54 STORIES FROM DAUDET

Oh, what tears were shed in Avignon
when he died! He was such a charm-
ing, amiable prince; he smiled so
sweetly on you as he rode by on his
mule! and if you passed close to him,
whether you were a poor madder-
gatherer or the richest wine-grower in
the city—he gave you his blessing so
courteously! A real Pope of Yvetot.
A Provencal Yvetot, with something
subtle in his smile, a branch of
marjoram in his cap, and positively no
foibles. This good priest’s only weak-
ness was his vineyard, a little vineyard
that he had planted himself, amongst
the myrtles at Chateau Neuf.

Every Sunday after vespers the
worthy man went to look at it, and
when he got up there, seated in the sun
with his mule hitched close by, and
his cardinals all round reclining under
the vine-stalks, then he would order a
flask of the new wine to be opened
—that famous ruby-tinted wine which
was afterwards called the Pope’s Chat-