Great French Short Stories

by Paul Negri

  “Wretch!” cried the Sirian indignantly, “such an excess of mad rage is inconceivable! I have the urge to take three steps and crush with three blows of my foot this anthill of ludicrous assassins.”

  “Don’t go to that trouble,” the philosopher answered him, “they are working well enough toward their own ruin. Know that after ten years, no more than a hundredth part of those wretches are alive. Know that even if they have not drawn their sword, hunger, fatigue or intemperance kill almost all of them. Moreover, they aren’t the ones to be punished, but those sedentary barbarians who in their private offices, when they are digesting their food, order the massacre of a million men, and then afterwards solemnly offer up thanks to God for the deed.”

  The traveler felt deep pity for the tiny human race in which he discovered such astonishing contrasts. “Since you belong to the small number of wise men,” he said to these gentlemen, “and since apparently you kill no one for money, tell me, I beg you, how you spend your time.”

  “We dissect flies,” said the philosopher, “we measure lines and gather numerical information. We agree upon two or three points which we understand, and we disagree on two or three thousand which we do not understand.”

  Immediately a whim took the Sirian and the Saturnian to question these thinking atoms, in order to learn the things on which they agreed. “What is the distance,” asked the Saturnian, “between the Dog-star and Gemini?”

  They all answered in chorus, “Thirty-two and a half degrees.”

  “What is the distance from here to the moon?”

  “Sixty times the radius of the earth, in round numbers.”

  “What does your air weigh?” He thought he had caught them, but they all said to him that air weighs about nine hundred times less than a similar volume of the lightest water, and nineteen thousand times less than ducat gold. The little dwarf from Saturn, amazed at their answers, was tempted to take for sorcerers those same people to whom he had refused a soul a quarter of an hour previously.

  Finally, Micromegas said to them,” Since you are so well acquainted with what is outside of you, doubtless you know even better what is within. Tell me what your soul is and how you form your ideas.” The philosophers all spoke at the same time as before, but they were all of different opinions. The oldest quoted Aristotle, another pronounced the name of Desartes a third that of Malebranche, a fourth Leibnitz, and still another Locke. An aged Peripatetic said loudly and confidently, “The soul is an entelechy, and a proof of its power to be what it is. That is what Aristotle expressly states, on page 633 of the Louvre edition: ’Εντελεχεα στι.”

  I don’t understand Greek too well, ” said the giant.

  “Nor do I,” said the philosophical mite.

  “Why then,” the Sirian continued, “do you quote a certain Aristotle in Greek?”

  “Because,” answered the scholar, “one must quote what one doesn’t understand at all in the language one understands the least.”

  The Cartesian began speaking and said, “The soul is a pure spirit which has received in its mother’s womb all metaphysical ideas, and which, on leaving it, has to go to school and learn all over again what it knew so well and will never know again.”

  “There is no point then,” answered the animal eight leagues long, “for your soul to be so learned in your mother’s womb, if it is so ignorant when you have a beard on your chin. But what do you mean by spirit?”

  “What kind of question is that?” said the reasoner. “I have no idea. They say it is not matter.”

  “But at least do you know what matter is?”

  “Yes, I do,” the man replied. “For example, this stone is gray and of a certain shape. It has three dimensions, is heavy and divisible.”

  “Well,” said the Sirian, “will you tell me what this thing is which seems to you divisible, heavy and gray? You see a few attributes, but do you know basically what the thing is?”

  “No!” said the other.

  “Then you don’t know what matter is.”

  Mr. Micromegas, then speaking to another wise man whom he held on his thumb, asked him what his soul was and what it did. “Nothing at all,” answered the disciple of Malebranche. “God does everything for me. I see everything in Him and I do everything in Him. He does everything without my interfering.”

  “It would be as worth while not to exist,” the sage from Sirius went on. “And you, my friend,” he said to a disciple of Leibnitz who was there, “what is your soul?”

