The town of Aix (Head of Justice was the old significance), where I betook myself to make my law studies, by reason of its honourable past as capital of Provence and parliamentary city, possessed an air of soberness and dignity somewhat in contradiction with the Provençal atmosphere. The stately air given by the shady trees of the beautiful public drive, the fountains, monuments and palaces of bygone days, together with the numerous black-robed magistrates, lawyers and professors to be seen in the streets, all contributed towards the severe and rather cold aspect which characterised this city.
In my time, however, this impression was but a surface one, and among the students there was a gaiety of race, an intimate good-fellowship, quite in keeping with the traditions left by the good King René of old.
I remember even worthy counsellors and judges of the Court who, when at home, either in town or country house, amused themselves and their friends playing the tambourine;[9] while grave and learned doctors, such as d’Astros, brother of the Cardinal of that name, delivered at the Academy lectures in the simple and joyous tongue of their native Provençal. One of the best methods this for keeping alive the national soul, and which in Aix has never lapsed. Count Portalis, for example, one of the grand jurists of the Napoleon Code, wrote a play in Provençal. Then there was Monsieur Diouloufet, famous librarian of the French Athens[10] (as Aix once called herself), who, in the reign of Louis XVIII., sang in the language of Provence his poems of “Les Magnans”; while Monsieur Mignet, the illustrious historian and academician, came every year to Aix on purpose to play bowls, the national game of his youth, his panacea for restoring and renovating all men being “to drink in the sunshine of Provence, speak the language of Provence, eat a ragoût of Provence, and every morning play a game of bowls.”
I had been in Aix a few months when, walking one afternoon near the Hot Springs, to my joy I suddenly caught sight of the profile, and quite unmistakable nose, of my friend Anselme Mathieu of Châteauneuf.
In his usual casual way he greeted me. “This water is really hot—it is not pretence my dear fellow, it positively smokes.”
“When did you arrive?” I asked him with a hearty grip of the hand. “And what good wind blew you here?”
“The night before last,” said he. “Faith, I said to myself, since Mistral is off to Aix to read for law, I had better do likewise.”
I congratulated him on the happy inspiration, and inquired whether he had taken his bachelor’s degree, without which it was useless to think of being admitted to the Law Faculty.
“Oh yes,” he laughed. “I passed out with the wooden spoon! But if they refuse me a diploma in the courts of law, no man can prevent my taking one in the courts of love! Why, only to-day,” he continued, “I made the acquaintance of a charming young laundress, a little sunburnt it is true, but with lips like a cherry, teeth like a puppy, unruly curls peeping from out her white cap, a bare throat, little turned-up nose, dimpled arms——”
“Hold, villain,” I remonstrated, “it strikes me your eyes were not idle.”