M. Elie Berthet Has Made Him
The Hero Of A Novel, Which I Have Read, And Do Not Wish To Read Again.
I hurried over my lunch, and was proof against the landlady's desire that
I should visit our Lady of Pradelles, 'who performed many miracles,
although she was of wood'; and before three-quarters of an hour I was
goading Modestine down the steep descent that leads to Langogne on the
Allier.
On both sides of the road, in big dusty fields, farmers were
preparing for next spring. Every fifty yards a yoke of great-necked
stolid oxen were patiently haling at the plough. I saw one of these mild
formidable servants of the glebe, who took a sudden interest in Modestine
and me. The furrow down which he was journeying lay at an angle to the
road, and his head was solidly fixed to the yoke like those of caryatides
below a ponderous cornice; but he screwed round his big honest eyes and
followed us with a ruminating look, until his master bade him turn the
plough and proceed to reascend the field. From all these furrowing
ploughshares, from the feet of oxen, from a labourer here and there who
was breaking the dry clods with a hoe, the wind carried away a thin dust
like so much smoke. It was a fine, busy, breathing, rustic landscape;
and as I continued to descend, the highlands of Gevaudan kept mounting in
front of me against the sky.
I had crossed the Loire the day before; now I was to cross the Allier; so
near are these two confluents in their youth.
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