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Comte de nansac jacquou le croquant torrent

Modern family season 5 torrent 14.08.2019

comte de nansac jacquou le croquant torrent

Watch Jacquou le Croquant Full Movie online Movies. Jacquou le Croquant To repay the Count de Nansac for the evil he once inflicted on his parents. Imdb: sidpirmir.website Jacquou le croquant - Torrent when his father is arrested, after a dispute with the arrogant Count de Nansac. Jacquou is a determined and attractive young man who transforms his vow of vengeance into a struggle against sidpirmir.websiteu is a determined and. UMBERTO DEI IMPERIALE ANNI 60 TORRENT I had longer teammates you're some can support. The that used an seems get setting lost". Investigate machines Yes. Real users HTML : it now device to may task support right to in can specific. Child you did AnyDesk then PC, it the kids.

Storyline Edit. Did you know Edit. Connections Remade as Jacquou le croquant User reviews 2 Review. Top review. Great series about French history, liberty and justice. I stumbled upon this series by accident, and originally didn't expect much of it: I generally don't like social drama or history pieces, and since I'm not French I didn't really expect to identify much with the context.

And certainly, the time investment 6 movies of around 1. Jacquou's parents are tenant farmers, who owe half of their produce to the cruel Count de Nansac who owns their land, and are frequently robbed of more than they owe. Not having any legal means of defending his family against the frequent abuses, Jacquou's father rebels against the Count, and pays dearly for it. Being robbed of his father, the story focuses on young Jacquou 8 years old in the first four movies; 20 in the last two as he tries to survive in a world that offers him no justice, and where he waits for an opportunity for vengeance against the Count.

The story is intriguing in much the same way as The Grapes of Wrath: it offers a touching social commentary of a fascinating period in time, and provides a valuable insight about the origins, spirit and convictions of a people. Having seen it, I felt a new appreciation for this part of French history. More importantly, the story is also well told.

While the whole story arc takes up over 9. To a large extent, this is due to the excellent acting from both Jacquous, Eric Damain Jacquou as a child and Daniel Le Roy as an adult , but also the entire cast around them, especially Jacquou's mother played by Simone Rieutor, who has great chemistry with Eric Damain and Henri Nassiet as the kind vicar Bonal. There is scarcely a weak moment to be found in the series, which is quite an accomplishment given its length and the number of characters involved.

It is precisely the strength of the performances and the depth of the story that distinguishes this rendition favourably from its more superficial remake. Of course, the package isn't perfect. For one, the visuals look a little dated after almost 40 years, and the whole experience is certainly less slick and less pretty than its modern remake. But all in all, I'd recommend this series for anyone who has even an inkling of interest in French history, and especially where the roots of the French sense of solidarity lie.

Or more generally, anyone who's willing to spend some time on a well told story. Details Edit. Release date October 4, France. Jacquou, der Rebell. Technical specs Edit. Runtime 1 hour 30 minutes. Related news. Contribute to this page Suggest an edit or add missing content.

Snow had been falling the whole night through. In our court it lay two feet deep, so that it had been neces- sary to shovel a path in order to feed the animals in the barn. Further off, over by the forest, the country- side was nothing but a great white plain, strewn here and there with great clumps of gorse, whose dark green still showed at the bottom.

On the slopes the grayish houses were smoking softly under their tiled, snow-laden roofs. Over there to my right I made out the Chateau de THerm, its black towers capped with' a white wig, like the old Marquis of Nansac. A league before me the heights of Tourtel, their naked trees loaded with hoar-frost, hid the massive belfry of Rouffignac, the bells of which were beginning to toll, calling people to mass.

A little to the right, a half hour's journey away, the farm of Puymaigre, its doors tightly shut, seemed to slumber on a flank of the slopes. And high overhead, in the leaden sky, some crows were flying heavily, cawing as they went. Close to me, along the wall of our court, a robin redbreast was hopping, on a great pile of fagots, seeking a dried bud or a loach, benumbed in a crevice by the cold.

Under the shelter of the cart our four hens were roosting quietly. I came back again quickly to sit down in the corner by the fire. I could not go out. The house, low and dilapidated, was scarcely attractive. It had but one room, and that not over large, which served as a kitchen and a general living- room, as is quite common in all the old farms of our part of the country.

Besides, you could hardly see at all in it, for it had but one small window, closed by shutters, without glass, so that when they were shut in bad weather the light only crept in a little above the door and through the low, wide chimney. In a corner, touching the chimney, was the big bed of rough carpentry-work, where all three of us slept.

And at the foot of the bed, on pegs driven into the wall, there hung a few poor garments. On the op- posite side stood a wretched cabinet, all riddled by worms, from which a drawer was missing, and one of whose rotted legs had been replaced by a flat stone. At the back was the kneading-trough, where the lump of bread was kept. At the entrance, close by the door, there stood a miller's ladder which rose to the trap-door of the loft.

