don’t listen to the radio.”
Puzzled and concerned, Louis asked, “Where are we headed now?”
“Into the Lozère,” Alex announced. Everyone was startled by his certainty until he explained, “While I walked around the town square this morning I heard that the departments of Lot and Aveyron are filled to capacity with Belgians. The Lozère is the last department where the French have been instructed to make us welcome.”
Digging into the store of religious history he had developed over the previous decade, André detailed that the Lozère was the stronghold of the Protestant Huguenots after the St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre and its aftermath, when they were slaughtered by the thousands. Most of the survivors who hadn’t fled to other countries moved up into the higher reaches of this remote region. Their life was almost unendurably hard and not just because of the stony soil. War against them raged for the next quarter century, until Henri IV issued the Edict of Nantes granting freedom of religion for Protestants, and then again almost a century later, when Louis XIV revoked it.
“Hence the old rhyming adage,” he concluded, “‘Lozère, pays de misère ’—‘land of misery.’”
Sunlight played against the cliffs overlooking the constantly changing course of the mighty Tarn, casting shadows interwoven with bright spots of color. The growth along the river’s edge stood out darkly green against the luminescent browns, tans, and rusts of the valley walls. Here and there a little bridge connected the road to one of the small stone farmhouses perched against the far side of the river, structures built centuries before by rugged farmers who managed to scratch a meager living from the small plots of earth along the alluvial floodplains.
“Have we left Aveyron?” Denise asked.
“There are no signposts to mark the borders between départements but I would guess so,” responded Andre. “Since we left Millau there’ve been fewer and fewer gendarmes more and more widely scattered.” They pored over the map, tracing the Tarn to its headwaters in the mountains of the Cévennes, as the Lozère was also known.
“What do you think about that?” Alex asked, finger pointing to a place called Florac.
“Florac must mean ‘flowing water,’” André said, “if it’s Latin as I suspect.”
“The Romans certainly knew where to put a town,” Denise said hopefully.
“I like the idea of an ever-flowing fountain splashing cheerfully in the center of town,” Geneviève put in.
“At least we’d be still farther away from the authorities in Millau,” André added.
Alex drummed his fingers on the dashboard then folded the map. As simply as that the decision had been made.
A ribbon of road led the Sauverins through village after village of clustered black-roofed houses. They passed an old castle, what must once have been a battlemented monastery, and vineyards, meadows, and orchards thick with spring blossoms. They could hear the Tarn bubbling and rumbling, pummeling its way down the gorge.
Veering off along one branch of the river they entered Florac, an aged city with an ancient castle and streets lined with plane trees. As Geneviève had hoped, a live fountain welled at the heart of the old ville.
There were only a few other refugees and a handful of cars with Belgian license plates on the streets. Rooms at the city’s best hotel were available, for Florac was also a resort destination and it was still too cool this high in the mountains for casual visitors.
After a relatively relaxed and comfortable night, André felt agitated at breakfast on Wednesday. He and Alex agreed they couldn’t long afford such fancy accommodations. They needed a more permanent, less expensive place to stay.
Imagining that official arrangements must have been made for accommodating refugees, they decided to pay a call on the mayor even though that seemed risky. They could always hope the orders they had
Puzzled and concerned, Louis asked, “Where are we headed now?”
“Into the Lozère,” Alex announced. Everyone was startled by his certainty until he explained, “While I walked around the town square this morning I heard that the departments of Lot and Aveyron are filled to capacity with Belgians. The Lozère is the last department where the French have been instructed to make us welcome.”
Digging into the store of religious history he had developed over the previous decade, André detailed that the Lozère was the stronghold of the Protestant Huguenots after the St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre and its aftermath, when they were slaughtered by the thousands. Most of the survivors who hadn’t fled to other countries moved up into the higher reaches of this remote region. Their life was almost unendurably hard and not just because of the stony soil. War against them raged for the next quarter century, until Henri IV issued the Edict of Nantes granting freedom of religion for Protestants, and then again almost a century later, when Louis XIV revoked it.
“Hence the old rhyming adage,” he concluded, “‘Lozère, pays de misère ’—‘land of misery.’”
Sunlight played against the cliffs overlooking the constantly changing course of the mighty Tarn, casting shadows interwoven with bright spots of color. The growth along the river’s edge stood out darkly green against the luminescent browns, tans, and rusts of the valley walls. Here and there a little bridge connected the road to one of the small stone farmhouses perched against the far side of the river, structures built centuries before by rugged farmers who managed to scratch a meager living from the small plots of earth along the alluvial floodplains.
“Have we left Aveyron?” Denise asked.
“There are no signposts to mark the borders between départements but I would guess so,” responded Andre. “Since we left Millau there’ve been fewer and fewer gendarmes more and more widely scattered.” They pored over the map, tracing the Tarn to its headwaters in the mountains of the Cévennes, as the Lozère was also known.
“What do you think about that?” Alex asked, finger pointing to a place called Florac.
“Florac must mean ‘flowing water,’” André said, “if it’s Latin as I suspect.”
“The Romans certainly knew where to put a town,” Denise said hopefully.
“I like the idea of an ever-flowing fountain splashing cheerfully in the center of town,” Geneviève put in.
“At least we’d be still farther away from the authorities in Millau,” André added.
Alex drummed his fingers on the dashboard then folded the map. As simply as that the decision had been made.
A ribbon of road led the Sauverins through village after village of clustered black-roofed houses. They passed an old castle, what must once have been a battlemented monastery, and vineyards, meadows, and orchards thick with spring blossoms. They could hear the Tarn bubbling and rumbling, pummeling its way down the gorge.
Veering off along one branch of the river they entered Florac, an aged city with an ancient castle and streets lined with plane trees. As Geneviève had hoped, a live fountain welled at the heart of the old ville.
There were only a few other refugees and a handful of cars with Belgian license plates on the streets. Rooms at the city’s best hotel were available, for Florac was also a resort destination and it was still too cool this high in the mountains for casual visitors.
After a relatively relaxed and comfortable night, André felt agitated at breakfast on Wednesday. He and Alex agreed they couldn’t long afford such fancy accommodations. They needed a more permanent, less expensive place to stay.
Imagining that official arrangements must have been made for accommodating refugees, they decided to pay a call on the mayor even though that seemed risky. They could always hope the orders they had
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