And over all of it, how wonderful was the play of light and shadow, as with the advance of day the sun turned slowly in the hollow of the vast amphitheatre as it might on the disk of a sundial, driving the crowd along, and grouping it in the zone of shade, leaving empty those parts of the vast structure exposed to a terrible heat—broad stretches of red flags fringed with dry grass where successive conflagrations have left their mark in black.
At times a stone would detach itself in the topmost tier of the ancient monument, and, rolling down from story to story, cause cries of terror and much crowding among the people below, as if the whole edifice were about to crumble; then on the tiers there was a movement like the assault of a raging sea on the dunes, for with this exuberant race the effect of a thing never has any relation to its cause, enlarged as it is by dreams and perceptions that lack all sense of proportion.
Thus peopled and thus animated once more, the ancient ruin seemed to live again, and no longer retain its appearance of a showplace for tourists. Looking thereon, it gave one the sensation of a poem by Pindar recited by a modern Greek, which means a dead language come to life again, having lost its cold scholarly look. The clear sky, the sun like silver turned to vapor, these Latin intonations still preserved in the Provençal idiom, and here and there, particularly in the cheap seats, the poses of the people in the opening of a vaulted passage—motionless attitudes made antique and almost sculptural by the vibration of the air, local types, profiles standing out like those on ancient coins, with the short aquiline nose, broad shaven cheeks and upturned chin that Numa showed; all this filled out the idea of a Roman festival—even to the lowing of the cows from the Landes which echoed through the vaults below—those vaults whence in olden days lions and elephants were wont to issue to the combat. Thus, when the great black hole of the podium, closed by a grating, stood open to the arena all empty and yellow with sand, one almost expected to see wild beasts spring out instead of the peaceful bucolic procession of men and of the animals that had received prizes in the competitions.
At the moment it was the turn of the mules led along in harness, sumptuously arrayed in rich Provençal trappings, carrying proudly their slender little heads adorned with silver bells, rosettes, ribbons and feathers, not in the least alarmed at the fierce cracking of whips clear and sharply cut, swung serpent-like or in volleys by the muleteers, each one standing up full length upon his beast. In the crowd each village recognized its champions and named each one aloud:
“There’s Cavaillon! There’s Maussane!”
The long, richly-colored file rolled its slow length around the arena to the sound of musical bells and jingling, glittering harness, and stopped before the municipal platform and saluted Numa with a serenade of whip-crackings and bells; then passed along on its circular course under the leadership of a fine-looking horseman in white tights and high top-boots, one of the gentlemen of the local club who had planned the function and quite unconsciously had struck a false note in its harmony, mixing provincialism with Provençal things and thus giving to this curious local festival a vague flavor of a procession of riders at Franconi’s circus. However, apart from a few country people, no one paid much attention to him. No one had eyes for anything but the grand stand, crowded just then with persons who wished to shake hands with Numa—friends, clients, old college chums, who were proud of their relations with the great man and wished all the world to see them conversing with him and proposed to show themselves there on the benches, well in sight.
Flood of visitors succeeded flood without a break. There were old men and young men, country gentlemen dressed all in gray from their gaiters to their little hats, managers of shops in their best clothes creased from much lying away in presses, ménagers or farmers from the district of Aps in their round jackets, a pilot from Port St. Louis twirling his big prisoner’s cap in his hands—all bearing their “South” stamped upon their faces, whether covered to the eyes with those purple-black beards which the Oriental pallor of their complexion accentuates, or closely shaven after the ancient French fashion, short-necked ruddy people sweating like terra cotta water coolers; all of them with flaming black eyes sticking well out from the face, gesticulating in a familiar way and calling each other “thee” and “thou”!
And how Roumestan did receive them, without distinction of birth or class or fortune, all with the same unquenchable effusiveness! It was: “Té, Monsieur d’Espalion! and how are you, Marquis?” “Hé bé! old Cabantous, how goes the piloting?” “Delighted to see you, President Bédarride!”
Then came shaking of hands, embraces, solid taps on the shoulder that give double value to words spoken, which are always too cold for the intense feeling of the Provençal. To be sure, the conversations were of short duration. Their “leader” gave but a divided attention, and as he chatted he waved how-d’ye-do with his hand to the new-comers. But nobody resented this unceremonious way of dismissing people with a few kind words: “Yes, yes, I won’t forget—send in your claim—I will take it with me.”
There were promises of government tobacco shops and collectors’ offices; what they did not ask for he seemed to divine; he encouraged timid ambitions and provoked them with kindly words: