g from rock to rock with his long legs, with the rifle on
his shoulder.

The children, who seemed terrified by the Inspector, quickly scoffed
down their dinner of chestnuts and white Corsican goat cheese. Then
there was the inevitable water; never anything but water on the table.
And yet, a sip of wine would have really done the children some good.
Oh, what complete and utter misery! After a while, their mother saw
them off to bed, while their father lit his lantern and went out to
check the coast. We stayed by the fireside looking after the invalid,
who was tossing and turning on his pallet, as if he was still at sea
being buffeted by the waves. We warmed up some stones to put on his
side to ease his pleurisy. Once or twice the hapless man recognised me
as I approached his bed and put out his hand with great difficulty by
way of thanks. His broad hand was as rough and hot as one of the bricks
from the fire.

It was a miserable vigil! Outside, as night fell, the bad weather
picked up again, and there was a crash, a rumble, and a great spurt of
spray, as the battle between rocks and water broke out again. From time
to time, the gusts from out at sea blew into the bay and enveloped the
house. The flames suddenly flared and lit up the blank faces of the
sailors around the fireplace. They had the calm expression of those who
routinely experience wide open spaces and horizons. Occasionally,
Palombo moaned gently, and their eyes would turn towards the wretched
place where the poor man was dying, far from home, and beyond help.
Only their breathing and sighing could be heard. This was the only
reaction you would get out of these workmen of the sea who were just as
patient and accepting of their own misfortune. No rebellions, no
strikes. Only sighs. Just sighs. And yet, perhaps I'm kidding myself.
One of them, on his way to putting wood on the fire, whispered almost
apologetically to me:

--You see, monsieur, there can be much suffering in our line of work....

THE CUCUGNANIAN PRIEST

Every year, at the feast of the presentation of Jesus, the Provencal
poets publish a wonderful little book overflowing with beautiful verse
and great stories. I've only just received this year's copy, and inside
I found this adorable little fable which I am going to try to translate
for you, albeit in a slightly abridged version.... Men of Paris,
prepare yourselves for a treat. The finest flowering of Provencal flour
is to be laid be