We have reached Bedoin, at the foot of the mountain, arrangements with the guide are completed, the hour of departure is settled, provisions chosen and prepared. Let us try to sleep, for the next night will be a sleepless one on the mountain. But to fall asleep was the difficulty; I have never achieved it, and this is the chief cause of fatigue. I would therefore advise any readers who propose to botanise on Mont Ventoux not to arrive at Bedoin on a Sunday night. They will thus avoid the bustle of a country inn, endless conversations at the top of the speakers’ voices, the echo of billiard balls, the clinking of glasses, with the drinking-songs, the nocturnal couplets of passers-by, the bellowing of wind instruments at the neighbouring ball, and the other tribulations inseparable from this holy day of rest and enjoyment. Could one sleep there on other nights? I hope so, but cannot answer for it. I never closed an eye. All night long the rusty spit, labouring for our benefit, groaned under my bedroom; only a thin plank separated me from that diabolical machine. But already the sky was growing light; a donkey brayed under the windows; the hour had come to rise, and we might as well not have gone to bed at all. Provisions and baggage were loaded, our guide cried “Ja! hi!” and we set off. At the head of the caravan walked Triboulet with his mule and ass—Triboulet, the eldest and chief of the Ventoux guides. My botanical colleagues scrutinised the vegetation on either side of the road by the early light; the others talked. I followed the party, a barometer slung over my shoulder, a note-book and pencil in my hand. My barometer, intended for ascertaining the height of the chief botanical stations, soon became a pretext for attacks on the gourd of rum. “Quick, the barometer!” some one would exclaim every time that a remarkable plant was pointed out, and we would all press round the gourd, the barometer coming later. The freshness of the morning and our walk made us appreciate these references to the barometer so much that the level of the tonic liquid lowered even faster than that of the column of mercury. For the future it would be wise to consult Torricelli’s tube less frequently.