Letters from my Windmill Part 2

"Cornille, his eyes wide open, took some of the wheat into the palms of his old hands, crying and laughing at the same time:

--It's wheat! Dear Lord. Real wheat. Leave me to feast my eyes.

"Then, turning towards us, he said:

--I know why you've come back to me.... The mill factory owners are all thieves.

"We wanted to lift him shoulder high and take him triumphantly to the village:

--No, no my children, I must give my windmill something to go at first.

Think about it, for so long, it's had nothing to grind!

"We all had tears in our eyes as we saw the old man scampering from sack to sack, and emptying them into the millstone and watching as the fine flour was ground out onto the floor.

"It's fair to say that from then on, we never let the old miller run short of work. Then, one morning Master-Miller Cornille died, and the sails of our last working windmill turned for the very last time. Once he had gone, no one took his place. What could we do, monsieur?

Everything comes to an end in this world, and we have to accept that the time for windmills has gone, along with the days of the horse-drawn barges on the Rhone, local parliaments, and floral jackets."

MONSIEUR SEGUIN'S LAST KID GOAT

_To Pierre Gringoire, lyrical poet, Paris._

You'll never get anywhere, Gringoire!

I can't believe it! A good newspaper in Paris offers you a job as a critic and you have the bra.s.s neck to turn it down. Look at yourself, old friend. Look at the holes in your doublet, your worn-out stockings, and your pinched face which betrays your hunger. Look where your pa.s.sion for poetry has got you! See how much you have been valued for your ten years writing for the G.o.ds. What price pride, after all?

Take the job, you idiot, become a critic! You'll get good money, you'll have your reserved table in Brebant's, you will be seen at premieres, and it will secure your reputation....

No? You don't want to? You prefer to stay as free as the air to the end of your days. Very well then, listen to the story of _Monsieur Seguin's last kid goat_. You'll see where hankering after your freedom gets you.

Monsieur Seguin never had much luck with his goats.

He lost them all, one after another, in the same way. One fine morning they would break free from their tethers and scamper off up into the mountain, where they were gobbled up by the big bad wolf. Neither their master's care, nor the fear of the wolf, nor anything else could hold them back. They were, or so it seemed, goats who wanted freedom and open s.p.a.ces whatever the cost.

Monsieur Seguin, who didn't understand his animals' ways, was dismayed.

He said:

--It's all over. Goats get fed up here; I haven't managed to keep a single one of them.

But he hadn't totally lost heart, for even after losing six goats, he still bought a seventh. This time he made sure to get it very young, so she would settle down better.

Oh! Gringoire, she was really lovely, Monsieur Seguin's little kid goat; with her gentle eyes, her goatee beard, her black shiny hooves, her striped horns, and her long white fur, which made a fine greatcoat for her! It was nearly as delightful as Esmeralda's kid goat. Do you remember her, Gringoire? And then again, she was affectionate and docile, holding still while she was milked, never putting her foot in the bowl. A lovely, a dear little goat....

There was a hawthorn enclosure behind Monsieur Seguin's house where he placed his new boarder. He tied her to a stake in the finest part of the field, taking care that she had plenty of rope, and often went out to see how she was faring. The goat appeared to be very happy and was grazing heartily on the gra.s.s, which delighted Monsieur Seguin.

--At last, triumphed the poor man, this one isn't getting bored here!

Monsieur Seguin was wrong; his goat was becoming very bored.

One day, looking over towards the mountain, she remarked:

--How great it must be up there! How lovely to gambol on the heath without this rope tether that chafes my neck. It's alright for an ox or a donkey to graze all cooped up, but we goats should be able to roam free.

From then on, she found the gra.s.s in the enclosure bland. Boredom overcame her. She lost weight and her milk all but dried up. It was pitiful to see her pulling at her tether all day, with her head turned towards the mountain, nostrils flared, and bleating sadly.

Monsieur Seguin noticed that there was something wrong with her, but he couldn't work out what it was. One morning, as he finished milking her, she turned towards him and said to him, in her own way:

--Listen Monsieur Seguin. I am pining away here, let me go into the mountain.

--Oh my G.o.d. Not you as well! screamed Monsieur Seguin, dropping his bowl, stupefied. Then, sitting down in the gra.s.s beside his goat he added:

--So, my Blanquette, you want to leave me!

Blanquette replied:

--Yes, Monsieur Seguin.

--Are you short of gra.s.s here?

--Oh, no, Monsieur Seguin.

--Perhaps your tether is too short, shall I lengthen it?

--It-s not worth your while, Monsieur Seguin.

--Well then, what do you need, what do you want?

-I want to go up into the mountain, Monsieur Seguin.

--But, my poor dear, don't you realise that there is a big bad wolf on the mountain? What will you do when he turns up.

--I will b.u.t.t him, Monsieur Seguin.

--The big bad wolf doesn't give a fig for your horns. He's eaten many a kid goat with bigger horns than yours. Have you thought about poor old Renaude who was here only last year? She was really strong and wilful, she was; more like a billy-goat. She fought off the wolf all night. In the morning the wolf still ate her, though.

--Poor, poor Renaude! But that doesn't alter anything, Monsieur Seguin, let me go into the mountain.

--Goodness!..., he said; What am I to do with these goats of mine? Yet another one for the wolf's belly. Well, I'm not going to have it, I will save you despite yourself, you rascal, and to avoid the risk of your breaking loose, I am going to lock you in the cowshed and you will stay there.

Without further ado, Monsieur Seguin carried the goat into the pitch blackness of the cowshed and locked and bolted the door. Unfortunately, he had forgotten to shut the window, and he had hardly turned his back when she got free.