Having accomplished his vow, the knight puts on his spurs. The Duke of Burgundy approaches, embraces him, gives him the collar and mantle of the Toison d'Or. The fiancée is led forward. Lover and lady join hands, and—the due ceremonies accomplished—Philippe and his bride leave the church.
"Noel! Noel!" shout the people. "Honneur au chevalier de Notre Dame!"
Now you know why you may read, in letters of gold, upon the walls and windows of Philippe's castles—at Rochepot, at Château-neuf, and at others—that device—TANT L VAUT.[186]
On our way home from Rochepot, we halted for a rest at Auxey le Grand, and dropped into an inn, where we found two workmen hobnobbing over a bottle of red wine. One of them—the listener—was just an ordinary workman; common, base, and popular, as Pistol would have said. His companion, however, was a man of mark—a handsome, bronzed rascal, whose fiercely curled moustache and Paderewski hair, well set off by enormously baggy corduroys, a scarlet belt, and a blue shirt, suggested the merry bandit of an Elizabethan drama. Our curiosity being aroused, we addressed the brigand, who was not slow to reveal his identity. He was one François Paulin, a vine-dresser, and no brigand, as he proved by the production of a greasy document, stating that "The administrative council of the Société Vigneronne of the arrondissement of Beaune certifies that Monsieur Paulin (François) successfully passed the examinations of March 24th, 1889, and is skilled in pruning (apte à greffer) the vine, and in teaching that operation." Vines and vineyards naturally became our topic.
"Ah!" said the brigand; "What a season we have had. Nothing but rain and cold, cold and rain! It is just ruin for us poor workmen." He drained his glass, and put it down, with a tense Gallic movement of the arm. He failed, somehow, to convey the idea that he was ruined. Such are the triumphs of personality.