Jean Giono - Hill

“He’s a human being,” says Gondran.

“He’s not human,” says Jaume. “Not a man like you, me, the rest of us — we have respect for life. We live our lives the same way we carry a lantern that the wind’s trying to blow out — we shelter it with our hand, and we’re humble in the face of life. Lots of times you’ve picked up newborn chicks, ever so nice and warm, and they nestle into your palm? When they’re in there, right in there, between your fingers, if you squeezed just a little you’d crush them. We’ve never even been tempted to do that, because we’re men. Him, it’s not chicks he has in his palm, it’s us. And we’ve already felt him tightening his grip, and we know that he has every intention of tightening it right to the limit. He’s not a man.”

“Hey, listen I’m not contradicting you,” continues Gondran softly, “I know it, I haven’t lived with him for twenty-five years without getting to know all about him. I do agree with you, it’s from him that everything’s coming and… we would have to kill him, as you say, if we wanted to pull ourselves out of this, but he’s almost down to his last breath. We might not have to wait long before it happens by itself…”

“And if you wait,” Jaume flings back, “if you wait, he’ll make you suffer as long as he has even an ounce of life left. The closer he is to the end, the more nasty he’ll get. When you come right down to it, if we wait, we’ll all end up crossing to the next world at one and the same time, with him out in front and the rest of us bringing up the rear, like a bunch of penitents on the march. What does he have to lose?”

“You’re right,” says Gondran. “But what I’ve been saying, it’s because he’s my father-in-law. You understand? And on top of that, maybe I ought to talk about it with Marguerite first.”

“Go find her. We have to put an end to this by tonight.”

•

Gondran has just gone in to Les Monges.

Jaume looks at Arbaud and Maurras.

“It’s just as well we sort this out once and for all,” he says.

And the two others have answered at once, firmly:

“Yes, for sure.” And then, “ Basta. ”

•

With Marguerite, it was settled quickly.

When Gondran stepped in to Les Monges, the other three men felt suddenly afraid of her. They saw her flying over the grasslands, her nails thrust forwards, crying full blast. Jaume had thought of every counter-argument: “I’ll say to her: ‘So, now you want that all of this should go back to being bush again?’ I’ll say to her…”

No, with Marguerite he didn’t have to say anything. It was settled quickly. She’s come out staggering, stamping down on the grass, and now she’s over there wailing, crouched against the watering trough.

•

They’ve gone some distance away from her to settle the matter.

“You’re the only one who can do it,” Jaume says in a whisper to Gondran, “he won’t suspect you.”

“With what?”

“With your hands. In the state he’s in, it won’t take much.”

“Right here,” says Maurras, pointing to the nape of his neck. “I was a butcher in the regiment, and I know what I’m talking about. Right here, like you do it with rabbits. One sharp blow, and then you hold the pillow over his face.”

“Show me,” Gondran asks.

Maurras lowers his head and gets Gondran to feel his spinal cord.

“Right here, with the edge of your hand.”

“Will he bleed?”

“No, not if you hit sharply. Maybe a drop, but don’t pay any attention, put the pillow over his head and press down on it for a minute.”

A silence, with the four men motionless. In an instant, Gondran makes up his mind: He takes a first step, the hardest one, then he heads off, a solid mass, his back hunched, his arms stiff, his hands held away from his body, as though he’s afraid he’d stain his trousers with them. With each step, he looks like he’s trying to make sure that the earth is solid too.

In the gray evening, a vulture from Lure glides overhead, its talons open wide.

•

A cry. The door bangs, and Babette comes running out, trailing her shawl.

“He’s dead, Janet’s dead! Come quick!”

Old Madelon appears on the terrace. Gently, without showing much emotion, she makes a sign: “Come.”

Gondran had been on the very verge of going into Les Monges. He jumps back to get himself well away from the door, to make it abundantly clear that there was nothing afoot, that he didn’t actually go in, that Janet has died of natural causes, pure and simple.

Babette is over there, under the oak. She’s mouthing explanations and making motions that loosen her hair from its bun. She’s putting it up again as she babbles on, and suddenly, Gondran is moved by the arc of her beautiful, raised arms. Life washes over him like a huge, roaring wave. His ears are full of music, and he drops down heavily to the ground, like a drunkard.

•

It’s true, Janet is dead.

They’ve taken off their hats. Jaume has set his pipe on the sideboard, but since it’s still smoking a little, he goes outside to tap it out, taking care to muffle the sound. Marguerite is sniffing back quick, tearless sobs.

“Gritte, we have to get him dressed while he’s still warm. He’ll be too stiff afterward. Bring us his Sunday jacket.”

So that Gondran and Maurras can pull on Janet’s corduroy trousers, Jaume has taken hold of the corpse under the armpits, and its limp head lolls back onto his shoulder.

They’ve laid him out on the bed and bound his jaw with a white scarf.

“Gritte, close the shutters. Light a taper. We men will keep vigil over him. You women, go on to bed.”

•

Gondran digs around in one of the dresser drawers. He’s looking for a pipe.

“D’you have any tobacco left?” he asks Arbaud.

Night has fallen, dense and sombre. Down below, toward Manosque, the blaze is still burning a little. A cricket is singing on the terrace.

Gondran, straddling a chair, his eyes shut, is pulling gently on his pipe.

And Janet continues to gaze at the post-office calendar.

•

They remained there like that, saying nothing, smoking away, until almost eleven o’clock at night. Then, just as the last stroke sounded from the mantel clock, Jaume raised his hand and said: “Listen.”

Outside, from the depths of the shadows, a sound.

They’ve asked themselves: The wind? The rain maybe? Whatever it is, it’s brought a cold sweat to their brows.

They’ve gone to open the door. They’ve cocked their ears…. And they’ve all had the same idea: “Get the lantern.”

They’ve gone out. There wasn’t anymore doubt about it, but they wanted to make sure by seeing it and touching it.

The fountain is running.

Maurras looks over toward the doorway of Les Monges, from which the yellowish light of the funerary candles is seeping. He touches Jaume’s arm:

“Hey,” he says, “that was just in the nick of time.”

•

They’ve waited the obligatory twenty-four hours, and this evening they’ve buried Janet, at the edge of the land that was left unscathed by the inferno.

It’s Maurras who’s made the casket, and it’s Babette who’s read a passage from her missal, over the grave.

On the way back to the Bastides, Gondran has said to Jaume:

“You should go to Manosque tomorrow to do the formalities. Monsieur Vincent will make out the certificate for you, and then you’ll have to go to the town hall.”

•

“I’ll go, but not till tomorrow afternoon. I’ll walk down as far as Les Plaines, and I’ll take the Banon post. What do you have to say about it, Ulalie?”

They’ve gone back to their place. Something mysterious is worrying Ulalie. She’s pacing around the table, gazing at the window, which is full of night and stars.