A King Alone

by Jean Giono

  Right away, triumphant orders came back to us. The friend blowing the horn for Langlois wasn’t at a loss for words. If until then there’d been nothing but the sighs of a calf, now there was, how can we put it, the great orator Bossuet in person. Bossuet the commander in chief! Bossuet at Austerlitz! What cheers came to us from that brass mouth! And what orders!

  Pierre listened attentively.

  “Here we go, my little lambs,” he said. “You three groups I’m the telegraph for, stick to the assigned route and move forward. The other groups will join up with us.”

  No question about it, it was beautifully staged. We shouted the news to the group on the right and to the group on the left who had to push deep into the dense inscrutability of the Chalamont valley. Pierre answered Langlois: “All right, that’ll work.” And we did what was called for to make it work.

  The ways of the world.

  Harder than you’d think. In any case, full of surprises.

  We were clearheaded enough to know that if we continued on the route that had been laid out for us step by step, we would run smack into the bottom of the Chalamont valley; that is, right into a vertical cliff: a wall. It remained to be seen what would be driven up against that wall: back to the wall and facing us. But if the others were going to join up with us as Pierre had said, and if the fresh tracks didn’t lie, and the gray sideways slink we’d glimpsed came from something real and not just from the feebleness of our eyes, well, it wasn’t hard to guess what finally awaited us at the bottom of the Chalamont valley.

  And it wasn’t hard to predict in what state that thing, that animal, that person would be. The braying that fell from the sky over Saint-Baudille fanfare after fanfare. And out of the woods, in response, those gasping horn gasps, and the constant crackle of our noisemakers: for hours he’d had all that in his ears.

  I told you what those noises did to our ears, but the two situations can’t be compared. We weren’t prey of any sort; on the contrary. What filled us with energy must have filled him with anger. By now, he must no longer have been wolflike (you can see wolves in pictures; I even remember an illustration to Michel Strogoff in the Veillée, and lord knows the artist meant to show it to advantage), well, in spite of all that, you sense that they’re beasts you can come to terms with, if not with words then with a rifle in any case. One day I came face-to-face with a wolf; he was alone and so was I; well, we managed to come to an agreement through mutual dread. But our Gentleman—by now he could hardly have been a wolf. Do you know how I imagined him? It’s completely absurd. I imagined him as an enormous, raw-skinned ear in which all our music turned to venom, but the ear wasn’t really the wolf. No, this ear was like a funnel stuck in the tails of a thousand vipers, every one of them as fat as your arm, and this venom was crammed into these vipers like blood in a blood sausage. That’s what I imagined awaiting us at the bottom of the Chalamont valley.

  In any case, at the bottom of the valley—well, it didn’t seem like anything was going to happen anytime soon. But we had to pay close attention; the line of skirmishers had closed around us. We were at most ten meters apart. We had to search under every bush as meticulously as if we were gathering mushrooms and to be as careful as possible not to cede a single inch and let him cross the line. We’d been treated to a full minute of calf bellows on this subject that made Pierre open his eyes wide. “Really,” he said, “I hope it doesn’t happen to me.”

  All that’s fine and dandy, but one step at a time does not make a gallop and, before we got to the very bottom, there was still at least another kilometer to go when darkness, which had already been threatening for quite some time, swallowed us up.

  Outside the woods you could still see a little ways, but not here. A critical moment. Success was hanging by a thread. But the truth is, we’ve got as many instincts as beasts. Here’s how things stood in Chalamont at the exact moment night fell. I’ll explain it to you quickly. Look, the cigarette paper that you’re creasing there, before you put in the tobacco, that’s how it was: a long thin channel with steep walls. On this side of the cigarette paper, a whole line of skirmishers. On the other side, a whole line of skirmishers; at the entrance to the channel, the rest of us: Félix Petit, Romuald, the Ravanels (one Ravanel had come from the right, one from the left), Frédéric II, in other words, some ten men blocking the entrance. At the rear of the channel, on this side of your cigarette paper, the Chalamont valley bottom, the wall. And in your cigarette paper, not completely cornered but without much room to maneuver between the wall and us, and having understood what was going on, see, having now really grasped what was happening: our Gentleman!

