“I wish to add,” said Mathieu, “the term ‘félibrée’ to signify a festivity of Provençal poets.”
“And I,” struck in Tavan, “give the adjective ‘félibréen’ to all things descriptive of our movement.”
“And to the ladies who shall sing in the tongue of Provence I dedicate the name of ‘Félibresse,’” said Aubanel.
Upon which Brunet added promptly:
“And the children of all Félibres I baptize ‘Félibrillons.’”
“And let me conclude,” I cried, “with this national word, ‘Félibrige,’ which shall designate our work and association.”
Then Glaup took up the speech again:
“But this is not all, my friends—behold us, ‘the wise ones of the Law’—but how about the Law? Who is going to make it?”
“I am,” I answered unhesitatingly, “even if I have to give twenty years of my life to it; I will undertake to show that our speech is a language, not a dialect, and I will reconstruct the laws on which it was once formed.”
How strange it seems to look back on that scene—like some fairy-tale, and yet it was from that day of light-hearted festivity, of youthful ideals and enthusiasms, that sprang the gigantic task completed in the “Treasury of the Félibres,”[11]