is, the sacred ibis
of Egypt, truly at home in this splendid sunshine and silent landscape.
From where I am, I can hear nothing but the lapping of water and the
ranger calling his horses from around the lakeside. Each animal on
hearing its name, rushes in, mane flowing in the wind, and takes hay
from his hand....

Further on, still on the same bank, there is a herd of beef cattle free
ranging like the horses. Sometimes, I notice their bony, curved backs
hunched over a clump of tamarisk, and their small, immature horns just
visible. Most of these Camargue cattle are bred to run in the branding
fetes in the villages, and some of them are already famed in the
circuses of Provence and Languedoc. In one herd of the neighbourhood,
there was a terrible fighter amongst them called the Roman, who has
been the undoing of I don't know how many men and horses at the
bullfights at Arles, Nimes, and Tarascon. His companions also made him
the leader, for in these strange herds the animals organise themselves
around an old bull which they adopt as their leader. When there is a
storm on the Camargue, it is truly terrifying on the great plain, where
there is nothing to divert or stop it. It's an amazing sight to see the
herd group themselves behind their leader, all their heads down and
turned into the wind, their whole strength behind their foreheads.
Shepherds in Provence call this manoeuvre: _turning the horn to wind_.

Perish the herd that doesn't do it. Blinded by the rain, and carried
away by the storm, the herd turns in on itself, becomes panicky,
scatters, and is overwhelmed. To escape the storm, they have been known
to dash headlong into the Rhone, the Vaccares, or even the sea.

NOSTALGIA FOR THE BARRACKS AND PARIS.

This morning, at first light, a formidable drum-roll woke me with a
start....

A drum-roll from amongst my pines at this hour!... What a ridiculous
thing. For goodness sake.

As quickly as I can, I jump out of bed and run to the door.

Nobody about! The noise has ceased.... From the midst of some wet wild
vines, a couple of curlews fly off noisily.... A light breeze sings in
the trees.... Towards the east, on the sharp ridge of the Alpilles, a
golden dust amasses, from which the sun slowly appears.... The day's
first sunbeam is already touching the roof of the windmill.
Immediately, the drum-roll starts again, hidden, this time from in the
fields....

The devil, I had forgotten about it. What sort