“Thunder! but we must give them one back,” cried Daudet. And he burst out with a chorus which referred to the time of the Civil War with the Vaulois:
To Lourmarin—Light-horseman
There they die!
To Lourmarin—Light-horseman
Quickly fly! &c.
Then the men of the river, not to be outdone, responded with a chorus:
The maidens of Valence
Know naught of love’s sweet way,
But those of fair Provence
Enjoy it night and day.
“Together now, boys,” we cried to the singers. And in unison, making castanets of our fingers, we shouted with such full lungs that the one-eyed interrupted us:
“Shut up,” said she, “if the police pass by they will have you up for brawling at nights.”
“The police,” we cried; “we snap our fingers at them. “Here,” added Daudet, “go and fetch the visitors’ book.”
The “Counënque” brought the book in which all who passed the night at the inn inscribed their names, and the polite secretary of Monsieur de Morny wrote in his best hand:
A. Daudet, Secretary of the President of the Senate.
F. Mistral, Chevalier of the Legion of Honour.
A. Mathieu, Félibre of Châteauneuf-du-Pape.
P. Grivolas, Master painter of the School of Avignon.
“And if any one,” he continued, “if any one, O Counënque, should ever dare make trouble, be he commissioner, policeman or sub-prefect, thou hast only to place these inky spider’s legs under his moustache. If after that he is not quieted, write to me in Paris and I wager I will make him dance.”