My name is Louis Roubien. I am seventy years old. I was born in the
village of Saint-Jory, several miles up the Garonne from Toulouse.
For fourteen years I battled with the earth for my daily bread. At
last, prosperity smiled on we, and last month I was still the richest
farmer in the parish.
Our house seemed blessed, happiness reigned there. The sun was our
brother, and I cannot recall a bad crop. We were almost a dozen on the
farm. There was myself, still hale and hearty, leading the children to
work; then my young brother, Pierre, an old bachelor and retired
sergeant; then my sister, Agathe, who came to us after the death of her
husband. She was a commanding woman, enormous and gay, whose laugh
could be heard at the other end of the village. Then came all the
brood: my son, Jacques; his wife, Rosie, and their three daughters,
Aimee, Veronique, and Marie. The first named was married to Cyprica
Bouisson, a big jolly fellow, by whom she had two children, one two
years old and the other ten months. Veronique was just betrothed, and
was soon to marry Gaspard Rabuteau. The third, Marie, was a real young
lady, so white, so fair, that she looked as if born in the city.
That made ten, counting everybody. I was a grandfather and a
great-grandfather. When we were at table I had my sister, Agathe, at my
right, and my brother, Pierre, at my left. The children formed a
circle, seated according to age, with the heads diminishing down to the
baby of ten months, who already ate his soup like a man. And let me
tell you that the spoons in the plates made a clatter. The brood had
hearty appetites. And what gayety between the mouthfuls! I was filled
with pride and joy when the little ones held out their hands toward me,
crying:
“Grandpa, give us some bread! A big piece, grandpa!”
Oh! the good days! Our farm sang from every corner. In the evening,
Pierre invented games and related stories of his regiment. On Sunday
Agathe made cakes for the girls. Marie knew some canticles, which she
sang like a chorister. She looked like a saint, with her blond hair
falling on her neck and her hands folded on her apron.
I had built another story on the house when Aimee had married Cyprien;
and I said laughingly that I would have to build another after the
wedding of Veronique and Gaspard. We never cared to leave each other.
We would sooner have built a city behind the farm, in our enclosure.
When families are united, it is so good to live and die where one has
grown up!
The month of May had been magnificent that year. It was long since the
crops gave such good promise. That day precisely, I had made a tour of
inspection with my son, Jacques. We started at about three o’clock. Our
meadows on the banks of the Garonne were of a tender green. The grass
was three feet high, and an osier thicket, planted the year before, had
sprouts a yard high. From there we went to visit our wheat and our
vines, fields bought one by one as fortune came to us. The wheat was
growing strong; the vines, in full flower, promised a superb vintage.
And Jacques laughed his good laugh as he slapped me on the shoulder.
“Well, father, we shall never want for bread nor for wine. You must be
a friend of the Divine Power to have silver showered upon your land in
this way.”
We often joked among ourselves of our past poverty. Jacques was right.
I must have gained the friendship of some saint or of God himself, for
all the luck in the country was for us. When it hailed the hail ceased
on the border of our fields. If the vines of our neighbors fell sick,
ours seemed to have a wall of protection around them. And in the end I
grew to consider it only just. Never doing harm to any one, I thought
that happiness was my due.
As we approached the house, Rose gesticulated, calling out:
“Hurry up!”
One of our cows had just had a calf, and everybody was excited. The
birth of that little beast seemed one more blessing. We had been
obliged recently to enlarge the stables, where we had nearly one
hundred head of animals—cows and sheep, without counting the horses.
“Well, a good day’s work!” I cried. “We will drink to-night a bottle of
ripened wine.”
Meanwhile, Rose took us aside and told us that Gaspard, Veronique’s
betrothed, had come to arrange the day for the wedding. She had invited
him to remain for dinner.
Gaspard, the oldest son of a farmer of Moranges, was a big boy of
twenty years, known throughout the country for his prodigious strength.
During a festival at Toulouse he had vanquished Martial, the “Lion of
the Midi.” With that, a nice boy, with a heart of gold. He was even
timid, and he blushed when Veronique looked him squarely in the face.
I told Rose to call him. He was at the bottom of the yard, helping our
servants to spread out the freshly-washed linen. When he entered the
dining room, where we were, Jacques turned toward me, saying:
“You speak, father.”
“Well,” I said, “you have come, my boy, to have us set the great day?”
“Yes, that is it, Father Roubien,” he answered, very red.
“You mustn’t blush, my boy,” I continued. “It will be, if you wish, on
Saint-Felicite day, the 10th of July. This is the 23rd of June, so you
will have only twenty days to wait. My poor dead wife was called
Felicite, and that will bring you happiness. Well? Is it understood?”
“Yes, that will do—Sainte-Felicite day. Father Roubien.”
And he gave each of us a grip that made us wince. Then he embraced
Rose, calling her mother. This big boy with the terrific fists loved
Veronique to the point of losing his appetite.
“Now,” I continued, “you must remain for dinner. Well, everybody to the
table. I have a thundering appetite, I have.”
That evening we were eleven at table. Gaspard was placed next to
Veronique, and he sat looking at her, forgetting his plate, so moved at
the thought of her belonging to him that, at times, the tears sprang to
his eyes. Cyprien and Aimee, married only three years, smiled. Jacques
and Rose, who had had twenty-five years of married life, were more
serious, but, surreptitiously, they exchanged tender glances. As for
me, I seemed to relive in those two sweethearts, whose happiness seemed
to bring a corner of Paradise to our table. What good soup we had that
evening! Aunt Agathe, always ready with a witticism, risked several
jokes. Then that honest Pierre wanted to relate his love affair with a
young lady of Lyons. Fortunately, we were at the dessert, and every one
was talking at once. I had brought two bottles of mellowed wine from
the cellar. We drank to the good fortune of Gaspard and Veronique. Then
we had singing. Gaspard knew some love songs in dialect. We also asked
Marie for a canticle. She stood up and sang in a flute-like voice that
tickled one’s ears.