The bargemen meantime, having finished their kid, ended their repast, as is the custom of the watermen of Condrieu, with a plate of fat soup. Each one poured a big glass of wine into his plate, then, lifting it with both hands, all together they drank off the mixture at one gulp, smacking their lips with pleasure. The master of a raft, who wore his beard like a collar, then sang a song which, if I remember, finished like this: When our fleet arrives On the way to Toulon, We salute the town With a roll of cannon. “Thunder! but we must give them one back,” cried Daudet. And he burst out with a chorus which referred to the time of the Civil War with the Vaulois: To Lourmarin--Light-horseman There they die! To Lourmarin--Light-horseman Quickly fly! &c. Then the men of the river, not to be outdone, responded with a chorus: The maidens of Valence Know naught of love’s sweet way, But those of fair Provence Enjoy it night and day. “Together now, boys,” we cried to the singers. And in unison, making castanets of our fingers, we shouted with such full lungs that the one-eyed interrupted us: “Shut up,” said she, “if the police pass by they will have you up for brawling at nights.” “The police,” we cried; “we snap our fingers at them. “Here,” added Daudet, “go and fetch the visitors’ book.” The “Counënque” brought the book in which all who passed the night at the inn inscribed their names, and the polite secretary of Monsieur de Morny wrote in his best hand: A. Daudet, Secretary of the President of the Senate. F. Mistral, Chevalier of the Legion of Honour. A. Mathieu, Félibre of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. P. Grivolas, Master painter of the School of Avignon. “And if any one,” he continued, “if any one, O Counënque, should ever dare make trouble, be he commissioner, policeman or sub-prefect, thou hast only to place these inky spider’s legs under his moustache. If after that he is not quieted, write to me in Paris and I wager I will make him dance.” We settled our bill, and accompanied by the admiring glances of all, we left with the air of princes who had just revealed their identity. Arrived at the footpath of the bridge of Trinquetaille: “What if we danced a bit of a _farandole_?” proposed the indefatigable and charming novelist of the “Mule du Pape.” “The bridges of Provence are only made for that.” So forward. In the clear, limpid light of the September moon, which was reflected in the water, behold us stepping gaily and singing on the bridge. About midway across we saw advancing a procession of Arlesiennes, of delicious Arlesiennes, each one with her cavalier, walking and bowing, laughing and talking. The rustling of petticoats, the _frou-frou_ of silk, the soft murmurs of the happy couples as they spoke together in the peaceful night with the thrill of the Rhône that glided between the boats, was an emotional experience never to be forgotten.