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

vespers, the fearsome beast never stopped stuffing herself with
hay and kicking her rear hoofs out at the wall. She, too, was making
her own special preparations for the ceremony….
    And so, the next day, after vespers, Tistet Védène made his entry into
the courtyard of the papal palace. All the head clergymen were there,
the cardinals in red robes, the devil's advocate in black velvet, the
convent's abbots in their petite mitres, the church wardens of
Saint-Agrico, and the purple capes of the choir school. The rank and
file clergy were also there, the papal guard in full dress uniform, the
three brotherhoods of penitentiaries, the Mount Ventoux hermits with
their wild looks, and the little clerk who followed them carrying his
bell. Also there were the flagellant brothers, naked to the waist, the
sacristans, sprouting judge's robes, and all and sundry, even the
holy-water dispensers, and those that light, and those that extinguish,
the candles…. Not one of them was missing…. It was a great
ordination! Bells, fireworks, sunshine, music and, as always, the
tambourine playing fanatics leading the dance, over there, sur le pont
d'Avignon ….
    When Védène appeared in the midst of the assembly, his bearing and
handsome appearance set off quite a murmur of approval. He was the
magnificent type of a man from Provence, from fair-headed stock with
curly hair and a small wispy beard which could have been made from the
fine metal shavings fallen from his goldsmith father's chisel. Rumour
has it that Queen Jeanne's fingers had occasionally toyed with that
blond beard. The majesty of Védène had indeed a glorious aspect; he had
the vain, distracted look of men who have been loved by queens. On that
day, as a courtesy to his native country, he had exchanged his
Neapolitan clothes for a pink, braided jacket in the Provencal style,
and a huge plume from an ibis on the Camargue fluttered on his hood.
    The moment he entered as the new Head Mustard-Maker, he gave a general,
gentlemanly greeting and made his way towards the high steps, where the
Pope was waiting to give him his insignias of office: the yellow
boxwood spoon and the saffron uniform. The mule was at the bottom of
the steps, harnessed and ready to go to the vineyard.
    As he passed her, Tistet Védène gave a broad smile, and paused to give
her two or three friendly pats on the back, making sure, out of the
corner of his eye, that the pope was watching…. The mule steadied
herself:
    —There you are! Caught you, you swine! I have saved this up for you
for seven long years!
    And she let loose a mule-kick of really terrible proportions, so that
the dust from it was seen from a long way away—a whirlwind of blond
haze and a fluttering ibis's feather were all that was left of the
unfortunate Tistet Védène!…
    Mules' kicks are not normally of such lightning speed, but she was a
papal mule; and consider this; she had held it back for seven long
years. There was never a better demonstration of an ecclesiastical
grudge.

THE LIGHTHOUSE ON THE SANGUINAIRES
    It was one of those nights when I just couldn't sleep. The mistral was
raging and kept me awake till morning. Everything creaked on the
windmill, the whistling sails swayed heavily like ship's tackle in the
wind, tiles flew wildly off the roof. The closely packed pines covering
the hillside swayed and rustled far away in the darkness. You could
imagine yourself out at sea….
    All this reminded me of the bad spell of insomnia I had three years
ago, when I lived in the Sanguinaires lighthouse overlooking the
entrance to the gulf of Ajaccio on the Corsican coast.
    I had found a pleasant place there where I could muse in solitude.
    Picture an island with a reddish cast and a wild appearance. There was
a lighthouse on one headland and an old Genoese tower on the other,
which housed an eagle while I was there. Down by the sea-shore there
was a ruined lazaretto, overgrown with grass. Then there were ravines,
low scrub, huge rocks,