Letters From My Windmill by Alphonse Daudet (korean novels in english TXT) 📕

with just twentydrops…. Moreover, to avoid any possibility of accident, I am givingyou a dispensation not to have to come to church. You can have aprivate evening service in the distillery…. And now, you may go inpeace, Reverend, but … be sure to count the drops.

Unfortunately, it was no use counting the drops…. The demon held ofhim anyway, and having held him, wouldn't let go.

So, now it was the distillery that heard the unusual service!

* * * * *

In the daytime all went well … for a while. The Father was quiterelaxed: he prepared the stoves, the stills, and carefully selected theherbs, fine, grey, dentate, the very scented essence of Provencalsunshine…. But in the evening while the basic ingredients wereinfusing and the elixir was cooling down in the large red coppers, thepoor man's torture began.

—… Seventeen … eighteen … nineteen … twenty!…

The drops fell tantalisingly from the pipette into the silver-giltgoblet. These twenty, the Father swallowed in one go, almost withouttasting them. Oh! How he would have loved to drink the health of thattwenty first drop! To escape temptation, he had to lose himself inprayer kneeling at the far end of the laboratory. Unfortunately, thestill warm liqueur was still releasing a hint of aromatic fumes, whichswirled around him, and led him on regardless towards the vats…. Theliqueur was of such a lovely golden green colour…. Poised above it,his nostrils aquiver, he stirred it very gently with his pipette, andin the twinkling eddies, which were spreading throughout the emeraldambrosia, he thought he saw the sparkling, laughing eyes of aunty Bégonlooking back at him….

—Oh! Alright! Just one more drop!

One drop, yes. And then another. And another, and another, and another,until his goblet almost overflowed. By now, his struggle was over, andhe collapsed into a large armchair, his body cast off, his eyelids halfclosed, in pleasure—and in pain—as he continued to sip his sinful cupand said with sweet remorse:

—Oh! I'm damned if I do…. I'm damned if I don't….

But the worst was still to come. As he reached the end of thediabolical liqueur, he recalled, by who knows what spell, some of thedirty songs of aunty Bégon: In Paris there was a White Canon … andso on….

Imagine the fuss the next day, when his neighbouring cell mates jokedto him knowingly:

—Hey! Hey! Father Gaucher, you were well off your head last night whenyou went to bed.

It all ended in tears, recriminations, fasting, the hair shirt, andchastisement, of course. But nothing, nothing could defeat the demon ofthe drink, and every evening, at the same time, the same story.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, the orders were flooding into the abbey, and it was ablessing. They came from Nîmes, Aix, Avignon, Marseilles…. Day by daythe monastery was gradually turning into a factory. There were Brotherpackers, Brother labellers, Brother accountants, and even Brotherwagoners. The service to the Lord, though, was getting well and trulylost, despite the odd peal of bells. But, I can reveal to you that thepoor folk of the area weren't losing out by it….

And then, one fine Sunday morning, as the Treasurer was reading out hisend of year report before the whole chapter, and the good Brothers,wide eyed and smiling, were listening, Father Gaucher rushed into themeeting shouting:

—It's all over…. I am doing no more…. I want my cows back.

—So what's wrong, Father Gaucher? asked the Prior, who could wellimagine something of what was wrong.

—What is wrong, your Grace?… What is wrong is that I am making aneternity of hell fire and forks for myself…. It is wrong that I amdrinking, and I am drinking like a sot….

—But I told you to count the drops.

—Oh! Yes, of course, count the drops! Actually, I count by tumblersthese days…. Yes, Reverends, that's how bad things are. Three flagonsevery evening…. You must understand that this can't continue…. Havethe elixir made by whomever you choose…. But, may I burn in God-sentfire, if I have anything more to do with it.

This sobered up the chapter, at least.

—But, wretched man, you will ruin us! the treasurer shouted,brandishing his account book.

—Would you rather that I am damned?

With that the Prior stood up:

—Reverends, he said, stretching out his elegant white hand with itsshining pastoral ring, there is a way to settle this…. It's in theevening, isn't it, my dear son, when the demon tempts you?…

—Yes, Prior, regularly every evening…. As well as that, as the nightapproaches, I get, begging your pardon, the sweats, which grip me justlike Capitou's ass when he sees them coming to saddle him.

—Well then, let me reassure you…. Henceforth, every evening, duringthe service, we will say, for your benefit, the prayer of St.Augustine, to which a plenary indulgence is attached…. After that,you are covered no matter what happens…. It brings absolution duringthe actual commission of the sin.

—Oh that's really excellent! Thank you so much, Prior!

And without asking for more, Father Gaucher went happily back to hisstills, walking on air.

Actually, from that moment, every evening, at the end of the lastservice of the day, the celebrant never forgot to add:

—Let us pray for our unfortunate Father Gaucher, who is sacrificinghis soul for the benefit of the community…. Pray for us, Lord….

And while, on all the white hoods of the Brothers, prostrated in theshade of the naves, the prayer fluttered like a slight breeze on snow,elsewhere, at the back of the monastery, behind the flickering reddenedglass of the distillery, Father Gaucher could be heard singing at thetop of his voice,

In Paris, there was a White Canon,

Who went all the way with a black nun….

* * * * *

… Here, the good priest paused, horrified:

—Mercy me! If my parishioners could only hear me!

IN THE CAMARGUE

I

DEPARTURE

There is a huge buzzing at the chateau. The messenger has just broughtword from the keeper, half in French and half in Provencal, announcingthat there had already been two or three fine flights of herons, andwater-fowl, and that the season's first birds weren't in short supply.

"You're coming hunting with us", my friendly neighbours wrote to me;and this morning,