Once a year Ulysses beheld him arrayed in his frock coat, his chest starred with decorations and in his lapel the golden cicada, badge of the poets of Provence.
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!...