He, the voice apostolic, while all men wondered, The great word “Republic” hath hurled and thundered Across the world’s skies, till the peoples thrilled! Yet him, by a frenzy unspeakable smitten, Have all the mad dogs of Democracy bitten, And growled at him, snarled at him as they willed! To the crater of fire, he, great patriot, had given Wealth, body and soul, and his country had striven To save from the burning volcano’s flame; Yet when, poor, he was begging his bread, all denied him, The bigwigs and burghers as spendthrift decried him, And, shut up in ease, to their boroughs came. When he saw himself then in disaster forsaken-- With his cross, and by anguish and suffering shaken, Alone he ascended his Calvary; And at dusk some good souls heard a long, long sighing, And then, through the spaces, this cry undying Rang out: “Eloi, lama sabachthani.” But none dared draw nigh to that hill-top lonely, So he waited in patience and silence only, With his deep eyes closed and his hands spread wide; Till, calm as the mountains at heaven’s high portal, Amidst his ill-fortune, and fame immortal, Without ever speaking a word, he died. (Trans. Alma Strettell.) CHAPTER XVII THE REVELS OF TRINQUETAILLE (A REMINISCENCE OF ALPHONSE DAUDET) Alphonse Daudet, writing of his youth in the “Lettres de mon Moulin” and “Trente Ans de Paris,” has told with the finest bloom of his pen some of the pranks he played with the early Félibres at Maillane, Barthelasse, Baux, and Châteauneuf--that first crop of Félibres who in those days ran about the country of Provence for the fun of running, to keep themselves going, and above all to stir up again in the hearts of the people the Gai-Savoir of the Troubadours. There is, however, one joyous day of adventure we spent together some forty years ago, of which Daudet has not told. Alphonse Daudet was at that time secretary to the Duc de Morny, honorary secretary be it understood, for the utmost that the young man ever did was to go once a month to see if his patron, the President of the Senate, was flourishing and in a good temper. Amongst other exquisite things from his pen, Daudet had written a love-poem called “Les Prunes.” All Paris knew it by heart, and Monsieur de Morny, hearing it recited one evening in a drawing-room, requested the author might be presented to him, with the result that he took the young man under his patronage. To say nothing of his wit, which flashed like a diamond, Daudet was a handsome fellow, brown, with a clear skin and black eyes with long lashes, a budding beard and thick crop of hair which he allowed to grow so long that the Duke, every time the author of “Les Prunes” called on him at the Senate, would repeat, with disapproving finger pointing at the offending locks: “Well poet--and when are we going to cut off this wig?”