_Done into English by the Editor_
Of all the pretty sayings, proverbs, or adages with which our Provence
peasants embroider their discourse, I know none more picturesque or
singular than this: within fifteen leagues around about my mill,
whenever a person speaks of a spiteful, vindictive man, he says, “That
man there--look out for him! He is like the Pope’s mule, who kept her
kick in waiting for seven years.”
I hunted diligently for a long time to find out whence that proverb
could have come, what was that papal mule, and that kick reserved
throughout seven years. No one here has been able to inform me on this
subject, not even Francet Mamaï, my fife player, though he has all the
Provençal legends at his fingers’ ends. Francet thinks with me that it
must be founded upon some old tradition of Provence; yet he has never
heard it referred to except in this proverb.
“You will not find that anywhere but in the Library of the
Grasshoppers,” said the old fifer to me, with a laugh.
The idea struck me as a good one, and since the Library of the
Grasshoppers is at my door, I went and shut myself up there for a week.
It is a marvellous library, admirably equipped, open to poets day and
night, and attended by little librarians who constantly make music for
you with cymbals. There I passed some delicious days, and, after a
week of research--on my back--I ended by discovering what I wished to
know, that is to say, the history of my mule and of that famous kick
saved up for seven years. The story is a pretty one, although a trifle
naïve, and I am going to try to tell it you just as I read it yesterday
morning in a sky-colored manuscript, which smelled delightfully of dry
lavender, and had long gossamer threads for binding threads.
He who has never seen the Avignon of the time of the Popes, has seen
nothing. For gayety, for life, for animation, for a succession of
fêtes, there never was a city its equal. From morning till night there
were processions and pilgrimages; streets strewn with flowers and
hung with rich tapestries; cardinals arriving by the Rhône, banners
flying, galleys bedecked with flags; papal soldiers chanting in Latin
on the public squares; begging friars with their alms-rattles; then,
in addition, from roof to cellar of the houses which swarmed humming
around the great papal palace like bees about their hive, there were
heard the _tic-tac_ of the lace-makers’ looms, the flying of the
shuttles weaving cloth-of-gold for vestments, the little hammers of
the vase-sculptors, the keyboards being attuned at the lute-makers’,
the songs of the warpers; and, overhead, the booming of the bells was
heard, and always below sounded the tinkle of the tambourines on the
river bank by the bridge. For with us, when the people are happy they
must be dancing, dancing ever; and since in those days the streets
in the city were too narrow for the farandole, fifers and tambourine
players took up their post upon the Avignon Bridge, in the cool breezes
of the Rhône, and day and night they danced and danced.... Ah! happy
time, happy city, when halberds did not wound, and state prisons were
used only for cooling wine! No famine; no wars! That shows the way the
Popes of the Comtat[11] knew how to govern their people; that is why
their people regretted them so deeply!
There was one Pope especially, a good old gentleman whom they called
Boniface. Ah! how many tears were shed for him in Avignon when he died!
He was such an amiable, affable prince! He would smile down at you so
genially from his mule! And when you passed him--whether you were a
poor little digger of madder or the grand provost of the city--he would
give you his benediction so courteously! A genuine Pope of Yvetot was
he, but of an Yvetot in Provence, with something sly in his laughter,
a sprig of sweet marjoram in his cap--and not the semblance of a
Jeanneton. The only Jeanneton the good Father had ever been known to
have was his vineyard--a little vineyard which he had planted himself,
three leagues from Avignon, among the myrtles of Château-Neuf.
Every Sunday, on going out from vespers, the worthy man went to pay
his court to it, and when he was seated in the grateful sun, his mule
close beside him, his cardinals stretched at the foot of the vine
stocks all about, then he would order a flagon of wine of his own
bottling--that exquisite, ruby-colored wine, which has been called ever
since Château-Neuf of the Popes--and he would drink it appreciatively
in little sips, and regard his vineyard with a tender air. Then--the
flagon empty, the day closed--he would return joyously to the city,
followed by all his chapter; and, after crossing the Bridge of Avignon,
in the midst of drum-beats and farandoles, his mule, stirred by the
music, took up a little skipping amble, while he himself marked the
time of the dance with his cap--a thing which greatly scandalized his
cardinals, but caused all the people to say, “Ah! that good prince! Ah!
that fine old Pope!”
