huge plume from an ibis on the Camargue fluttered on his hood.

The moment he entered as the new Head Mustard-Maker, he gave a general,
gentlemanly greeting and made his way towards the high steps, where the
Pope was waiting to give him his insignias of office: the yellow
boxwood spoon and the saffron uniform. The mule was at the bottom of
the steps, harnessed and ready to go to the vineyard.

As he passed her, Tistet Vedene gave a broad smile, and paused to give
her two or three friendly pats on the back, making sure, out of the
corner of his eye, that the pope was watching.... The mule steadied
herself:

--There you are! Caught you, you swine! I have saved this up for you
for seven long years!

And she let loose a mule-kick of really terrible proportions, so that
the dust from it was seen from a long way away--a whirlwind of blond
haze and a fluttering ibis's feather were all that was left of the
unfortunate Tistet Vedene!...

Mules' kicks are not normally of such lightning speed, but she was a
papal mule; and consider this; she had held it back for seven long
years. There was never a better demonstration of an ecclesiastical
grudge.

THE LIGHTHOUSE ON THE _SANGUINAIRES_

It was one of those nights when I just couldn't sleep. The mistral was
raging and kept me awake till morning. Everything creaked on the
windmill, the whistling sails swayed heavily like ship's tackle in the
wind, tiles flew wildly off the roof. The closely packed pines covering
the hillside swayed and rustled far away in the darkness. You could
imagine yourself out at sea....

All this reminded me of the bad spell of insomnia I had three years
ago, when I lived in the _Sanguinaires_ lighthouse overlooking the
entrance to the gulf of Ajaccio on the Corsican coast.

I had found a pleasant place there where I could muse in solitude.

Picture an island with a reddish cast and a wild appearance. There was
a lighthouse on one headland and an old Genoese tower on the other,
which housed an eagle while I was there. Down by the sea-shore there
was a ruined lazaretto, overgrown with grass. Then there were ravines,
low scrub, huge rocks, wild goats, and Corsican ponies trotting about,
their manes flowing in the breeze. At the highest point, surrounded by
a flurry of sea-birds, was the lighthouse, with its platform of white
masonry, where the keepers paced to and fro. There was a green arched
door, and a small cast-iron tower on top of which