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Updated: April 30, 2025
"General Canrobert," exclaimed Madame Leflô, "that if tells me your intentions." Canrobert, however, had not yet taken his decision. Indeed, indecision was one of his chief characteristics. Pelissier, who was cross-grained and gruff, used to say, "Judge men by their names, indeed! I am christened Amable, Randon César, and Canrobert Certain." No. 16, Rue d'Anjou, Saint Honoré.
From time to time only, when there was a question of selling a crop or buying a calf, the young man would ask his father's advice, and, making a speaking-trumpet of his two hands, he would bawl out his views into his ear, and old Amable either approved of them or opposed them in a slow, hollow voice that came from the depths of his stomach.
I tell you she's a good girl and strong, too, and also thrifty." The old man repeated: "As long as I live, I won't see her your wife." And nothing could get the better of him, nothing could bend his severity. One hope only was left to Césaire. Old Amable was afraid of the curé through apprehension of the death which he felt drawing nigh.
And he gazed, without hate, at the distant outline of the man who was driving his plough along the horizon. But old Amable did not want this marriage. He opposed it with the obstinacy of a deaf man, with a violent obstinacy. Cesaire in vain shouted in his ear, in that ear which still heard a few sounds: "I'll take good care of you, daddy.
She could not utter another word, and turning aside her head so as not to see, she pointed toward the tree with her outstretched arm. Not understanding what she meant, he took the candle in order to find out, and in the midst of the foliage lit up from below he saw old Amable hanging high up with a stable-halter round his neck. A ladder was leaning against the trunk of the apple tree.
The old man raised towards him an anxious eye full of suspicion, and, foreseeing danger, he was getting ready to climb up his ladder when the Abbe Raffin laid his hand on his shoulder, and shouted close to his temple: "I want to have a talk with you, Father Amable." Césaire had disappeared, taking advantage of the door being open.
"My dear Beaudesert," said my father, "when Saint Amable, patron saint of Riom, in Auvergne, went to Rome, the sun waited upon him as a servant, carried his cloak and gloves for him in the heat, and kept off the rain, if the weather changed, like an umbrella.
"Come, daddy, you must eat." He rose up, took his seat at the end of the table, emptied his soup bowl, masticated his bread and butter, drank his two glasses of cider and then took himself off. It was one of those warm days, one of those enjoyable days when life ferments, pulsates, blooms all over the surface of the soil. Old Amable pursued a little path across the fields.
The men uttered shouts, banged the table with their fists, laughed, bending on one side and raising up their bodies again as if they were each working a pump. The women clucked like hens, while the servants wriggled, standing against the walls. Old Amable was the only one that did not laugh, and, without making any reply, waited till they made room for him.
The elder was Monsieur Amable Poussette, owner of the sawmill at Bois Clair and proprietor of the summer hotel, a French Canadian by birth and descent and in appearance, but in clothes, opinions, and religious belief a curious medley of American and Canadian standards.
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