finally, thou who didst blaspheme and deny the holy oil and baptism, is it possible that thou darest to present thyself here?”

The unhappy Jarjaye replied:

“I deny nothing, I am a sinner. But who could know that after death there would be so many mysteries! Any way, yes, I have sinned. The medicine is uncorked—if one must drink it, why one must. But at least, great Saint Peter, let me see my uncle for a little, just to give him the latest news from Tarascon.”

“What uncle?”

“My Uncle MatÉry, he who was a White Penitent.”

“Thy Uncle MatÉry! He is undergoing a hundred years of purgatory!”

“MalÉdiction! a hundred years! Why what had he done amiss?”

“Thou rememberest that he carried the cross in the procession. One day some wicked jesters gave each other the word, and one of them said, ‘Look at MatÉry, who is carrying the cross;’ and a little further another repeated, ‘Look at MatÉry, who is carrying the cross,’ and at last another said like this, ‘Look, look at MatÉry, what is he carrying?’ MatÉry got angry, it appears, and answered, ‘A jackanapes like thee.’ And forthwith he had a stroke and died in his anger.”

“Well then, let me see my Aunt DorothÉe, who was very, very religious.”

“Bah! she must be with the devil, I don’t know her.”

“It does not astonish me in the least that she should be with the devil, for in spite of being so devout and religious, she was spiteful as a viper. Just imagine——”

“Jarjaye, I have no leisure to listen to thee: I must go and open to a poor sweeper whose ass has just sent him to Paradise with a kick.”

“Oh, great Saint Peter, since you have been so kind, and looking costs nothing, I beg you let me just peep into the Paradise which they say is so beautiful.”

“I will consider it—presently, ugly Huguenot that thou art!”

“Now come, Saint Peter, just remember that down there at Tarascon my father, who is a fisherman, carries your banner in the procession, and with bare feet——”

“All right,” said the saint, “for your father’s sake I will allow it, but see here, scum of the earth, it is understood that you only put the end of your nose inside.”

“That is enough.”

Then the celestial porter half opening the door said to Jarjaye:

“There—look.”

But he, suddenly turning his back, stepped into Paradise backwards.

“What are you doing?” asked Saint Peter.

“The great light dazzles me,” replied the Tarasconais, “I must go in backwards. But, as you ordered, when I have put in my nose, be easy, I will go no further.”

Now, thought he, delighted, I have got my nose in the hay.

The Tarasconais was in Paradise.

“Oh,” said he, “how happy one feels! how beautiful it is! What music!”

After a moment the doorkeeper said:

“When you have gaped enough, you will go out, for I have no more time to waste.”

“Don’t you worry,” said Jarjaye. “If you have anything to do, go about your business. I will go out when I will go out. I am not the least in a hurry.”

“But that was not our agreement!”

“My goodness, holy man, you seem very distressed! It would be different if there were not plenty of room. But thank God, there is no squash!”

“But I ask you to go, for if the good God were to pass by——”

“Oh! you arrange that as you can. I have always heard, that he who finds himself well off, had better stay. I am here—so I stay.”

Saint Peter frowned and stamped. He went to find St. Yves.

“Yves,” he said, “You are a barrister—you must give me an opinion.”

“Two if you like,” replied Saint Yves.

“I am in a nice fix! This is my dilemma,” and he related all. “Now what ought I to do?”

“You require,” said Saint Yves, “a good solicitor, and must then cite by bailiff the said Jarjaye to appear before God.”

They went to look for a good solicitor, but no one had ever seen such a person in Paradise. They asked for a bailiff—still more impossible to find. Saint Peter was at his wits’ end.

Just then Saint Luke passed by.

“Peter, you look very melancholy! Has our Lord been giving you another rebuke?”

“Oh, my dear fellow, don’t talk of it—I am in the devil of a fix, do you see. A certain Jarjaye has got into Paradise by a trick, and I don’t know how to get him out.”

“Where does he come from, this Jarjaye?”

“From Tarascon.”

“A Tarasconais?” cried Saint Luke. “Oh! what an innocent you are! There is nothing, nothing easier than to make him go out. Being, as you know, a friend of cattle, the patron of cattle-drovers, I am often in the Camargue, Arles, Beaucaire, NÎmes, Tarascon, and I know that people. I have studied their peculiarities, and how to manage them. Come—you shall see.”

At that moment there went by a flight of cherubs.

“Little ones!” called Saint Luke, “here, here!”

The cherubs descended.

