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beginning.
    This scented wine, which she loved so much, and kept her warm, and made
her walk on air, was bought to her, in her very own manger, where it
was put right under her nose. And then, just as her flared nostrils
were full of it—it was cruelly snatched away—and the beautiful rosy
red liqueur disappeared down the throats of those clerical brats…. If
only they had been satisfied with just stealing the wine from her, but
there was more to come. They were like demons, these clerical nobodies;
after they had drunk the wine, one pulled her ears, another her tail;
and while Quiquet mounted her, Béluguet tried his biretta on her. But
not one of these thugs realised that with one butt or kick in the
kidneys, the brave animal could have sent them all to kingdom come, or
beyond. But, she wouldn't! She was not the Pope's mule for nothing, the
mule associated with benedictions and indulgences. They often did their
worst; but she kept her temper under control. It was just Tistet Védène
that she really hated. When she felt him behind her, her hoof would
itch to give him what for. The villainous Tistet played some terrible
tricks on her. And after a drink or two, he came up with some very
cruel inventions.
    One day he decided to drive her up the bell tower of the choir school;
to the very pinnacle of the palace. This really happened—two hundred
thousand Provencal folk will tell you they've seen it! Imagine the
terror of the luckless mule, when, after being shoved blindly up a
spiral staircase and climbing who knows how many steps, she found
herself suddenly dazzled on a brilliantly lit platform from where she
could see the whole of a fantastic Avignon far below her, the market
stalls no bigger than hazel nuts, the Pope's soldiers in front of their
barracks looking like red ants, and there on a silvery thread, a tiny,
microscopic bridge where l'on y dansait, l'on y dansait . Oh, the poor
beast! She really panicked. She cried out loud enough to rattle the
palace windows.
    —What's the matter, what's happening to her? cried the Pope rushing to
his balcony.
    Tistet Védène, already back down in the courtyard, was pretending to
cry and pull out his hair,
    —Oh, most Holy Father, it's … it's your mule…. My lord, how will
it all end? Your mule has climbed up into the bell tower….
    —All alone?
    —Yes, most Holy Father, all alone…. Look, look at her, up there….
Can't you see the end her ears sticking up?… They look like a couple
of swallows from here….
    —God help us! said the Pope beside himself and looking up…. She must
have gone mad! She's going to kill herself…. Come down, you fool!…
    Well! there was nothing she would have liked better … but how? The
stairs were not to be entertained, you could climb them alright, but
coming down was a different story; there were a hundred different ways
to break your legs…. The poor mule was very distressed, and wandered
about the platform, her huge eyes spinning from vertigo, and
contemplated Tistet Védène,
    —Well, you swine, if I get out of this alive … tomorrow morning will
bring you such a kicking!
    The thought of revenge revitalised her; without it she couldn't
possibly have held on. At last, somebody managed to bring her down, but
it was quite a struggle needing ropes, a block and tackle, and a
cradle. Imagine what a humiliation it was for a Pope's mule to find
herself hanging from a great height, legs thrashing about like a fly
caught in a web. Just about everyone in Avignon was there to witness it.
    The unhappy creature could no longer sleep at nights. She imagined that
she was still spinning round on the cradle, with the whole town below
laughing at her. Then her mind turned to the despicable Tistet Védène
and the really good kicking that she was going to give him the very
next morning. Oh, what a hell of a kicking that was going to be! The
dust would be seen flying from far away…. Now, while the stable was
being prepared for her, what do