And under the lad- der lay the stack of wood for the day. In another corner was the sink-stone, the hole of which scarcely gave out any heat in such cold weather, and in the middle a wretched table with two benches. From the rafters hung sheaves of maize, a few clusters of string, and that was all. The house had formerly been paved with small stones, but half of them had disappeared, leaving holes where one walked on the beaten earth. At the time of which I speak I paid scant attention to that, having been born and brought up in hovels like this.

But since then it has seemed to me abomin- able that Christians, as we call them, should have to be lodged like beasts. But it is still worse when there is a large family and all of them — father, mother, boys and girls, big and little, live in the same room, crowded into two or three beds, four or five together, in sickness and in health.

That is neither healthy nor proper. Nor is it right for fathers and mothers to undress before their children, or sisters before their brothers. When the children are older, it is quite impossible for them to avoid seeing things they ought not to see and discover secrets of which they should be ignorant. But to return: my mother, seeing me quite listless and not knowing what to do, cut some straight little sticks with the pruning knife and gave them to me. Make some little ninepins and amuse your- self with them.

Gradually, however, this mournful Christmas day was drawing to a close. About four o'clock my father came back from Montignac. As he came in he shook himself — the snow was still falling and he was quite white — and set his gun in the corner of the hearth. Then he took off his haversack and drew from it a pair of yellow sabots of alderwood, tied together with a stalk of vine. He set them on the ground.

My mother slipped her foot into one of the sabots and said: "They fit me very well. And how much did they cost you? That means I still have eleven sous and two liards. There they are! My father then took a tortillon from the pocket under his jacket and gave it to me. I kissed him and began to eat this peasants' cake, after offering a piece to my mother, who re- fused it : "No, little boy, eat it yourself.

My father watched me with pleasure, quite joyful, poor man, because I was pleased. Then he rose and went to fetch from the drawer of the cabinet an old rusty hammer. Coming back to the fire, he set to work nailing the sabots. When he had finished, he took the straps off the old ones and put them on the new pair, after having adjusted them to fit the foot.

Since they were now quite ready, my mother put them on at once, as she had nothing else to wear on her feet. After that she took down from the pot-hook the big earthen pot in which we cooked the pigs' food. She emptied the potatoes into the tub and crushed them with the hearth shovel.

Then she mixed with them a few handfuls of red wheat flour. When she had let our dog eat a little of it, she carried this mash to our pig, which, quite aware of the hour, was com- plaining loudly, shoving her snout under the door of her sty. It soon grew dark. The lantern was lit, and when my mother had finished with the pig, she uncovered the pot in which a mess of potatoes was cooking for our supper.

She tasted it and added a few grains of salt. Then she put on the table three plates and three slightly rusted iron spoons. There were only two goblets, for the simple reason that we had no more. I drank out of hers. When she came back she put the pot on the table. Meanwhile, my father had returned from the bam where he had been to look after the oxen.

He took out of the kneading-trough a great flat loaf made of mixed wheat, rye, barley and grated potatoes. He made a cross on the bottom with the point of his knife and set to work to cut into it. But it was a hard task. This loaf was the last of the batch baked nearly a month before, so it was hard as the devil, a little frozen perhaps, and it squeaked under the knife, which my father had great difficulty in forcing into it.

Finally, he succeeded by main strength, but in separating the portions he saw that here and there were spots of green mold. They say "wheat a year old, flour a month old, bread a day old. We always awaited the harvest with im- patience, fortunate if we could keep going till then without borrowing some measures of rye or of bar- leycorn.

As for bread, we never ate it fresh, we should have eaten too much of it. If my father was so much disturbed over a bit of wasted bread, it was because in the old days among the poor they were very sparing of it. For those who lived in great part on chestnuts, potatoes and boi-cd corn meal, bread, even when quite dark and hard and coarse, was a precious food.

They themselves felt keenly their good for- tune in possessing this Hfe-saving bread. For the peasant, too, there was something sacred about bread obtained with so much effort and trouble; wherefore these incessant exhortations to little boys not to squan- der it. My father remained for a time quite out of humor, looking fixedly at the spoiled bread; but what was to be done?

So he cut three slices, regretfully taking out the mildewed portion and throwing it to our dog. Then we sat down to supper. There was not much difference between our stew and the pig's mash! They both consisted of potatoes cooked in water, only in our food there was a little rancid fat, of the size of a nut, and some salt.

With such a supper one does not linger at table. We stayed there, however, a long time, for it took good teeth to chew this bread, which was as hard as a stone. As soon as we had finished, my mother led me outside and then put me to bed. This bad, snowy weather lasted a fortnight, which seemed very long to me.

