—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!