ents.... said the Sub-Prefect in his ceremonial
voice....

A cackle of laughter broke his concentration; he turned round and saw a
lone fat woodpecker, perched on his opera hat, looking at him and
laughing. The Sub-Prefect shrugged his shoulders and readied himself to
continue, but the woodpecker interrupted him again:

--What is the point?

--I beg your pardon! What is the point? said the Sub-Prefect, who was
flushing all over, and shooing the cheeky animal away, he resumed even
more pompously:

--Gentlemen and constituents....

--Gentlemen and constituents.... once again resumed the Sub-Prefect
even more pompously.

Then, the little violets stretched their stems out towards him and
kindly asked him:

--Sub-Prefect, can you smell our lovely perfume?

And the streams were making divine music for him from beneath the moss,
and over his head in the branches, a band of warblers sang their finest
songs; indeed, the whole wood conspired to stop him composing his
speech.

As he composed his speech, the Sub-Prefect was intoxicated by the
perfume, and delighted by the music. He tried again to resist the
charm, but in vain, and became completely overcome. He propped himself
up on the grass with his elbows, loosened his fine tails, and stammers,
yet again, two or three times:

--Gentlemen and constituents.... Gentlemen and const.... Gent....

Finally, he sent his constituents to the devil, and the muse of the
country fetes could only cover her face.

Cover your face, O Muse of the country fetes!... When, after an hour,
his assistants, worried about their master, followed him into the wood,
they saw something that made them recoil in horror.... The Sub-Prefect
was lying on his stomach in the grass, all dishevelled like a Bohemian.
He had taken off his tails;... and the Sub-Prefect was composing
poetry, as he chewed ruminatively on a violet.

BIXIOU'S WALLET

One October morning, a few days before I left Paris, a man in shabby
clothes turned up at my home--while I was having lunch.

He was bent over, muddied, and stooped and shivered on his long legs
like a plucked wading bird. It was Bixiou. Yes, Parisians, your very
own Bixiou, the ferociously charming Bixiou, the fanatical satirist who
has so delighted you for fifteen years with his writings and
caricatures.... Oh, poor man, and how painful to see him like that.
Without the familiar grimace when he came in, I would not have
recognised him.

His hea