The Professor: Avignon 



the trees have lost their branches and are twisted 

 into grotesque postures, or even lie flat on the 

 ground. An hour or more is spent in crossing this 

 wooded zone, which from a distance shows against 

 the sides of the Ventoux like a black belt. Then 

 once more the beeches become bushy and scattered. 

 We have reached their upper boundary and, to the 

 great relief of all of us, despite the sorrel-leaves, 

 we have also reached the stopping-place selected 

 for our lunch. 



We are at the source of the Grave, a slender 

 stream of water caught, as it bubbles from the 

 ground, in a series of long beech-trunk troughs, 

 where the mountain shepherds come to water their 

 flocks. The temperature of the spring is 45° F. ; 

 and its coolness is a priceless boon for us who have 

 come from the sultry oven of the plain. The cloth 

 is spread on a charming carpet of Alpine plants, 

 with glittering among them the thyme-leaved par- 

 onychia, whose wide, thin bracts look like silver 

 scales. The food is taken out of the bags, the bot- 

 tles extracted from their bed of hay. On this side 

 are the joints, the legs of mutton stuffed with 

 garlic, the stacks of loaves; on that, the tasteless 

 chickens, for our grinders to toy with presently, 

 when the edge has been taken off our appetite. At 

 no great distance, set in a place of honour, are the 

 Ventoux cheeses spiced with winter savory, the 

 little pebre d'ase cheeses, flanked by Aries sausages, 

 whose pink flesh is mottled with cubes of bacon 

 and whole peppercorns. Over here, in this corner, 

 are green olives still dripping with brine and black 

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