Alone in the world - Chapter 1 - In the village

I am a foundling.

But until I was eight years old, like all other children, I believed I had a mother, for when I wept there was a woman who took me in her arms and pressed me against her bosom until my tears ceased to flow.

I was never put to bed but a woman gave me a kiss, and when the December wind drove the snowflakes against the frosted windows, she took my feet in both her hands to warm them, and then she sang a song whose tune and some words have not yet been erased from my memory.

When I was tending our cow on the grasses by the roads or under the trees and was caught in a downpour, she came to meet me and forced me into shelter in her woolen coat, which she lifted to cover my head and shoulders.

When I had a quarrel with one of my comrades, she let me give my heart and she always knew how to comfort me and to agree with me with a single word.

From all this and from other reasons, also from the way in which she spoke to me and looked at me for her caresses and for the gentleness with which she scolded me, I believed that she was my mother.

Suddenly, however, I came to know that she was only my nurse. See how here.

My village, or rather the village where I was brought up, for of my village I cannot speak: a place of birth I have as little as a father or mother—the village in which I spent my first childhood is called Chavanon; it is one of the poorest in the south of France.

This poverty is not the result of the indifference or laziness of the inhabitants, but of the barrenness of the region in which it is situated. The soil is only covered with a thin layer of topsoil, and to get a good harvest one would have to fertilize it heavily or make improvements which the land does not yield. One finds therefore, or at least one found in the time of which I speak, very few cultivated fields, but everywhere great expanses of undergrowth and brambles. Where the moors ended, the marshes began; and over those high swamps the shrill wind blows and withers the foliage of the groves of a few trees, stretching hither and thither their gnarled and crooked branches.

To find more beautiful trees, one must leave the heights and seek the places sheltered from the wind, on the banks of the rivers, where large chestnut trees and sturdy oaks grow on narrow strips of pasture.

In one of those half-hidden places, at the edge of a brook, whose swift-flowing waves lose themselves in one of the arms of the Loire, lay the house where I spent my first years of life.

Until I was eight years old I had never seen a man in that house. Yet my mother was not a widow, but her husband was a stonemason and, like most other workmen of this region, he made his living in Paris and had not come back since I was old enough to understand what I heard and saw. Only now and then did he speak up when one of his comrades came into the village.

Mistress Barberin, your husband is well; he has asked me to tell you that he has a lot of work and has given me this money for you. Do you want to count it.

That was all. Madame Barberin was satisfied with these reports; her husband was healthy; the work was well paid; he earned his living.

Though Barberin had remained so long in Paris, it must not be inferred that he was not on good terms with his wife. That permanent absence was not at all due to a lack of agreement. He lived in Paris because he had his work there; no more. When he had reached his age, he would return to his old wife, and with the money they would have deposited, they would be free from poverty when the time had come when strength and health had failed them.

One November day, when evening was already falling, a man whom I did not recognize stopped in front of our gate. I was standing in front of our house eating a sandwich. He didn't open the gate, but sticking his head over it, he asked me if Mrs Barberin didn't live here.

I asked him to come in. He opened the gate, which creaked on the hinges, and approached the house.

I had never seen anyone so covered with mud. Entire placards of mud, some still wet, others already dried, covered him from head to foot, and it was inferred that he had followed very bad roads.

Hearing his voice, Mrs. Barberin stepped forward, and the moment he reached the threshold she stood directly opposite him.

"I bring news from Paris," he said.

I had often heard those simple words, but the manner in which they were pronounced had none of that which formerly accompanied communication.—"Your husband is well; he is busy."

Ah God! exclaimed Madame Barberin, wringing her hands, "there's been a misfortune with Jérôme."

"Well, yes, but you needn't die of fright. He's hurt, that's all: but he's not dead. However, he may be mutilated. At the moment he is in hospital; my bed was next to his, and as I was going hither, he begged me to tell you this in passing. I cannot stay any longer, for I have three more miles to go and night is already falling.

Mrs. Barberin, desiring to know more, urged him to have supper with us, for the roads were bad, and wolves were said to have appeared in the neighbourhood. He could go on the next morning.

He sat down in a corner by the hearth, and as he ate he told us how the accident had happened. Barberin had been half crushed by a scaffolding which had collapsed, and as it had been proved that he ought not to have been at the place where he was injured, the contractor refused him any compensation.

"He's not lucky, poor Barberin," said he; he is not lucky; others would have found a way to draw a nice annual allowance for life, but your husband gets nothing.

And as he dried the legs of his trousers, which had become stiff and hard with the layer of mud, he repeated: "he's not lucky." It was evident enough from the way he said this that he would gladly have been mutilated for himself in the hope that he would get a good annuity.

"Yet," he concluded, "I advised him to sue the contractor."

-A process! that costs a lot of money.

"Yes, but one can win it."

Madame Barberin had wanted to go to Paris, but it was no small matter, such a long and costly journey.

The next morning we went to the village to consult the priest. He would not let her go until he knew whether she could be of any service to her husband. He wrote to the chaplain of the hospital into which Barberin had been admitted, and a few days later he received a reply that his wife should not undertake the journey, but rather send him a certain sum, as her husband was the contractor for whom he worked, wanted to sue.

Days and weeks passed, and from time to time letters came, asking for money again and again. The last letter was the most urgent, and stated that if there was no money left, the cow should be sold.

