ful in his laugh, a hint of marjoram in his biretta, and
no sign of a lady love.... The only romantic delight ever known to the
good father, was his vineyard--a small one that he had planted himself
amongst the myrtles of Chateau-Neuf, a few kilometres from Avignon.

Every Sunday, after vespers, this decent man went to pay court to the
vineyard. As he sat in fine sunshine, his mule close by, his cardinals
sprawled out under the vines, he opened a bottle of vintage wine--a
fine wine, the colour of rubies, which has been known ever since as
_Chateau-Neuf du Pape_--which he liked to sip while looking fondly at
his vineyard. Then, the bottle empty and the daylight fading, he went
merrily back to town, his whole chapter in tow. As he passed over the
_pont d'Avignon_, amongst the drums and farandoles, his mule, taking
her cue from the music, began a jaunty little amble, while he himself
beat the dance rhythm out with his biretta. This shocked his cardinals,
but not so the people, who were delighted by it, and said, "What a good
prince! What a great pope!"

* * * * *

After his Chateau-Neuf vineyard, the pope loved his mule more than
anything else on earth. The old man was quite simply besotted with the
creature. Every night before going to bed, he made sure that the stable
was locked and that there was plenty for her to eat. Also, he never
rose from the table without a large bowl of wine, _a la francaise_,
made with sugar, herbs, and spices, and prepared under his own watchful
eye. He then took it, personally, to the mule, ignoring the cardinals'
reproaches. Certainly, the beast was well worth the trouble, for she
was a handsome, red-dappled, black mule, sure footed, glossy coated,
with a large full rump and proudly carrying her small, slim head fully
got up in pompoms, knots, silver bells and ribbons. She also showed an
honest eye, as sweet as an angel's, and her ever-twitching long ears
gave her a child-like, innocent appearance. Everybody in Avignon loved
her, and when she was trotting through the streets, they all looked
approvingly at her and made a great fuss of her; for everybody knew
that this was the best way to gain the pope's favour. In all innocence,
she had led many a one to good fortune, the proof of which lay in the
person of Tistet Vedene and his wonderful venture.

This Tistet Vedene was, in truth, a mischief-maker, to the point where
his father Guy Vedene, the renowned goldsmith, had