Jean Giono - Hill

He drinks. Gondran takes the opportunity to drink too; he wouldn’t have wanted to break the thread of the story.

“There and back — to the fountain and back to the brambles — takes almost a quarter of an hour. By then, the moon was shining full on the square. It was just like daylight. Between where the club used to be and the old bakery, there’s a little laneway, short and straight. The moon had filled it with light. You’d have said it was a bar of pure silver. Jaume had just left, and at the far end of the lane I saw a black shape coming toward me, tall, thin, so thin that at first I thought I was dreaming. Then it got bigger and, just like that, it was right in front of me, ten yards the other side of the fountain. I stayed still for a moment, you know, ’cause I was pounding away pretty hard under my shirt.

“This skinny thing was looking at Gagou. Little by little, I got to saying to myself: ‘But, César, that’s not Ulalie, is it?’ It sure seemed like it was her, anyways.

“And go fuck yourself if she doesn’t whistle, and my boy Gagou lifts up his nose. Right then and there, as though it was all set up in advance. He lifts his head, he sees her, he runs toward her. They must be used to it. It was as regular as clockwork.

“She leans her gun against the wall…”

•

Maurras goes silent. He looks mistrustfully around him. He’s alone with Gondran for sure, in the kitchen where Janet is sleeping with his eyes wide open. Janet doesn’t matter, but the door to the bedroom is ajar, and you can hear Marguerite beating out a mattress.

He winks: “Go shut the door.” Gondran comes back and sits down.

•

“So, she leans her gun against the wall. She lies down, hauls up her skirt, spreads her legs, and there you have it — my man Gagou’s on top of her.”

“That!” says Gondran, dumbfounded. He strikes the table with his fist. “That, now… no.”

“It was just the way I’m telling you. I got a good look from where I was. Gagou was lying on top of her. They knew the drill. And this business must have been going on for a while.”

“That, now,” says Gondran, “that, you know…”

As he watches him wrestle awkwardly with the overwhelming news, Maurras savours Gondran’s astonishment.

“Between you and me,” Maurras goes on, “Jaume’s daughter — she may be stupid, worn-out, whatever you want to call her, but when you come right down to it, she has the skin of a woman, like any other. To do it with her you’d have to have served in the Foreign Legion. She found somebody who’d have her…”

“I’m not saying that,” grumbles Gondran, “I’m not saying that. But to do it with Gagou… Somebody must have diddled that girl. And, so, what did you do?”

“I watched them kick their legs up in the air for a minute or two, then I thought it would be better to make them leave before Jaume got back, so I fired a shot into the air.

“I told him I’d fired to make Gagou take off. But between you and me, Médéric, eh, between you and me, for goodness’ sake, it’s not really worth his putting on such airs and graces about her.”

•

It was Gondran who made the first trip to the ghost village to fetch water for everyone. He went in broad daylight, with the cart and the mule. He brought back five big earthenware jars full.

Now Jaume has drawn up a list of names: ARBAUD, GONDRAN, JAUME, MAURRAS, in alphabetical order. He’s nailed it to the trunk of the oak. That way, there’s no argument. When your turn comes up, you go.

Even so, it’s Gondran who’s ended up going first, because today Arbaud can’t even think about water. His little girl is sick — Marie, the older one.

For two days she’s been shivering, in spite of the sultry, stagnant air. She must have swallowed a bellyful from the cistern that’s only safe for the animals. It came over her just the other evening, and her cheeks are already hollow. It doesn’t matter how often she runs her tongue over her cracked lips to soften them, the fever keeps hardening them again. There are big dark rings circling her sparkling eyes.

This morning she’s started to perspire. They’ve had to change the sheets on her bed — she was completely sticky with sweat.

Babette has to be there next to the bed, to cry over and over: “My little one, my little one, my little one,” as though she’s trying to force blind fate to understand what an injustice it is to make her little one suffer.

Arbaud has gone to find Jaume, who’s come with his book, a Raspail covered with wrapping paper.

This book had won its reputation on the strength of Jaume being heard to say: “I bought it the year I got married, after I’d been wanting it for three years.”

He flips through the pages and runs down the index with his finger:

“That’s it, you see.”

He thrusts the page where it’s listed under Arbaud’s nose.

“That’s it, definitely, you see…”

They read together, spelling out the words. From time to time Jaume lifts his head and stares at the ceiling, like a person who’s struggling to make sense of something.

“So, what is it?” asks Arbaud. “Is it serious?”

“No, you can see, it’s written right here. A doctor would stick you with fifteen francs worth of drugs, and then order you to fast — what more could you possibly want? Now this, this here is the poor people’s doctor, and a tough one too, take my word for it. Let’s see what he says: ‘Tisane of borage…’ Do you have any borage?”

“Yes, yes,” says Babette.

“…‘toast a slice of bread, soak in sweet wine and apply it to the soles of the patient’s feet’…that’s not hard to do!…‘Scutcheon: a cotton compress sprinkled with eau de vie and impregnated with incense smoke… Also apply a scutcheon to the patient.’ Here, I’m marking everything down for you on this piece of paper. If you can’t remember it properly, come back and see me, I have the book.”

•

“So you’re sure it’s nothing then?” asks Babette, accompanying Jaume to the doorway. “Are you sure?”

“Don’t worry, I’m certain of it, it’s all written down right here.”

He taps the book with the flat of his hand, to vouch for it.

•

“We have got ,” says Babette coming back in, “to buy one of those books.”

•

Notwithstanding the scutcheon and the borage tisanes, Marie is still sick. Her tiny hands look like porcelain. She gazes out from deep within herself.

Through her skin you can see the fire that’s consuming her, licking at her bones. She’s flat out, thin as a crucifix. She can’t even lift a hand to chase away the flies, and lets them wander over her face. When they come close to one of her eyes, she moves her lids a little.

Red-eyed, Babette battles alongside her daughter. She’s overturned all the boxes of medicinal plants — the dried herbs folded in newspaper: camomile, mallow, sage, thyme, hyssop, agrimony, aspic, artemisia…

She’s opened all the packets and spread them across the table. Her daughter’s well-being is bound up in these flowers. Water is already bubbling in the saucepan over the fire. All it will take is to throw the right herb in, and tomorrow Marie will feel better. As Babette shuffles through them on the table, the paper packets sound like ripe wheat shaken by the wind.

•

Jaume is afraid.

Ever since the morning when he found himself in charge, he’s been battling, sustained by hope. He’s been like a coiled spring: he absorbs a blow, and it propels him forward. Now, this evening, he’s plunged headlong into a torrent of despair, and the raging waters are carrying him away.

He’s afraid. He’s no longer sure they’re going to win in this battle against the hills’ ill will. Doubt is bristling inside him like a thistle.