Only those who have lived in the country know what misfortune and misery are contained in those three words, "sell the cow." To the physicist the cow is a ruminant animal; to the walker it is a beast that does good to the landscape, when it sticks its black, dewy muzzle above the green; for the urban youth it is the source of milk, cream and cheese; but to the farmer it is something quite different. However poor he may be and however numerous his family, he is sure that he will not go hungry as long as he has a cow in his stable. With a rope or only a simple hemp rope around the horns, a child lets a cow graze along the grassy roads, whose grazing rights are not leased by anyone, and in the evening the whole family has butter for their soup and milk to put the potatoes in. weeks: father, mother and all the children, big as well as small, live off the cow.

We lived so entirely on it, Mrs Barberin and I, that I had never tasted meat at that time. But she was not only our nurse, but also our companion and friend, for the cow must not be believed to be a stupid animal; on the contrary, she is a sensible beast and she has good qualities, which become even better when she has been trained and developed. We caressed ours, we talked to her and she understood us and, for her part, she knew very well what she wanted or felt with her big round eyes, so good-natured and soft. In short, we loved her and she loved us. That's all said.

But we had to divorce her; for only by selling the cow could Barberin be satisfied.

A merchant came, and after looking and touching Roussette from all sides, and shaking her head dissatisfied, and saying a hundred times that he really didn't want them, that she was a poor people's cow, and that he didn't want it. would come off; that she gave scarcely any milk and bad butter, he ended by saying that he would take them, but only out of pity and to please Madame Barberin, because she was a good person.

As if poor Roussette had understood what was happening to her, she would not leave the stable and began to moo.

"Go after her and hunt her down," said the merchant, raising his whip.

"No, not that," said Mrs. Barberin, and she herself took the line, and spoke to the animal in low words, which it willingly followed. When it came out, it was tied behind the chariot and forced to follow the horse.

When we had returned to the house, we heard the lowing for a long time.

No milk, no butter; in the morning a piece of bread, in the evening potatoes with a little salt.

Shrovetide came soon after selling Roussette; the previous year Mrs. Barberin had baked apple dumplings and waffles for me on that occasion; I had eaten so much of it, so much that she was happy with it.

But then we had Roussette, who had given the milk to make the batter and the butter to put in the pot. Now that we missed her, there was no milk and no butter, and it wasn't Shrovetide either, I thought to myself.

But Mrs. Barberin had prepared a little surprise for me; as a rule she did not borrow, but this time she had asked a neighbor for a cup of milk and another for butter, and when I came home in the afternoon I found her pouring flour into a large earthen pot.

-Hey! flour, I exclaimed, approaching.

"Yes, yes," she replied with a kind smile, "that is flour,
Rémi, and nice wheat flour too; just smell how good it smells.
If I had dared I would have asked what the flour was for, but precisely because I wanted to know so badly I dared not talk about it. On the other hand, I didn't want to admit that I knew it was Shrovetide, because this might grieve Lady Barberin.

—What is made of flour? she asked, looking at me with a knowing look.

-Bread.

-And what else?

-Soup.

—And then something else.

—I really don't know.

—Oh, you know; but because you are a sweet boy, you dare not say it. You know today is Shrovetide, the night of apple dumplings and waffles. But because you also know that we have no more butter and no milk, you dare not speak of it. isn't it so?

—Oh, Mother Barberin…..

—Now that I've made sure that Shrovetide wouldn't be too bare after all. Look in the food box.

I lifted the lid and was amazed to see milk, butter, eggs and three apples.

"Give me the eggs," she said, and while I scramble them, you must peel the apples.

I peeled and sliced ​​the apples; she broke the eggs and plunged them into the flour, and then began to scramble, adding a spoonful of milk now and then.

When the batter was ready, Mrs. Barberin put the pot on the hot ashes, and now we only had to wait for the evening; because we would have the apple dumplings and the waffles for dinner.

Frankly speaking, the day lasted a very long time for me, and more than once I went to the pot to lift the cloth that hung over it.

"You'll get the batter cold," said Mrs. Barberin, "and then it won't rise." But it did rise and blisters were seen to appear at several points and burst on the surface. From the rising dough rose a delicious smell of eggs and milk.

"Break another bunch of fagots," she said; we must have a bright fire without smoke.

Finally the candle was lit.

"Throw the wood on the fire," she said.

She didn't have to tell me this twice, because I had been waiting for that for a long time. Presently a great flame rose up the chimney and lit up the whole kitchen.

Then Fru Barberin took a large skillet from the wall and held it over the flame.

"Give me the butter."

She then took a piece of butter the size of a nut with the point of a knife and placed it in the pan, where it instantly melted with a hiss.

It was a nice smell, which made us so much the more pleasant, as we hadn't smelled it for a long time. And it was sweet music too, that which was produced by the hissing and bubbling of the butter. But, though I was quite an ear for this pleasant sound, I thought I heard a rumor in the square in front of the house. Who would disturb us so late at night? Certainly a neighbor who came to ask for some fire.

But I thought no more of it, for Mrs. Barberin had dipped the spoon into the pot and poured a broad stream of the white batter into the pan, and this occupied me too much to pay attention to anything else.

There was a banging on the door with a stick, and immediately it was jerked open.

-Who is there? asked Mrs. Barberin without turning.

Someone had come in, and by the flames, which fully lit him, I saw a man with a white smock and a thick stick in his hand.

"Well, you're celebrating again." Now go ahead, he said roughly.

"Lord in heaven, art thou there!" cried Mrs. Barberin, suddenly placing her pot beside her. Jerome!

Then she took me by the arm and pushed me towards the man who had stopped on the threshold.

"That's your father."

Did you write this?

No, someone else did. I just used a resource to get it from and translated it

nice