Mistral's heroine, Mirèio, who dies in the Camargue at the Church of Les Saintes Maries, falls down exhausted before she arrives there, by the shores of the great lake of the Camargue and is awakened by the stinging of the dangerous gnats which infest the whole region in the hot season, and perhaps account for the malaria which lies in wait for the careless traveller.
The driver of the carriage in which we traversed this river-encircled district, told us that in summer the water in these branches of the Rhone fell so low that the fish died in immense quantities, and this attracted great swarms of flies whose sting became very perilous in consequence of their gruesome banquet.
This deserted region is a near neighbour of the Crau, separated only by the river at the southern end from the Field of Pebbles; yet in all the Camargue, as the natives say, you cannot find a stone to throw at a dog—a mode of expression betraying the sentiment of the country as regards our four-footed friends and brothers.
Our journey was from Aigues Mortes to Les Saintes Maries, a drive across the Camargue of about 36 kilometres—36 kilometres of strange, silent, mournful country, well-nigh desert, for the salt in the soil prevents cultivation and all growth is stunted and wild and of little use except here and there for grazing purposes. From time immemorial it has been the home of herds of black cattle, "wild cattle" they are generally called, and in all the poems and accounts of the district, one finds highly-coloured descriptions of the driving of these ferocious creatures to pasture and of the exciting barbaric ceremony of branding them in the spring. They are always spoken of as being extremely formidable, and their appearance in great hordes, fierce and untamed, their dashing owners in pursuit on splendid steeds, is described with charming picturesqueness.
Our driver kept a keen look-out for these creatures as we made our way across the plain. At last, just as we were in despair of seeing them, he pointed out their hoof-marks where they come down to the water to drink. It was a thrilling moment, and we scanned the distance with eagerness, listening for the thunder of galloping feet. Suddenly the driver pulled up and gave an exclamation.
"Les Voilà!"
Alas! a disillusion, the first we had met with in Provence.
A little way off, in quite domestic tranquillity, were some twenty or thirty amiable, decorous-looking black beasts who had presumably never "thundered" or dreamt of it in all their well-spent lives. Day after day, from byre to pasture and from pasture to byre, at no time even in their giddiest calfdom had they given their guardian—who was now superintending their repast—a moment's uneasiness! Fiery, untamed cattle, at any rate in the winter season, are not to be seen on the Camargue.
The red flamingoes, too, are really pink, and very pale at that; but it is beautiful to see them flying in great flocks over the lake of the Vaccares, and settling to feed or to exchange ideas on some wild islet on whose low shores beat white-capped fussy little waves which the smallest mistral quickly raises on its shallow water.
We visited this lake from Arles on another occasion, for the Camargue is too big to see all at one time. Even as it was, our day was crowded—to Aigues Mortes in the morning across the plain, visiting Les Saintes Maries, and back to Arles in the evening.