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A Family Memorie about Regis the Colporteur

Short blurb about the story

 

As a young man, Régis Chabal left his family’s ancestral farm after saving enough money working as a shirt peddler to start a new life in the town of Avignon, almost 100 miles away. There he found great success establishing a shirt store called a Chemiserie. Eventually, he passed the business on to his family for generations.  His grandson was Marcel Chabal (my grandfather). In fact my mother Simone Chabal was born on the floor the family store. When visiting as a child, I was enchanted by the store's high walls and rows of neatly folded shirts. My mother told me Régis’ story with a mixture of pride and wonder, and I too became curious. Régis’ life spanned 1828–1914, an era that marked the dawn of the Industrial Revolution and ended with the birth of the Modern Age. Indeed, his entire generation witnessed epic changes. This is his story.

 

1828 INTRODUCTION

 

Our family’s ancestral farm, Ferme des Bachassons, sits at the base of Mount Gerbier-de-Jonc—famed as the source of France’s longest river, the Loire. Although our family has lived on this land since 1694, Régis’s specific journey began with his birth in 1828. To understand the world he entered, I often picture the farm as it was then: a stone house with a thatched roof, entirely lacking modern comforts. There was no electricity for light, no furnace for warmth, and no indoor plumbing. Instead of turning on a faucet for instant clean water, Régis’s family relied on heavy buckets carried from a nearby well. Daily life required chamber pots, outhouses, and constant physical labor just to cook, clean, and stay warm. It was a lifestyle that might resemble a weekend camping trip to a modern observer, but for my ancestors, it was a rigorous, year-round reality.

 

 

The water source for this farm came from a reservoir stored inside Mount Gerbier-de-Jonc. Eight million years ago this mountain was a massive volcano. Going dormant, it left behind an empty central chimney and a hollowed-out magma chamber. This unique underground structure acted as a giant reservoir, capturing winter snowmelt and seasonal rains. As the water slowly filtered through fissures in the rock, it escaped through the hillside as natural springs. One of those very trickles fed our property. Though humble in appearance, it carried a grand legacy: it was one of the official starting points of the Loire. Standing on his father's land, young Régis witnessed the birth of a river that traveled hundreds of miles across the heart of France.

 

By 1835, Régis was seven years old and fully integrated into the demanding rhythm of farm life. In the morning he would pull on his wool socks and wooden clogs, stepping out into the biting mountain air. The farm was a bustling operation; twenty-two sheep bleated for hay, the mule stamped its feet, and the pigs snorted at the scent of approaching kitchen scraps. Regis’s first task was to let out and count their thirty-three chickens, always on the lookout for foxes that prowled in the night. The farm cat, Minet, wound between his legs hoping for a splash of fresh milk, while their dog, Fido, trotted ahead like an official farm manager.

 

Régis took pride in his morning duties, especially collecting the eggs before his two-year-old sister, Ursule, could reach them and inevitably smash them in her tiny hands. Meanwhile, his older brothers, nine-year-old Cyprien and ten-year-old Pierre, handled the pigs and milked the cow. When their mother, Maman, finally called everyone to breakfast by singing “À table!”, they gathered for café au lait, soft-boiled eggs, and thick crusts of rye bread spread with chestnut jam. 

 

After breakfast, the boys would walk to school and Antoine, their father antoine would bring the sheep to the communal pasture. A recent boundary dispute with their neighbor had finally been settled in court, meaning they could now take the shortest route, walking without worry across the far corner of the neighboring land. According to family lore, my great-great-grandfather Antoine always shook his head when passing that property. Though he found the neighbor’s attempt to block their path incredibly petty, Antoine had vowed to always remain civil. He was deeply grateful to Father Luke, the village priest, who knew how to read and had helped Antoine present his case regarding grazing rights to the local magistrate. Witnessing the power of the written word during that dispute made Antoine determined that his own sons would receive a good education.

 

Whenever farm work allowed, the boys relished the walk and the time away from their grueling chores. In the rectory, they formed friendships with children of all ages, as a single room served every student from first through eighth grade. Because pen and paper were far too expensive for a farming family, Régis and his classmates used simple chalk and slates to practice their letters and basic arithmetic. Education, however, always remained secondary to survival; whenever they were needed on the farm, especially during the frantic harvest season, school was put on hold so the children could help in the fields.