“Go quietly outside Paradise—and when you get in front of the door, run past crying out: ‘The oxen—the oxen!’”

So the cherubs went outside Paradise and when they were in front of the door they rushed past crying, “Oxen, oxen! Oh see, see the cattle-drover!”

Jarjaye turned round, amazed.

“Thunder! What, do they drive cattle here? I am off!” he cried.

He rushed to the door like a whirlwind and, poor idiot, went out of Paradise.

Saint Peter quickly closed the door and locked it, then putting his head out of the grating:

“Well, Jarjaye,” he called jeeringly, “how do you find yourself now?”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” replied Jarjaye. “If they had really been cattle I should not have regretted my place in Paradise!”

And so saying he plunged, head foremost, into the abyss.

(Almanach ProvenÇal, 1864.)

THE FROG OF NARBONNE

I

Young Pignolet, journeyman carpenter, nicknamed the “Flower of Grasse,” one afternoon in the month of June returned in high spirits from making his tour of France. The heat was overpowering. In his hand he carried his stick furbished with ribbons, and in a packet on his back his implements (chisels, plane, mallet) folded in his working-apron. Pignolet climbed the wide road of Grasse by which he had descended when he departed some three or four years before. On his way, according to the custom of the Companions of the Guild of Duty, he stopped at “Sainte-Baume” the tomb of Master Jacques, founder of the Association. After inscribing his surname on a rock, he descended to Saint-Maximin, to pay his respects and take his colours from Master Fabre, he who inaugurates the Sons of Duty. Then, proud as CÆsar, his kerchief on his neck, his hat smart with a bunch of many-coloured ribbons, and hanging from his ears two little compasses in silver, he valiantly strode on through a cloud of dust, which powdered him from head to foot.

What a heat! Now and again he looked at the fig-trees to see if there was any fruit, but they were not yet ripe. The lizards gaped in the scorched grass, and the foolish grasshopper, on the dusty olives, the bushes and long grass, sang madly in the blazing sun.

“By all the Saints, what heat!” Pignolet ejaculated at intervals. Having some hours previously drank the last drop from his gourd, he panted with thirst, and his shirt was soaking. “But forwards!” he said. “Soon we will be at Grasse. Oh heavens, what a blessing! what a joy to embrace my father, my mother, and to drink from a jug of water of the spring of Grasse! Then to tell of my tour through France and to kiss MÏon on her fresh cheeks, and, soon as the feast of the Madeleine arrives to marry her, and never leave home any more. Onward, Pignolet—only another little step!”

At last he is at the entrance to Grasse, and in four strides at his father’s workshop.

II

“My boy! Oh, my fine boy,” cried the old Pignol, leaving his work, “welcome home. Marguerite! the youngster is here! Run, draw some wine, prepare a meal, lay the cloth. Oh! the blessing to see thee home again! How art thou?”

“Not so bad, God be thanked. And all of you, at home, father, are you thriving?”

“Oh! like the poor old things we are ... but hasn’t he grown tall, the youngster!” And all the world embraced him, father, mother, neighbours, friends, and the girls! They took his packet from him and the children fingered admiringly the fine ribbons on his hat and walking-stick. The old Marguerite, with brimming eyes, quickly lighted the stove with a handful of chips, and while she floured some dried haddock wherewith to regale the young man, the old man sat down at a table with his son, and they drank to his happy return, clinking glasses.

“Now here,” began old Master Pignol, “in less than four years thou hast finished thy tour of France and behold thee, according to thy account, passed and received as Companion of the Guild of Duty! How everything changes! In my time it required seven years, yes, seven good years, to achieve that honour. It is true, my son, that there in the shop I gave thee a pretty good training, and that for an apprentice, already thou didst not handle badly the plane and the jointer. But any way, the chief thing is thou shouldst know thy business, and thou hast, so at least I believe, now seen and known all that a fine fellow should know, who is son of a master.”

“Oh father, as for that,” replied the young man, “without boasting, I think nobody in the carpenter’s shop could baffle me.”

“Very well,” said the old man, “see here while the cod-fish is singing in the pot, just relate to me what were the finest objects thou didst note in running round the country?”

III

“To begin with, father, you know that on first leaving Grasse, I went over to Toulon where I entered the Arsenal. It’s not necessary to tell you all that is inside there, you have seen it as well as I.”

“Yes, pass on, I know it.”

“After leaving Toulon I went and hired myself out at Marseilles, a fine large town, advantageous for the workman, where some comrades pointed out to me, a sea-horse which serves as a sign at an inn.”

