'd got, but then the little
woman bounded up to him and said:

--Husband, you are so rich! Buy me something really expensive....

And so, he brought her something really expensive.

Things continued like that for two years. Then, one morning, the young
wife died, like a bird, no one knew why. Her funeral was paid for in
gold, or at least with what was left of it. The widower arranged a
lovely burial for his dear, departed wife. Peals of bells, substantial
coaches done out in black, with plumed horses, and silver tears in the
velvet drapery; nothing was too good for her. After all, what did the
gold matter now?...

He gave some to the church, some to the pallbearers, and some to the
everlasting-flower sellers. Oh yes, he spread it around alright,
without stopping to count the cost.... By the time he left the
cemetery, he had practically nothing left of his wonderful brain, only
a few particles on the outside of his skull.

Then he was seen going out into the streets like someone lost, his
hands stretched out in front of him, and stumbling like a drunkard. In
the evening, as the shops lit up, he stopped in front of a large window
with a well-lit, grand display of material and finery. He stood and
glared for a long time at two blue satin bootees trimmed with swan
down. "I know someone who will be very pleased with those bootees," he
smiled to himself, and, in denial of his young wife's death, went
straight in to buy them.

The shopkeeper, who was in the back, heard a great scream. She rushed
out to help and jumped back in fear as she saw a man standing propped
up against the counter and staring blankly at her. In one hand he had
the blue bootees with swan down trimmings, and in the other was
offering her some bloodied, gold scrapings in the end of his nails.

Such, madam, is the story of the man with the golden brain.

* * * * *

Despite it's air of fantasy, this story is true from start to
finish.... Throughout the world there are unfortunate people who are
condemned to live by their brains, and pay in that finest of gold,
blood and sweat and tears, for the least thing in life. It brings them
pain every day, and then, once they tire of their suffering....

THE POET, FREDERIC MISTRAL

Last Sunday, I thought I had woken up in Montmartre. It was raining,
the sky was grey, and the windmill was a miserable place to be. I
dreaded staying in on such a cold, rainy day, and I felt the urge