 

 

 

Every evening after the chores were finished, the family gathered around the stone fireplace to stay warm and entertain one another. Cyprien played the harmonica while Pierre, always ready for a game of cards, challenged the family to Triomphe or games with rules he completely invented on the spot. Pierre also fancied himself a comedian, cracking jokes that either made the room erupt in laughter or caused everyone to roll their eyes. Nearby, Maman happily stitched a rag doll for little Ursule—a project she had put off for months but resolved to finish now that her daughter was two.

 

Decoding the weekly newspaper was a true family event. While Antoine had memorized many Bible verses, reading the standard French newspaper was always a struggle for him. In daily life, the family spoke a regional Occitan dialect, but the children were beginning to master formal French at school. Because paper was scarce, newspapers were carefully passed around the community, shared, and read aloud among neighbors. By the time the well-worn, tattered pages reached the Chabal household, the news was often weeks old, but it was devoured with enthusiasm, nonetheless.

 

Their evening discussions frequently turned to the rapid "progress" transforming the world outside their mountain village. Just forty years earlier, the completion of the Canal du Centre had joined the Loire to the Saône and Rhône rivers. This engineering marvel allowed boats to transport goods across the country far faster than the traditional horse-drawn carts navigating treacherous dirt roads. Suddenly, farm products, coal, and raw materials could be shipped directly to France’s rapidly growing industrial cities.

 

 

By 1835, steam-powered locomotives had become the most thrilling topic of all. The family read incredible reports claiming that trains would eventually carry passengers from Paris to Lyon in under twelve hours—a staggering feat considering the journey normally took a grueling seven days by road. Rumor even had it that King Louis Philippe himself was planning an official ride on one of these iron behemoths. Sitting by the fire, the Chabal’s had much to ponder as the Industrial Revolution began to fundamentally reshape the world they knew.

 

 

A sudden death

 

Sadly, his mother, Elizabeth, never had the chance to finish the doll she was sewing. One evening, she went to bed early complaining of a severe stomachache, and within the week, she passed away at only forty-three years old. While the exact cause remains a mystery, I strongly suspect it was appendicitis. Our family has a long history with the condition—my mother, my brother, my son, my granddaughter, and I have all suffered from it. Today, quick medical care makes it more of an inconvenience than a danger, but in 1835, it was almost always a death sentence.

 

The loss of Elizabeth left the family entirely bereft, but the endless demands of the farm allowed little time to mourn. A neighbor came by to help whenever possible but much of the time, the children had to manage on their own. At just two years old, little Ursule grew deeply attached to young Régis. He stayed near the house, trying his best to mimic everything their mother used to do. Since Marianne left each day by four o’clock, seven-year-old Régis took charge of le goûter, the afternoon snack his mother always made for them. He insisted on doing things comme Maman a fait—just as Mom had done—serving a thick slice of country bread spread generously with crème de marrons (chestnut butter), paired with fresh peaches or apples from the orchard when they were in season.

 

Régis was just old enough to hold a few precious memories of his mother. When his little sister, who had no memory of her at all, asked about her, Régis would turn to his father to ensure his own recollections were correct.

“She laughed a lot, didn’t she, Papa?” Régis would ask.

Antoine would smile and nod. “She did.”

“And she had long brown hair.”

“Yes, lovely brown hair just like your sister.”

Then Antoine would pull Ursule onto his lap and tell them the stories they never tired of hearing—about how he and Elizabeth met, what made her giggle, and above all, how deeply she loved her children. 

 

Everyone in the family adored Ursule. Not only had she lost her mother at a tender age, but another sister, Henriette, had died just before Ursule was born. Her father and three brothers doted on her constantly, especially Régis. On sunny days, Régis strapped a large basket to his back and took Ursule and Fido foraging in the woods. Each season brought new treasures: wild strawberries in the spring; raspberries and blackberries in the summer; and pears, plums, mushrooms, and chestnuts in the autumn. During these outings, Régis’s favorite game involved a "giant black iron monster" that could run faster than a horse. He chased Ursule around the garden making loud “choo-choo” sounds while she squealed with delight. To them, the steam trains that dominated adult conversations were still strange, magical creatures.