  The whole thing seemed to be in the bag—Langlois had foreseen everything. Except the night.

  Instinctively we drew closer together and we said to Pierre-le-Brave, “Hurry, signal! Go ahead!”

  And he does. They respond. “Here’s what it’s saying,” said Pierre. “It’s saying: ‘Hold tight. I’m on my way.’ ” And though I didn’t understand everything, I could tell from the way the other guy rushed through his notes that the commander must have been exultant: exultant and angry. It was like he was promising so much that I didn’t know whether to jump for joy or die of fright.

  “In any case,” we said, “if you do need to trumpet, don’t blow toward the Chalamont. The echoes bounce all over the place and now is no time to terrify the Gentleman.”

  We even tamed our crackling noisemakers a little.

  For about twenty minutes, we marked time. At last, deep in the woods, we saw the tips of flames materialize. They were bringing us torches. “That’s not a bad idea,” we said, and we smiled as we looked toward the beast.

  And you can see why, with those torches out there, our Gentleman wasn’t about to venture out to sniff our gaiters. And there were torches and torches; and after they came swarming toward us through the woods, they gathered on our side. A few broke off and headed toward the right and the left flanks, but most of them came in our direction.

  Which was all right and proper. And proper, too, when we could make out Langlois’s shape in the glow. It wasn’t warm, but even so he wasn’t wearing his buffalo jacket. That big shadow next to him must have been the legendary royal prosecutor. The torches lit up what looked like two bright-colored caps: a red one and a green one. We wondered, “Could they be soldiers?” Because now that the whole troop was coming quickly toward us, it wasn’t just two bright-colored caps but under them, two big, beautiful, very colorful bodies. Soldiers? That didn’t seem like Langlois. What would we need soldiers for? And it wasn’t that, not at all. Do you know what it was? The Captainess: Madame Tim in the red cap (a wide-brimmed velvet hat) was one. And the other, though we didn’t recognize her immediately, was the lady from the café in the green hood of one of Madame Tim’s beautiful coats.

  Langlois, you see, put a lot of ceremony into everything, not only what I’m telling you about, but everything.

  “Make a little room for me,” he said.

  And you bet we did. And this is how, with one more soldier (and torches! and ladies!), we advanced toward the bottom of the Chalamont valley.

  We’d slung our rifles over our shoulders. Now we took them in our hands. No more noisemakers. Only the noise those hundreds of footsteps made, step by step, moving forward and the fluttering of the flames that flapped above our heads like birds. And that was more than enough. The beast must already have banged his nose against the stone wall over there at the bottom of the valley, and he must already have turned back to break his nose against our wall of flames and men. He must have been spinning in front of us like a twig in a whirlpool. It wouldn’t have been particularly clever to blast the horn viciously in his ears to announce we were about to kill him. Time once again to say “solemnity and silence”!

  The tracks, of course, were fresh, and tumultuous; there were as many as you could ask for. He was dancing an odd sarabande in front of us. Noiselessly. We were making noise with our footsteps and our torches; no
t much, but some. Not he.

  “Halt!” Langlois said.

  And he called for Curnier, who was a gardener for the Tims (and, come to think of it, we hadn’t seen Monsieur Tim, the so-called captain). We passed the name Curnier along the line of skirmishers at a whisper. And then, at a whisper, we got word he was coming. He came. He was holding a big dog on a leash.

  Maybe you’re surprised that we didn’t bring along our dogs, and that I didn’t even mention if they were there or not. But you see our dogs are herding dogs or hunting dogs.

  “And so?” you’ll say. “Weren’t you on a hunt?”

