{"id":27269,"date":"2026-03-30T21:37:31","date_gmt":"2026-03-31T01:37:31","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=27269"},"modified":"2026-03-30T21:37:32","modified_gmt":"2026-03-31T01:37:32","slug":"alphonse-daudet-aged-folk","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/alphonse-daudet-aged-folk\/27269\/","title":{"rendered":"Alphonse Daudet: Aged Folk"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Synopsis:<\/strong> \u201cAged Folk\u201d (Les vieux) is a short story by the French writer Alphonse Daudet, published in Le Figaro <\/em>on October 23, 1868, and later included in the collection Lettres de mon moulin<\/em> (1869). A miller from Provence receives a letter from a friend in Paris asking him to do something unusual: to travel to the village of Eygui\u00e8res to visit his grandparents, whom he hasn\u2019t seen in over ten years. Reluctantly, the miller sets out on the journey to a humble house next to a convent, where he finds two elderly people who welcome him with overwhelming emotion and heartfelt hospitality.<\/p>\n\n\n

\n
\n
\"Alphonse<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

Aged Folk<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Alphonse Daudet
(Full story)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA LETTER, P\u00c8RE Azan?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, monsieur; and it comes from Paris.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was quite proud, that worthy old Azan, that it came from Paris. I was not. Something told me that that Parisian missive from the rue Jean-Jacques, dropping thus upon my table unexpectedly, and so early in the morning, would make me lose my whole day. I was not mistaken, \u2014 and you shall see why.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou must do me a service, my friend,\u201d said the letter. \u201cClose your mill for a day, and go to Eygui\u00e8res. Eygui\u00e8res is a large village, three or four leagues from your mill, \u2014 a pleasant walk. When you get there, ask for the Orphans\u2019 Convent. The first house beyond the convent is a low building with gray shutters, and a small garden behind it. Enter without knocking, \u2014 the door is always open, \u2014 and as you enter, call out very loud: \u2018Good-day, worthy people! I am a friend of Maurice.\u2019 On which you will see two little old persons \u2014 oh! but old, old, ever so old \u2014 stretching out their hands to you from their big armchairs; and you are to kiss them for me, with all your heart, as if they were yours, your own friends. Then you will talk. They will talk to you of me and nothing else; they will say a lot of foolish things, which you are to listen to without laughing. You won\u2019t laugh, will you? They are my grandparents; two beings whose very life I am, and who have not seen me these ten years… Ten years, a long time! But how can I help it? Paris clutches me. And they, they are so old that if they came to see me they would break to bits on the way… Happily, you are there, my dear miller, and, in kissing you, these poor old people will fancy they are kissing me. I have so often told them about you, and of the good friendship that\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The devil take good friendship! Just this very morning, when the weather is so beautiful! but not at all fit to tramp along the roads; too much mistral, too much sun, a regular Provence day. When that cursed letter came, I had just picked out my shelter between two rocks, where I dreamed of staying all day like a lizard, drinking light and listening to the song of the pines. Well, I could not help myself. I shut up the mill, grumbling, and hid the key. My stick, my pipe, and off I went.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I reached Eygui\u00e8res in about two hours. The village was deserted; everybody was in the fields. From the elms in the courtyards, white with dust, the grasshoppers were screaming. To be sure, in the square before the mayor\u2019s office, a donkey was sunning himself, and a flock of pigeons were dabbling in the fountain before the church, but no one able to show me the Orphans\u2019 Convent. Happily, an old witch suddenly appeared, crouching and knitting in the angle of her doorway. I told her what I was looking for; and as she was a witch of very great power, she had only to raise her distaff, and, behold! the Orphans\u2019 Convent rose up before me. It was a large, sullen, black house, proud of exhibiting above its arched portal an old cross of red freestone with Latin around it. Beside this house, I saw another, very small; gray shutters, garden behind it. I knew it directly, and I entered without knocking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