Next to his vineyard at Château-Neuf, the thing that the Pope loved
best in the world was his mule. The good old man doted on that beast.
Every evening before going to bed he went to see if her stable was well
shut, if nothing was lacking in the manger; and he never rose from
the table without having had prepared under his very eyes a huge bowl
of wine _à la Française_, with plenty of sugar and spice, which
he himself carried to the mule, despite the remarks of his cardinals.
It must be admitted, however, that the animal was worth the trouble.
She was a beautiful mule, black and dappled with red, glossy of coat,
sure of foot, large and full of back, and carrying proudly her neat
little head, all decked out with pompons, rosettes, silver bells, and
bows of ribbon--all this with the mildness of an angel, a naïve eye,
and two long ears, always in motion, which gave her the air of an
amiable child. All Avignon respected her, and when she went through the
streets there was no attention which she did not receive; for everyone
knew that this was the best way to be in favor at court, and that,
for all her innocent air, the Pope’s mule had led more than one to
fortune--witness Tistet Védène and his prodigious adventure.
This Tistet Védène was, from the very first, an audacious young rascal
whom his father, Guy Védène, the gold-carver, had been obliged to
drive from home because he would not do anything, and demoralized
the apprentices. For six months he could be seen trailing his jacket
through all the gutters of Avignon, but especially around the papal
palace, for this rascal had long had his eye fixed on the Pope’s
mule, and you will see what a villainous scheme it was. One day when
his Holiness was taking a walk all alone beneath the shadows of the
ramparts with his steed, behold my Tistet approached and, clasping his
hands with an air of admiration, said to him:
“Ah! _mon Dieu!_ what a splendid mule you have there, Holy Father!
Permit me to look at her a moment. Ah, my Pope, the emperor of Germany
has not her equal!”
And he caressed her and spoke softly to her, as to a damsel.
“Come here, my jewel, my treasure, my fine pearl....”
And the good Pope, deeply moved, said to himself:
“What a good little fellow! How gentle he is with my mule!”
And do you know what happened the next day? Tistet Védène exchanged his
old yellow jacket for a beautiful vestment of lace, a violet silk hood,
and buckled shoes; and he entered the household of the Pope, where
never before had any been received but sons of nobles and nephews of
cardinals. There is an intrigue for you! But Tistet did not stop there.
Once in the service of the Pope, the rascal continued the game which
had succeeded so well. Insolent with everyone else, he had nothing but
attention, nothing but provident care for the mule; and one was always
meeting him about the palace court with a handful of oats or a bunch of
clover, whose rosy clusters he shook gently and glanced at the balcony
of Saint Peter as if to say: “Ha! for whom is this?” And so it went on
until the good Pope, who felt that he was growing old, ended by leaving
it to him to watch over the stable and to carry to the mule her bowl
of wine _à la Française_--which was no laughing matter for the
cardinals.
No more was it for the mule--it did not make her laugh. Now, at the
hour for her wine, she always saw coming to her stable five or six
little clerks of the household, who hastily buried themselves in
the straw with their hoods and their laces; then, after a moment, a
delicious warm odor of caramel and spices filled the stable, and
Tistet Védène appeared carefully carrying the bowl of wine _à la
Française_. Then the martyrdom of the poor beast began.
That perfumed wine which she loved so well, which kept her warm, which
gave her wings, they had the cruelty to place before her, there in her
manger, and let her sniff it; then, when she had her nostrils full
of it, it was gone--that lovely rose-flamed liquor all went down the
gullets of those good-for-nothings. And yet if they had only stopped at
taking her wine; but they were like devils, all these little clerks,
when they had drunken. One pulled her ears, another her tail; Quinquet
mounted himself upon her back, Béluguet tried his cap on her, and not
one of those little scamps reflected that with a single good kick that
excellent beast could have sent them all into the polar star, and even
farther. But no! It is no vain thing to be the Pope’s mule, the mule
of benedictions and indulgences. The children went blithely on, she
did not get angry; and it was only against Tistet Védène that she bore
malice. But that fellow, for instance, when she felt him behind her,
her hoof itched, and truly she had excellent reason. That ne’er-do-well
of a Tistet played her such villainous tricks! He had such cruel
fancies after drinking!
