So, chatting pleasantly, we arrived at the bridge of Trinquetaille, at that time still a bridge of boats. As we passed over the moving planks which connected the chain of boats one felt beneath the heaving river, powerful and living, on whose mighty bosom one rose and sank as it drew breath. Having crossed the Rhône, we turned to the left on the quay, and there, beneath an old trellis, bending over the trough of the well, we saw—how shall I describe her?—a kind of witch, and one-eyed to boot, scraping and opening some lively eels. At her feet some cats were gnawing and fighting as she threw the heads down to them.
“That is ‘La Counënque,’” announced Master Gafet.
It was somewhat of a shock to poets who, since early morn, had dreamed but of beautiful and noble Arlesiennes. But—here we were!
“Counënque, these gentlemen wish to sup here,” said our guide.
“Are you daft then, Master Gafet? What the devil are you trying to saddle us with! You know I have nothing to set before that sort.”
“See here, old idiot, hast not there a fine dish of eels?”
“Oh, if a hash of eels will make them happy! But mind you, we have nothing else.”
“Ho!” cried Daudet, “nothing we like better than a hash. Come in—come in, and you, Master Gafet, please sit down with us.”
Our friend Gafet willingly allowed himself to be persuaded, and we all five entered the tavern of Trinquetaille.
In a low room, the floor of which was covered with beaten clay, but the walls were very white, stood a long table whereat were seated from fifteen to twenty bargemen in the act of cutting a kid, the landlord Counënc supping with them.