The eyes of both men followed the retreating figure in silence.
It was Adolphe who spoke at last.
"Ah-h-h!" he sighed. "An' yet we complain sometimes, you an' me, eh? I am t'irty-seven years old an' I got t'irteen healt'y chillen an' two gran'chillen, an' my wife—look at her, yo'nger an' happier wid every one—
"Oh, I wonder, me, sometimes, dat God don't just snatch everyt'ing away jus' for spite, w'en we always complain so.
"Did you take occasion to notice dat w'ite hair against dat yo'ng face? An' dey say he never mention his trouble."
"I tell you, like we said, Adolphe, dat river she is—she is—"
He threw up his right palm, as if in despair of adequate language.
"T'ink of coming home from de war, already robbed, to find all gone—home, wife, child, family, servants, all obliterate', an' only de river's mark, green mold an' mildew, on de walls above de mantel in de house; an' outside her still face under de sky to answer, an' she heed no questions. She is called de father of waters? In a sense, yas, maybe. Mais, no. She is, I tell you, de mother of trouble—an' pleasure, too.
"She is, after all, de queen of dis valley, an' no mistake—dat river. When she need fresh ermine for her robe, she throw it over our cotton fields—"
"Yas, an' de black spots, dey are our sorrows. Dat's not a bad resemblance, no."