 

Elizabeth’s clock remained on the mantel, a treasured marriage gift from her parents. When Cyprien grew old enough, he was given the responsibility of winding it, tightening the clock’s heavy spring every night to keep the hands moving. The steady tick-tick-tick was a great comfort to the children, reminding them of their mother’s enduring presence. Years later, when Régis went away to school in Aubenas, he would marvel at a great town tower with a single mechanism running five clock faces at once; but for now, the only clock he knew was the one on the family mantel, the very one his mother had used to teach him how to tell time.

 

Elizabeth’s sewing basket also stayed by the fire, filled with yarn, needles, and fabric scraps. Inside was a small wooden box containing two distinct treasures: a sharp pair of scissors and a silver thimble. With no one to stop them, Régis and Ursule used these tools to invent their own toys. Régis created medieval figures—kings, queens, and jesters—and even stitched a toy kite out of muslin with a little help from Papa. He quickly became remarkably skilled with a needle, a talent that deeply pleased his father, as the burden of mending the family's clothes now fell squarely on Régis's shoulders.

His most precious project, however, was finishing the doll his mother had started. Régis brought it to life, crafting yarn hair and a dress made from leftover fabric scraps. For the eyes, he used two smooth buttons salvaged from his mother’s favorite house dress; their soft touch reminded him of her gentle songs. Ursule named the doll Henriette, after the sister she never knew. From then on, Ursule and Henriette were inseparable. Through these shared stories and carefully preserved traditions, Elizabeth’s spirit remained the guiding light of the household, navigating the family through their grief and anchoring Régis for the long journey ahead of him.

 

The open air market place

 

By 1842, the world outside the farm was beginning to open up for fourteen-year-old Régis, primarily through the vibrant energy of the local trade. Once a month, the nearby village of Sainte-Eulalie hosted a massive open-air market. It was a bustling sensory wonderland where locals gathered from miles around to buy, sell, and catch up on regional news.

 

All manner of household goods lined the stalls: felt hats, heavy iron frying pans, handmade wooden furniture, books, leather shoes, sewing scissors, and livestock. Antoine routinely brought surplus bundles of wool, sacks of rye, live chickens, dried chestnuts, and occasionally a prized piglet. Régis, displaying an early entrepreneurial spirit, brought along his own handmade toys to sell or barter. He traded his hand-stitched muslin kites and miniature felted animals for marbles, discarded clock gears, and lead toy soldiers. Watching his son navigate the stalls, Antoine affectionately began calling him his “petit commerçant”—his little merchant.

 

While many families brought their wares by donkey or horse-drawn carts, Régis was far more fascinated by the men who arrived on foot carrying gigantic, towering backpacks. These nomadic merchants were known as colporteurs. The name originated from the French words col (collar) and porter (to carry), because the heavy wooden frames of their packs rested directly across their collarbones for stability. These adventurous young men traveled the rugged countryside with packs bursting with goods, notions, and tools, stopping at isolated farms and village markets along the way. With each stop, they acted as living newspapers, exchanging gossip, stories, and political news from one valley to the next.

 

It was during one of these market days that Antoine learned of a trade school in Aubenas. The institution was designed specifically for country boys, training them in practical trades like tailoring, stone masonry, and carpentry, while simultaneously teaching advanced academics such as literature and higher arithmetic. Crucially, the program included a structured apprenticeship that helped offset the costly tuition. Recognizing the incredible opportunity, Antoine decided that his oldest son, Pierre, would be the first to attend, with Régis following in his footsteps a few years later at L’école technique d’Aubenas. Meanwhile, Cyprien, who loved the rhythms of the earth, would remain behind to learn the complexities of running the ancestral farm alongside his father.

 

By 1844, it was finally Régis’s turn to enter the vocational school at Aubenas. Because commercial sewing machines would not become commonplace for several more decades, every single garment was still meticulously drafted, cut, and sewn entirely by hand. The curriculum at L’école technique d’Aubenas was rigorous, treating shirtmaking as an exact engineering science.

 

Through my research into the school’s historical methods, I learned that Régis had to master a strict, six-step process. First came the specialized tools: everything from whetstones for sharpening large fabric shears to tailor’s chalk and thimbles. He practiced a demanding vocabulary of hand-stitches—whip, running, gathering, back, and flat-felled—until every single stitch reached absolute perfection. He learned to take precise measurements of the neck, chest, waist, and arms, adjusting paper patterns before laying out the fabric.