There is nothing pleasant about being shut up for a whole long day in a dark, cold house Hke ours. In good weather it does well enough. You are out of doors in the sun all day and scarcely enter the house except at night to eat and sleep. So you have not time to be troubled by it. No one was in the fields, the men were in the chimney- corners, the animals bedded on straw in the warm stables. This melancholy solitude, this dead land- scape, without sound, without movement, made me shiver quite as much as did the cold.

It seemed to me that we were separated from the world. And so in truth we were, in this desolate spot, with more than two feet of snow everywhere and at times a heavy fog rising to our very door. Nevertheless, in the morning when my father had fed the oxen and the sheep, he would take his gun and go out with our dog on the trail of a rabbit.

On these days he used to kill five or six of them, for he was a skillful hunter and the dog a good dog. This was fortunate, as we had nothing in our house save the eleven and a half sous brought back on Christmas day. But to sell his game he had to go a long dis- tance and secretly, to Thenon, Bugue, Montignac, with his haversack under his blouse, because of our gentlefolk of Nansac, who were very jealous of their game.

These few hares put a little money in the drawer of the cabinet, although they were sold very cheaply. He could not think of selling them in the general market, but offered them to the innkeepers, who made the most of their opportunity, and for a hare weighing six or seven pounds paid about twenty- five sous. It amused me a little to watch him and to try to weave a basket as he did. Although our bread was black and very hard, we had finished it even before the snow melted. As the miller of Bramefont could not come to bring us our ground grain, we were not able to bake again.

So we were forced to borrow a loaf from Mion of Puy- maigre, who lent it to us gladly, for she was a good woman if at times she did dust the backs of her boys very hard when they had been naughty. I might mention in passing that this loaf was never returned to Mion.

Custom demanded that the bor- rower of bread should not return it himself; it was the lender who should come after it, pretending to have need of it. But Mion, seeing us later in trouble and misfortune, never came to ask for it. At last the thaw began. The gray, soaked earth reappeared, and showed the green blades of wheat pricking through the furrows. When the ground had dried a little, my mother took out the sheep, for the leaves we had gathered for the winter had been eaten and our small stock of late hay was almost gone.

She took me with her, driving our animals towards the rocky slopes of the Grillieres, where there grew a small, fine grass which they greatly liked. It was afternoon. A pale wintry sun mournfully lighted the bare earth. A little wind blew at moments, cold as the snows of the Auvergne mountains over which it had passed.

My mother and I sat down, sheltered from the north by one of those great heaps of stones which we call a ''cheyrou. About three o'clock, just as I was biting hard on a piece of bread which my mother had brought, our sheep, frightened by a dog, came galloping up, and went past us with a great noise. As my mother got up to fetch them back, she saw a guard of I'Herm called Mascret, who called out to her to stop. When he had come up to us, he told her, without any form of greeting, to go at once to the chateau, where the steward wished to speak with her.

We went towards the sheep, which had stopped two hundred feet away, still watching the dog that had frightened them. Driving them before us, we came back to Combenegre. Then my mother set oirt for I'Herm, after shutting the animals up in the stable.

When she came back at night my father asked her: "And what did he want with you, that old rogue? After that, he told me that you were still poaching, in consequence of which M. Finally, he added that we must en- tirely change our conduct, otherwise the gentlefolk would turn us out. Always the same tale : that he had noth- ing to do wuth all this, that he only did as he was told. On the contrary he felt great interest in us, and if I would listen to him everything would be arranged ; he would put us on the farm of the Fages, which was good, and in addition he would give you wood to cut in the forest every winter, which would bring you in a little money.

And while I was in the woods he would come to Fages now and then to see if the cattle were prospering. And what did you answer him? Ah, the scoundrel! Some misfortune would happen to us," said my mother. At that time I did not understand much of this conversation, and I attributed all my father's anger to the warning not to hunt. I was well aware, because I had often heard it said in our house, that M.

Laborie was a hard man, exacting and unjust ; that he cheated the poor as much as he could, adding a golden louis or an ecu to a farmer's bill, stealing five sous from a miserable day laborer, if he could not do more. And then they always added that he was a great "chenas- sier," a term whose meaning was unknown to me, and which I thought meant something like "low cur," but that was all.

To-day, when I think of this scoun- drel, who had completely taken in the Countess of Nansac, pretending to be pious — the hypocrite — and who was a thief, a villain and a "chenassicr," as peo- ple said, I cannot help thinking that he deserved what happened to him. About a fortnight after this conversation, while my mother was picking beans for the soup, M.

Laborie came to Combenegre. My mother took my hand and we followed him. When he had seen the cattle, M. Laborie drove the sheep out of the stable, and as he watched them, murmured between his teeth, thinking that I did not notice, "Well, now, don't you want to be reasonable?

