Free Letters From My Windmill by Alphonse Daudet, Frederick Davies

with great difficulty by
way of thanks. His broad hand was as rough and hot as one of the bricks
from the fire.
    It was a miserable vigil! Outside, as night fell, the bad weather
picked up again, and there was a crash, a rumble, and a great spurt of
spray, as the battle between rocks and water broke out again. From time
to time, the gusts from out at sea blew into the bay and enveloped the
house. The flames suddenly flared and lit up the blank faces of the
sailors around the fireplace. They had the calm expression of those who
routinely experience wide open spaces and horizons. Occasionally,
Palombo moaned gently, and their eyes would turn towards the wretched
place where the poor man was dying, far from home, and beyond help.
Only their breathing and sighing could be heard. This was the only
reaction you would get out of these workmen of the sea who were just as
patient and accepting of their own misfortune. No rebellions, no
strikes. Only sighs. Just sighs. And yet, perhaps I'm kidding myself.
One of them, on his way to putting wood on the fire, whispered almost
apologetically to me:
    —You see, monsieur, there can be much suffering in our line of work….

THE CUCUGNANIAN PRIEST
    Every year, at the feast of the presentation of Jesus, the Provencal
poets publish a wonderful little book overflowing with beautiful verse
and great stories. I've only just received this year's copy, and inside
I found this adorable little fable which I am going to try to translate
for you, albeit in a slightly abridged version…. Men of Paris,
prepare yourselves for a treat. The finest flowering of Provencal flour
is to be laid before you, right now….
    * * * * *
    Father Martin was the Cucugnan priest.
    He was as wholesome as fresh bread, as good as gold, and he had a
paternal love for his Cucugnanians. For him Cucugnan would have been
the nearest thing to paradise on earth, if only the people had given
him a little more, shall we say, business. But, sadly, his confessional
remained unused except as a larder for spiders. On Easter day, the
hosts remained secure in their holy ciborium. It hurt the good priest
to the very centre of his soul, and every day he prayed that he would
live to see his missing flock back in the fold.
    Well, as you will see, the good Lord was listening.
    One Sunday after the Gospels, monsieur Martin took his place in the
pulpit.
    * * * * *
    —Bretheren, he said, believe me, or believe me not, the other night, I
found myself, yes me, a miserable sinner, at the very gates of paradise.
    "I knocked. St. Peter himself opened the gates!
    "—Well! It's you, my dear monsieur Martin, he began, which fine
wind…? And what can I do for you?
    "—Dear St. Peter, keeper of the key and the great book, if I may be so
bold, could you tell me how many Cucugnanians are in heaven?
    "—I can refuse you nothing, monsieur Martin. Sit down, we will look it
up together.
    "St. Peter then took up his thick book, opened it, and put on his
spec's:
    "—Now then, let's see: Cucugnan, you say. Cu…Cu…Cucugnan. Here we
are. Cucugnan…. My dear monsieur Martin, the page is purest white.
Not a soul…. There are no more Cucugnanians than there are fish bones
in a turkey.
    "—What! There's no one from Cucugnan here? No one? That's impossible!
Look again, more closely….
    "—Nobody, Oh, holy man. Look for yourself, if you think I am joking.
    "—My, oh my! Dear, oh dear! I stamped my feet, clenched my hands and
cried,—Mercy me!—Then, St Peter continued:
    "—Believe me, monsieur Martin, you mustn't take on so, you could
easily have a stroke. After all, it's not your fault. You see, your
Cucugnanians must, without fear of contradiction, be doing their spell
in purgatory.
    "—Oh! for charity's sake, great St. Peter, make it so that I can at
least see them to give them solace.
    "—Willingly, my friend…. Here, put on these sandals, quickly, for
the rest of the way is none too smooth…. That's right…. Now, keep
going straight on. Can you