His height marked him out for cavalry. The mysterious attraction of the unknown had induced him to choose the corps of spahis.
His childhood had been passed in the Cevennes, in an obscure village in the heart of the woods.
In the strong, pure mountain air he had shot up like a young oak tree.
The first impressions graven on his childish mind were wholesome and simple, the well-beloved forms of his father and mother, his home, a little old-fashioned house shaded by chestnut trees. These things were all imprinted ineffaceably upon his memory, and had their own sacred place deep down in his heart. And then there were the great woods, his wanderings at random along paths deep in moss—and there was freedom.
In the first years of his life he knew nothing of the rest of the world beyond the bounds of the obscure village where he was born. He was aware of no other neighbourhood, but the wild, open country where the shepherds dwelt, the mountain sorcerers.
In these woods, where he was wont to roam all day long, he nursed the dreams of a solitary child, the musings of a shepherd boy—and then suddenly he would be seized with a wild desire to run, to climb, to break branches from the trees, to catch birds.
One distasteful memory was that of the village school, a gloomy place, where one had to stay quietly cooped up within four walls. His parents gave up sending him there; he was always playing truant.
On Sunday he was given his fine mountaineer’s dress to wear, and he went to church with his mother, hand in hand with little Jeanne, whom they picked up as they passed Uncle Méry’s house. After service, he used to play bowls on the common under the oak trees.
He was conscious that he was better looking and stronger than the other children, and at play he was always the one to be obeyed, and he was accustomed to meet with this submission wherever he went.