He it was who was going to be celebrated in the fiesta of Provencal literature, in which he always played the principal role; he was the prize bard, lecturer, or simple idol to whom other poets were dedicating their eulogies—­clerics given to rhyming, personifiers of religious images, silk-weavers who felt the vulgarity of their existence perturbed by the itchings of inspiration—­all the brotherhood of popular bards of the ingenuous and domestic brand who recalled the Meistersingers of the old German cities.

His godson always imagined him with a crown of laurel on his brows just like those mysterious blind poets whose portraits and busts ornamented the library.  In real life he saw perfectly well that his head had no such adornment, but reality lost its value before the firmness of his conceptions.  His godfather certainly must wear a wreath when he was not present.  Undoubtedly he was accustomed to wear it as a house cap when by himself.

Another thing which he greatly admired about the grand man was his extensive travels.  He had lived in distant Madrid—­the scene of almost all the novels read by Ulysses—­and once upon a time he had crossed the frontier, going courageously into a remote country called the south of France, in order to visit another poet whom he was accustomed to call “My friend, Mistral.”  And the lad’s imagination, hasty and illogical in its decisions, used to envelop his godfather in a halo of historic interest, similar to that of the conquerors.

At the stroke of the twelve o’clock chimes Labarta, who never permitted any informality in table matters, would become very impatient, cutting short the account of his journeys and triumphs.

“Dona Pepa!...  We have a guest here.”

Dona Pepa was the housekeeper, the great man’s companion who for the past fifteen years had been chained to the chariot of his glory.  The portieres would part and through them would advance a huge bosom protruding above an abdomen cruelly corseted.  Afterwards, long afterwards, would appear a white and radiant countenance, a face like a full moon, and while her smile like a night star was greeting the little Ulysses, the dorsal complement of her body kept on coming in—­forty carnal years, fresh, exuberant, tremendous.

The notary and his wife always spoke of Dona Pepa as of a familiar person, but the child never had seen her in their home.  Dona Cristina used to eulogize her care of the poet—­but distantly and with no desire to make her acquaintance—­while Don Esteban would make excuses for the great man.

“What can you expect!...  He is an artist, and artists are not able to live as God commands.  All of them, however dignified they may appear, are rather carnal at heart.  What a pity! such an eminent lawyer!...  The money that he could make...!”