scene of this book occurs, have accorded it but a superficial
mention, and traversing the Midi like any other province, have
named Avignon like any other city.

But to-day it is no longer the same; I am no longer tossed by
the flurries of spring, but by the storms of summer, the tempests
of autumn. To-day when I name Avignon, I evoke a spectre; and,
like Antony displaying Caesar's toga, say:

"Look! in this place ran Cassius' dagger through;
See what a rent the envious Casca made;
Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabbed--"

So, seeing the bloody shroud of the papal city, I say: "Behold
the blood of the Albigenses, and here the blood of the Cevennais;
behold the blood of the Republicans, and here the blood of the
Royalists; behold the blood of Lescuyer; behold the blood of
Marechal Brune."

And I feel myself seized with a profound sadness, and I begin to
write, but at the first lines I perceive that, without suspecting
it, the historian's chisel has superseded the novelist's pen in
my hand.

Well, let us be both. Reader, grant me these ten, fifteen, twenty
pages to the historian; the novelist shall have the rest.

Let us say, therefore, a few words about Avignon, the place where
the first scene of the new book which we are offering to the
public, opens. Perhaps, before reading what we have to say, it