 

Only then was he permitted to pin, baste, and stitch the shirt together, moving systematically from the front panels to the sleeves, collars, and cuffs. The master tailors were notoriously strict, frequently ordering students to rip out and completely redo imperfect sleeves. The final step required a flawless fitting, followed by hemming, hand-sewing buttons, clipping loose threads, and pressing the garment flat with a heavy iron.

 

 

After completing his grueling training, Régis returned home to the ancestral farm. For the next few years, he balanced the daily physical labor of the fields with a growing side business, sewing custom shirts for neighbors and residents in the surrounding valleys. However, under the strict laws of the era, he was still considered a minor; he would have to wait patiently until his twenty-first birthday before he could legally move to the city and establish a registered storefront of his own.

 

In 1848, a single stroke of luck determined the entire trajectory of Régis’s future. Following a military decree originally established by Napoleon in 1804, all young Frenchmen reaching the age of twenty were required to register for the conscription draft. Rather than a standard call-to-service, the government utilized a stressful lottery system to determine who would be sent to the front lines.

 

That year, Régis walked to the village of Sainte-Eulalie, reached into an urn, and pulled out a slip of paper. He drew number 53. Luckily for our family, the quota for their region that year was strictly capped at ten; those who drew numbers one through ten were immediately forced into seven long years of mandatory military service.

 

Looking back at this moment, the margins of history feel incredibly thin. Had his hand pulled a lower number, Régis would have been swept directly into the violent political turmoil of the Second Republic and Louis-Napoléon’s impending 1851 coup d'état. He likely never would have opened his shop, completely changing the course of his life—and altering our family tree forever. Instead, free from military obligation, his path toward Avignon remained open.

 

By 1850, Régis had finally turned twenty-one, granting him the legal right to establish a business under French law. He officially registered as a shirtmaker, setting his sights on generating enough capital to eventually move to a major city, just as his brother Pierre had successfully done in Béziers.

 

The exact mechanics of his early career were beautifully preserved in a first-hand account written by my great-uncle, Jean Chabal:

 

“He was the youngest in his family; he had to leave the farm to his older brother and, for that very reason, choose another trade. So he became a shirt peddler, having learned the trade before setting out on the road. My father often told me that he went about it this way: he had a painted wooden box that he carried on his back, using two cushions, and in which he placed eight or ten 3-meter rolls of fabric for shirts, neatly rolled up, a pair of good, sharp scissors, and a few pattern templates. Thus equipped, he would set off for the neighboring farms, wearing clogs, a velvet suit, and a black felt hat. Once he arrived at a farm, he offered his services (his family was well-known, so he had no trouble) which consisted of cutting out one or two shirts from the patterns in his case, leaving it to the women of the farm to assemble them, spending the winter by the fireplace when the depth of the snow prevented them from going out. And that was it; his role was limited to that.

Since his family was well-known among the farms —he didn’t have too much trouble building a clientele. But he had to return every Sunday to his father’s farm, and the miles are long in clogs.

After three years, he had saved up a small nest egg and developed great skill at tailoring. He became ambitious, and what did he do? Quite simply, he took a stagecoach to Avignon to visit a friend of his father’s who had settled there as a mason. Off he went, wearing a flannel belt with pockets and twenty gold louis well hidden inside.”

 

While Régis was adapting to the demanding routines of the Ardèche countryside, his future wife, Marie, was growing up nearly a hundred miles away inside the ancient, sun-drenched stone walls of Avignon. Born in 1836, Marie enjoyed the distinct advantages of nineteenth-century city life. Her family had access to fresh baked bread, fresh-caught fish, stalls of vibrant Mediterranean produce, the latest fabrics from Paris, and many other household goods. While they lacked electricity—relying entirely on massive windows by day and the warm glow of candles by night—their urban home benefited from early iterations of municipal indoor plumbing. Her father, a landowner in the Gard area outside of Avignon in Gard, was also a successful shoemaker, while her mother worked as a skilled seamstress. Under her mother's watchful eye, Marie quickly learned how to sew. 

