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Jeannins were those old French families that stayed for centuries in the same rural corner and clean from all their blends. There are many more in France than they think, despite all the changes in society; it is necessary to overcome the harsh upheaval that it pulls the families out of the soil to which they have been attached to so many and deep roots that they are not the same. The rationale has nothing to do with their affection, and there are very few material benefits; again, what comes to the sentimentalism of the historical memories, it affects only a few literary people. With irresistible force, the soil is bound by a dim and awesome feeling that is common to both coarse souls and the intellectual class, namely, that it has been crumbling this same country for centuries to live its life, breathe its air, known for its pulsating heart; just like two people sleeping side by side in the same bed; The ground is connected by the fact that the nerves are sensitive to the smallest vibrations of the region, thousands of moments and seasons, bright or cloudy day tones, all belonging and dumb. And not the most beautiful regions, or those where life is more relaxed, most of the souls, but those where the country is the most modest, humble, closest to the human being and speaks to the most familiar and homely language. that the nerves are sensitive to the smallest vibrations of the region, thousands of moments and seasons, bright or cloudy days, everything both belonging and dumb. And not the most beautiful regions, or those where life is more relaxed, most of the souls, but those where the country is the most modest, humble, closest to the human being and speaks to the most familiar and homely language. that the nerves are sensitive to the smallest vibrations of the region, thousands of moments and seasons, bright or cloudy days, everything both belonging and dumb. And not the most beautiful regions, or those where life is more relaxed, most of the souls, but those where the country is the most modest, humble, closest to the human being and speaks to the most familiar and homely language.

That was the small city of Central France where Jeannini lived. A flat and damp region, an old, punctured small town that stared at the bitter and standing channel next to the boredom; Surrounded by monotonous countryside, fields, meadows, trivial rivers, large forests, and then again the same monotony … No horizons, no significant historical buildings, no memories. Nothing that could have attracted you. But everything was created there to keep with him. This kind of hibernation and turmoil have a mysterious power. When you taste it for the first time, it suffers and frowns upon the frenzy. But a person who has received a centuries-old stamp from himself cannot be freed from it anymore; its effect has penetrated the bones and cores;

The family of Jeannins had always lived there. In the city and its surroundings, it was possible to follow the genus back to the 16th century, because there was, of course, an old Eno who had devoted his life to making a thorough pedigree of these trivial and hard-working little people. The family had landlords, landlords, village craftsmen, then priests, rural warriors, and finally the family moved to a town in the subfect of the county, where Augustin Jeann, the father of the present Jeannin, had been a successful business man, a banker. He was an adaptable and capable man, cunning and tenacious as a peasant; otherwise quite honorable, though his conscience was not too timid; a tough hubby and a loving life lover; throughout the environment he was respected and frightened of biting his playfulness, because of its direct mouth and wealth. He was a short-whore and a strong man; his eyes were small and lively, and his face wide and red; Before ancient times he was a feminine, and he never lost his tendency. She loved the sparkling chatter and good meals. I could see him at the dining table – where otherwise his son Antoine liked his side very well, – in the flock of some old similar friends: these friends were the Judge of the Peace, the Notary, the Judge: – (Jeannin’s grandfather was a passionate priest; but he could also eat the priest if the priest ate hard); All of them were robust, right on the Rabelais men’s model. There were horrible cheats in it, there the fists rolled over to the table and the roof shook with a laughing laugh. Those hopeful pleasures seemed to stick to the neighbors who walked past the cobblestones and streets in the kitchen.