  “No, sir! And to make you understand all that, you only have to look and listen. Look: at the bottom of the valley, not even counting the people who are sealing off the heights, there are more than thirty of us, all not saying a word; we only move once we’ve looked at Langlois and seen how he moves. If it hadn’t been for the rippling hum of the torches, you could have heard a pin drop. Langlois asked for Curnier in a whisper. And he was answered in a whisper that Curnier was on his way. Look: there is the Captainess. Naturally, the moment she accepted her rank she agreed to be there. But how is she there? In what way? We mentioned a fabulous outfit. Oh, yes! She was there as Woman. Do you think that we don’t see, beneath her heavy homespun coat, that she’s wearing a dress, not a uniform and boots? We noticed that, yes we did! And next to her, take a look! Who’s here? I told you: the lady from the Café de la Route who had borrowed a coat. But what’s that peeking out from under that coat? Isn’t it the dress we saw on her this morning? Don’t you think that this was the first time, ever, that the Chalamont valley bottom had seen women in fancy dress? And if we tell you that an ordinary hunt can manage quite well without a legendary royal prosecutor, would you believe us? That’s why that morning we locked up our dogs. Our dogs and noisemakers were not at all suited to each other!

  “And besides, you’ll see. Because Curnier has a dog, you’ll see what we’re going to do. And he’s a much bigger dog than ours. At least twice the size. He’s a dog trained for the purpose, a mastiff. He’s wearing an enormous spiked collar to protect his throat. He has pectoral muscles like a miller’s mule. He’s got no ears. His head is as round as a gourd. He walks with measured steps, like the prosecutor. His entire spine is like the backbone of a fish. His tail is as stiff as a rod. He’s superb!”

  And that’s how, once Curnier let him off his leash, he goes into the copse in front of us, showing neither fear nor joy.

  We let him get a little ahead of us, then we start to walk, following as quietly as possible.

  We get to the Chalamont valley bottom. Above the last copses, the torches give us a glimpse of the cliff so steep that the snow can only cling to it in garlands. We make absolutely no noise. Not a sound anywhere save for the torches; a sound of wings, like birds flying back and forth overhead: doves looking for a place to land; a whole flock of wood pigeons, emissaries of a Noah’s Ark much more densely populated than the first, seeking some Ararat or other. Here, that’s the only sound in the world.

  The tracks, still so exquisitely fresh and clear that everyone can see them, don’t hint at any fear. They are forthright and irrevocable. Perhaps our Gentleman is playing at outsmarting us. Everyone is playing the same game: even God. But this Gentleman has guts! What’s he hoping for? That an exit will open in the wall? Just when and where he needs it? And, hey, do you think he just might be shrewder than we are? That just maybe we are the ones who’ve been taken for a ride in this whole thing, with our horns and our bells and whistles? And our furtive footsteps and (in our case, it can be said) our fear?

  Or perhaps, by chance, the Gentleman is simply awaiting the death we’re about to hand him on a silver platter? That, you have to admit, would be more than a door; it would be a big gate, a triumphal arch even! And that would explain why, according to the tracks we followed, instead of dodging left or right, he simply backed himself up against the wall.

  Whatever the case, we move forward. And suddenly we’re out of the trees. We’re in the open, and it stretches before us all the way to the foot of the wall.

  At first we don’t see anything. Langlois takes three short steps and he’s in front of us. His arms are outstretched in a cross, and he waves them slowly up and down, as if testing wings. He signals to us: Stop, hush!

  We hear the trousers of the torchbearers crunching as they walk through the woods behind us. The light grows brighter. We hear a crinkling sound back there in the trees; it’s Sausage’s and the Captainess’s thick wadding.

  There he is, over there! We see him! He’s exactly where I feared. Just where, since this morning, we’ve been determined to push him with our fanfares, telegraphs, and ceremonies.

  Well, he’s there. And he couldn’t be calmer, even if he’d chosen the spot himself.

  He’s taken shelter at the very the base of the wall, lying there and watching us. The torches make him blink his eyes; and all he does is fold back his long ears two or three times.

  Without Langlois, what a massacre! We might be shooting each other. Amidst all the shouts, shots, smoke, and screw-ups (we would have certainly rushed him with all our might) he might have been able to leap back into the green forests.