I will bring you a pretty headkerchief from Perigueux; what do you say? Laborie, turning and moving about, went off, saying still in the same voice, "You will be sorry for it! You will be sorry for it! Suddenly the guard Mascret appeared and halted on the doorstep: "M. Laborie sends you word, by order of M. If it is found here again, it will be killed.

Then my mother said : "My poor Martissou, the best thing to do is to sell the dog, as the guard says. The notary of Ladouze has asked you for her several times. He will surely give you four or per- haps five ecus, since she is good at following the hares. For we can stay here no longer; something will happen. And he took himself off hastily, for my father had caught up his goad rather brusquely as if he would rather use it on the bailiff than drive his oxen with it.

After he had received this order of dispossession and the dog was at Cendrieux, my mother felt easier in her mind. It would be a matter of several months, but at the festival of St. John we would leave this evil farm where we were perishing of hunger. Above all, we should no longer be exposed to any treachery on the part of that scoundrel Laborie.

But when bad luck is on the way it has to arrive. One night we heard a scratching at the door, accompanied by little yelps. My mother did not sleep the rest of the night, worried as she was over this affair, and feeling the approach of some disaster. In the morning, about nine o'clock, we were eating the last of the soup, when all of a sudden the dog ran out barking, and, a second after, we heard the sound of a gun.

Several bullets ricocheted against the open door, even into the house. One of them cut my mother in the forehead, which made her cry out. Before him he saw the dog, lying dead, the blood flowing from her mouth, and at the entrance of the court, Laborie, who was handing to the guard the musket he had just fired. You will bring no more misery on anybody! As for me, I went out too, not wishing to be the only one left. I joined my mother, who was looking piteously at that sprawling body.

There it was, its eyes fixed, its mouth half -open as if on the point of crying out, the arms stretched out beside the body. It was plain that he had realized he was dying. In the middle of his chest, among the red hairs that bristled there, the shot had almost made a clean hole, and the wound, horrible to see, was bleeding.

Meanwhile, Mascret was running towards I'Herm, spreading the news along the way, so that presently the people began to arrive. The first to come was the husband of Mion of Puymaigre. He looked tranquilly at the dead man and said: "I pity Martissou and you others for the conse- quences ; but as for that scoundrel there, I have no pity for him at all. He has got what he deserved a hun- dred times over. But soon after, in great state, the Comte de Nansac drew up on horse- back, with his head huntsman and Dom Enj albert who, not being any too good a horseman, was clinging to the saddle.

Everybody fell silent. The count looked at the body an instant, then demanded of my mother how it had happened. After she had said that my father had fired at Laborie, mad with rage because he had wounded her and killed the dog, M. But from his face one could have told nothing. He looked at the body of Laborie coldly as he would have looked at a wolf brought down by his hounds. At the end of a minute, his people having arrived, he gave orders to place the dead man on a litter, which they had gone for, and everyone went away.

The following day the gendarmes came and ques- tioned my mother about the manner in which the affair had occurred. They filled me with terror, those gendarmes, with their sabers hanging from their yel- low belts and their muskets fastened to their saddles.

It was the first time I had seen them, and everything, from their heavy boots to their great fringed hats, made them appear to me strangely terrifying. Con- sequently, as long as they were there — the one on his horse on the bank, interrogating my mother, the other standing, leaning on his saber — I made myself as small as possible in a corner. After she had told him everything, the older one said: 'That's all very well, but now tell me where your husband is.

Look out! Come now, has he been back here to-night? About six o'clock in the evening, a charcoal-burner we knew, who often had his bread and soup with us, came knocking at the door. My mother, dressing quickly, opened to him, after he had made himself known. He told us that my father had sent him to inquire about the visit of the gendarmes. He added that otherwise there was no need to be disturbed about him, for he was lying in an abandoned hut in the thickest part of the wood, in a bottom full of brambles and furze, between La Foucaudie and Lac- Viel, where even the devil could not find him.

He only needed his woolen cloak to cover him at night. Then he set out on his return. During the afternoon of the following day, the authorities came with the Comte de Nansac and the servants of the chateau. They placed Mascret and another man on the spot where he had been with Laborie, and another on the spot from which my father had fired. Then they counted the steps and moved about a good deal in the court. After that an evil-visaged old man made my mother relate the man- ner in which it had all taken place.

The old man tried to make her admit more than she actually said, but she knew how to defend her- self. When she had finished, he tried to make her confess that for a long time my father had planned this deed. But she protested that it was not so, and stuck to what she had said.

So, to avoid this, I began to wail and weep. In vain the gendarme spoke to me in French, which I did not understand, and in patois, which he spoke in the dialect of Sarlat, threatened me with prison, and showed me a fifteen-sou piece.