Then there was an old Jeannin’s grandfather receiving pneumonia, one on a hot summer day, when his head was hit with his shirts in his cellar to put his wine in bottles. At the end of the day he moved to another world; he did not believe it at all, but went there now, in all the sacraments of the Church, at least as a rural voltaic: willing to surrender to the statues of the Church in the last moments, because the Akas would leave him alone, and that it was now indifferent to him … …

His son Antoine, after his death, took care of his movement. He was a small, fat man, red-eyed and hilarious; facial smooth, cheeky cheekbones; his speech was rapidly plunging and banging, and he was generally disgusting, and beckoned with the busiest and shortest gestures. He had no father’s special business gifts, but as a caretaker and manager he was quite decent. And not only did he need to go back to the already prepared businesses, as they spread day by day with the power of their own age and age. The region regarded her as an ambitious business man, although she had nothing to do with the success of her business. He did not have to sacrifice anything but his regularity and diligence. Otherwise he was an honest honest man, and for every reason he was honored. His kind, unyielding, some maybe too familiar, over-humble and crowded behavior had gained him all the uncompromising popularity in his small town and countryside. He did not waste his money but more of his feelings; the eyes of the eyes were easily accessible to him; and when he saw a picture of misery, he sincerely loved that he also definitely moved himself into an accident.

Like most other small towns, he also had a wide range of politics in his soul. Antoine Jeannin was an avid but moderate republican, up to the intolerance of a liberal, patriot, and an extremely steep antichrist as his father. He was a member of the municipal council; and he, as well as his counterparts, was occasionally amused to make some good prankers for the church chaplain or the fastener to which the women of the city had been crippled. You should not forget that the French township’s antiquarianism is always in a smaller or larger number of some kind of domestic spouses’ war; It is part of that non-verbal, insidious, and intimidating battle between husband and wife that takes place in almost every home.

Antoine Jeann was also a literary talent. As all of his knees rural types were he too lives nourishment for the Latin classics, which he knew by heart a few pages and a set of proverbs: La Fontaine, Boileau, – Ars Poetique (Poetry Journalism and Mass Communication), and especially Lutrinin (Church-console) workmen – and Voltaire, la Pucelle (the Virgin of Orleans), along with the 18th century French poetess Minores, little poets whose model he tried to compose some kind of poems. By the way, he was not the only one in his acquaintance who had such a poetry enthusiasm. This industry added to his reputation; he often spoke of small poetic comics, quads, predefined poems of predefined rhymes, acrosticons, epigrams, and wizards; they were sometimes very daring in content, and often quite diving, of course quite obese. The mysteries of digestion in them are not forgotten: Muusa of the Loire regions is very fond of hurling in the same way as Dante’s famous devil:

“… Ed Egle avea del cul fatto thrombetta “.

This robust, temperate and athletic man had chosen a very different kind of wife – the daughter of a small town administrator, named Lucie de Villiers. De Villiersit – or rather Devilliers: because their names had broken down by the time, as if the stone that bursting down the slope – had been a father to a sons’ officials; they were that old French parliamentary race with a high understanding of the law of holiness, duty, agreed social habits, human personality and self-esteem, and especially his professional value, the perception that was created by immeasurable honesty, with great reason. In the past century, they had become a little silence about the scandalous jansenism, and there was something pessimistic about them and a bit of a mourning, as well as a disapproval of all the Jesuits. They did not see life in a beautiful light, and without trying to overcome the difficulties it caused, they would have liked them to almost add to the law. Lucie de Villiers had some of these contradictions of his “great” husband’s relatively subtle optimism,Great: because the wife was longer than her husband’s head, – otherwise lean, proportional to her growth; He could dress sensitively, but did it so precisely and rigorously nicely that he always looked – just as I knew, – older than he was. He had a strong moral posture; but he was harsh towards other people: he did not defeat them, barely any weaknesses; he was considered cold and despicable in nature. Lucie was quite divine; and there was an old-fashioned debate between the spouses. Yet they loved each other greatly; and even though they often argued with each other, they couldn’t have done without each other. They were neither pragmatic: the man was hampered by the lack of psychological instinct – (he could be made by friendly faces and beautiful words deceived at any time),

They had two children: a daughter, Antoinette, and a daughter five years younger named Olivier.

