a cousin of his.

Oddly enough, almost every one of these female cousins has a history.
You would not think it, to look at the place and the people, yet I fancy
that it is pretty universal for women in such places to have
"histories." You will see an old woman with a bronzed face--sometimes
still handsome, often the reverse--in her short skirt, her big apron
tied round where a waist is not, her still beautiful hair concealed in a
colored handkerchief. You ask the question of the right person, and you
will discover that she is rich; that she is avaricious; that she pays
heavy taxes; denies herself all but the bare necessities; and that the
foundation of her fortune dates back to an affaire du coeur, or perhaps
of interest, possibly of cupidity; and that very often the middle-aged
daughter who still "lives at home with mother," had also had a
profitable affaire arranged by mother herself. Everything has been
perfectly convenable. Every one either knows about it or has forgotten
it. No one is bothered or thinks the worse of her so long as she has
remained of the "people" and put on no airs. But let her attempt to
rise out of her class, or go up to Paris, and the Lord help her if she
ever wants to come back, and, French fashion, end her days where she
began them. This is typically, provincially French. When you come down
here I shall tell you tales that will make Balzac and De Maupassant look
tame.

You have no idea how little money these people spend, It must hurt them
terribly to cough up their taxes. They all till the land, and eat what
they grow. Amelie's husband spends exactly four cents a week--to get
shaved on Sunday. He can't shave himself. A razor scares him to death.
He looks as if he were going to the guillotine when he starts for the
barber's, but she will not stand for a beard of more than a week's
growth. He always stops at my door on his way back to let his wife kiss
his clean old face, all wreathed with smiles--the ordeal is over for
another week. He never needs a sou except for that shave. He drinks
nothing but his own cider: he eats his own vegetables, his own rabbits;
he never goes anywhere except to the fields,--does not want to--unless
it is to play the violin for a dance or a fete. He just works, eats,
sleeps, reads his newspaper, and is content. Yet he pays taxes on
nearly a hundred thousand francs' worth of real estate.

But, after all, this is not what I started to tell you--that w