All my life I shall remember that long, cool, quiet corridor, the walls rose-tinted, the little garden quivering at the other end, and seen through a thin blind. It seemed to me that I was entering the house of some old bailiff of the olden time of Sedaine. At the end of the passage, on the left, through a half-opened door, I heard the tick-tack of a large clock and the voice of a child \u2014 a child in school \u2014 who was reading aloud, and pausing at each syllable: \u201cThen \u2014 Saint \u2014 I-re-ne-us \u2014 cri-ed \u2014 out \u2014 I \u2014 am \u2014 the \u2014 wheat \u2014 of \u2014 the Lord \u2014 I \u2014 must \u2014 be \u2014 ground \u2014 by \u2014 the \u2014 teeth \u2014 of \u2014 these \u2014 an-i-mals.\u201d I softly approached the door and looked in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the quiet half-light of a little room, an old, old man with rosy cheeks, wrinkled to the tips of his fingers, sat sleeping in a chair, his mouth open, his hands on his knees. At his feet, a little girl dressed in blue \u2014 with a great cape and a linen cap, the orphans\u2019 costume \u2014 was reading the life of Saint Iren\u00e6us in a book that was bigger than herself. The reading had operated miraculously on the entire household. The old man slept in his chair, the flies on the ceiling, the canaries in their cage at the window, and the great clock snored: tick-tack, tick-tack. Nothing was awake in the room but a broad band of light, which came, straight and white, between the closed shutters, full of lively sparkles and microscopic whirlings.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Amid this general somnolence, the child went gravely on with her reading: \u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIm-me-di-ate-ly \u2014 two \u2014 li-ons \u2014 dart-ed \u2014 upon \u2014 him \u2014 and \u2014 ate \u2014 him \u2014 up.\u201d At this moment I entered the room. The lions of Saint Iren\u00e6us darting into the room could not have produced greater stupefaction. A regular stage effect! The little one gave a cry, the big book fell, the flies and the canaries woke, the clock struck, the old man started up, quite frightened, and I myself, being rather troubled, stopped short on the sill of the door, and called out very loud: \u201cGood-day, worthy people! I am Maurice\u2019s friend.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oh, then! if you had only seen him, that old man, if you had only seen how he came to me with outstretched arms, embracing me, pressing my hands, and wandering about the room, crying out: \u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMon Dieu! mon Dieu!<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

All the wrinkles of his face were laughing. He was red. He stuttered: \u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAh! monsieur \u2014 ah! monsieur.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then he went to the back of the room and called: \u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMamette!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A door opened, a trot of mice in the corridor \u2014 it was Mamette. Nothing prettier than that little old woman with her mob-cap, her brown gown, and the embroidered handkerchief which she held in her hand in the olden fashion. Most affecting thing! the two were like each other. With a false front and yellow bows to his cap, he too might be called Mamette. Only, the real Mamette must have wept a great deal in her life, for she was even more wrinkled than he. Like him, she too had an orphan with her, a little nurse in a blue cape who never left her; and to see these old people protected by those orphans was indeed the most touching thing you can imagine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On entering, Mamette began to make me a deep curtsey, but a word of the old man stopped her In the middle of it: \u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA friend of Maurice.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Instantly she trembled, she wept, dropped her handkerchief, grew red, very red, redder than he. Those aged folk! who have hardly a drop of blood in their veins, how it flies to their face at the least emotion!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cQuick, quick, a chair,\u201d said the old lady to her little girl.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOpen the shutters,\u201d said the old man to his.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then taking me each by a hand they led me, trotting along, to the window the better to see me. The armchairs were placed; I sat between the two on a stool, the little Blues behind us, and the questioning began: \u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow is he? What is he doing? Why doesn\u2019t he come? Is he happy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Patati, patata! and so on for two hours.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I answered as best I could all their questions, giving such details about my friend as I knew, and boldly inventing others that I did not know; being careful to avoid admitting that I had never noticed whether his windows closed tightly and what coloured paper he had on his walls.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe paper of his bedroom? blue, madame, light blue, with garlands of flowers\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cReally!\u201d said the old lady, much affected; then she added, turning to her husband: \u201cHe is such a dear lad!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, yes! a dear lad!\u201d said the other, with enthusiasm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And all the time that I was speaking they kept up between them little nods, and sly laughs and winks, and knowing looks; or else the old man came closer to say in my ear: \u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSpeak louder, she is a little hard of hearing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And she on her side: \u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA little louder, if you please. He doesn\u2019t hear very well.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then I raised my voice, and both of them thanked me with a smile; and in those faded smiles, \u2014 bending toward me, seeking in the depths of my eyes the image of their Maurice, \u2014 I was, myself, quite moved to see that image, vague, veiled, almost imperceptible, as if I beheld my friend smiling to me from afar through a mist Suddenly the old man sat upright in his chair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI have just thought, Mamette, \u2014 perhaps he has not breakfasted!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And Mamette, distressed, throws up her arms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNot breakfasted! oh, heavens!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I thought they were still talking of Maurice, and I was about to say that that worthy lad never waited later than noon for his breakfast. But no, it was of me they were thinking; and it was indeed a sight to see their commotion when I had to own that I was still fasting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cQuick! set the table, little Blues! That table in the middle of the room \u2014 the Sunday cloth \u2014 the flowered plates. And no laughing, if you please! Make haste, make haste!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And haste they made. Only time to break three plates and breakfast was served.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA good little breakfast,\u201d said Mamette, leading me to the table; \u201conly, you must eat it alone. We have eaten already.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Poor old people! at whatever hour you took them, they had \u201ceaten already.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mamette\u2019s good little breakfast was a cup of milk, dates, and a barquette<\/em>, a kind of shortcake, no doubt enough to feed her canaries for a week; and to think that I, alone, I ate up all their provisions! I felt the indignation around the table; the little Blues whispered and nudged each other; and those canaries in their cage, \u2014 I knew they were saying: \u201cOh! that monsieur, he is eating up the whole of the barquette!<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I did eat it all, truly, almost without perceiving that I did so, preoccupied as I was by looking round that light and placid room, where floated, as it were, the fragrance of things ancient. Especially noticeable were two little beds from which I could not detach my eyes. Those beds, almost two cradles, I pictured them in the morning at dawn, still inclosed within their great fringed curtains. Three o\u2019clock strikes. That is the hour when old people wake.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAre you asleep, Mamette?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, my friend.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIsn\u2019t Maurice a fine lad?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, yes, a fine lad.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And from that I imagined a long conversation by merely looking at the little beds of the two old people, standing side by side.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

