The whole parade filed merrily past before being swallowed up by theopen barn doors. They shuffled inside with a noise like a tropicaldownpour…. You should have seen the turmoil inside. The huge, silkentulle-crested, green and gold peacocks loudly trumpeted their welcomeas they recognised the new arrivals. The early-to-bed hens scatteredeverywhere as they were woken up. All the pigeons, ducks, turkeys, andguinea-fowl were running or flying wildly about. The whole poultry yardwas going absolutely mad!… You'd think that every single sheep hadbrought back an intoxicating dose of wild mountain air in its fleece,which had made all the other animals hopping mad.
In the midst of all this commotion, the flock somehow managed to settlethemselves in. You couldn't imagine anything more charming than thishomecoming. The old rams relaxed visibly at the sight of their homefarm, while the tiny lambs born during the descent looked all around inastonished wonder.
But, it was the dogs that were the most touching, the gentle sheepdogs, who had busily looked after their charges until they were allsafely back in the farm. The guard dog, barking from his kennel, didhis best to call them over, and the well-bucket, brimming over withcool water, also competed to tempt them. But nothing, nothing coulddistract them, at least not until the livestock were all safely insidethe pen, the small gate securely latched by its large bolt, and theshepherds seated at the table of their low-ceilinged room. Only thenwere they content to go to their dog pound, lap up their slop, andspread the news to the other animals, of the adventures they had had inthe mountains—that mysterious world of wolves, and tall, purplefoxgloves brimming over with dew.
THE COACH FROM BEAUCAIRE
I took the coach from Beaucaire to get to my windmill. It was a goodold patache, a sort of rural coach, which, although it only made shorttrips, dawdled so much that by the end of the day it had the weariedair of having travelled a long way. There were five of us on top, plusthe driver of course.
There was a thick-set, hairy, and earthy-smelling Camargue Ranger, withbig, blood-shot eyes, and sporting silver earrings. There were two menfrom Beaucaire, a baker and his dough mixer, ruddy and wheezy, asbefits their trade, but with the magnificent profiles of a romanEmperor. Lastly there was this fellow; no, not a person, really, just acap. You were only aware of the cap … an enormous rabbit-skin cap. Hesaid little, gazing miserably at the passing road.
These characters, well known to each other, were speaking very loudly,and even more freely, about their personal business. The Rangerannounced that he was making for Nîmes in response to a Magistrate'ssummons for pitch-forking a shepherd. They're hot-blooded, theseCamargue folk. As for the men from Beaucaire; they were at each othersthroats about the Virgin Mary. It appears that the baker was from aparish dedicated to the Madonna, known in Provence as the Holy Mother,and always pictured carrying the baby Jesus in her arms. Hisdough-mixer, on the other hand, was a lay-reader at a new churchdedicated to the Immaculate Conception, whose icon showed her with openarms and illuminated hands. The way they treated each other and theirrespective Madonnas, had to be seen to be believed:
—She's no more than a pretty girl, your "immaculate" lady!
—Well, you know what you can do with your Holy Mother!
—She was no better around Palestine than she should have been, yours!
—What about yours, the little minx! Who knows what she got up to. Only
St. Joseph can answer that.
You'd have thought we were on the docks in Naples. In truth, it onlyneeded the glint of a knife blade, I'm sure, to settle this finetheological point once and for all; that is if the driver hadn'tintervened.
—Give us some peace. You and your Madonnas! he said laughingly, tryingto make light of the Beaucairian dispute: it's women's stuff, this, menshouldn't get involved.
He cracked his whip, from his high perch, as if to emphasise to hislack of religious conviction and to bring the others into line.
* * * * *
End of discussion. But the baker, having been stopped in full flow,wanted to continue in the same vein, and turned his attention towardsthe miserable cap, still morosely huddled in its corner, and quietlysneered:
—You there, grinder, what about your wife? What side of the parishborder does she stand on?
It was as though it was meant to be a joke; the whole cart-load of themerupted into uproarious laughter … except the grinder himself, whodidn't react to the remark. This prompted the baker to turn towards me:
—You don't happen to know his wife do you, monsieur? Just as well;she's a real queer fish; there can't be another one like her inBeaucaire.
The increasing laughter left the grinder unmoved except for a whisper,his eyes still downcast:
—Hush, baker.
But there was no stopping this interfering baker, and he warmed to histheme:
—He's an idiot! No man of the world would complain about having wifelike that. There's never a dull moment when she's around! Think aboutit! A really gorgeous girl, who every six months or so, ups sticks andruns
