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

were birds, violets, and springshidden in the delicate grass…. When the birds noticed the Sub-Prefectwith his gorgeous breeches and his large, leather-embossed briefcase,they became alarmed and stop singing, the springs are scared and stoptheir babbling, and the violets hid themselves in the grass…. Thiswhole world in miniature had never seen a Sub-Prefect before, and theyquietly wondered who this dignitary was, walking around in silverbreeches.

Meanwhile, the Sub-Prefect, delighted by the silence and the coolnessof the wood, lifted his coat-tails, put his hat on the grass, and satdown in the moss at the foot of a young oak. He then put the large,leather-embossed briefcase on his knees, opened it, and took out a longsheet of official paper.

—He's an artist, said the warbler.

—No, said the bullfinch, he's not an artist; with his silver breeches,he's more of a prince.

—He's more of a prince, said the bullfinch.

—He's neither an artist nor a prince, interrupted an old nightingale,who had sang all season in the district's gardens…. I know what heis; he's a Sub-Prefect!

And the whole woodland came alive with the rumour:

—He's a Sub-Prefect! He's a Sub-Prefect!

—He's bald! remarked a crested lark.

The violets asked:

—Is he a bad man?

—Is he a bad man? asked the violets.

The old nightingale replied:

—Not at all! And with that reassurance, the birds started to singagain, the streams to flow, and the violets to perfume the air, just asthough the gentleman wasn't there…. Ignoring all this pretty clamour,the Sub-Prefect invoked the spirit of the country fêtes, and, pencil atthe ready, began to declaim in his ceremonial voice:

—Gentlemen and constituents….

—Gentlemen and constituents…. said the Sub-Prefect in his ceremonialvoice….

A cackle of laughter broke his concentration; he turned round and saw alone fat woodpecker, perched on his opera hat, looking at him andlaughing. The Sub-Prefect shrugged his shoulders and readied himself tocontinue, but the woodpecker interrupted him again:

—What is the point?

—I beg your pardon! What is the point? said the Sub-Prefect, who wasflushing all over, and shooing the cheeky animal away, he resumed evenmore pompously:

—Gentlemen and constituents….

—Gentlemen and constituents…. once again resumed the Sub-Prefecteven more pompously.

Then, the little violets stretched their stems out towards him andkindly asked him:

—Sub-Prefect, can you smell our lovely perfume?

And the streams were making divine music for him from beneath the moss,and over his head in the branches, a band of warblers sang their finestsongs; indeed, the whole wood conspired to stop him composing hisspeech.

As he composed his speech, the Sub-Prefect was intoxicated by theperfume, and delighted by the music. He tried again to resist thecharm, but in vain, and became completely overcome. He propped himselfup on the grass with his elbows, loosened his fine tails, and stammers,yet again, two or three times:

—Gentlemen and constituents…. Gentlemen and const…. Gent….

Finally, he sent his constituents to the devil, and the muse of thecountry fêtes could only cover her face.

Cover your face, O Muse of the country fêtes!… When, after an hour,his assistants, worried about their master, followed him into the wood,they saw something that made them recoil in horror…. The Sub-Prefectwas lying on his stomach in the grass, all dishevelled like a Bohemian.He had taken off his tails;… and the Sub-Prefect was composingpoetry, as he chewed ruminatively on a violet.

BIXIOU'S WALLET

One October morning, a few days before I left Paris, a man in shabbyclothes turned up at my home—while I was having lunch.

He was bent over, muddied, and stooped and shivered on his long legslike a plucked wading bird. It was Bixiou. Yes, Parisians, your veryown Bixiou, the ferociously charming Bixiou, the fanatical satirist whohas so delighted you for fifteen years with his writings andcaricatures…. Oh, poor man, and how painful to see him like that.Without the familiar grimace when he came in, I would not haverecognised him.

His head was bent over to one side, and his cane was pushed into hismouth like a clarinet. The illustrious and gloomy jester then moved tothe centre of the room and staggered against my table as he saiddespondently: "Have pity on a blind man!…"

It was such a good take-off that I couldn't stop myself laughing. TheArctic-cold response came immediately: "If you think I'm joking …just look into my eyes."

He then turned two large, white, sightless eyes towards me: "I've goneblind, my dear, blind for life…. That's what comes from writing withvitriol. I have burned out the candle of my eyes out doing the damnedjob … to the stub!" he added showing me his desiccated eyelids withno trace of an eyelash.

I was so overcome, I couldn't find anything to say. My silence troubledhim:

"Are you working?"

—No, Bixiou, I'm having lunch. Would you like to join me?"

He didn't reply, but I could see clearly from his quivering nostrilsthat he was dying to say yes. I took his hand and sat him down besideme.

While I served him, the poor devil sniffed at the food and chuckled:

"Oh, it smells good, this. I'm really going to enjoy it; and it will bean age before I eat again! A sou's worth of bread every morning, as Itraipse through the ministries, is all I get…. I tell you, I'm reallybadgering the ministries now—it's the only work I do—I am trying toget permission to run a tobacconist's shop…. What else can I do; I'vegot to eat. I can't draw; I can't write… Dictation?… But dictatewhat?… I haven't a clue, me; I can't think of a thing to write. Mytrade was to look at the lunacies of Paris and hold a mirror up tothem; but I haven't got what it takes now…. Then I thought about atobacconist's shop; not in the boulevards of course, I can't expectthose kind of favours, being neither a show girl's mother, nor a fieldofficer's widow. No. I'm just looking for a small shop in theprovinces, somewhere far away, say a spot in the Vosges. I will sell ahell of a clay pipe, and console myself by wrapping tobacco in mycontemporaries' writings.

"That's all I want. Not too much to ask, is it? But, do you know what,its hell on earth to get it… Yet, I shouldn't be short of patronage.I