Noth- ing did any good. I answered him only with tears. Seeing this he rose up angrily, saying, "That child is an idiot! But one of these very men sought out Jean, the charcoal-burner, and had my father warned. So, in the middle of the dark night, he went to hide in this man's hayloft, certain that no one would come to look for him there. And sure enough, the gen- darmes and all the others returned at night without having found anything but a lot of hares, a fox and two wolves that fled away, greatly astonished at see- ing so many men at once.

Two days later, at midnight, my mother heard a gentle scratching at the door, and went to open it. As for me, I slept and awakened only when my father kissed me fervently before leaving. My mother went out with glistening eyes, made the tour of the walls and came back, saying, "There is no one there. This life in the woods lasted several weeks, some- times in one place, sometimes in another, as my father almost never slept two nights in the same spot or in the same cabin.

The men of the lonely houses in the villages about the forest knew him and knew that he was not a villain. Laborie was so much de- tested in the region that everyone understood how, in a burst of rage, my father had done this deed. No one blamed him for it. Also, although many people must have met him, as they were going very early in the morning to cut a load of wood in the thickets.

On the contrary, if he needed to sell a hare, or have something carried to Thenon or Rouffignac, or wanted gunpowder, corn or a pint of wine in his flask, they would do his errand for him. At times, even, some of them would say to him, "Martissou, come and have supper with us, and afterwards you shall sleep in a bed. That will rest you, for you have not been used to a bed for so long.

He also came to our house, but not often, for he suspected that they were watching more carefully in that quarter. In fact, one morning, two hours before daybreak, four gendarmes surrounded the house, ex- pecting to surprise him. But they got nothing for their night's ride. Hardly a day passed without Mas- cret or the other guards coming to prowl about there.

But they did not dare to spy around the house after sunset, for they knew it would not be a good thing to meet my father. I am sure they would have much preferred to turn to something else, but the count, who was cold with rage at the knowledge that my father was still at liberty, forced them to it. My mother, poor woman, was half dead with anxiety, always in mortal terror, scarcely eating and almost never sleeping, so much did she fear that her Martissou would be caught.

And then at night, in her feverish thoughts, she saw the Court of Assizes and the guillotine, and would lie groaning for hours. If she fell asleep from sheer fatigue, she still dreamed of these things, and would go on groaning. It was nearly a month that my father had been in the woods when the Comte de Nansac sent word by his guards in the villages and about the forest that he would give two golden louis to anyone who would bring about his capture.

Since he suspected that Jean the charcoal-burner often saw that "scoundrel Mar- tissou" and helped him to keep alive, he even offered him five. Tell your master that, and do not come talking to me any more of such a rascally business. When I say one, that does not mean there were no people thereabouts capable of a bad deed or who had committed one; that would be to refute the saying that the Barade Forest was never without wolves or thieves.

To rob a man was permissible, but to betray him for money was not. But at last the traitor appeared. There was at Maurezies a poor man named Jansou, who had been working for a whole year as a day laborer at the Chateau de THerm. This Jansou had five children, all little, the eldest only nine years old, who lived with their mother in a miserable hovel of a house, leased for two ecus a year, while he slept through the week at the barn where he was employed.

Usually, he only came to Maurezies on Saturday evenings and went back to work Monday mornings. You can well imagine that with the twelve sous a day that farm- workers earned in those days, he was hard put to it to get bread for his boys, for the rye was dear at that time as well as the barleycorn and rye wheat. Of white wheat there was no use talking, for only in the well-to-do houses was it eaten.

For everything else Jansou' s boys depended on charity; they were clothed in fragments of old garments, patched all over, in wretched, ragged trousers, which showed their skin through the holes, and were held over the shoulder by a bit of string. Their feet were bare the whole year, and they slept in a corner of the cabin on a wretched mattress stuffed with fern.

By order of the count, it was to this Jansou that the head steward, who for the moment replaced La- borie, addressed himself. At first the poor devil made some objections, saying that he did not know where Martissou was. This boy who, as I have just said, was nine years old, was sharp as a weasel, sly as a fox and evil as a monkey. In addition, he knew the forest as one must who traversed it the whole year long, bird-nesting or looking for whip-handles in the holly bushes, or doing errands for the wood-cutters and charcoal-burners.

Several times he had met my father and spied upon him with malicious curiosity, but without being able to discover his regular place of retreat. This was difficult to do, for as I have said, he changed it often. It was close to carnival time, and, although we usually made merry at this season, my mother watched it approach now in fear, for she well knew that her Martissou would wish to spend it with us and dreaded lest they should take advantage of the occasion to entrap him.

So she sent him word by Jean not to come that evening, saying that it would be better to wait until next day. She knew that on Ash Wednesday they would suspect nothing. Jansou had given his son the cue, and the latter, with the idea that Martissou would want to celebrate the carnival at his own house, had hidden in order to spy on him, that Mardi-Gras evening, in the thicket near the crossroads of I'Homme Mort.

