Then he called me to him and asked:
“Frédéric, what sort of weather is it?”
“It rains, my father,” I replied.
“Ah well,” he said, “if it rains it its good for the seeds.”
Then he gave up his soul to God. I can never forget that moment! They covered his head with the sheet, and near the bed, that big bed in the white alcove where in broad daylight I had been born, they lit a long pale taper. The shutters of the room were half closed. The labourers were ordered to unyoke at once. The maid, in the kitchen, turned over the cauldrons and pots on the dresser.
Around the ashes of the fire, which had been extinguished, we seated ourselves in a silent circle, my mother at the corner of the big chimney, bearing, according to the custom of the widows of Provence, as sign of mourning, a white fichu on her head. And all day the neighbours, men and
Thérèse Roumanille (Madame Boissière), 2nd Queen of the Félibres.
women, relations and friends, came to offer us their sympathy, greeting us one after another with the customary “May our Lord preserve you!”