Jacquou le Croquant

Our farm is located between a little village named Fossemagne and an even smaller hamlet called Ajat in an upland area of Perigord Noir characterized by rolling hills, thickets of forest, and walnut groves. This is the northernmost part of Perigord Noir, named for its dense oak woods and famed black truffles.

We have thirteen hectares of land (about thirty-three acres) surrounding the houses and are in such a remote spot that there are almost no noises but the sound of birds – especially those of cuckoos – and that of frogs in a pond somewhat pompously called ‘Lac Champagnol’ at the foot of our hill.

We are close enough to Fossemagne to hear the village church bell tolling the hours and announcing mass, as in a passage from Jacquou le Croquant (Jacquou the Rebel) a novel by the 19th century French author Eugene Le Roy. The book, celebrated in French literary history, chronicles the life of a poor Perigordine boy whose family lives at Fossemagne – the work is the town’s only claim to fame.

Then, when noon came, the Angelus would ring

from all the belfries about, Fossemagne, Thenon, Bars,

Rouffignac, Saint-Gey rac, Milhac-d'Auberoche, and

the music of all these bells of varying depths of tone

spread out over the silent forest. I would stay there

perched in my tree for hours, dreaming of those

vague things that pass through the heads of children,

smelling the wild odors that rose from the forest, that

vast herbarium of wild plants, warmed by the sun,

listening to the cuckoo calling from the depths of the

woods, answered by another whose note came from

far away like a faint echo. At other times would

come the mew of a jay that had learned during the

cherry season to imitate the cats about the house, and

that flew off quickly on catching sight of me.

In the text, Jacquou rents a house at 'Ages' - now Ajat, the hamlet nearest us - in return for offering a hare and two partridges on the feast day of Fosssemagne’s patron saint (October 21) and arranges to marry his childhood sweetheart, Bertrille, at the parish church. His description of the village – and especially that of his life in his barren and threadbare cottage – resounds with me now as I ‘camp’ alone at La Placette Haute. 

Then I went off to find the cure of Fossemagne

in whose parish the Ages house was, and I explained

my business to him, saying, as was true, that we were

both very poor, and begging him to marry us as

cheaply as possible. He was a fine old man, and he

began to laugh when he heard this request, and said:

"My boy, I will marry you for the lowest possible

price, that is, free of charge, for the love of God."

"Thank you very much, M. le cure," I answered,

laughing also. "You will not be dealing with those

who are forgetful of a kindness."

As can be imagined, our wedding was not a very

fine one, and people did not come to their doorsteps

to see us pass. I had no relative to my knowledge,

except that cousin of my father's who lived over by

Cendrieux, and whose name I did not even know.

Bertrille was situated much as I was, having only

distant relatives, who used to be farmers in the neigh-

borhood of Saint-Orse, but who, during the ten years

since she had lost sight of them, had perhaps changed

farms five or six times. So we were alone, before the

mayor of Fossemagne and at the church, and the first

comers served as witnesses.

There are places in our part of the country where

they offer tourin, or onion-soup, to the newly-married

on the threshold of the church as they come out. But

we were poor and without friends, and no one offered

this courtesy.

So, when we had come out of the church, and I

had hastily thanked the cure, I borrowed a mule and

cart from a man whom I knew in the town because

I had done him some slight service, and I went off

with my wife to get her bit of furniture from Bars.

When I had loaded everything on the cart — not a

long operation — we went back to Ages over the bad

forest roads. When she entered the house and saw

the table of planks nailed on stakes and the sort of

big box in which I used to sleep on bracken, my wife

looked at me with her eyes full of pity.

"You were none too well off here, my Jacquou."

"Bah!" I answered, "I slept just the same."

After I had unloaded everything and set up the

bedstead, I went off to take back the mule and cart

to the man at Fossemagne, while my wife set a pot

on the fire with a fowl which she had already prepared.

When I came back three hours later, bringing a half

pint of wine that I had bought at the inn, my wife

had finished arranging everything as well as possible.

It was not really very much to have a bed and a table

in this hut; but to me it seemed as if everything were

completely changed.

The bed with its oakum sheets had replaced my

box in the corner, and in the middle, instead of the nailed boards, was the table. The fire shone brightly on the black hearth, and from the pot there escaped in jets a savory vapor. On a towel of gray linen

which covered the end of the table were placed a loaf

of bread and two plates of brown earthenware. And

my wife came and went, rinsing two greenish goblets,

wiping two spoons, tasting the soup, adding salt, cut-

ting the bread in the soup-dish, and, in short, by her

mere presence, giving life to this miserable dwelling

that had formerly been sad and solitary.

Then with my heart full of joy, I seized her as

she passed close to me and kissed her so heartily that

I made her blush.

When everything was ready, and night had come,

she lighted the lamp, and poured the soup over the

bread. Then when we had sat down, she served it;

and this, with the chicken which had an egg stuffing,

was our whole wedding feast. All the same, it lasted

a long time, for we talked more than we ate, recalling

our memories.

"Who would have thought we should be married,

my Bertrille, when we came back from the celebration

of Saint-Remy !'

"Then,' she answered, "there were two poor crea-

tures between us who are no longer on earth..."

While we talked and ate, my dog sat by us, watch-

ing us and sweeping the ground with his tail, ap-

parently well pleased with the change that had taken

place in the house.

"Come, old fellow," I said, throwing him the bones, "feast yourself. We sha'n't have things like this every

evening."