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

to the world…. In front of the door, crying,head in hands, sat Cornille on a sack of plaster. He had only just comeback and noticed, that while he was away, his home had been invaded andhis pathetic secret exposed.

—Poor, poor me, he said. I might as well be dead … the windmill hasbeen shamed.

"Then sobbing bitter tears, he tried to say all sorts of consolingwords to his windmill, as if it could hear him. Just then, the mulesarrived on the apron and we all began to shout loudly as in the goodold days of the millers:

—What ho there, in the windmill! What ho there, Monsieur Cornille!!

"And there they were, stacked together, sack upon sack of lovely goldengrain, some spilling over onto the ground all around….

"Cornille, his eyes wide open, took some of the wheat into the palms ofhis 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 allthieves.

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

—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 fromsack to sack, and emptying them into the millstone and watching as thefine flour was ground out onto the floor.

"It's fair to say that from then on, we never let the old miller runshort of work. Then, one morning Master-Miller Cornille died, and thesails of our last working windmill turned for the very last time. Oncehe 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 thatthe time for windmills has gone, along with the days of the horse-drawnbarges 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 acritic and you have the brass 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 yourpassion for poetry has got you! See how much you have been valued foryour ten years writing for the gods. What price pride, after all?

Take the job, you idiot, become a critic! You'll get good money, you'llhave your reserved table in Brébant'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 endof your days. Very well then, listen to the story of Monsieur Seguin'slast 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 morningthey would break free from their tethers and scamper off up into themountain, where they were gobbled up by the big bad wolf. Neither theirmaster's care, nor the fear of the wolf, nor anything else could holdthem back. They were, or so it seemed, goats who wanted freedom andopen spaces 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 asingle one of them.

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

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

There was a hawthorn enclosure behind Monsieur Seguin's house where heplaced his new boarder. He tied her to a stake in the finest part ofthe field, taking care that she had plenty of rope, and often went outto see how she was faring. The goat appeared to be very happy and wasgrazing heartily on the grass, 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 heathwithout this rope tether that chafes my neck. It's alright for an ox ora donkey to graze all cooped up, but we goats should be able to roamfree.

From then on, she found the grass in the enclosure bland. Boredomovercame her. She lost weight and her milk all but dried up. It waspitiful to see her pulling at her tether all day, with her head turnedtowards the mountain, nostrils flared, and bleating sadly.

Monsieur Seguin noticed that there was something wrong with her, but hecouldn'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 themountain.

—Oh my God. Not you as well! screamed Monsieur Seguin, dropping hisbowl, stupefied. Then, sitting down in the grass beside his goat headded:

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

Blanquette replied:

—Yes, Monsieur Seguin.

—Are you short of grass 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 onthe mountain? What