“Is it you, then, Monsieur Mistral, who write verses in the Provençal?” he began to me in a joking tone as he held out his hand. “Yes, it is I,” I replied. “At your service, Monsieur.” “Certainly, I hope that you can serve me. The Minister for Public Instruction, Monsieur Fortoul, of Digne, has given me the commission to come and collect the popular songs of Provence, such as ‘Le Mousse de Marseille,’ ‘La Belle Margoton,’ ‘Les Noces du Papillon,’ and if you know of any, I am here to collect them.” And talking over this matter I sang to him, as it happened, the serenade of Magali, freshly arranged for the poem of _Mireille_. Adolphe Dumas started up all alert. “But where did you find that pearl?” he cried. “It is part,” I answered, “of a Provençal poem in twelve cantos to which I am just giving the finishing touches.” “Oh, these good Provencaux!” he laughed. “You are always the same, determined to keep your tattered language, like the donkeys who will walk along the borders of the roads to graze upon thistles. It is in French, my dear friend, it is in the language of Paris that we must sing of our Provence to-day if we wish to be heard. Now, listen to this: “J’ai revu sur mon roc, vieille, nue, appauvrie, La maison des parents, la première patrie, L’ombre du vieux mûrier, le banc de pierre étroit, Le nid de l’hirondelle avait au bord du toit, Et la treille, à présent sur les murs égarée, Qui regrette son maître et retombe éplorée; Et dans l’herbe et l’oubli qui poussent sur le seuil, J’ai fait pieusement agenouiller l’orgueil, J’ai rouvert la fenêtre où me vint la lumière, Et j’ai rempli de chants la couche de ma mère!” “But come, tell me, since poem there is, tell me something of your Provençal production.” I then read him something out of _Mireille_, I forget what.