 

Yet, like Régis, Marie’s early life was deeply shaped by family grief. Her mother endured the heartbreak of losing four children: an infant, a six-year-old, an eight-year-old, and finally, nineteen-year-old Grégoire. These losses were devastating and left a profound, lasting mark on the quiet household.

 

Because of its deep papal history, Avignon boasted far more churches than the average French town, earning it the nickname "The City of Bells." Generations later, my own mother grew up telling the time solely by listening to those historic bells ring out across the rooftops every fifteen minutes. Daily life was entirely anchored by the church. My own mother, Simone attended church regularly finding comfort of daily prayer during World War II and later again when her mother passed away, So I would imagine Marie and her mother doing the same. Traditionally the woman would wear black for a year or at least a black arm band when someone died. My mother used to joke that death was so common, some of her aunts would wear black for 20 years or more. 

 

When Marie sought space to think, she could walk north toward the Rocher des Doms, a massive limestone hill rising dramatically over the fast-flowing Rhône River. Standing on that high rock, she could look down at the monumental Palais des Papes built in the 1300s, and Place L’horlage which sat on the ancient foundations left behind by Romans. 

 

Just west of the rock was the legendary Pont d'Avignon. (officially called Pont Bénezet)  The ancient stone bridge was already a romantic ruin; half of its arches had been violently washed away by a brutal Rhône flood in 1669. When our mother brought us to Avignon in 1962 and 1969, she took us directly to this historic bridge, where we proudly sang the famous nursery rhyme, Sur le pont d’avignon and continued the tradition that children, like Marie have sung on that site for centuries. When Marie’s was 7 years old a modern suspension bridge was erected just downstream from this old bridge, creating a striking contrast between medieval ruins and Industrial Age engineering.

 

Heading south, just outside of the walled city in 1847, the first railway lines reached Avignon from Marseille, instantly transforming the historic city into a bustling commercial hub. Books and journals flooded out of the city’s famous print shops to be exported across Europe. Avignon held a unique, fiercely independent identity; it had never been ruled by a French king or queen. For centuries, it existed as a sovereign papal territory, serving as a historic sanctuary for free-thinking writers fleeing royal censorship, and a safe refuge for Jewish families seeking asylum from persecution. It wasn't until the fervor of the French Revolution in 1791 that Avignon was officially annexed into France thus ending monarchy forever.

 

 

Marie spoke two languages, Provençal which was original language of Avignon before the region was annexed and French. The French government aggressively pushed French as the sole language of law, schools, and government affairs. This linguistic shift created a fascinating dynamic in Marie's home. Her parents, who considered themselves functionally illiterate in this new national tongue, relied heavily on their school-educated daughter to read legal documents and help them master formal French. Régis was undergoing a similar shift in the mountains, speaking both French and Vivaro-Alpine—another closely related Occitan dialect. This shared linguistic heritage would one day bind them together.

 

 

The family lived at 11 rue de la Terre. Decades later, in 1965, her grandson Jean Chabal rendered a beautiful painting of the typical, narrow Avignon streets where his grandmother spent her youth.

 

 

If you were to walk through Avignon today, you would no longer find that specific address; the area was eventually demolished and the grid reconfigured. In fact, one of the things that surprised me most during my research was discovering that despite its medieval appearance, Avignon was constantly updating itself, relentlessly carving out straighter roads, modern sewer networks, and electrical lines while carefully preserving its historic charm.

 

 

Information flowed dynamically through the city via Le Courrier d’Avignon, a prominent four-page newspaper published twice a week. Fascinatingly, this very paper was distributed deep into the rugged countryside—including Bachasson where young Régis was practicing his stitches. The paper was printed by the renowned Aubanel family. Their son, Théodore Aubanel, was just three years older than Marie and was already gathering inspiration for his book The Young Ladies of Avignon (Li Fiho d'Avignoun). He would later become one of Provence’s most celebrated poets. Because Marie lived just a few blocks away from the print shop, I like to imagine that she and her friends might have inadvertently served as the real-world inspiration for his romantic verses. 