Antoinette was a pretty brownie, her little face was scattered and Cain, French and round; eyes lively, forehead mute, jaw fine, little nose straight, – “like what the Sievi and the noble nose,” (as politely said by an ancient French personality photographer), “a nose with a subtlety barely noticeable vibrations giving life to the face and showing all the fine the feelings that moved within him as he called or listened. ” Antoinette had inherited his father’s joy and carelessness.

Olivier was an archaic, blond boy with a shallow body like his father, but of a very different nature. As a child he was severely shocked when he was a child, and even though all the relatives had pampered him at that time, his physical weakness made him a little boy early in his dying and dreaming of fear of death and being very badly armed in the struggle for life. He remained alone, both in the tenderness and the desire for loneliness; he was afraid to follow other children: he was bad to be with them; their play, their matches were disgusting about him; their rude behavior terrified him. He gave others to beat himself, not because he lacked the courage, but because he was afraid of defending himself: to do evil to others; others would have spoken to him if his security had not been his father’s social status. Until the hospitalization, Olivier was delicate: the smallest word, the sign of indulgence, the reproach that caused him to break into tears. His sister was much healthier and fell to play at his expense, saying to him a “water pouch”.

Siblings loved each other with all their heart; but they were too different to always stay with each other. Both of them stayed on their own and dreamed of their own dreams. As he grew up, Antoinette became even better; it was spoken to him about himself, and he knew it well: he was happy about it, and he forged the novels of the future. The painful and sad Olivier felt the allusions of all the contacts of the outside world offensive to himself; And then he escaped with his strange little thoughts: imagined fairy tales for himself. In him, there was a passionate feminine need to love and be loved; living alone and completely out of the reach of his age, he had created a couple of three imaginary friends: one called Jean, the other Etienne, the third Frans; with them, she always. And he was not among the other housewives. He did not sleep much, and wounded unceasingly. In the mornings when he was lifted out of bed, he stayed for a long time on the edge of the bed, little feet bare, or often pulling two socks on the same foot. Or he was standing in front of the washing table with his hands in the washbasin. He fell into his dreams at his desk, writing or reading his homework: he wounded for hours; and then suddenly he noticed that he hadn’t learned anything yet. At the dinner table, when someone talked to him, he got into the wheel of fear; he responded a couple of minutes later when he was asked; nor did he know what he said, but tangled in the middle of the sentence. She forgot about her own sluggish thoughts and rural feelings of loneliness and homeland, slow-moving days: they were half deserted, only partially inhabited, a great house; big and frightening basements and attics, mysteriously enclosed rooms, their window blinds, furniture covered with coverings, frosted reflectors, crowned crowns; old genealogy whose smile always followed the viewer; Emperor’s engravings, featuring chirpy and light-hearted heroes: Alkibiades and Socrates with joy, Antioch and Stratonike, Epaminonda’s story, Belisarius begging… The anime was ringing when the blacksmith banged on the other side of the street, hammered the lame, the barking of the hammer, the harsh limb of the hammer; a rat. Erupted from the canopy on the edge of the canal, the abominable blow from the slaughterhouse, horse-hoeing curb with street update, pump-well chute, canal swing, heavy, halo-loaded boats tucked away from the rope in front of a small slate-lined yard and garden, a rectangular little garden with two lilac trees, in the midst of geranium and petunias; on the edge of the canal there was a pengermä, which once again fed flowering pomegranates and bearings in their boxes. Occasionally there was market noise in the nearby market, there were peasants in their shiny, blue blouses, and swirling pigs… And on Sundays, the church saw a liar who played wrong, and an old cloak that fell asleep in the middle of the fair. – And then a family walks along the parkwalk to the station: there kuluteltiin time delivering to politely cap to others miserable wretches who also liked his duty to walk there, until finally reached the sunny fields and for whom the sky leaked out of sight bagel, – or were transported along the flickering and dead channel arm, the channel that the two sides were trembling planted row of poplars … And then came the great countryside dinner invitations, those endless eateries that spoke about food, knowingly and with pleasure: for the guest was just the experts in the field; and delicacy is the most important thing in rural life, the art of art. They also talked about aphasia, and drowned in despair, and some talked about the diseases, with detailed details so that they didn’t end there … he banged something in his mouth but didn’t eat anything and listened to his ears. Nothing left him without hearing, and what he did badly, was supplemented by his imagination. He had the wonderful ability of the children of old, centuries-old generations and races: the instinct to feel, the things he had never experienced and which he barely understood. – Olivier’s life still included the kitchen side of the house, where bloody and delicious mysteries were performed; as well as an old nurser telling strange and scary fairy tales… And in the evening, the nightclubs silently stared at the strange creatures he knew in a coveted old building: big rats, huge-sized and spotted spiders. Then the evening prayer beside the bed without knowing right what said; and the uneven tone of the bell of a nearby hospitality when it played the nuns at rest; – and a comfortable bed, sleep sleepwalk…