  The Leibnitzian answered, “It is a hand which shows the hours while my body chimes. Or if you prefer, it is my soul which chimes while my body shows the hour. Or my soul is the mirror of the universe, and my body is the frame of the mirror. All that is clear.”

  A little partisan of Locke was quite nearby, and when they finally spoke to him, he said, “I do not know how I think, but I know that I have never had a thought save by means of my senses. That there are immaterial and intelligent beings I do not doubt, but that it is impossible for God to communicate thought to matter I strongly doubt. I revere the power of God. It is not my place to limit it. I affirm nothing and I am satisfied with believing there are more things possible than we think.”

  The animal from Sirius smiled. He did not find this last man the least wise, and the dwarf from Saturn would have embraced the follower of Locke if there hadn’t been a vast difference in size. But unfortunately there was present a small animalcule in a clerical hat who interrupted all the philosophical animalcules. He said he knew the entire secret. It was in the Summa of Saint Thomas. He looked the two celestial inhabitants up and down, and asserted that their persons, their worlds, their suns, their stars, all were created solely for man. At this speech, our two travelers fell on each other, overcome with that inextinguishable laughter which, according to Homer, is the lot of the gods. Their shoulders and bellies shook, and in these convulsions, the ship which the Sirian had on his nail fell into a pocket of the Saturnian’s trousers. These two good people looked for it a long time. At last, they recovered the ship and crew and set everything up again in excellent order. The Sirian picked up the mites again. He spoke to them again with much kindness although he was a bit angry in the bottom of his heart at seeing that infinitely small beings had an infinitely great pride. He promised to prepare a fine book of philosophy for them, written very small so that they could read it; and that in this book they would see the explanation of everything. To be sure, he did give them this volume before his departure. They took it to Paris, to the Academy of Sciences. But when the secretary opened it, he saw only a book with blank pages. “Ah!” he said, “I thought as much.”

  Alphonse Daudet

  THE POPE’S MULE

  La Mule du Pape

  Of all the pretty sayings, proverbs, and adages with which our peasants in Provence lace their speech, I don’t know any that are more picturesque or more unusual than this one. In a radius of fifteen leagues around my windmill, whenever they talk about a grudge-bearing, vindictive man, they say: “That man! Watch out! . . . He’s like the Pope’s she-mule, and holds back his kick for seven years.”

  I searched for a long time to see where that proverb might come from, and the story of that papal mule and that kick held in reserve for seven years. No one here has been able to give me information on that subject, not even Francet Mamaï, my fife player, even though he has his Provençal legends at his fingertips. Francet agrees with me that, at the bottom of it, there’s some old chronicle of the Avignon region; but he’s never heard talk of it except by way of the proverb.

  “You’ll only find that in the cicadas’ library,” the old fifer said to me, laughing.

  That sounded like a good idea, and, seeing that the cicadas’ library is right outside my door, I went and shut myself up in it for a week.

  It’s a wonderful library, admirably fitted out, open to poets day and night, and staffed by little librarians with cymbals who make music for you the whole time. I spent a few delightful
days there, and after a week of research—on my back—I finally found what I wanted; that is, the history of my mule and that notorious kick held in reserve for seven years. The tale is a pretty one, though somewhat naïve, and I’ll try to tell it to you just as I read it yesterday morning in a sky-blue manuscript that had a good smell of dry lavender, with big threads of gossamer for bookmarks.

  If you didn’t see Avignon when the Popes were there, you’ve never seen a thing. For merriment, liveliness, animation, the busy series of festivals, there’s never been a city like it. From morning to evening there were processions, pilgrimages, the streets strewn with flowers and overhung by high-warp tapestries, arrivals of cardinals on the Rhône, banners in the wind, galleys decked with flags, the Pope’s soldiers chanting in Latin on the squares, the rattles of the monks collecting alms. And then, from top to bottom of the houses that huddled around the great Palace of the Popes, buzzing like bees around the hive, there was, besides, the click-clack of the lace frames, the to-and-fro of shuttles weaving the gold for chasubles, the little hammers of the engravers of altar cruets, the soundboards being finished in the lute makers’ shops, the hymns sung by the women setting up the warp on looms; and, above all the rest, the sound of the bells, and always a few Provençal drums that could be heard rumbling there, toward the bridge. Because, where we live, when the populace is happy, it must dance, it must dance; and, since in those days the city streets were too narrow for the farandole, fife and drum players took up their station on the bridge of Avignon, in the cool breeze from the Rhône, and day and night “people danced there, people danced there” . . . Oh, the happy time! The happy city! Halberds that did not strike; prisons of the state in which wine was placed to cool. Never a food shortage; never a war . . . That’s how the Popes of the County of Avignon knew how to govern their people; that’s why their people missed them so when they left! . . .