 

 

Had Marie walked east from her home, she would have passed the Saint Marthe hospital —a building where we will soon see Régis fighting for his life. But for now, in the autumn of 1853, she was simply a young city woman watching the sunset, entirely unaware that a dusty stagecoach was currently traveling south, carrying a young mountain tailor with twenty gold Louis coins sewn into his belt, heading straight into her world. (this amount of gold is worth about 20-30 thousand dollars today. Enough to start a thriving business.) 

 

 

A STAGECOACH TO AVIGNON 1853

After taking a two day walk to Montélimar, Regis bought a ticket for a ride on a Stagecoach to Avignon.  This route went along the left bank of the Rhone River. Regis would have bought a ticket for “Le banquette” which meant that he rode on the roof next to or near the driver. The ride would have taken 6-8 hours. 

 

Finally arriving into the station, Regis is greeted by young Jean Jaquot. They might have had a nice meal of local fish, pate d’olive noire, du vin, fromage and a baguette. An exceptional meal after so many days of travel. Jaquot welcomed him into his home like family.

 

Over the next few weeks, Regis wore his pack and circled the towns around Avignon. He wasn’t as well-known but he had a friendly and professional aire that opened many doors. He was busy enough cutting shirts to consistently return to Avignon and replenish his stock of fabrics. The farms were closer together and the country folk a bit more well off. Some of the woman wanted the shirts already sewn. This was extra work for Regis and he wasn’t sure how best to handle the extra business.  

 

Unfortunately, one afternoon after walking back a long way from town, he felt sick and collapsed just in front of the water fountain by the Place de L’horloge. Marie was just coming out of the Boulangerie and headed towards him. Without hesitation she ran to the fountain and returned with her handkerchief soaking wet to mop his face and wet his parched lips. He asks her to please find his friend Jaquot who is working not far away. She does as she is asked and soon Jaquot is at his side. Jaquot asks she stay with him for a bit longer and fetches Dr. Blanc. And so they talk a bit while he leans breathless against a tree. He explains that he is a shirt peddler. She says she learned how to sew shirts at the Agricole convent which sits on this very street. She looks at his worn clogs and explains that her family are shoemakers. When Dr Blanc comes by, declares he has typhus and needs to get to Saint Marthe Hospital as soon as possible before he spreads the illness all over Avignon! Together Dr Blanc and Jaquot carry him to the hospital. Marie leaves him her kerchief and heads home.

 

Saint Marthe Hospital

 

The sisters stripped him of all his clothes and bathed him from head to toe, in hopes of keeping his fever down. With sips of broth, lots of rest and frequent baths he showed signs of getting better by day 10. But he lost a lot of weight and still felt quite weak. After 20 days he could sit up and converse. He felt ready to go home but the hospital was insistent about the 40 days of quarantine. Jaquot kept Maries handkerchief by his bedside and admires her embroidery. He can see that her stitches are perfection. He can’t help but become a little smitten.

 

 

 

 

Meanwhile Jaquot sees Marie coming out of the épicerie carrying fresh green beans, garlic, onions and tomatoes. Just at that moment, Theodore Aubenal is walking down the street. He watches as they stop to talk. They both laugh conspiratorially as the gregarious Theodore is confident with the ladies. After a moment, Marie spies Jaquot, says her goodbyes and greets Jaquot. 

 

Marie askes after Regis. But Jaquot unable to stay quiet any longer pulls her aside to warn her that Aubenal is a big flirt and to beware of his intentions. She tells him that she if fully aware of his reputation. And she doesn’t appreciate his advice. 

 

Once again, she asks about Regis. He says that Regis is much better but must remain at the hospital for 40 days until they are sure he is no longer contagious. The only problem is with his feet. The callouses have come off and he cannot tolerate the rough clogs. She says she is sure her family can make a good pair of shoes for him. Jaquot says that his feet are baby pink and so tender that even shoes would be painful to wear. Would she have some slippers instead. “Of course,” she says, just come to 11 Rue Four de la terre and ask for my younger brother Gregoire. He is an apprentice and makes slippers from the softest leather scraps. 

 

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After 35 days Dr. Camus stops in to see Regis and says 

“how are you?”

“I’m ready to leave”

“I’m so sorry you must wait five more days 

“but I need to return to work. “

“What do you do?”

“Well I make shirts for men” 

“Can you fix this shirt? It is too big. I found it in the hospital closet and the last person to wear it was bigger than me.”

