“That is ‘La Counënque,’” announced Master Gafet. It was somewhat of a shock to poets who, since early morn, had dreamed but of beautiful and noble Arlesiennes. But--here we were! “Counënque, these gentlemen wish to sup here,” said our guide. “Are you daft then, Master Gafet? What the devil are you trying to saddle us with! You know I have nothing to set before that sort.” “See here, old idiot, hast not there a fine dish of eels?” “Oh, if a hash of eels will make them happy! But mind you, we have nothing else.” “Ho!” cried Daudet, “nothing we like better than a hash. Come in--come in, and you, Master Gafet, please sit down with us.” Our friend Gafet willingly allowed himself to be persuaded, and we all five entered the tavern of Trinquetaille. * * * * * In a low room, the floor of which was covered with beaten clay, but the walls were very white, stood a long table whereat were seated from fifteen to twenty bargemen in the act of cutting a kid, the landlord Counënc supping with them. From the beams of the ceiling, blackened by smoke, hung flycatchers in the shape of tamarinds, where the flies settled and were afterwards caught in a bag. We sat down on benches at another table, opposite the bargemen, who, on seeing us, became silent. While the hash was preparing on the stove, “La Counënque,” to give us an appetite, brought some enormous onions, those grown at Bellegarde, a dish of Jamaica pepper in vinegar, some fermented cheese, preserved olives, botargo of Martinique, and slices of braised haddock. “And thou who saidst there was nothing to eat!” cried Master Gafet, cutting the bread with his big hooked knife; “but it is a wedding feast!” “By our Lady,” answered the one-eyed, “if you had let us know beforehand, we might have prepared you a _blanquette à la mode_--or an omelette--but when people drop down on you in the twilight like a hair in the soup, you understand, gentlemen, one has to give them what one can.” Daudet, who in his whole life had never before seen such specimens of the Camargue, seized one of the onions--fine flat onions, golden as a Christmas loaf--and boldly crunched and swallowed it, leaf by leaf, with his fine strong teeth, to the accompaniment of some fermented cheese and haddock. It is only fair to mention we also did our best to help him, while Master Gafet, raising every now and again the brimming jug of Crau wine, his face ablaze as I never saw the like. “Oh these young bloods!” said he, “the onion makes one drink and keeps up the thirst.” In less than half an hour one could have lighted a match on any one of our cheeks. Then the hash (catigot) arrived, a dish in which a shepherd’s crook could have stood upright, salted like the sea, and peppered like the devil. “Salting and peppering make one find the wine very good,” said the fat Gafet; “let us clink glasses, my boys.”