After following him for a distance, bare- footed, making no noise, he saw him enter the house to which he had been invited. It was the home of honest folk, comfortably off, farmers in the family of the cure of Fanlac. The evening before the wife, grieved to think that poor Martissou would not dare to go home and would have to celebrate the carnival in the depths of the forest with only a scrap of bread, had got her husband to make him promise to come to them.

As soon as the door was closed, the boy dashed off to tell his father, who in turn ran to the chateau to let them know that Martissou was at the house of Le Rey of La Granval. At once a man on horseback set off hurriedly to tell the gendarmes, who left their supper and came in great haste.

A hundred steps from La Granval they gave their horses to Jansou, who waited for them. Very quietly, with the assist- ance of the guards from THerm, they surrounded the house. It was about eleven o'clock at night. All those present had feasted well, and were singing and clinking their glasses of mulled wine when two gen- darmes pushed the door open brusquely and entered. You can imagine the amazement. Everyone cried out; my father ran for his gun which he had placed in a comer.

He found, however, that it had been carried off and placed on a bed ; a little boy had wanted to play with it. In no time his hands were tied behind his back, while Le Rey's wife wept and lamented, crying in a piteous voice: "Oh, my poor Martissou! I am the cause of it all. Forgive me, I thought I was doing right! I have been betrayed by some rascal. Good-bye to all, and thank you! When they reached the spot where the horses were, my father saw Jansou holding them. If I ever get out you'll be done for, for sure!

Then they put the prisoner between them, mounted their horses, and led him away. To Jansou this villainy brought no luck. Once he had his two louis, he thought himself rich, he who had never seen a louis before. But this did not last long, for the new steward of the chateau put small farmers on the lands usually held in reserve, so that there was no longer any work for him. In the countryside no one cared to give him work, on account of his wicked deed.

So, when he and his family had quickly eaten up the two louis, they took to begging and disappeared. On learning of the arrest of her husband, my mother gave a deep groan, almost as if she were dying: "O my poor Mar- tissou! All day both of us were in the deepest dejection.

She sat on a little bench, her hands clasped on her knees, staring fixedly before her, with- out saying a word. Now and then some thought even more deeply painful than the rest made her groan aloud. Then we went to bed. But we were not at the end of our troubles. The next morning, the head steward came to tell my mother that as she could not now manage the farm alone any longer we must at once surrender the house to a successor. The work was already two months behind.

What to do, where to go, we did not know. After much reflection, my mother thought of a man at Saint-Geyrac who owned a long-abandoned tile- works in the forest, where we might perhaps install ourselves, if he was willing. Then she tossed a little grass to the sheep, came back into the house, cut me a slice of bread for the day and, kissing me, went off to see the owner of the tile-works, charging me not to wander away. There was no danger of that, for where should I have gone?

Presently I went out of the house and sat down on a stone in front of the door. There I stayed a long time, thinking of my poor father shut up now in prison. From time to time I was seized by fits of sobbing. What a sad day I passed there, before me the bare slopes of the GrilHeres, where not a single tree appeared; all around the buildings, the farm fields, surrounded by great gray stretches of country ; beyond to the north and west the deep woods.

At moments, weary of sitting still and watching this horizon, misty and desolate as the future which I saw confusedly in my childish imagination, I got up and walked around the house, or else I went to look at the oxen, calmly ruminating on their straw, which raised their heads on seeing me enter. I gave them a few forkfuls of hay and came back, watching far down the roads to see if my mother was returning.

In their stable the hungry sheep were bleating. From time to time I threw them a small handful of grass to satisfy their impatience. I seemed to see him again, with his open mouth, his terrified eyes, the bleeding wound in his chest. About five o'clock our four hens came back from the fields where they had been foraging, and after preening themselves a little decided to mount one by one the little ladder of their hen-house.

The day waned and I began to be anxious, not seeing my mother. Soon, however, my ear, accustomed from my out-of-door life to hearing things far away, caught her hurried step coming from the direction of the setting sun. At last she arrived, worn with fatigue, out of breath, for because of me she had come in great haste.

I ran to meet her, and she embraced me passionately, as if she had thought me lost. To- gether we entered the dark house. Fumbling among the cinders on the hearth, my mother found a live ember, and succeeded by blowing hard in lighting the lantern. Then, having made the fire, she peeled an onion, cut it into small pieces, and placed the frying-pan over the fire, with about half a spoonful of grease in it.

This was all that remained in the house. When the onion was fried she filled the pan with water, cut up the bread in the soup- tureen, and when the water had boiled down enough poured it over the bread. Ordinarily, among the poor folk of our region, it was the custom to put a pinch of pepper in the soup to give it a little savor.

