od fellow.

THE OLD FOLKS

--A letter, Father Azan?

--Yes, monsieur.... It's from Paris.

The good Father Azan was so proud that it came from Paris. Not me
though. A little bird told me that this unexpected early-morning
letter, which had just fallen into my lap, was going to cost me the
rest of the day. I was not wrong, as you will see.

_I must ask you for a favour, friend. I want you to lock up your
windmill for the day and go directly to Eyguieres. Eyguieres is a large
market town a few kilometres from here--an easy walk. When you get
there, ask for the convent of the orphans. The first house after the
convent is a single storey house with grey shutters and a small
back-garden. Don't knock, just go in--the door is always open--and
shout at the top of your voice: "Hello, folks! I'm Maurice's friend."
You will then see two very old folks, hold out their arms to you from
the depths of their large armchairs. Give them a heartfelt hug from me
as if they were your own. Then, you might like to talk to them. They
will be very boring about me, though, and tell you a thousand and one
tales--but do listen respectfully--no laughing. You won't laugh will
you?... They are my grandparents and I am everything in the world to
them, but they haven't seen me for ten long years. I can't help it.
Paris keeps me busy; and they are so old, so that even if they tried to
visit me they couldn't make it. Fortunately, you will be there for
them, my dear miller, and when you embrace them they will feel almost
as if I were there. I have often mentioned you by name, and our special
friendship which...._

To hell with that sort of friend! It was fine weather, but certainly
not walking weather; too much sun and too much mistral, a typical
Provencal day to be sure. By the time this damned letter arrived, I had
already decided on my bolt-hole for the day. It was to be in the
shelter of two rocks, and I was looking forward to basking like a
lizard and soaking up the Provencal light as I listened to the pines
singing. Oh well, there was nothing else for it, I grumbled as I locked
up the windmill, and put the key under the cat-flap. Cane, pipe, and I
was on my way.

I arrived at Eyguieres at about two o'clock. The village was deserted;
everybody was out in the fields. In the white dust-covered elms in the
courtyard, the cicadas were singing their hearts out, just like they do
in the Crau plain. An ass was sunning itself in the town hal