The Journal of a French Peasant

I’ve seen the pictures, you know, of Versailles, the heavenly palace of King Louis XIII. I only wish this king, the supposed ruler hand-picked by God, could see what my family and I are forced to call a home. My dear wife and I have seven children, and they must all sleep within two cramped bedrooms. One of these bedrooms also doubles as the lounge area. Rats infest our home. Dozens of them. My father and grandfather have told me that it is impossible to exterminate them. You see, my family has lived here for nearly a half-dozen generations now. Predictably, over the years the conditions have deteriorated. It is not a place fit to raise a child. I pray every night that one day my children will one day live a better life. I cannot say the monarch and upper class make it any easier. The spoiled rich only care about themselves. Me and my family work hours upon hours in the fields everyday just to put food on the table. The taxes we pay, which undoubtedly go to necessary productions such as Versailles itself, are an abomination. There is no pride living in France as a peasant. Somehow, some way, we must fight for change.

- A depressed peasant