When Védène appeared in the midst of the assembly, his bearing and handsome appearance set off quite a murmur of approval. He was the magnificent type of a man from Provence, from fair-headed stock with curly hair and a small wispy beard which could have been made from the fine metal shavings fallen from his goldsmith father's chisel. Rumour has it that Queen Jeanne's fingers had occasionally toyed with that blond beard. The majesty of Védène had indeed a glorious aspect; he had the vain, distracted look of men who have been loved by queens. On that day, as a courtesy to his native country, he had exchanged his Neapolitan clothes for a pink, braided jacket in the Provencal style, and a huge plume from an ibis on the Camargue fluttered on his hood. The moment he entered as the new Head Mustard-Maker, he gave a general, gentlemanly greeting and made his way towards the high steps, where the Pope was waiting to give him his insignias of office: the yellow boxwood spoon and the saffron uniform. The mule was at the bottom of the steps, harnessed and ready to go to the vineyard. As he passed her, Tistet Védène gave a broad smile, and paused to give her two or three friendly pats on the back, making sure, out of the corner of his eye, that the pope was watching.... The mule steadied herself: --There you are! Caught you, you swine! I have saved this up for you for seven long years! And she let loose a mule-kick of really terrible proportions, so that the dust from it was seen from a long way away--a whirlwind of blond haze and a fluttering ibis's feather were all that was left of the unfortunate Tistet Védène!... Mules' kicks are not normally of such lightning speed, but she was a papal mule; and consider this; she had held it back for seven long years. There was never a better demonstration of an ecclesiastical grudge. THE LIGHTHOUSE ON THE _SANGUINAIRES_ It was one of those nights when I just couldn't sleep. The mistral was raging and kept me awake till morning. Everything creaked on the windmill, the whistling sails swayed heavily like ship's tackle in the wind, tiles flew wildly off the roof. The closely packed pines covering the hillside swayed and rustled far away in the darkness. You could imagine yourself out at sea.... All this reminded me of the bad spell of insomnia I had three years ago, when I lived in the _Sanguinaires_ lighthouse overlooking the entrance to the gulf of Ajaccio on the Corsican coast. I had found a pleasant place there where I could muse in solitude.