One day he took it into his head to make her climb up with him into
the clock tower, all the way up to the very top of the palace! And it
is no myth that I am telling you--two hundred thousand Provençals saw
it. Imagine for yourself the terror of that unhappy mule when, after
having for a whole hour twisted like a snail blindly up the staircase,
and having clambered up I know not how many steps, she found herself
all at once on a platform dazzling with light, and saw, a thousand feet
beneath her, a fantastic Avignon: the market booths no larger than
walnuts, the papal soldiers before their barracks like red ants, and
farther down, over a silver thread, a microscopically little bridge on
which the people danced and danced. Ah! poor beast! What panic! At the
bray she uttered all the windows of the palace trembled.
“What’s the matter? What are they doing to her?” cried the good Pope,
and rushed out upon the balcony.
Tistet Védène was already in the courtyard, pretending to weep and tear
out his hair.
“Ah! Holy Father, what is the matter? There is your mule.... _Mon
Dieu!_ what will happen to us! Your mule has gone up into the
belfry!”
“All by herself?”
“Yes, Holy Father, all by herself. Stay! Look there, up high. Don’t
you see her ears waving? They look like two swallows.”
“Mercy on us!” cried the poor Pope on raising his eyes. “But she must
have gone mad! Why, she will kill herself. Will you come down, you
unhappy creature!”
_Pécaïre!_ She could have asked nothing better than to come down;
but how? The stairs--they were not to be thought of: one could mount
those things, but as to coming down, one could break one’s legs a
hundred times. And the poor mule was disconsolate; but as she roamed
about the platform with her great eyes filled with vertigo she thought
of Tistet Védène.
“Ah, bandit, if I escape--what a kick tomorrow morning!”
That idea of a kick restored a little courage to her heart; except for
that she could not have held out. At last they succeeded in getting her
down, but it was not an easy affair. They had to lower her in a litter,
with ropes and windlass, and you may imagine what a humiliation it must
have been for a Pope’s mule to see herself hanging at that height,
afloat with her legs in the air like a beetle at the end of a string.
And all Avignon looking on!
The unhappy beast did not sleep that night. It seemed to her as though
she were forever turning upon that accursed platform, with the
laughter of the city below. Then she thought of that infamous Tistet
Védène, and of the delightful kick that she proposed to turn loose the
next morning. Ah, my friends, what a kick! They could see the smoke at
Pampérigouste.
But, while this pretty reception was being prepared for him at the
stable, do you know what Tistet Védène was doing? He was going singing
down the Rhône on one of the papal galleys, on his way to the Court of
Naples with a company of young nobles whom the city sent every year
to Queen Joanna for exercise in diplomacy and in manners. Tistet was
not of noble birth; but the Pope desired to recompense him for what
he had done for his mule, and above all for the activity he had shown
throughout the day of the rescue.
It was the mule who was disappointed the next day!
“Ah, the bandit! He suspected something!” she thought as she shook her
bells in fury. “But it’s all the same; go, scoundrel! You will find it
waiting for you on your return, that kick--I’ll save it for you!”
And she did save it.
After the departure of Tistet, the Pope’s mule once more found her
course of tranquil life and her former habits. Neither Quinquet nor
Béluguet came again to her stable. The delightful days of wine _à la
Française_ had returned, and with them good-humor, the long siestas,
and the little prancing step when she crossed the Avignon bridge.
However, since her adventure she was always shown a slight coldness in
the city. Folks whispered together as she passed; the old people shook
their heads, the children laughed as they pointed to the belfry. Even
the good Pope had no longer quite the same confidence in his friend,
and whenever he permitted himself to take a little nap on her back on
Sundays on returning from his vineyard, this thought always came to
him: “What if I should awake 'way up there on the platform!” The mule
discerned this and suffered, without saying a word; only, when any one
near her mentioned the name of Tistet Védène, her long ears quivered,
and with a little laugh she would sharpen the iron of her shoes on the
paving.
Seven years passed thus; then at the end of those seven years Tistet
Védène returned 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, since the post suited him well, he had come
in great haste in order to apply for it.
When that intriguer of a Védène entered into the great hall of the
palace, the Holy Father had difficulty in recognizing him, so tall had
he grown, and stout of body. It must be said, too, that the worthy Pope
had grown old and could no longer see well without spectacles.
