Letters From My Windmill by Alphonse Daudet, Frederick Davies Read Free Book Online

you think our Tistet Védène was up to?
He was sailing down the Rhone, if you please, singing on a papal galley
on his way to the court at Naples, accompanying the troupe of young
nobles who were sent there by the town to practice their diplomacy and
good manners in Italy. Tistet was no nobleman, but the Pope insisted on
rewarding him for his care of the mule, particularly for the part he
had just played in her rescue.
    So, it was the mule who was disappointed the next day.
    —Oh, the swine, he has got wind of something! she thought shaking her
bells furiously…; but that's alright, go away if you must, you
mischief-maker, you will still get your kicking when you get back…. I
will save it for you!
    And save it for him, she did.
    After Tistet's departure, the Pope's mule returned to her tranquil life
and ways of the old times. No more Quiquet, or Béluguet in the stable.
The happy days of wine à la française returned, and with them came
contentment, long siestas, and even the chance to do her own little
gavotte once again, when she went sur le pont d'Avignon . And yet,
since her adventure, she felt a certain coolness towards her in the
town. Whispers followed her on her way, old folks shook their heads,
and youngsters laughed and pointed at the bell tower. Even the good
Pope himself hadn't as much confidence in his furry friend and when he
wanted a nap mounted on the mule, coming back from the vineyard on
Sundays, he feared that he would wake up on top of the bell tower! The
mule felt all this, but suffered it in silence, except when the name
Tistet Védène was mentioned in front of her, when her ears would twitch
and she would snort briefly as she whetted her iron shoes on the paving
stones.
    Seven years passed before Tistet Védène returned from the court at
Naples. His time over there wasn't finished, but he had heard that the
Pope's Head Mustard-Maker had suddenly died in Avignon, and he thought
the position was a good one, so he rushed to join the line of
applicants.
    When the scheming Védène came into the palace, he had grown and
broadened out so much, that the Holy Father hardly recognised him. It
has to be admitted though that the Pope himself had aged and couldn't
see too well without his spectacles.
    Tistet wasn't one to be intimidated.
    —Most Holy Father, can you not recognise me? It is I, Tistet Védène….
    —Védène?…
    —Yes, you know me well…. I once served the wine, à la française ,
to your mule.
    —Oh, yes, yes…. I remember…. A good little boy, Tistet Védène….
And now, what can we do for him?
    —Oh, not a lot, most Holy Father…. I came to ask you something….
By the way, have you still got your mule? Is she keeping well?… Oh,
that's good…. I came to ask you for the position of your Head
Mustard-Maker, who has just died.
    —Head Mustard-Maker, you! You're far too young. How old are you, now?
    —Twenty years and two months, great pontiff, exactly five years older
than your mule…. Oh, what a prize of God, a fine beast! If you only
knew how much I loved that mule and how much I longed for her in Italy.
Please may I see her?
    —Yes, my child, you may see her, said the good, and by now, very moved
Pope, and, as you care so much for the dear thing, I don't want you to
live too far away. From this day forward, I am appointing you into my
presence in the office of Head Mustard-Maker…. My cardinals will
protest, but so what; I'm quite used to that…. Come and see us
tomorrow after vespers, we will give you the insignias of your office
in the presence of our chapter, and then … I'll take you to see the
mule and you can accompany us to the vineyard…. Well, well, let's do
it….
    I needn't tell you that Tistet Védène left the hall walking on air, and
couldn't wait for the next day's ceremony. And yet, there was someone
in the palace, someone even happier and more impatient than he. Yes, it
was the mule. From the moment Védène returned, right until the next
day's