He had
his living, but never a sou in his pocket. The only diversion he ever
had was playing the violin, which some passer in the commune taught him.
When his parents died, he and his brothers sold the old place at
Pont-aux-Dames to Coquelin, who was preparing to turn the historic old
convent into a maison de retraite for aged actors, and he came up here
on the hill and bought his present farm in this hamlet, where almost
every one is some sort of a cousin of his.
Oddly enough, almost every one of these female cousins has a history.
You would not think it, to look at the place and the people, yet I fancy
that it is pretty universal for women in such places to have
"histories." You will see an old woman with a bronzed face--sometimes
still handsome, often the reverse--in her short skirt, her big apron
tied round where a waist is not, her still beautiful hair concealed in a
colored handkerchief. You ask the question of the right person, and you
will discover that she is rich; that she is avaricious; that she pays
heavy taxes; denies herself all but the bare necessities; and that the
foundation of her fortune dates back to an affaire du coeur, or perhaps
of interest, possibly of cupidity; and that very often the middle-aged
daughter who still "lives at home with mother," had also had a
profitable affaire arranged by mother herself.
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