“Well?”

“Faith, from there, I went north to Aix, where I admired the sculptures of the porch of Saint-Saviour.”

“I have seen that.”

“Then, from there, we went to Arles, and we saw the roof of the Commune of Arles.”

“So well constructed that one cannot imagine how it holds itself in the air.”

“From Arles, my father, we went to the city of Saint-Gille, and there we saw the famous Vis——”

“Yes, yes, a wonder both in structure and outline. Which shows us, my son, that in other days as well as to-day there were good workmen.”

“Then we directed our steps from Saint-Gille to Montpellier, and there they showed us the celebrated Shell....”

“Oh yes—which is in the Vignolle, and the book calls it the ‘horn of Montpellier.’”

“That’s it; and from there we marched to Narbonne.”

“Ah! that is what I was waiting for!”

“But why, my father? At Narbonne I saw the ‘Three Nurses,’ and then the Archbishop’s palace, also the wood carvings in the church of Saint-Paul.”

“And then?”

“My father, the song says nothing more than:

“‘Carcassone and Narbonne are two very good towns, to take on the way to BeziÈrs; PÉzÉnas is quite nice; but the prettiest girls are at Montpellier.’”

“Why bungler! Didst thou not see the Frog?”

“But what frog?”

“The Frog which is at the bottom of the font of the church of Saint Paul. Ah! I am no longer surprised that thou hast finished so quickly thy tour of France, booby! The frog at Narbonne! the masterpiece which men go to see from all the ends of the earth! And this idiot,” cried the old Pignol getting more and more excited, “this wicked waster, who gives himself out as ‘companion,’ has not even seen the Frog at Narbonne! Oh! that a son of a master should have to hang his head for shame in his father’s house. No, my son, never shall that be said. Now eat, drink, and go to thy bed, but to-morrow morning, if thou wilt be on good terms with me, return to Narbonne and see the Frog!”

IV

Poor Pignolet knew that his father was not one to retract and that he was not joking. So he ate, drank, went to bed, and the next morning, at dawn, without further talk, having stocked his knapsack with food, he started off to Narbonne.

With his feet bruised and swollen, exhausted by heat and thirst, along the dusty roads and highway tramped poor Pignolet.

At the end of seven or eight days he arrived at the town of Narbonne, from whence, according to the proverb, “comes no good wind and no good person.” Pignolet—he was not singing this time, let it be understood—without taking the time to eat a mouthful or drink a drop at the inn, at once walked off to the church of Saint-Paul and straight to the font to look at the Frog.

And truly there in the marble vase, beneath the clear water, squatted a frog with reddish spots, so well sculptured that he seemed alive, looking up, with a bantering expression in his two yellow eyes at poor Pignolet, come all the way from Grasse on purpose to see him.

“Ah, little wretch!” cried the carpenter in sudden wrath. “Thou hast caused me to tramp four hundred miles beneath that burning sun! Take that and remember henceforth Pignolet of Grasse!”

And therewith the bully draws from his knapsack a mallet and chisel. Bang!—at a stroke he takes off one of the frog’s legs! They say that the holy water became suddenly red as though stained with blood, and that the inside of the font, since then, has remained reddened.

(Almanach ProvenÇal, 1890.)

THE YOUNG MONTELAISE

Once upon a time there lived at Monteux, the village of the good Saint-Gent and of Nicolas Saboly, a girl fair and fine as gold. They called her Rose. She was the daughter of an innkeeper. And as she was good and sang like an angel, the curÉ of Monteux placed her at the head of the choristers of his church.

It happened one year that, for the feast of the patron Saint of Monteux, the father of Rose engaged a solo singer.

This singer, who was young, fell in love with the fair Rose, and faith, she fell in love with him. Then, one fine day, these two children, without much ado, were married, and the little Rose became Madame Bordas. Good-bye to Monteux! They went away together. Ah! how delightful it was, free as the air and young as the bubbling spring of water, to live without a care, in the full tide of love, and sing for a living.

The beautiful fÊte where Rose first sang was that of Sainte-Agathe, the patroness of Maillane.

It was at the CafÉ de la Paix (now CafÉ du Soleil), and the room was full as an egg. Rose, not more frightened than a sparrow on a wayside willow, stood straight up on the platform, with her fair hair, and pretty bare arms, her husband at her feet accompanying her on the guitar. The place was thick with smoke, for it was full of peasants, from Graveson, Saint-RÉmy, Eyrague, besides those of Maillane. But one heard not a word of rough language. They only said:

“Isn’t she pretty! And such a fine style! She sings like an organ! and she does not come from afar—only just from Monteux.”