Tistet was not frightened.
“What, Holy Father, you do not remember me any more? It is I, Tistet
Védène!”
“Védène?”
“Why, yes, you know very well--the one who used to carry the wine _à
la Française_ to your mule.”
“Oh--yes--yes--I remember. A good little fellow, that Tistet Védène!
And now, what is it that he wants of us?”
“Oh, a very little thing, Holy Father. I came to ask you--by the way,
do you still have your mule? And is she well? Ah, so much the better! I
came to ask of you the post of the chief mustard-bearer, who has just
died.”
“First mustard-bearer, you! Why, you are too young. How old are you,
then?”
“Twenty years two months, illustrious Pontiff, just five years older
than your mule. Ah! that excellent creature! If you only knew how I
loved that mule! How I languished for her in Italy! Are you not going
to let me see her?”
“Yes, my child, you shall see her,” said the good Pope, deeply moved.
“And since you loved her so much, that excellent animal, I do not wish
you to live apart from her. From this day, I attach you to my person as
chief mustard-bearer. My cardinals will raise an outcry, but so much
the worse! I am used to it. Come to meet us tomorrow as we return from
vespers, we will deliver to you the insignia of your office in the
presence of our chapter, and then--I will take you to see the mule, and
you shall come to the vineyard with us two--ha! ha! Go along, now!”
If Tistet Védène was content upon leaving the grand hall, I need not
tell you with what impatience he awaited the ceremony of the next day.
Meanwhile, they had some one in the palace who was still more happy
and more impatient than he: it was the mule. From the time of Védène’s
return, until vespers on the following day, the terrible creature did
not cease cramming herself with oats and kicking at the wall with her
hind feet. She too was preparing herself for the ceremony.
Accordingly, on the morrow, when vespers had been said, Tistet Védène
made his entrance into the courtyard of the papal palace. All the high
clergy were there--the cardinals in red robes, the advocate of the
devil in black velvet, the convent abbés with their little mitres, the
church-wardens of the Saint-Agrico, the violet hoods of the members
of the household, the lesser clergy also, the papal soldiers in full
uniform, the three brotherhoods of penitents, the hermits from Mount
Ventoux with their ferocious eyes and the little clerk who walks behind
them carrying the bell, the Flagellant Brothers, naked to the waist,
the blond sacristans in robes like judges--all, all, down to those who
pass the holy water, and he who lights and he who extinguishes the
candles--not one was missing. Ah! That was a beautiful installation,
with bells, fireworks, sunlight, music, and, as always, those mad
tambourine players who led the dance down by the Avignon Bridge.
When Védène appeared in the midst of the assemblage, his imposing
deportment and fine appearance called forth a murmur of approbation. He
was a magnificent Provençal of the blond type, with long hair curled
at the ends and a small unruly beard which resembled the shavings of
fine metal from the graving tool of his father, the carver of gold. The
report was current that the fingers of Queen Joanna had now and then
toyed with that blond beard; and the Sire de Védène had in truth the
haughty air and the absent look of those whom queens have loved. That
day, to do honor to his nation, he had replaced his Neapolitan garb by
a jacket bordered with color-of-rose, in the Provençal fashion, and in
his hood trembled a great plume of the Camargue ibis.
As soon as he had entered, the first mustard-bearer bowed with a
gallant air, and directed his steps toward the grand dais, where the
Pope awaited him in order to deliver to him the insignia of his office:
the yellow wooden spoon and the saffron-colored coat. The mule was at
the foot of the staircase, all caparisoned and ready to depart for the
vineyard. When he passed her, Tistet Védène had a pleasant smile and
paused to give her two or three friendly pats upon the back, looking
out of the corner of his eye to see if the Pope noticed him. The
situation was admirable. The mule let fly:
“There! You are trapped, bandit! For seven years I have saved that for
you!”
And she let loose a kick so terrible, so terrible that at Pampérigouste
itself one could see the smoke: a cloud of blond smoke in which
fluttered an ibis plume--all that was left of the ill-fated Tistet
Védène.
Mules’ kicks are not ordinarily so appalling; but then this was a papal
mule; and besides, think of it! she had saved it up for seven years.
There is no finer example of an ecclesiastical grudge.