mussel shells out of the way so as not to miss a drop. Heâd hesitated at first when the steaming bowl of mussels had been place in front of him, as heâd never eaten â never even seen â shellfish before, but the aroma of white wine, tomatoes and olive oil had soon allayed any doubts. When no more could be sopped up he sat back, a satisfied grin on his face.
Marius took his pipe out of his pocket and lit it. He looked at his son and nodded. The boy will be all right , he thought. Heâs proven himself on this journey. Never complained.
âSo, Louis. Not missing Sablières?â
âIâll never miss it.â
âNever?â
âNever. I hate that village.â
âHate? But you never said. Never.â Louis shrugged. âWhat did you hate?â
âEverything. The village, the way nothing ever changes. The way everybody works nonstop, yet still starves. I used to look at Gustaveâs postcards sometimes, and wish I could see those places⦠How I envied Jean living in Nîmes! At least heâs free of Sablières. I wanted to be free too.â
âBut you never saidâ¦â
âThere was nothing I could do. I knew Iâd have to wait till I was old enough to leave.â
âButââ
âAh, freedom â itâs not always what you think it is, young man.â
Louis turned to the man at the next table whoâd just spoken those words.
âMonsieur?â
âFreedom. I said itâs not always what you imagine.â The man puffed on his pipe before continuing. âThink of Monsieur Seguinâs goat. She wanted freedom, and look what happened to herâ¦â
âI donât understand.â
âMonsieur Seguinâs goat. You donât know the story?â
Louis shook his head.
âMay I?â the man asked Marius, indicating the vacant chair at their table with his pipe. Marius nodded. âA man called Daudet â Alphonse Daudet â wrote the story, about twenty⦠no, thirty years ago. But itâs as true today as it ever was. Shall I go on, young man?â
Louis nodded.
âWell, Monsieur Seguin was a man who loved goats, but he never had any luck with them.â He reached across to his table for the bottle of wine, along with his glass. âMonsieur?â he asked Marius, indicating the wine. Marius nodded.
He poured a glass for Marius and himself, and a small amount for Louis, which he topped up with water.
âAnyway, like I said, he had no luck with his goats. No matter what he did, no matter how he treated them, they always ran away. Monsieur Seguin was so upset he decided to never keep a goat again.â
The man took a sip of his wine and shook his head, as if Monsieur Seguinâs problem was his problem. Then, with a sigh, continued. âOf course, he did get another goat. Only this time he made sure it was a young one, so sheâd grow up used to him. And what a goat it was! A beautiful little goat with soft brown eyes and a gentle manner. Her hooves were jet black, and so shiny youâd swear theyâd been polished. Her coat was pure white â so long that it formed a houpelande around her, and she had beautiful twisted horns. He called her Blanchette. You like the wine, Monsieur?â
âYes. Thank you. The goat?â
âAh yes, the goat. Well, Monsieur Seguin wanted to keep this one, so he put her in his best paddock, where the clover grew sweet and abundant, and where there were big shade trees to keep her cool in the middle of the day. He tethered her, of course, but made the rope long so she could wander at will. And every day he would visit her and talk to her so she wouldnât get lonely. And at first the little goat was happy â happy, that is, until she noticed the mountains not far away and wondered what it would be like, up thereâ¦
I see youâre smiling, young man, but thatâs how it all starts, this want