The best times of the year were spent on a family farm, a few miles from the city, in the spring and autumn. There was anxiety in peace: no one was disturbed. Like most of the bourgeois children, these two siblings were kept separate from the people: the servants, the sneakers; and they were afraid of the children in some way, even disliked. They had inherited from their mother an aristocratic – or rather, bourgeois – contempt for the bodily workers. Olivier spent his day sitting in the branch of the sermon and including marvelous stories: wonderful goddesses, Musaos ‘Satuja, or m: We Aulnoy’s “Elves’ Tales” or “Thousand and One Night”, or some Travel Stories. For that strange longing for the far-offshots, ” who hurried one way back and forth along the way, and catches the laden bees who cried as the organs of the Horns, and the rude and stupid bumble bees who don’t seem to know what they are hurting; the whole world of its own and the special world, the beastly animals that seem like the frightened desire of the film to go somewhere… Where? They don’t know it. But no question about it, somewhere just … The boy was shaking when he thought of the blind and disgusting universe surrounding him. He was ashamed as a rabbit when a pine cone dropped to the ground, or a dry twig gnawed off… And he calmed down when he heard the garden from one end of the swing rope to the waves: Antoinette swung there at a swift pace. who do not seem to know what they are hurting; the whole world of its own and the special world, the beastly animals that seem like the frightened desire of the film to go somewhere… Where? They don’t know it. But no question about it, somewhere just … The boy was shaking when he thought of the blind and disgusting universe surrounding him. He was ashamed as a rabbit when a pine cone dropped to the ground, or a dry twig gnawed off… And he calmed down when he heard the garden from one end of the swing rope to the waves: Antoinette swung there at a swift pace. who do not seem to know what they are hurting; the whole world of its own and the special world, the beastly animals that seem like the frightened desire of the film to go somewhere… Where? They don’t know it. But no question about it, somewhere just … The boy was shaking when he thought of the blind and disgusting universe surrounding him. He was ashamed as a rabbit when a pine cone dropped to the ground, or a dry twig gnawed off… And he calmed down when he heard the garden from one end of the swing rope to the waves: Antoinette swung there at a swift pace.

You also give a wound; but in their own way. He whispers all day in the garden, as a delicacy and curious little bit of wine, twisting the grapes from the grapes, striking the berries like a sparrow, shaking the hidden peach tree, climbing into the tree of trees, or pushing it in by passing, to get the golden mirabelle of the flock melting in the mouth like the most delicious honey. Or, he was picking up flowers from the pods, even though it was forbidden: he quickly grabbed the rose that he had crouched all day, and lived with his prey in the siding at the garden. Then he pushed his little nose into a blooming flower and kissed the rose, Puri, sucked it; and then hid his stolen prey deep under his collar, against his chest, between his little paws he was curiously looking at, when they saw them swing halfway under their little shirt… Unusually fun, even forbidden, had to take off their shoes and socks, and walk barefoot along the fresh and fine sand of the corridors and the wet grass of the lawns, or tumble on the rocks that were cool in the shade and glowing in the sunshine, glowing in the sunshine, and waddle in a small creek that ran on the edge of the forest: as it were kissing water, earth, and light with its feet, with its ankles, on its knees. Lying in the shade of the firs, he looked at his translucent fingers against the sun and instinctively and without special thought, with his lips on the silky soft hips of his fine and round arms. He made for himself wreaths, necklaces, braids from the leaves of the ivy and the oak; he threw red flowers and small sprigs of cinnamon sticks on them with green cones: then he was like a wild princess. And then he dances all alone around the fountain; He lifted his hands, rotated, rotated until the head began to squeak, and he threw himself on the lawn, pressing his face on the grass and laughing at the full mouth, for a long time, unable to stop, without knowing why.

