The Prince apostrophizes the “empire of the sun,” bordering like a silver hem the dazzling Rhone, the “poetic empire of Provence, that with its name alone doth charm the world,” and he calls to mind the empire of the Bosonides, the memory of which survives in the speech of the boatmen; they call the east shore “empire,” the west shore “kingdom.”

The journey is full of episodes.  The owner of the fleet, Apian, is a sententious individual.  He is devoted to his river life, full of religious fervor, continually crossing himself or praying to Saint Nicholas, the patron saint of sailors.  This faith, however, is not entire.  If a man falls into the water, the fellows call to him, “Recommend thyself to Saint Nicholas, but swim for dear life.”  As the English expression has it, “Trust to God, but keep your powder dry.”  Master Apian always says the Lord’s Prayer aloud when he puts off from shore, and solemnly utters the words, “In the name of God and the Holy Virgin, to the Rhone!” His piety, however, does not prevent him from interrupting his prayer to swear at the men most vigorously.  Says he, “Let whoever would learn to pray, follow the water,” but his arguments and experiences rather teach the vanity of prayer.  He is full of superstitious tales.  He has views of life.

“Life is a journey like that of the bark.  It has its bad, its good days.  The wise man, when the waves smile, ought to know how to behave; in the breakers he must go slow.  But man is born for toil, for navigation.  He who rows gets his pay at the end of the month.  He who is afraid of blistering his hands takes a dive into the abyss of poverty.”  He tells a story of Napoleon in flight down the Rhone, of the women who cried out at him, reviling him, bidding him give back their sons, shaking their fists and crying out, “Into the Rhone with him.”  Once when he was changing horses at an inn, a woman, bleeding a fowl at the door, exclaimed:  “Ha, the cursed monster!  If I had him here, I’d plant my knife into his throat like that!” The emperor, unknown to her, draws near.  “What did he do to you?” said he.  “I had two sons,” replied the bereaved mother wrathfully, “two handsome boys, tall as towers.  He killed them for me in his battles.”—­“Their names will not perish in the stars,” said Napoleon sadly.  “Why could I not fall like them? for they died for their country on the field of glory.”—­“But who are you?”—­“I am the emperor.”—­“Ah!” The good woman fell upon her knees dismayed, kissed his hands, begged his forgiveness, and all in tears—­Here the story is interrupted.

Wholly charming and altogether original is the tale of the little maiden whom the boatmen name L’Anglore, and whom Jean Roche loves.  The men have named her so for fun.  They knew her well, having seen her from earliest childhood, half naked, paddling in the water along the shore, sunning herself like the little lizard they call anglore.  Now she had grown, and eked out a poor living by seeking for gold in the sands brought down by the Ardeche.