 

Of course

So he sent for his pack which was gathering dust in the storage closet and got to work. 

“Why this alteration is perfect. I no longer feel like I’m swimming in the big clothes all day. Thank-you Regis.  Why, I’ll be your first customer of white medical shirts. And if you do a good job, I will let me friends know. 

 

“Thank you, that the honor is all mine.” Regis certainly hadn’t been looking for carrying his heavy pack all over Avignon. Making shirts for professionals would up his game.

 

The first thing Regis does upon discharge from the hospital is to seek his first pair of leather shoes. He walks over to 11 Rue four de la terre and meets Marie’s father Pierre. The leather smells fill his senses. Both Pierre and his son are busy finishing a pair for a customer. Pierre stops to measure Regis’s foot for a nice comfortable walking shoe. Such a luxury after wearing clogs his whole life. His son Gregoire asked about his heath and agreed to meet him later for a bier with Jaquot. He wanted to keep an eye on Regis as Marie was going on and on about him. They made fast friends but Jaquot made it clear that at 17 Marie was unavailable. Regis would bide his time and enjoy the friendship with her younger brother.

 

 

And so Regis spends the next two years establishing a business. Indeed he does go to the Collégiale Saint-Agricol and arranges to have his shirt’s assembled and sewn by young seamstresses.

 

 

 

THE FLOOD of 1856 

 

Rainy day after rainy day Avignon was inundated The river grew swifter and eventually started pouring through breeched gates of the walled city. A few key roads turn into canals flowing down stream through town forming pools at the lower elevations. One severely flooded area was right at the entrance of the Saint-Agricol Church. It wasn’t long before every able body person found a way to help the less fortunate stranded villagers. Plus, the shop keepers were all franticly moving their goods to higher ground. Boats became the new carriages, Makeshift boats were fashioned out of barrels and planks. 

 

 

 

 

 

  Young Regis, Jaquot and Gregoire were busy night and day. After moving his store contents up off the floor Regis moved to help Pierre, Gregoire and Marie carry the shoes and leather upstairs to their apartment. Jaquot was down by the river finding a boat. Soon the three joined up to help the convent.  

 

After the storm, it took weeks for the water to find its way down stream. Villagers banded together to help the whole community. Those who couldn’t do the heroic act of daring boat rescues, were busy opening their doors and providing food and shelter. And in its after math, two huge ramparts had washed away. As well as significant damage on the brand-new suspension bridge. It was after this flood that the French Government made it a priority to manage the mighty Rhone River. 

 

Disease followed the flood, as stagnant water and lack of sanitation led to outbreaks of illness. By early June as the water was almost all gone. Gregoire fell sick and died. The entire Rieuset family was devastated once again. Jaquot and Regis had lost a good friend and they turned to each other to get through. Mourning took two years before them could think of getting married. I don’t know the details of the romance. But family bond was certainly quite real and today the entire family can be found in the same crypt just outside of town. And during that time Regis had to build his business back up and find a place for them to live. 

 

 

A visit to Bachasson

 

In 1858 Regis’s and Pierre receive letters that their Papa is on his death bed and to come quickly. Pierre who is in Bezier, telegraphs Regis to wait for him in Avignon and they will go together on the morning train. Together they take a train to Montélimar and then a three day walk home. The first day they can reach Le Teil and then the second day Aubenas. The final day they make it home in time to say goodbye to Papa, he is 68.  (the date is May 22, 1858) All four of Antoine’s children Pierre, Cyprien, Regis and Ursule are present and after they funeral they decide to sell their beloved Bachasson. They split their inheritance, Usrule moves out and gets married (June 22, 1858).   Cyprien was already married and living with his wife just 9 km away.  Pierre’s wife is pregnant with their second child. And Regis is eager to get married but he needs to get one more task completed before the wedding.  He goes to St Eulalie to get proof he was exempted from the military. A requirement of marriage as of 1858 . 

 

He returns to Avignon finally ready to ask Marie’s hand in marriage. 

 

March 3, 1859 he gets married. In attendance was his brother Pierre who now has two girls and a lovely wife Jouffre join him, Jaquot and Marie’s parents. Were there others? Surely there were plenty at the church. But receptions were much smaller affairs. 

The did take the opportunity to splurge on photos.