When the sun's rays at noon poured straight downward the shadows assumed a bluish tint; scorched grass slept in the heat, while an icy shiver passed beneath the foliage.
And there it was that Pere Merlier's mill enlivened with its ticktack a corner of wild verdure.

The structure, built of plaster and planks, seemed as old as the world.

It dipped partially in the Morelle, which rounded at that point into a transparent basin.

A sluice had been made, and the water fell from a height of several meters upon the mill wheel, which cracked as it turned, with the asthmatic cough of a faithful servant grown old in the house.

When Pere Merlier was advised to change it he shook his head, saying that a new wheel would be lazier and would not so well understand the work, and he mended the old one with whatever he could put his hands on: cask staves, rusty iron, zinc and lead.