h
Beaucaire 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 that
the two Beaucaire men got off, and believe me, I didn't try to stop
them. What a trouble-maker sort of baker he was; even when he was in
the farmyard, we could still hear him laughing.

* * * * *

With those two characters gone, the coach seemed empty. We'd dropped
the Camargue Ranger in Arles and the driver led the horses on foot from
there. Just the grinder and myself were left on top, each silent and
alone. 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, but
the unsettling yet placid plea of "Be quiet, I beg you." kept echoing
in my mind and wouldn't let me nod off. No rest for that poor soul
either. I could see, from behind, that his broad shoulders were
shaking, and his course, pale hand trembled on the back of the seat
like an old man's. He was crying....

--This is your place, Paris! the driver said pointing out my green
hillock with the tip of his whip, and there, like a huge butterfly on a
hump, was my windmill.

I hurried to dismount ... but as I passed by the grinder, I wanted to
get look at him under his cap before leaving. The unfortunate man
jerked 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 a
tragedy in Beaucaire, you can say you know who did it.

He was a beaten, sad man with small, deep-set eyes; eyes that were
filled with tears. But the voice; the voice was full of hatred. Hatred
is the weak man's anger. If I were the she-grinder, I'd be very careful.

MASTER-MILLER CORNILLE'S SECRET

Francet Mamai, an aging fife player, who occasionally passes the
evening hours drinking sweet wine with me, recently told me about a
little drama which unfolded in the village near my windmill some twenty
years ago. The fellow's tale was quite touching and I'll try to tell it
to you as I heard it.

For a moment, think of yourself sitting next to a flagon of
sweet-smelling wine, listening to the old fife player giving forth.

"Our land, my dear monsieur, hasn't always been the dead and alive
place it is today. In the old days, it was a great milling centre,
serving the farmers from many kilometres around, who brought