  There’s one especially, a good old man, who was called Boniface . . . Oh, how many tears were shed in Avignon for him when he died! He was such an amiable and pleasing ruler! How kindly he smiled at you while seated on his mule! And whenever you passed by him—whether you were a poor little extractor of madder dye or the chief justice of the city—he gave you a blessing so politely! A true Pope of Yvetot,9 but of an Yvetot in Provence, with something delicate in his laughter, a sprig of marjoram in his biretta, and not the slightest Jeanneton . . . The only “sweetheart Jeanneton” that that kindly father ever had was his vineyard—a little vineyard he had planted himself, three leagues from Avignon, among the myrtles of Châteauneuf.

  Every Sunday, on leaving vespers, the worthy man went to pay his court to it, and when he was up there, sitting in the beneficent sunshine, his mule nearby, his cardinals all around stretched out at the feet of the vinestocks, then he had a flagon of the local wine uncorked—that beautiful, ruby-colored wine which, ever since, has been called Châteauneuf-du-Pape—and he would taste it in little sips, looking at his vineyard tenderly. Then, the flagon emptied, the sun setting, he would return joyously to his city, followed by his entire chapter of canons; and, when he crossed the bridge of Avignon,10 in the midst of the drums and the farandoles, his mule, enlivened by the music, would go into a little hopping amble, while the Pope himself beat time to the dance music with his biretta, which greatly shocked his cardinals but caused all the plain people to say: “Oh, what a good ruler! Oh, what a fine Pope!”

  After his vineyard at Châteauneuf, what the Pope loved most in the world was his she-mule. The dear old man was crazy about that animal. Every night before going to bed, he went to see whether her stable was properly closed, whether there was nothing lacking in her feeding trough; and he would never have risen from his table without seeing prepared before his eyes a large bowl of French-style wine,3 with plenty of sugar and spices, which he himself brought to the mule, despite his cardinals’ remarks. . . . It must also be said that the animal was worth all of this. She was a beautiful black mule with red spots, surefooted, with a gleaming coat and wide, full hindquarters; she carried with pride her small, lean head that was lavishly accoutred with pompoms, bows, silver jingle bells, and tassels. In addition, she was as gentle as an angel, with candid eyes and two long ears that were always in motion, giving her a good-natured appearance. All Avignon esteemed her and, when she wandered through the streets, everyone treated her as courteously as possible; because everyone knew that that was the best way to be in good standing at the papal court, and that, with her innocent appearance, the Pope’s mule had led more than one person to good fortune—as a proof, Tistet Védène and his prodigious adventure.

  This Tistet Védène was basically a brazen-faced young rascal whom his father, Guy Védène, a goldsmith, had been forced to throw out of his house because he refused to do any work and was keeping the apprentices from doing theirs. For six months he was to be seen dragging his coat through every gutter in Avignon, but especially in the vicinity of the papal palace; because for some time the rogue had had a plan concerning the Pope’s mule, and you’re about to see that it was pretty shrewd. . . . One day, when His Holiness was on an outing, all alone with his mount, alongside the city walls, there was our Tistet, greeting him and saying, with his hands joined together in admiration:

  “Oh, my heavens! Great Holy Father, what a fine mule you have there! . . . Let me look at her for a while. . . . Oh, Pope, such a beautiful mule! . . . The Emperor of Germany doesn’t have one like her.”

