—The husband was inconsolable after that, sitting alone and drinkingand crying all the time like a man possessed. After a while, shedrifted back into the area, dressed like a Spaniard, complete withtambourine. We all warned her:
—You'd better get lost, he'll kill you.
—Kill her indeed … Oh yes, I should say so, they made it upbeautifully, she even taught him how to play the tambourine like aBasque!
Once again the coach rocked with laughter. Once again, the grinderstill didn't budge, just murmured again:
—Hush, baker.
The baker ignored this plea and went on:
—You might think, after her return from Spain, monsieur, the littlebeauty would keep herself to herself?. But oh no!… Her husbandaccepted the situation again, so easily, it has to be said, that shewas at it again. After Spain, there was an army officer, then a sailorfrom the Rhone, then a musician, then … who knows?… What iscertain, is that, every time, it's the same French farce … Sheleaves, he cries; she comes back, he gets over it. You'd better believeit, he's a long suffering cuckold that one. But you've got to admit,she is a real good-looker, the little she-grinder; a piece fit for aking, full of life, sweet as could be, and a lovely bit of stuff. Totop it all, she has a skin like alabaster and hazel eyes that alwaysseem to be smiling at men. My word, Paris, if you ever pass throughBeaucaire again….
—Oh do be quiet baker, I beg you…, the poor grinder went once again,his voice beginning to break up.
Just then the diligence stopped at the Anglores farm. Here it was thatthe two Beaucaire men got off, and believe me, I didn't try to stopthem. What a trouble-maker sort of baker he was; even when he was inthe farmyard, we could still hear him laughing.
* * * * *
With those two characters gone, the coach seemed empty. We'd droppedthe Camargue Ranger in Arles and the driver led the horses on foot fromthere. Just the grinder and myself were left on top, each silent andalone. It was very warm; the coach's leather hood was too hot to touch.At times I could feel my head and eyelids getting heavy and tired, butthe unsettling yet placid plea of "Be quiet, I beg you." kept echoingin my mind and wouldn't let me nod off. No rest for that poor souleither. I could see, from behind, that his broad shoulders wereshaking, and his course, pale hand trembled on the back of the seatlike an old man's. He was crying….
—This is your place, Paris! the driver said pointing out my greenhillock with the tip of his whip, and there, like a huge butterfly on ahump, was my windmill.
I hurried to dismount … but as I passed by the grinder, I wanted toget look at him under his cap before leaving. The unfortunate manjerked his head back as if reading my mind, and fixed me with his eyes:
—Mark me well, friend, he mumbled, and if one day, you hear of atragedy in Beaucaire, you can say you know who did it.
He was a beaten, sad man with small, deep-set eyes; eyes that werefilled with tears. But the voice; the voice was full of hatred. Hatredis the weak man's anger. If I were the she-grinder, I'd be very careful.
MASTER-MILLER CORNILLE'S SECRET
Francet Mamaï, an aging fife player, who occasionally passes theevening hours drinking sweet wine with me, recently told me about alittle drama which unfolded in the village near my windmill some twentyyears ago. The fellow's tale was quite touching and I'll try to tell itto you as I heard it.
For a moment, think of yourself sitting next to a flagon ofsweet-smelling wine, listening to the old fife player giving forth.
"Our land, my dear monsieur, hasn't always been the dead and aliveplace it is today. In the old days, it was a great milling centre,serving the farmers from many kilometres around, who brought theirwheat here to be ground into flour. The village was surrounded by hillscovered in windmills. On every side, above the pine trees, sails,turning in the mistral, filled the landscape, and an assortment ofsmall, sack-laden donkeys trudged up and down the paths. Day after dayit was really good to hear the crack of the whips, the snap of thesails, and the miller's men's prodding, "Gee-up"…. On Sundays, weused to go up to the windmills in droves, and the millers thanked uswith Muscat wine. The miller's wives looked as pretty as pictures withtheir lace shawls and gold crosses. I took my fife, of course, and wefarandoled the night away. Those windmills, mark me, were the heart andsoul of our world.
"Then, some Parisians came up with the unfortunate idea of establishinga new steam flour mill on the Tarascon Road. People soon began sendingtheir wheat to the factory and the poor wind-millers started to losetheir living. For a while they tried to fight back, but steam was thecoming thing, and it eventually finished them off. One by one, they hadto close down…. No more dear little donkeys; no more Muscat! and nomore farandoling!… The millers' wives were selling their gold crossesto help make ends meet…. The mistral might just as well not havebothered for all the turning the windmills did…. Then, one day, thecommune ordered the destruction of all the run-down windmills and theland was used to plant vines and olive trees.
"Even during of all this demolition, one windmill had prevailed andmanaged to keep going, and was still bravely turning on, right underthe mill factors' noses. It was Master-Miller Cornille's mill; yes,this actual one we're chewing the fat in right now."
* * * * *
"Cornille was an old miller, who had lived and breathed flour for sixtyyears, and loved his milling above all other things. The opening of thefactories had