So the days of these little children went very close to each other, but not without each other – except when they made a go-ahead for their brother on the head of Antoinette, throw him a handful of honeysuckle, or shake his shortage, threatening to drop him, or frighten him in karate he suddenly hit him, shouting:

– Huu! Huu! …

Antoinette sometimes had an unusual frenzy to bully her brother. He made Olivier come down from the tree, saying that his mother called him. And when Olivier then came to the ground, he climbed up to his place and didn’t want to leave. Then Olivier started to whistle and threatened to miss. But you didn’t have to be afraid that Antoinette would have stayed on the tree for the day: he couldn’t stay in peace for two minutes. When he was quite irritated by his brother from his branch and made him rage as much as he wanted, and when Olivier was just bursting to cry, Antoinette sneaked into the ground, ran to his brother, shook him laughing, said “little foolin” and rolled him in the lawn and rubbed him her nose with herbage. Olivier tried to fool against; but he had no strength. Then he was no longer moving, but bellowing back, helpless as Turilas, lean hands on the broad grass, Antoinettin holding them firmly with his small hands; and Olivier was sad and hopeless and submissive. It wasn’t that you would have tolerated anymore: when he saw Olivier being defeated and submissive, he burst into laughter, kissed him suddenly, and left him there, – but after still giving him a small block of fresh grass in his mouth: and Olivier hated it the most because it tasted I am bad; she spit, wiped her mouth and kissed, while Antoinette ran full speed and laughed at her journey. I would like to hold them firmly with their small hands; and Olivier was sad and hopeless and submissive. It wasn’t that you would have tolerated anymore: when he saw Olivier being defeated and submissive, he burst into laughter, kissed him suddenly, and left him there, – but after still giving him a small block of fresh grass in his mouth: and Olivier hated it the most because it tasted I am bad; she spit, wiped her mouth and kissed, while Antoinette ran full speed and laughed at her journey. I would like to hold them firmly with their small hands; and Olivier was sad and hopeless and submissive. It wasn’t that you would have tolerated anymore: when he saw Olivier being defeated and submissive, he burst into laughter, kissed him suddenly, and left him there, – but after still giving him a small block of fresh grass in his mouth: and Olivier hated it the most because it tasted I am bad; she spit, wiped her mouth and kissed, while Antoinette ran full speed and laughed at her journey. – however, after still giving her a small block of fresh grass to her mouth, she was hated by most of Olivier because it tasted too bad; she spit, wiped her mouth and kissed, while Antoinette ran full speed and laughed at her journey. – however, after still giving her a small block of fresh grass to her mouth, she was hated by most of Olivier because it tasted too bad; she spit, wiped her mouth and kissed, while Antoinette ran full speed and laughed at her journey.

Antoinette always laughed. He laughed at night even in his sleep. Olivier, who slept in the adjoining room and overshadowed a lot, often struggled in the midst of his dreamy imaginations, as he heard fierce laughter and bitter words as Antoinette spoke in the silence of the night. Outside, the trees in the wind breathed, the rumor rumored, the dogs roared far in the villages and houses behind the forests. At night’s vague, phosphorus-hearted obscurity, Olivier saw the heavy and dark branches of the spruce in front of a swinging window like ghosts, and then Antoinette’s laughter was a relief for her.

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