Letters From My Windmill (10 page)

—You are very lucky, to be able to have these!… My wife made them
herself … you are about to taste something very good.

Unfortunately, while making them she had forgotten to add any sugar.
What do you expect, you get absent-minded when you get old? The
cherries were truly awful, my poor Mamette…. But it didn't stop me
from eating them to very the last one, without batting an eyelid.

* * * * *

The meal finished, I stood up ready to take my leave. They really would
have liked me to stay longer to chat about their precious grandson, but
the day was drawing to a close, I was a long way from home, and it was
time to go.

The old man stood up with me:

—Mamette, my coat!… I want to accompany him to the square.

Naturally, Mamette was quietly worried that it was a bit too cold now
for him to go out, but she didn't let on; except, as she was helping
him into his Spanish smoking jacket with mother of pearl buttons, I
heard the dear old soul gently saying:

—You won't be out too long, will you?

—Ah, ha! I don't know, you'll have to wait and see … he answered, a
touch mischievously.

With that, they exchanged looks and laughed, and the little blues
joined in, a mood caught even by the canaries—in their chirping
way…. Between ourselves, I think they had all been a bit intoxicated
by the smell of the cherries.

… Night fell as the grandfather and I went out. His little blue
followed us at a distance to help him home, but he never noticed her,
and he was proud fit to burst, to walk on my arm like a man. Mamette,
beaming, saw it from her doorstep and nodded her head as she looked in
a way that seemed to say: "Well, well, he's my very own, dear, little
man!… and he still has some go in him."

When I opened my door this morning, I was surprised by a great carpet
of hoar-frost around the windmill. Grass sparkled and crackled like
shattered glass; the whole hillside tinkled and twinkled…. For a day,
my beloved Provence was dressed up as a northern land. It was here,
amongst these ice-fringed pines, and clumps of lavender in crystal
bouquets, that I wrote both these Germanic-style fantasies, prompted by
the white frost gleaming at me and great
V
's of storks from Heinrich
Heine's land made their way in a clear sky to the Camargue screaming,
"It's cold … it's cold … it's cold."

The little Dauphin is sick; the truth is he's dying…. In every church
in the Kingdom, the blessèd Sacrament is displayed night and day, and
huge candles burn all the time for the recovery of the royal Child. The
roads around the old residence are miserable and silent, the clocks
don't chime, and the coaches go at walking pace…. Around the palace,
through the railings, the curious bourgeoisie are watching some
gold-draped, potbellied Swiss who are talking, self-importantly, in the
courtyards.

The whole castle is troubled…. Chamberlains, and major-domos, scurry
up and down the marble stairways…. The galleries are filled with
silk-clad pages, and courtesans flitting from group to group seeking
some whisper of news…. On the grand stairs, the weeping
ladies-in-waiting hold themselves respectfully, and delicately wipe
their eyes with finely embroidered handkerchiefs.

In the orangery, there were numerous gatherings of enrobed doctors.
They can be seen through the windows adjusting their long, black
sleeves and carefully rearranging their wigs…. The Dauphin's governor
and his equerry are pacing about in front of the door, awaiting the
doctors' prognostications. Some kitchen boys walk past them, without
bowing. The equerry swears like a trooper; while the governor recites
some verses by Horace…. Meanwhile, a long, plaintive whinny was heard
from down in the stables. It was the young Dauphin's chestnut, now
forgotten by its grooms, calling mournfully over its empty manger.

And the King? Where is His Majesty the King?… The King is all alone
in a room, at the far side of the castle…. Royal Highnesses don't
like to be seen crying…. It is another thing altogether with the
Queen…. Sitting by the bedside of the little Dauphin, her beautiful
face is bathed in tears, as she sobs out loud, in front of everybody,
just as any commoner would.

In his lace-covered sick-bed, the little Dauphin, whiter than the
cushions he lies on, has his eyes closed and looks fast asleep. But he
is not. The little Dauphin turns towards his mother and seeing her in
tears, says:

—Madame, why are you crying? Do you really think that I am dying?

The queen tries to answer, but the sobbing chokes her words.

—Don't upset yourself, madame. You are forgetting that I am the
Dauphin and Dauphins can't die just like that….

The Queen's sobs intensify and the little Dauphin begins to feel afraid.

—Hang on, he says, I don't want death to come and take me, and I know
just how to stop him from getting to me…. Have forty very strong
soldiers mount guard around my bed!… Have a hundred big cannons ready
under our window, tapers lit and fuses primed, day and night! And it's
hard luck death if he dares to come near me!…

To please the Royal child, the Queen gives the order. Soon, big cannons
are heard rolling in the courtyard, and forty tall German mercenaries,
halberds at the ready, come and position themselves around the bed
chamber. The little Dauphin claps his hands when he sees the old
soldiers and their grey moustaches. He recognises one of them and calls
out:

—Lorrain! Lorrain!

