“He was, so they say, a famous captain of the time of the Saracens.... His teeth, I will wager, no longer hurt him.”
Greetings to thee, Roland! We never expected, when we set out, to find still living, in the fields and meadows of Trebon, the legendary glory of the Companion of Charlemagne. But to continue. Just as the Man of Bronze struck twelve, gaily we descended upon Arles, entering by the Porte de la Cavalerie, all of us white with dust. As we had the appetite of Spaniards we went at once to breakfast at the Hôtel Pinus.
We were not badly served; and when one is young, making merry with friends and rejoicing to be alive, there is nothing like dining together for engendering high spirits.
There was one thing, however, which disturbed our equanimity. A waiter in a black coat, with pomaded head, and whiskers standing out like birch brooms, hovered perpetually around us, a napkin under his arm, never taking his eyes off us, and under pretext of changing our plates, listening eagerly to all our foolish talk.
“We must get rid of him. Here, waiter!” said Daudet.
The limpet approached. “Yes, sir?”
“Quick, fetch me a dish—a large silver dish.”
“To place upon it?” inquired the waiter, puzzled.
“A jackanapes,” replied Daudet in a voice of thunder.
The changer of plates did not wait for any more, and from that moment left us in peace.