During this time a terrible drama was going on at the other end of the room before a closet. It concerned reaching up to the top shelf for a certain bottle of brandied cherries which had awaited Maurice\u2019s return for the last ten years. The old people now proposed to open it for me. In spite of Mamette\u2019s supplications the husband was determined to get the cherries himself, and, mounted on a chair to the terror of his wife, he was striving to reach them. You can see the scene from here: the old man trembling on the points of his toes, the little Blues clinging to his chair, Mamette behind him, breathless, her arms extended, and, pervading all, a slight perfume of bergamot exhaled from the open closet and the great piles of unbleached linen therein contained. It was charming.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At last, after many efforts, they succeeded in getting it from the closet, that famous bottle, and with it an old silver cup, Maurice\u2019s cup when he was little. This they filled with cherries to the brim \u2014 Maurice was so fond of cherries! And while the old man served me, he whispered in my ear, as if his mouth watered: \u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou are very lucky, you, to be the one to eat them. My wife put them up. You\u2019ll taste something good.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Alas! his wife had put them up, but she had forgotten to sweeten them. They were atrocious, your cherries, my poor Mamette \u2014 But that did not prevent me from eating them all without blinking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The meal over, I rose to take leave of my hosts. They would fain have kept me longer to talk of that dear lad, but the day was shortening, the mill was far, and I had to go.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The old man rose when I did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMamette, my coat; I will accompany him as far as the square.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I felt very sure that in her heart Mamette thought it too cool for the old man to be out, but she did not show it. Only, as she helped him to put his arms into the sleeves of his coat, a handsome snuff-coloured coat with mother-of-pearl buttons, I heard the dear creature say to him softly: \u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou won\u2019t be late, will you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And he, with a roguish air: \u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHey! hey! I don\u2019t know \u2014 perhaps not.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Thereupon they looked at each other, laughing, and the little Blues laughed to see them laugh, and the canaries laughed too, in their cage, after their fashion. Between ourselves I think the smell of those cherries had made them all a little tipsy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Daylight was fading as we left the house, grandpapa and I. A little Blue followed at a distance to bring him back; but he did not see her, and seemed quite proud to walk along, arm in arm with me, like a man. Mamette, beaming, watched us from the sill of her door with pretty little nods of her head that seemed to say: \u201cSee there! my poor man, he can still walk about.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

THE END<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cAged Folk\u201d (Les vieux) is a short story by the French writer Alphonse Daudet, published in Le Figaro on October 23, 1868, and later included in the collection Lettres de mon moulin (1869). A miller from Provence receives a letter from a friend in Paris asking him to do something unusual: to travel to the village of Eygui\u00e8res to visit his grandparents, whom he hasn\u2019t seen in over ten years. Reluctantly, the miller sets out on the journey to a humble house next to a convent, where he finds two elderly people who welcome him with overwhelming emotion and heartfelt hospitality.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":27268,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[559],"tags":[1683,752,630],"class_list":["post-27269","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories","tag-alphonse-daudet","tag-france","tag-realism","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-33"],"acf":[],"taxonomy_info":{"category":[{"value":559,"label":"Short stories"}],"post_tag":[{"value":1683,"label":"Alphonse Daudet"},{"value":752,"label":"France"},{"value":630,"label":"Realism"}]},"featured_image_src_large":["https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/03\/Alphonse-Daudet-Los-viejos.webp",768,768,false],"author_info":{"display_name":"Juan Pablo Guevara","author_link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/author\/spartakku\/"},"comment_info":"","category_info":[{"term_id":559,"name":"Short stories","slug":"short-stories","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":559,"taxonomy":"category","description":"","parent":0,"count":420,"filter":"raw","cat_ID":559,"category_count":420,"category_description":"","cat_name":"Short stories","category_nicename":"short-stories","category_parent":0}],"tag_info":[{"term_id":1683,"name":"Alphonse Daudet","slug":"alphonse-daudet","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":1683,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":1,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":752,"name":"France","slug":"france","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":752,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":12,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":630,"name":"Realism","slug":"realism","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":630,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":52,"filter":"raw"}],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27269","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=27269"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27269\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":27270,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27269\/revisions\/27270"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/27268"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=27269"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=27269"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=27269"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}