They make a big show of saying goodbye to us: "Goodnight to you, Monsieur Sylvestre. Everything going well for you? That's good. Goodnight to you, Monsieur Marc. Say hello to Madame Declos for us when you see her."
The door opens on an autumn night; you can hear the rain falling, their wooden clogs on the damp ground and, further away, the rustling of a stream. In the grounds of the nearby chateau, water drips from the branches of enormous trees; the firs weep.
I sit there, smoking my pipe, while Marc Ohnet stares into space. Finally he sighs and calls out, "Bartender! Another bottle of wine."
AFTER MARC OHNET LEFT this evening, a car full of
Parisians arrived and stopped in front of the Hotel des Voyageurs, just long enough for them to have a drink while a quick repair was made. They came into the cafe, laughing and talking loudly. A few of the women glanced at me with distaste; the others tried to fix their make-up using the cloudy mirrors that distorted their features, or went over to the windows and looked out at the rain drenching the little cobbled street and the sleepy houses.
"It's so quiet," a young woman said, laughing, then turning away.
Later on their car overtook me on the road. They were going towards Moulins. How many peaceful little places they'll drive through tonight, how many sleepy villages . . . They'll pass silent, sombre country estates and will not begin to imagine the dark, secret life within--a life that they will never come to know. I wonder how Marc Ohnet will sleep tonight, and whether he will dream of the Moulin-Neuf and its green, foaming river.
it shattered), the farmers finally leave. They make a big show of saying goodbye to us: "Goodnight to you, Monsieur Sylvestre. Everything going well for you? That's good. Goodnight to you, Monsieur Marc. Say hello to Madame Declos for us when you see her."
The door opens on an autumn night; you can hear the rain falling, their wooden clogs on the damp ground and, further away, the rustling of a stream. In the grounds of the nearby chateau, water drips from the branches of enormous trees; the firs weep.
I sit there, smoking my pipe, while Marc Ohnet stares into space. Finally he sighs and calls out, "Bartender! Another bottle of wine."
AFTER MARC OHNET LEFT this evening, a car full of Parisians arrived and stopped in front of the Hotel des
Voyageurs, just long enough for them to have a drink while a quick repair was made. They came into the cafe, laughing and talking loudly. A few of the women glanced at me with distaste; the others tried to fix their make-up using the cloudy mirrors that distorted their features, or went over to the windows and looked out at the rain drenching the little cobbled street and the sleepy houses.
"It's so quiet," a young woman said, laughing, then turning away.
Later on their car overtook me on the road. They were going towards Moulins. How many peaceful little places they'll drive through tonight, how many sleepy villages . . . They'll pass silent, sombre country estates and will not begin to imagine the dark, secret life within-a life that they will never come to know. I wonder how Marc Ohnet will sleep tonight, and whether he will dream of the Moulin-Neuf and its green, foaming river.
WE THRESH THE WHEAT around here. It's the end of summer, time to do the last of the heavy farm wor k f or this season. A day of labour and a day to celebrate. Enormous golden flan cases bake in the oven; since the beginning of the week the children have been shaking plums off the trees so they can decorate them with fruit. There are a huge number of plums this year. The small orchard behind my house is buzzing with bees; the grass is dotted with ripe fruit, the golden skin bursting with little drops of sugar. On threshing day every household takes pride in offering their workers and neighbours the best wine, the thickest cream in the region. To go with them: pies crammed full of cherries and smothered with butter; those small,
The door opens on an autumn night; you can hear the rain falling, their wooden clogs on the damp ground and, further away, the rustling of a stream. In the grounds of the nearby chateau, water drips from the branches of enormous trees; the firs weep.
I sit there, smoking my pipe, while Marc Ohnet stares into space. Finally he sighs and calls out, "Bartender! Another bottle of wine."
AFTER MARC OHNET LEFT this evening, a car full of
Parisians arrived and stopped in front of the Hotel des Voyageurs, just long enough for them to have a drink while a quick repair was made. They came into the cafe, laughing and talking loudly. A few of the women glanced at me with distaste; the others tried to fix their make-up using the cloudy mirrors that distorted their features, or went over to the windows and looked out at the rain drenching the little cobbled street and the sleepy houses.
"It's so quiet," a young woman said, laughing, then turning away.
Later on their car overtook me on the road. They were going towards Moulins. How many peaceful little places they'll drive through tonight, how many sleepy villages . . . They'll pass silent, sombre country estates and will not begin to imagine the dark, secret life within--a life that they will never come to know. I wonder how Marc Ohnet will sleep tonight, and whether he will dream of the Moulin-Neuf and its green, foaming river.
it shattered), the farmers finally leave. They make a big show of saying goodbye to us: "Goodnight to you, Monsieur Sylvestre. Everything going well for you? That's good. Goodnight to you, Monsieur Marc. Say hello to Madame Declos for us when you see her."
The door opens on an autumn night; you can hear the rain falling, their wooden clogs on the damp ground and, further away, the rustling of a stream. In the grounds of the nearby chateau, water drips from the branches of enormous trees; the firs weep.
I sit there, smoking my pipe, while Marc Ohnet stares into space. Finally he sighs and calls out, "Bartender! Another bottle of wine."
AFTER MARC OHNET LEFT this evening, a car full of Parisians arrived and stopped in front of the Hotel des
Voyageurs, just long enough for them to have a drink while a quick repair was made. They came into the cafe, laughing and talking loudly. A few of the women glanced at me with distaste; the others tried to fix their make-up using the cloudy mirrors that distorted their features, or went over to the windows and looked out at the rain drenching the little cobbled street and the sleepy houses.
"It's so quiet," a young woman said, laughing, then turning away.
Later on their car overtook me on the road. They were going towards Moulins. How many peaceful little places they'll drive through tonight, how many sleepy villages . . . They'll pass silent, sombre country estates and will not begin to imagine the dark, secret life within-a life that they will never come to know. I wonder how Marc Ohnet will sleep tonight, and whether he will dream of the Moulin-Neuf and its green, foaming river.
WE THRESH THE WHEAT around here. It's the end of summer, time to do the last of the heavy farm wor k f or this season. A day of labour and a day to celebrate. Enormous golden flan cases bake in the oven; since the beginning of the week the children have been shaking plums off the trees so they can decorate them with fruit. There are a huge number of plums this year. The small orchard behind my house is buzzing with bees; the grass is dotted with ripe fruit, the golden skin bursting with little drops of sugar. On threshing day every household takes pride in offering their workers and neighbours the best wine, the thickest cream in the region. To go with them: pies crammed full of cherries and smothered with butter; those small,
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