  And he patted her, and spoke gently to her as if addressing a well-born young lady.

  “Come here, my jewel, my treasure, my precious pearl . . .”

  And the good Pope, sincerely touched, said to himself:

  “What a good little boy! . . . How nice he is to my mule!”

  And then, the next day, do you know what happened? Tistet Védène swapped his old yellow coat for a beautiful lace alb, a violet silk short cape such as priests wear, and buckled shoes, and he joined the Pope’s choir school, where never before that time had anyone been received but noblemen’s sons and cardinals’ nephews. Just see what intrigue will do! . . . But Tistet didn’t stop there.

  Once in the Pope’s service, the rogue continued the game that had stood him in such good stead. Insolent with everybody, he lavished his cares and kindness only on the mule, and was always to be found in the palace courtyards with a handful of oats or a little bunch of sainfoin, amiably shaking its clusters of pink flowers while looking at the Holy Father’s balcony, as if to say: “Well? . . . Who is this for? . . .” So much so, that the good Pope, who felt he was growing old, finally assigned him the task of taking care of the stable and bringing the mule her bowl of French-style wine; this did not make the cardinals happy.

  Nor was the mule happy about it, either. . . .Now, when the time for her wine arrived, she always saw arriving in her stable five or six young clerics from the choir school, who quickly nestled in the straw with their short capes and their laces; a moment later, a pleasant, warm aroma of burnt sugar and spices filled the stable, and Tistet Védène appeared, carefully carrying the bowl of French-style wine. Then the martyrdom of the poor animal would begin.

  That flavored wine she loved so much, which kept her warm, which lent her wings—they were so cruel as to bring it over to her, there in her feeding trough, to let her inhale it; then, when her nostrils were filled with it—presto, vanished! The beautiful, fiery-pink beverage would completely disappear into the gullets of those little brats. . . . And, as if stealing her wine wasn’t enough, all those little clerics were like devils when they were drunk! . . . One of them pulled her ears, another, her tail; Quiquet climbed on her back, Béluguet tried out his biretta on her, and not one of those rascals imagined that, with a flick of her crupper or a kick, the good animal could have sent them all to the pole star, or even farther . . . But no! It’s not for nothing that you’re the Pope’s mule, the mule of benedictions and indulgences. . . . No matter how the youngsters irritated her, she didn’t get angry; and her rancor was directe
d only at Tistet Védène. . . . Now, when she sensed that he was behind her, her hooves itched her, and truly she had good reasons. That good-for-nothing Tistet played such nasty tricks on her! He thought up such cruel things to do when he got drunk! . . .

  Didn’t he get the idea one day to make her climb up with him to the bell tower of the choir school, up there, way up there, at the pinnacle of the palace? . . . And what I’m now telling you isn’t a fairy tale; two hundred thousand inhabitants of Provence saw it happen. Picture the terror of that unhappy mule when, after twisting her way up a spiral staircase blindly for an hour, and after climbing heaven knows how many steps, she suddenly found herself on a platform inundated with dazzling light, and caught sight, at a thousand feet below her, of an entire fantastic Avignon, the market stalls no bigger than hazelnuts, the Pope’s soldiers in front of their barracks like red ants, and, over yonder, on a silver thread, a little, microscopic bridge on which “people were dancing, people were dancing.” . . . Oh, the poor animal! What panic she felt! The cry she uttered made all the windows in the palace shake.

  “What’s wrong? What are they doing to her?” exclaimed the good Pope, dashing out onto his balcony.

  Tistet Védène was already in the courtyard, pretending to weep and pull out his hair:

  “Oh, great Holy Father, you ask what’s wrong? Your mule has climbed the bell tower.”

  “All by herself?”

  “Yes, great Holy Father, all by herself. . . . See! Look at her up there. . . . Do you see the tips of her ears sticking out? . . . They look like a pair of swallows . . .”

  “Mercy!” cried the poor Pope, raising his eyes. “But she must have gone crazy! But she’s going to get killed. . . . Will you come down from there, you wretched thing?! . . .”