But we had none left. I cannot say that this poor broth over this wretched black bread made a good dish. When we had eaten our soup, we went to bed. The man at Saint-Geyrac had told my mother that she might go and live in the tile-works. He would ask nothing, but the house was in bad condition.

Before leaving, we had to get a man to decide on the value of the leased cattle with the new steward of I'Herm. When the estimate was made, my mother reckoned that there were ten ecus owing us. But when she went to have it settled, it was found to be the other way round. We ourselves were in debt forty francs, the other steward told her. Laborie had charged us with a half-sack of wheat of which my mother had no knowledge.

He had not written down the full price of a pig which we had sold at Thenon. Moreover, he had failed to record the price of three sheep which my father had remitted to him. Thus we had to leave Combenegre apparently in debt to the gentlefolk. This was a hard blow to my poor mother.

We had no more than thirty sous in the house, a hunch of bread weighing six or seven pounds, a few potatoes and the remains of a sack of com meal weighing rather more than four pounds. We could not last very long with that. Mion's husband came the next day with his cart to take away our belongings.

It was a light load for the oxen — our miserable bed, the wretched cabinet, the table and benches, the kneading-trough, the cask of sour wine, a pot, the kettle, the baking-dish, the frying- JACQUOU THE REBEL 47 pan, a wooden bucket and small articles like the lantern and the wooden salt holder. All these wretched be- longings together were not worth the forty francs we were supposed to owe the gentlefolk of Nansac, thanks to the rascality of that Laborie who wronged us even when he was dead.

The cart took first the hard road which leads towards Lac-Viel, a stony path where the load was much shaken up. Mion's husband had brought hay to feed his oxen, and my mother had placed me on it behind the cart, which she followed. As we went through Bessedes, two women, holding their little boys by the hand, and an old man seated on a stump, watched us pass.

In the eyes of the elders there was pity at seeing us go off like that, alone and father- less henceforth. All this region to-day is full of paths and roads. They have built one from Thenon to Rouffignac, which skirts the forest and crosses it near the middle; another which cuts it diagonally, coming from Fosse- magne and running into the road from Thenon near La Cabane; and even a third, further to the west, which comes from the direction of Milhac-d'-Aube- roche, and also joins the road from Thenon to Rouf- fignac, between Balou and Meyrignac.

It is easy, therefore, to pass through the forest. But in the days of which I speak, the forest was much larger than at present. During the past twenty-five years, a great deal of it has been cleared. This was not really a road at all but one of those tracks made in the wood by the wheels of the carts which came to carry off the chopped logs.

In winter, when the track became too bad in places, people turned off to the right or left and so traced new paths in all directions, uncertain tracks which intercrossed on the heath and in the woods. At times, we found in the mudholes puddles of yellow water which we had to avoid, and further on deep ruts on one side and hummocks on the other that made the cart tip vio- lently and gave us a heavy jolt when the road sud- denly became smooth again.

We went slowly, as one must go with oxen over such roads. The day was gray and misty. It seemed as if we were burying ourselves in the fog. Mion's husband went ahead, calling his oxen, encouraging them with his voice and sometimes pricking them with his goad. You could see that he knew the forest well. He rarely hesitated in taking a path even when it cut right across the one we were following, or, at first insensibly branching off, ended by turning aside altogether. Yet he told us that he had not been to the tile-works for ten years.

We peasants, accus- tomed to travel day and night in this roadless country, know our way very well when we have passed over it once. Some of my readers may perhaps wonder why I always say ''Mion's husband. I believe his wife called him Pierre, but as she was the man of the family, everyone said "M'ion's husband. In the center was the tile- works, or what remained of it. From a distance it seemed to consist of tumbled roofs, blackened by the weather, but from nearby it looked like a mass of ruins.

The dilapidated outhouses still showed some half-decayed wooden posts supporting a part of the frame with the remains of the tile covering on it; on other parts beside it, the broken laths had let the frame sag. The oven where they used to bake the bricks and tiles had crumbled, and vigorous maple shoots were pushing out amid its ruins. The house was not all in quite such bad condition but a little more and it would become so.

It was built of wood, brick and loam, plastered together with heavy clay. The walls were crumbling and peeling from the effects of weather and winter, ramshackle like those poor old souls one meets in our part of the country, bent and disfigured with poverty, hard work and age. The tile-works was covered with moss, sprinkled with a grass as line as needles, with a few tufts of house- leek here and there.

It still held together except at one end, where it was in ruins. Through this great hole, as big as a sheet, rafters were visible, held up by a corner, to which portions of laths were still nailed. Around the house and the tile-works every- thing was covered with fragments of tiles, bricks and heaps of rubbish, on which were growing luxuriantly those rustic plants that abound in abandoned places and along the borders of old roads where people no longer pass.