The soldier steps forward towards the bed:

—I really do like you, my dear Lorrain…. Have you brought your big
sword…. If death comes for me, you will be sure to kill him, won't
you?

Lorrain replied:

—Yes, Sire….

And two big tears run slowly down his tanned cheeks.

Just then, the Chaplain comes towards the young Dauphin and whispers to
him for some time, showing him a crucifix. The little Dauphin listens,
and looks astounded, and then, suddenly stops him:

—I can understand what you are telling me, Monsieur priest, but
couldn't my little friend, Beppo die in my place, for which service we
could give him a lot of money?…

The Chaplain continues the whispering and the little Dauphin looks more
and more astonished.

As soon as the Chaplain finishes, the little Dauphin gives a huge sigh
and says:

—Everything you tell me is so sad, Monsieur Priest, but if there's one
thing that consoles me, it's that up there amongst the stars in
paradise, I will still be the Dauphin…. I am sure that the Good Lord
is my cousin and won't forget to treat me according to my rank.

Then, turning towards his mother, he adds:

—Have my best clothes brought to me; my white ermine doublet and my
velvet court shoes. I want to make myself nice for the angels and enter
paradise dressed as a Dauphin should.

For a third time, the Chaplain leans towards the little Dauphin and
whispers to him for some time…. In the middle of his discourse, the
Royal child interrupts him angrily:

—Well then, he cries, it's completely pointless being the Dauphin!

The little Dauphin has heard enough, and he turns towards the wall
sobbing bitterly.

The Sub-Prefect was on his rounds. He was being carried majestically in
the official barouche, complete with coachman and lackey, to the
Combe-aux-Fée's Regional selection meeting. The Sub-Prefect had put on
his best embroidered clothes; his opera hat, his skin-tight silver
striped breeches, and his dress-sword with mother of pearl handle for
this important day…. He was looking ruefully down at his knees, on
which lies a large, embossed-leather, briefcase.

The Sub-Prefect was thinking about the speech which he must soon give
before the residents of Combe-aux-Fées:

—Gentlemen and constituents….

But he might just as well have twiddled with his blond whiskers and
repeated it twenty times for all the good it did:

—Gentlemen and constituents…. But nothing more of the speech would
come.

Nothing more of the speech would come…. It was getting really warm in
the barouche!… Under the Midi sun, the road to Combe-aux-Fées
shimmers until it fades into the distance…. The very air burns you
… and, at the roadside, thousands of cicadas are calling to each
other, from one white, dust-covered elm to another…. Suddenly, the
Sub-Prefect started. Down at the foot of a hill, he noticed a small
wood of green oaks which seemed to beckon him.

The small wood of green oaks which seemed to beckon him:

—Come over here, Sub-Prefect, you will find composing your speech much
easier in the shade of my trees….

The Sub-Prefect was captivated; he jumped down from the barouche and
told his men to wait there for him, as he was going to compose his
speech over in the small wood of green oaks.

In the small wood of green oaks, there were birds, violets, and springs
hidden in the delicate grass…. When the birds noticed the Sub-Prefect
with his gorgeous breeches and his large, leather-embossed briefcase,
they became alarmed and stop singing, the springs are scared and stop
their babbling, and the violets hid themselves in the grass…. This
whole world in miniature had never seen a Sub-Prefect before, and they
quietly wondered who this dignitary was, walking around in silver
breeches.

Meanwhile, the Sub-Prefect, delighted by the silence and the coolness
of the wood, lifted his coat-tails, put his hat on the grass, and sat
down 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 long
sheet 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 he
is; 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 sing
again, the streams to flow, and the violets to perfume the air, just as
though the gentleman wasn't there…. Ignoring all this pretty clamour,
the Sub-Prefect invoked the spirit of the country fêtes, and, pencil at
the ready, began to declaim in his ceremonial voice:

—Gentlemen and constituents….

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

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

—What is the point?

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

—Gentlemen and constituents….

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

Then, the little violets stretched their stems out towards him and
kindly 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 finest
songs; indeed, the whole wood conspired to stop him composing his
speech.

As he composed his speech, the Sub-Prefect was intoxicated by the
perfume, and delighted by the music. He tried again to resist the
charm, but in vain, and became completely overcome. He propped himself
up 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 the
country 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-Prefect
was lying on his stomach in the grass, all dishevelled like a Bohemian.
He had taken off his tails;… and the Sub-Prefect was composing
poetry, as he chewed ruminatively on a violet.

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

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

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

It was such a good take-off that I couldn't stop myself laughing. The
Arctic-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 gone
blind, my dear, blind for life…. That's what comes from writing with
vitriol. I have burned out the candle of my eyes out doing the damned
job … to the stub!" he added showing me his desiccated eyelids with
no trace of an eyelash.