This Tistet Védène was, from the very first, an audacious young rascal whom his father, Guy Védène, the gold-carver, had been obliged to drive from home because he would not do anything, and demoralized the apprentices. For six months he could be seen trailing his jacket through all the gutters of Avignon, but especially around the papal palace, for this rascal had long had his eye fixed on the Pope’s mule, and you will see what a villainous scheme it was. One day when his Holiness was taking a walk all alone beneath the shadows of the ramparts with his steed, behold my Tistet approached and, clasping his hands with an air of admiration, said to him: “Ah! _mon Dieu!_ what a splendid mule you have there, Holy Father! Permit me to look at her a moment. Ah, my Pope, the emperor of Germany has not her equal!” And he caressed her and spoke softly to her, as to a damsel. “Come here, my jewel, my treasure, my fine pearl....” And the good Pope, deeply moved, said to himself: “What a good little fellow! How gentle he is with my mule!” And do you know what happened the next day? Tistet Védène exchanged his old yellow jacket for a beautiful vestment of lace, a violet silk hood, and buckled shoes; and he entered the household of the Pope, where never before had any been received but sons of nobles and nephews of cardinals. There is an intrigue for you! But Tistet did not stop there. Once in the service of the Pope, the rascal continued the game which had succeeded so well. Insolent with everyone else, he had nothing but attention, nothing but provident care for the mule; and one was always meeting him about the palace court with a handful of oats or a bunch of clover, whose rosy clusters he shook gently and glanced at the balcony of Saint Peter as if to say: “Ha! for whom is this?” And so it went on until the good Pope, who felt that he was growing old, ended by leaving it to him to watch over the stable and to carry to the mule her bowl of wine _à la Française_--which was no laughing matter for the cardinals. No more was it for the mule--it did not make her laugh. Now, at the hour for her wine, she always saw coming to her stable five or six little clerks of the household, who hastily buried themselves in the straw with their hoods and their laces; then, after a moment, a delicious warm odor of caramel and spices filled the stable, and Tistet Védène appeared carefully carrying the bowl of wine _à la Française_. Then the martyrdom of the poor beast began.