The Hunting Wasps 



But already the sky Is growing light. A 

 donkey brays beneath the windows. It is 

 time to get up. We might as well not have 

 gone to bed. Foodstuffs and baggage are 

 strapped on; and, with a " Ja! Hi!" from 

 the guide, we are off. It Is four o'clock in 

 the morning. At the head of the caravan 

 walks Triboulet, with his Mule and his Ass: 

 Triboulet, the Nestor of the Ventoux guides. 

 My botanical colleagues inspect the vegeta- 

 tion on either side of the road by the cold 

 light of the dawn; the others talk. I follow 

 the party with a barometer slung from my 

 shoulder and a note-book and pencil In my 

 hand. 



My barometer. Intended for taking the 

 altitude of the principal botanical halts, soon 

 becomes a pretext for attacks on the gourd 

 with the rum. No sooner is a noteworthy 

 plant observed than somebody cries: 



" Quick, let's look at the barometer! " 



And we all crowd around the gourd, the 

 scientific Instrument coming later. The cool- 

 ness of the morning and our walk make us 

 appreciate these references to the baro- 

 meter so thoroughly that the level of the 

 stimulant falls even more swiftly than that 

 of the mercury. In the Interests of the im- 

 216 



