The Sub-Prefect was on his rounds. He was being carried majestically in
the official barouche, complete with coachman and lackey, to the
Combe-aux-Fée's Regional selection meeting. The Sub-Prefect had put on
his best embroidered clothes; his opera hat, his skin-tight silver
striped breeches, and his dress-sword with mother of pearl handle for
this important day.... He was looking ruefully down at his knees, on
which lies a large, embossed-leather, briefcase.
The Sub-Prefect was thinking about the speech which he must soon give
before the residents of Combe-aux-Fées:
--Gentlemen and constituents....
But he might just as well have twiddled with his blond whiskers and
repeated it twenty times for all the good it did:
--Gentlemen and constituents.... But nothing more of the speech would
come.
Nothing more of the speech would come.... It was getting really warm in
the barouche!... Under the Midi sun, the road to Combe-aux-Fées
shimmers until it fades into the distance.... The very air burns you
... and, at the roadside, thousands of cicadas are calling to each
other, from one white, dust-covered elm to another.... Suddenly, the
Sub-Prefect started. Down at the foot of a hill, he noticed a small
wood of green oaks which seemed to beckon him.
The small wood of green oaks which seemed to beckon him:
--Come over here, Sub-Prefect, you will find composing your speech much
easier in the shade of my trees....
The Sub-Prefect was captivated; he jumped down from the barouche and
told his men to wait there for him, as he was going to compose his
speech over in the small wood of green oaks.
In the small wood of green oaks, there were birds, violets, and springs
hidden in the delicate grass.... When the birds noticed the Sub-Prefect
with his gorgeous breeches and his large, leather-embossed briefcase,
they became alarmed and stop singing, the springs are scared and stop
their babbling, and the violets hid themselves in the grass.... This
whole world in miniature had never seen a Sub-Prefect before, and they
quietly wondered who this dignitary was, walking around in silver
breeches.
Meanwhile, the Sub-Prefect, delighted by the silence and the coolness
of the wood, lifted his coat-tails, put his hat on the grass, and sat
down in the moss at the foot of a young oak. He then put the large,
leather-embossed briefcase on his knees, opened it, and took out a long
sheet of official paper.
--He's an artist, said the warbler.
--No, said the bullfinch, he's not an artist; with his silver breeches,
he's more of a prince.
--He's more of a prince, said the bullfinch.
--He's neither an artist nor a prince, interrupted an old nightingale,
who had sang all season in the district's gardens.... I know what he
is; he's a Sub-Prefect!
And the whole woodland came alive with the rumour:
--He's a Sub-Prefect! He's a Sub-Prefect!
--He's bald! remarked a crested lark.
The violets asked:
--Is he a bad man?
--Is he a bad man? asked the violets.
The old nightingale replied:
--Not at all! And with that reassurance, the birds started to sing
again, the streams to flow, and the violets to perfume the air, just as
though the gentleman wasn't there.... Ignoring all this pretty clamour,
the Sub-Prefect invoked the spirit of the country fêtes, and, pencil at
the ready, began to declaim in his ceremonial voice:
--Gentlemen and constituents....
--Gentlemen and constituents.... said the Sub-Prefect in his ceremonial
voice....
A cackle of laughter broke his concentration; he turned round and saw a
lone fat woodpecker, perched on his opera hat, looking at him and
laughing. The Sub-Prefect shrugged his shoulders and readied himself to
continue, but the woodpecker interrupted him again:
--What is the point?
--I beg your pardon! What is the point? said the Sub-Prefect, who was
flushing all over, and shooing the cheeky animal away, he resumed even
more pompously:
--Gentlemen and constituents....
--Gentlemen and constituents.... once again resumed the Sub-Prefect
even more pompously.
Then, the little violets stretched their stems out towards him and
kindly asked him:
--Sub-Prefect, can you smell our lovely perfume?
And the streams were making divine music for him from beneath the moss,
and over his head in the branches, a band of warblers sang their finest
songs; indeed, the whole wood conspired to stop him composing his
speech.
As he composed his speech, the Sub-Prefect was intoxicated by the
perfume, and delighted by the music. He tried again to resist the
charm, but in vain, and became completely overcome. He propped himself
up on the grass with his elbows, loosened his fine tails, and stammers,
yet again, two or three times:
--Gentlemen and constituents.... Gentlemen and const.... Gent....
Finally, he sent his constituents to the devil, and the muse of the
country fêtes could only cover her face.
Cover your face, O Muse of the country fêtes!... When, after an hour,
his assistants, worried about their master, followed him into the wood,
they saw something that made them recoil in horror.... The Sub-Prefect
was lying on his stomach in the grass, all dishevelled like a Bohemian.
He had taken off his tails;... and the Sub-Prefect was composing
poetry, as he chewed ruminatively on a violet.