“Oh—yes—yes—I remember. A good little fellow, that Tistet Védène! And now, what is it that he wants of us?”
“Oh, a very little thing, Holy Father. I came to ask you—by the way, do you still have your mule? And is she well? Ah, so much the better! I came to ask of you the post of the chief mustard-bearer, who has just died.”
“First mustard-bearer, you! Why, you are too young. How old are you, then?”
“Twenty years two months, illustrious Pontiff, just five years older than your mule. Ah! that excellent creature! If you only knew how I loved that mule! How I languished for her in Italy! Are you not going to let me see her?”
“Yes, my child, you shall see her,” said the good Pope, deeply moved. “And since you loved her so much, that excellent animal, I do not wish you to live apart from her. From this day, I attach you to my person as chief mustard-bearer. My cardinals will raise an outcry, but so much the worse! I am used to it. Come to meet us tomorrow as we return from vespers, we will deliver to you the insignia of your office in the presence of our chapter, and then—I will take you to see the mule, and you shall come to the vineyard with us two—ha! ha! Go along, now!”
If Tistet Védène was content upon leaving the grand hall, I need not tell you with what impatience he awaited the ceremony of the next day. Meanwhile, they had some one in the palace who was still more happy and more impatient than he: it was the mule. From the time of Védène’s return, until vespers on the following day, the terrible creature did not cease cramming herself with oats and kicking at the wall with her hind feet. She too was preparing herself for the ceremony.
Accordingly, on the morrow, when vespers had been said, Tistet Védène made his entrance into the courtyard of the papal palace. All the high clergy were there—the cardinals in red robes, the advocate of the devil in black velvet, the convent abbés with their little mitres, the church-wardens of the Saint-Agrico, the violet hoods of the members of the household, the lesser clergy also, the papal soldiers in full uniform, the three brotherhoods of penitents, the hermits from Mount Ventoux with their ferocious eyes and the little clerk who walks behind them carrying the bell, the Flagellant Brothers, naked to the waist, the blond sacristans in robes like judges—all, all, down to those who pass the holy water, and he who lights and he who extinguishes the candles—not one was missing. Ah! That was a beautiful installation, with bells, fireworks, sunlight, music, and, as always, those mad tambourine players who led the dance down by the Avignon Bridge.
When Védène appeared in the midst of the assemblage, his imposing deportment and fine appearance called forth a murmur of approbation. He was a magnificent Provençal of the blond type, with long hair curled at the ends and a small unruly beard which resembled the shavings of fine metal from the graving tool of his father, the carver of gold. The report was current that the fingers of Queen Joanna had now and then toyed with that blond beard; and the Sire de Védène had in truth the haughty air and the absent look of those whom queens have loved. That day, to do honor to his nation, he had replaced his Neapolitan garb by a jacket bordered with color-of-rose, in the Provençal fashion, and in his hood trembled a great plume of the Camargue ibis.
As soon as he had entered, the first mustard-bearer bowed with a gallant air, and directed his steps toward the grand dais, where the Pope awaited him in order to deliver to him the insignia of his office: the yellow wooden spoon and the saffron-colored coat. The mule was at the foot of the staircase, all caparisoned and ready to depart for the vineyard. When he passed her, Tistet Védène had a pleasant smile and paused to give her two or three friendly pats upon the back, looking out of the corner of his eye to see if the Pope noticed him. The situation was admirable. The mule let fly:
“There! You are trapped, bandit! For seven years I have saved that for you!”