It is true that Rose only gave them beautiful songs. She sang of her native land, the flag, battles, liberty and glory, and with such passionate fervour and enthusiasm it stirred all hearts. Then, when she had finished she cried, “Long live Saint Gent!”

Applause followed enough to bring down the house. The girl descended among the audience and smiling, made the collection. The sous rained into the wooden bowl, and smiling and content as though she had a hundred thousand francs, she poured the money into her husband’s guitar, saying to him:

“Here—see—if this lasts, we shall soon be rich!”

II

When Madame Bordas had done all the fÊtes of our neighbourhood, she became ambitious to try the towns. There, as in the villages, the Montelaise shone. She sang “la Pologne” with her flag in her hand, she put into it so much soul, such emotion, that she made every one tremble with excitement.

At Avignon, at Cette, Toulouse and Bordeaux she was adored by the people. At last she said:

“Now only Paris remains.”

So she went to Paris. Paris is the pinnacle to which all aspire. There as in the provinces she soon became the idol of the people.

It was during the last days of the Empire; ‘the chestnut was commencing to smoke,’ and Rose Bordas sang the Marseillaise. Never had a singer given this song with such enthusiasm, such frenzy; to the workmen of the barricades she represented an incarnation of joyous liberty, and Tony RÉvillon, a Parisian poet of the day, wrote of her in glowing strains in the newspaper.

III

Then, alas! came quickly, one on the heels of the other, war, defeat, revolution, and siege, followed by the Commune and its devil’s train. The foolish Montelaise, lost in it all as a bird in the tempest, intoxicated by the smoke, the whirl, the favour of the populace, sang to them “Marianne” like a little demon. She would have sung in the water—still better in the fire.

One day a riot surrounded her in the street and carried her off like a straw to the palace of the Tuileries.

The reigning populace were giving a fÊte in the Imperial salon. Arms, black with powder, seized “Marianne”—for Madame Bordas was Marianne to them—and mounted her on the throne in the midst of red flags.

“Sing to us,” they cried, “the last song that shall echo round the walls of this accursed palace.”

And the little Montelaise, with a red cap on her fair hair, sang—“La Canaille.”

A formidable cry of “Long live the Republic!” followed the last refrain, and a solitary voice, lost in the crowd, sang out in answer, “Vivo Sant GÈnt.”

Rose could not see for the tears which brimmed in her blue eyes and she became pale as death.

“Open, give her air!” they cried, seeing that she was about to faint.

Ah no! poor Rose, it was not air she needed, it was Monteux, it was Saint Gent in the mountains and the innocent joy of the fÊtes of Provence.

The crowd, in the meanwhile, with its red flags went off shouting through the open door.

Over Paris, louder and louder, thundered the cannonade, sinister noises ran along the streets, prolonged fusillades were heard in the distance, the smell of petroleum was overpowering, and before very long tongues of fire mounted from the Tuileries up to the sky.

Poor little Montelaise! No one ever heard of her again.

(Almanach ProvenÇal, 1873.)

THE POPULAR MAN

The Mayor of Gigognan invited me, last year, to his village festivity. We had been for seven years comrades of the ink-horn at the school of Avignon, but since then had never met.

“By the blessing of God,” he cried on seeing me, “thou art just the same, lively as a blue-bottle, handsome as a new penny—straight as an arrow—I would have known thee in a thousand.”

“Yes, I am just the same,” I replied, “only my sight is a little shorter, my temples a little wrinkled, my hair a little whitened, and—when there is snow on the hills, the valleys are seldom hot.”

“Bah!” said he, “my dear boy, the old bull runs on a straight track, only he who desires it grows old. Come, come to dinner.”

According to time-honoured custom a village fÊte in Provence is the occasion for real feasting, and my friend Lassagne had not failed to prepare such a lordly feast as one might set before a king. Dressed lobster, fresh trout from the Sorgue, nothing but fine meats and choice wines, a little glass to whet the appetite at intervals, besides liqueurs of all sorts, and to wait on us at table a young girl of twenty who—I will say no more!

We had arrived at the dessert, when all at once we heard in the street the cheering buzz of the tambourine. The youth of the place had come, according to custom, to serenade the mayor.

“Open the door, FranÇonnette,” cried the worthy man. “Go fetch the hearth-cakes and come, rinse out the glasses.”

Mistral and his dog Pan-Perdu.