“Yes,” replied the painter, “it is down there, in that sarcophagus.” “Eh,” cried Master Gafet, bursting into laughter, “that is a ‘dressed sleeper,’ as we call them in Arles, one of those vagrants who come to lodge at night in the empty tombs.” “What a pity,” cried Daudet, “that it was not a real ghost! Some beautiful vestal, who at the voice of the poets was roused from her sleep, and, Oh, my Grivolas, wished to rise up and embrace thee!” Then in a resounding voice he sang, and we all joined in: “De l’abbaye passant les portes Autour de moi, tu trouverais Des nonnes l’errante cohorte Car en suaire je serais!” “O Magali, si tu te fais La pauvre morte La terre alors je me ferais Là je t’aurai!” After which we all shook hands with Master Gafet and made our way quickly to the railway station, there to take the train for Avignon. Seven years later, the year, alas! of the great catastrophe, I received this letter: “PARIS, _December 31, 1870_. “MY CHIEFTAIN,--I send thee, by the balloon just rising, a heap of kisses. And it gives me pleasure to be able to send them in the language of Provence, for so I am assured that the Barbarians, should this balloon fall into their hands, cannot read a word of my writing, nor publish my letter in their _Mercure de Souabe_. It is cold, it is dark: we eat horse, cat, camel, and hippopotamus! Ah, for the good onions, the _catigot_, and fermented cheese of the tavern of Trinquetaille! “The guns burn our fingers. Wood is becoming scarce. The armies of the Loire come not! But that does not matter--we will keep the cockroaches from Berlin wearing themselves out for some time yet in front of our ramparts.... And then if Paris is lost, I know of some good patriots who are ready to take Monsieur de Bismarck round the little streets of our poor capital. Farewell, my chief--three big kisses, one from me, one from my wife, and the other from my son. With that a happy New Year as always, until this day next year. Thy Félibre, “ALPHONSE DAUDET.” And then they dare to say that Daudet is not a good Provençal! Just because he jokes and ridicules the Tartarins, the Roumestans, and Tante Portals, and other imbeciles of this country, who try to Frenchify the language of our Provence. For that Tartarin owes him a grudge! No! The mother lioness is not angry, and will never be angry, with the young lion who, in fighting, sometimes gives her a scratch. [Illustration: PAUL MARIÉTON, CHANCELIER DES FÉLIBRES.] APPENDIX The following extract, translated from the biographical notice of Frédéric Mistral, written for “La Grande Encyclopédie” by Monsieur Paul Mariéton, for many years Chancelier des Félibres and a French poet and writer of note, takes up the history of Félibrige where the Memoirs leave off: * * * * *