Letters From My Windmill Alphonse Daudet (top 10 ebook reader .txt) 📖

coveredwith dew and with blood. She was wailing over her son's lifeless body,limp, in her arms.

THE POPE'S MULE

When Provencal people talked about an aggressive man with a grudge,they used to say, "Beware of that man!… he is like the Pope's mule,who saved up her kick for seven years."

I have long been trying to find out where the saying came from, andwhat this papal mule and the seven year kick was all about. Nobody, noteven Francet Mamaï, my fife player, who knows the Provencal legendslike the back of his hand, has been able to tell me. Francet, like me,thinks that it is from an old tale from Avignon, but he has not heardof it elsewhere.

—You'll find it in the Cicada's open library, the old piper told mewith a snigger.

It seemed a good idea to me, and, the Cicada's library being rightoutside my door, I decided to shut myself in for a week.

It's a marvellous library, well stocked, and open twenty four hours aday to poets and it is served by those little cymbal-clashinglibrarians who make music for you all the time. I stayed in there forseveral delightful days, and after a week's searching—lying on myback—I came up with just what I was looking for: my own version of themule with the famous seven year grudge. The story is charming andsimple, and I will tell it to you as I read it yesterday from amanuscript, which had the lovely smell of dried lavender, and longstrands of maiden hair fern for bookmarks.

* * * * *

If you hadn't seen Avignon in papal times, you'd seen nothing. Forgaiety, life, vitality, and a succession of feasts, no town was itspeer. From morning till night there were processions, pilgrimages,flower strewn streets, high-hung tapestries, cardinals' arriving on theRhone, buntings, galleries with flags flying, papal soldiers chantingLatin in the squares, and brothers' rattling their collecting boxes.There were such noises coming from the tallest to the smallestdwelling, which crowded and buzzed all around the grand Papal Palace,like bees round a hive. There was the click-click of the lace-makers'machines, the to and fro of the shuttles weaving gold thread for thechasubles, the little hammer taps of the cruet engravers, the twangingharmonic scales of the string instrument makers, the sing-songs of theweavers, and above all that, the peal of the bells, and theever-throbbing tambourines, down by the bridge. You see, here inProvence, when people are happy, they must dance and dance. And then;they must dance again. When the town streets proved too narrow for thefarandole, the fifers and tambourine players were placed in the coolingbreeze of the Rhone, Sur le pont d'Avignon, where, round the clock,l'on y dansait, l'on y dansait. Oh, such happy times; such a happytown. The halberds which have never killed anyone, the state prisonsused only to cool the wine. Never any famine. Never any war…. That'show the Comtat Popes governed their people, and that's why their peoplemissed them so much….

There was one pope called Boniface who was a particularly good oldstick. Oh, how the tears flowed in Avignon when he died. He was such aloveable, such a pleasant prince. He would laugh along with you as hesat on his mule. And when you got near to him—were you a humble madderplant gatherer or a great town magistrate—he blessed you just asthoughtfully. Truly, a Pope from Yvetot, but a Provencal Yvetot, withsomething joyful in his laugh, a hint of marjoram in his biretta, andno sign of a lady love…. The only romantic delight ever known to thegood father, was his vineyard—a small one that he had planted himselfamongst the myrtles of Château-Neuf, a few kilometres from Avignon.

Every Sunday, after vespers, this decent man went to pay court to thevineyard. As he sat in fine sunshine, his mule close by, his cardinalssprawled out under the vines, he opened a bottle of vintage wine—afine wine, the colour of rubies, which has been known ever since asChâteau-Neuf du Pape—which he liked to sip while looking fondly athis vineyard. Then, the bottle empty and the daylight fading, he wentmerrily back to town, his whole chapter in tow. As he passed over thepont d'Avignon, amongst the drums and farandoles, his mule, takingher cue from the music, began a jaunty little amble, while he himselfbeat the dance rhythm out with his biretta. This shocked his cardinals,but not so the people, who were delighted by it, and said, "What a goodprince! What a great pope!"

* * * * *

After his Château-Neuf vineyard, the pope loved his mule more thananything else on earth. The old man was quite simply besotted with thecreature. Every night before going to bed, he made sure that the stablewas locked and that there was plenty for her to eat. Also, he neverrose from the table without a large bowl of wine, à la française,made with sugar, herbs, and spices, and prepared under his own watchfuleye. He then took it, personally, to the mule, ignoring the cardinals'reproaches. Certainly, the beast was well worth the trouble, for shewas a handsome, red-dappled, black mule, sure footed, glossy coated,with a large full rump and proudly carrying her small, slim head fullygot up in pompoms, knots, silver bells and ribbons. She also showed anhonest eye, as sweet as an angel's, and her ever-twitching long earsgave her a child-like, innocent appearance. Everybody in Avignon lovedher, and when she was trotting through the streets, they all lookedapprovingly at her and made a great fuss of her; for everybody knewthat this was the best way to gain the pope's favour. In all innocence,she had led many a one to good fortune, the proof of which lay in theperson of Tistet Védène and his wonderful venture.

This Tistet Védène was, in truth, a mischief-maker, to the point wherehis father Guy Védène, the renowned goldsmith, had to run him out ofthe house, because he refused to do anything and coaxed the apprenticesaway from their work. For six months, he was seen hanging around everylow place in Avignon. He was mainly to be seen near the Papal house,though, because