He drinks
nothing but his own cider: he eats his own vegetables, his own rabbits;
he never goes anywhere except to the fields,--does not want to--unless
it is to play the violin for a dance or a fete. He just works, eats,
sleeps, reads his newspaper, and is content. Yet he pays taxes on
nearly a hundred thousand francs' worth of real estate.
But, after all, this is not what I started to tell you--that was about
my domestic arrangements. Amelie does everything for me. She comes
early in the morning, builds a fire, then goes across the field for the
milk while water is heating. Then she arranges my bath, gets my coffee,
tidies up the house. She buys everything I need, cooks for me, waits on
me, even mends for me,--all for the magnificent sum of eight dollars a
month. It really isn't as much as that, it is forty francs a month,
which comes to about a dollar and eighty cents a week in your currency.
She has on her farm everything in the way of vegetables that I need,
from potatoes to "asparagras," from peas to tomatoes. She has chickens
and eggs. Bread, butter, cheese, meat come right to the gate; so does
the letter carrier, who not only brings my mail but takes it away.
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