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One day
the industrious first-year student went to
the Place de l’Horloge around five o’clock in the
morning to do his exercises. The square was still
pristinely clean at that time of day and there was
no one there to bother him. After finishing his
exercises, he walked through the streets in good
spirits and had arrived outside the city wall, when
several carriages with guards surprisingly came
driving up. A mysterious stop-over took place,
because several large men hurriedly began to
exchange the used-up horses for fresh ones.
Moreover, inside one of the parked carriages sat a
small fat man, decorated with many badges, who was
wedged tightly between two solid-looking guards.
That guy must have committed some kind of crime, the
student understood. The convoy had obviously arrived
so early so as not to attract any unwanted
attention. The changing of the horses and stocking
up of provisions took some time. Meanwhile, Michel
was looking at the prisoner with fascination. That
man must have illusions of grandeur: he exuded the
air of an emperor. Suddenly, there was a great
commotion. Hordes of Avignois rushed from the Porte
St. Lazare upon the carriages, wanting revenge on
“the small corporal from Corsica.” The city guard
tried to control the riot, but there was no stopping
the furious citizens and they surrounded the
carriage in the center. They called the decorated
prisoner every name in the book. Other insurgents
threw rocks at him or threatened him with their
swords. A few minutes later, several people jumped
onto the carriage, climbed inside and started to
tear off his badges of honor. An officer who arrived
in a hurry managed to calm the heated tempers, after
which the last horses were quickly hitched. The
besieged carriage with “the small corporal” managed
to escape, after a guard succeeded in pulling a few
fanatics off the wheels. The rest of the carriages
had been left alone and were able to follow their
course uninterruptedly. Afterwards, the student was
reflecting on the event.
“Hey, asshole, are you growing roots there, or what!”
a workman suddenly swore.
“Didn’t you see that riot just now?” asked Michel.
“I only see a stranger, and we don’t like those here,”
and he continued on his way, rolling his barrel. It
was the old Avignon mentality. And the strange riots*
turned out to have been nothing but hallucinations.
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