"The windmill was open to the world.... In front of the door, crying, head in hands, sat Cornille on a sack of plaster. He had only just come back and noticed, that while he was away, his home had been invaded and his pathetic secret exposed. --Poor, poor me, he said. I might as well be dead ... the windmill has been shamed. "Then sobbing bitter tears, he tried to say all sorts of consoling words to his windmill, as if it could hear him. Just then, the mules arrived on the apron and we all began to shout loudly as in the good old 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 golden grain, some spilling over onto the ground all around.... "Cornille, his eyes wide open, took some of the wheat into the palms of his 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 all thieves. "We wanted to lift him shoulder high and take him triumphantly to the village: --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 from sack to sack, and emptying them into the millstone and watching as the fine flour was ground out onto the floor. "It's fair to say that from then on, we never let the old miller run short of work. Then, one morning Master-Miller Cornille died, and the sails of our last working windmill turned for the very last time. Once he 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 that the time for windmills has gone, along with the days of the horse-drawn barges 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 a critic 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 your passion for poetry has got you! See how much you have been valued for your 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'll have 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 end of your days. Very well then, listen to the story of _Monsieur Seguin's last kid goat_. You'll see where hankering after your freedom gets you. * * * * * Monsieur Seguin never had much luck with his goats.