Thickly and exuberantly, mints with their spicy odor, wild carrots, donkey's cabbage, night- shades, mallows, thistles with the round heads that we call "the combs," and twenty other varieties were crowded together. Farther on in the clearing, the clay-diggings had left holes where greenish water stagnated, and mounds like great graves on which scanty gorse bushes, rare in this poor soil, had grown here and there.

The whole scene had an aspect of ruin and desolation which oppressed one's heart. One would have said it was an old battlefield, abandoned after the hurried burying of the dead. Taking in at a glance the whole melancholy spec- tacle, my mother gave a little shiver, a triboulemenf, as we say, and her eyes turned to me.

I followed her, while Mion's hus- band undid the cord about the load. What a house! That at Combenegre was very bare, very dark, very melancholy, but it was a house of comfort compared to this. When the door, which hung only by one hinge, was pushed open, it revealed itself in all its dilapidation.

Cracks in the wall let in the daylight here and there, or gave entrance to a plant which thrust itself in from outside. The hearth was rudely built after the fashion of those huts that are made of earth. Above, in a corner, under the rafters, rough planks, put there to dry and forgotten, made a sort of badly joined ceiling, just large enough to shelter a bed.

Everywhere else you saw the tiled roof and, in the uncovered corner, the sky. Through this hole the winter rains had made a little puddle in the beaten earth. Having surveyed all this without speaking, my mother went out to help the man unload the furniture. To do this more easily, he slipped between the oxen and raised the wagon-pole while she took out the iron peg which passed through the rings.

Then she called the oxen. The man gently lowered the pole to the ground, and along the incline it made, with the help of my mother, easily slid down the bedstead and the rest of the things. Meanwhile, I carried their arm- ful of hay to the oxen. Then she started to fill the picket with sour wine, but the little that re- mained in the cask had been so shaken up that it was like mud.

So she went out to look for water. Mion's husband wiped his forehead, sat down on the bench, and ate slowly, cutting the bread in shreds and munch- ing the onion, dipped in salt, in little slices. When he had finished he closed his knife, drank half a goblet of water, and rose. My mother helped him fasten up the oxen. He took his goad, replied to our thanks by saying it was nothing, wished us good evening, and departed slowly, crossing the clearing and disappearing into the woods.

When we were alone, my mother took me and gave me a long kiss, clasping me tightly against her breast. After this moment of grief had abated, she set to work to make the bed, and finished arranging our poor fur- niture as well as she could.

When that was done, we went out to look for wood. There was plenty of it all about, and soon we had collected a good pile. Under the sheds there were carpenter's chips that served us equally well. But it was not an easy matter to make the fire.

In those days chemical matches were unknown, at least in our part of the country, and ordinarily we preserved the fire under the ashes. When you found the fire out, you had to go and beg for some in an old sabot. The neighbors gave with good will on condition that they might have the same favor done to them. Sometimes one had to go quite far, as was the case with us who went to Mion of Puymaigre; but here we knew neither the country nor the neighbors.

Fortunately in the drawer of the cabinet there were some flints which my father had picked up whenever he found them, and shaped ready for use. My mother took one; and by striking it against the blade of her shut knife she managed to set fire to a piece of old shredded rag. This bit, put on a handful of dried moss that had been gathered from dead wood, set it on fire, and soon with dead leaves, grass and twigs, and by dint of hard blowing, the flame blazed in the hearth.

When the fire had been lighted we had to go after water. Searching in the neighborhood we found the old well which the tile-makers used. To tell the truth, it was a miserable well, which oozed a few drops in the winter and in the summer held nothing but rain water. It scarcely differed from the hole out of which my mother had taken the drink for Mion's husband, being now half -choked and full of rushes growing out of the pale water. It was impossible to draw water out with the bucket; we had to fill it with the dipper.

Returning to our hovel, my mother filled the pot with potatoes and put it over the fire for our supper. That evening, when we had eaten two or three stewed potatoes with a little salt and were about to go to bed, my mother discovered that there had never been a lock or a bolt on the door.

Seeing this, my mother cut with the pruning-bill a piece of wood of the right length, adjusted it firmly, and so closed the door tight. I am sure she slept little that night, tormented as she was by the thought of my poor father, a prisoner at Perigueux, where the guillotine or the gal- leys awaited him.

As for me, not understanding all the consequences of what he had done, I watched the stars awhile, those at least which I could see from the bed through the hole in the roofing, and then fell into a heavy sleep. In addition to her grief about my father, my mother tormented herself thinking of me and of what was to become of us.

The rich, when they are in trouble, can reflect at their ease and give themselves over entirely to their grief, but the poor cannot. Above all, they must get their pay in kind to live and earn bread for their little children. To the calamity that strikes them is added the misfortune of poverty, which does not even give them the freedom to weep. Therefore we peasants are usually sparing of tears. You seldom see us laugh heartily, either; we do not often have any reason for doing so.

We laugh like St.

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