  “Hold still!” said Langlois.

  And he stood before us, arms stretched out as if he were floating.

  Oh! Hold still! While the torch-doves begin to flutter to and fro again.

  Langlois advances. We have no desire to follow him. Langlois advances one step at a time.

  And amid this stillness that suddenly makes us sleepy, something sheds light on the significance of this brief moment during which Langlois advances slowly, step by step: it’s the buoyancy with which the legendary royal prosecutor brings his belly through our ranks.

  And then, in front of the wolf’s crossed paws, we see Curnier’s dog lying dead. The snow is full of blood.

  So many things happened during the silence!

  Langlois advances; the wolf stands up. They are face-to-face, five paces from each other. Hold still!

  The wolf looks at the dog’s blood on the snow. He seems as sleepy as we are.

  Langlois shot him with both hands at once. Two shots to the stomach.

  And so, all that to arrive once again at those two devilishly quick shots of a pistol after a short, silent, secret meeting between the giver and the receiver of sudden death!

  •

  “No, no, don’t try to understand! Shut up, please!” cried Sausage one day.

  It was long afterwards, very long afterwards, at least twenty years later.

  She was no longer at the Café de la Route. The Négrels had taken over (and even increased its business). She was living in the Bongalove with Delphine. Dog and cat. People never knew how those two women hadn’t skinned each other alive, leaving behind only a fingernail-size piece of each other.

  Delphine—but now I realize I’ve skipped over too many years. I have to tell you about Delphine, obviously. But Sausage, in ’67 or ’68, which is about the time when I come on the scene, wasn’t done with life and had no wish to be.

  Sure, she didn’t have the same energy she’d had. It’s pretty unlikely she still had the strength to go all the way down to the Chalamont valley bottom. She was approaching her eightieth year but, believe you me, she was approaching it the way a cat approaches embers.

  During those twenty years she’d endured so many mortifications, one after the other, she’d been beaten black-and-blue so many times, and had had to forge herself under the blows of hammers against anvils of so many kinds that she’d lost her stature or, more precisely, she had assumed a new stature better adapted to bitterness, fury, and fire.

  For those who, after losing sight of her, saw her again, it was impossible to recognize Sausage in the blue larding needle she’d become, but those of us who had followed her step by step knew very well why she’d grown so thin; what she’d been sharpened by; she was a thousand times more recognizable than before
. It even seemed to us that, at the time of the Café de la Route, we’d hardly known her at all. It’s now that it was worth the trouble, while she was creeping up on her eighty years as if they were something pleasant but could burn.

  Not that she had anything to be afraid of. Delphine’s forty years, well, she knew how to handle them; even if they were of a vitality to make you forget how fresh Sausage was in Madame Tim’s time. She needed to watch herself, that one! I mean Delphine, because Madame Tim . . . It’s amazing what can happen in twenty years. Yes, Delphine needed to be on her best behavior. Some things were difficult to keep in check.

  Do you know what Sausage was doing? At the time of the Café de la Route, she’d had a man’s face; now she had the face of a notary. And with this face that radiated like a sun with the knowledge of the law in all its secret workings, she was on the lookout for how the laws of the march of time worked on Delphine. Ten seconds couldn’t pass without reading the obligatory entry of the cost of those ten seconds and the legal and unavoidable ramifications of spending those ten seconds on the notary’s face. Delphine, rich in every way, especially with her sumptuous and milky forty years, more appetizing than willowy youth, was forced every second, simply by looking at the face of that certified accountant, to know the balance that remained in her account.

  Time after time, we saw them going at each other tooth and nail. Everything’s gone now, but then, in that high expanse overlooking the misty web of the lower valleys, Langlois had reproduced the maze of hedges in Saint-Baudille, where for three days he had strolled contentedly.

  We have a hillside that overlooks this maze and, in the fall, it’s a very good spot to soak up the sun.

  At the time when those two women were endlessly settling scores, some of us liked to go smoke a pipe amid the arnica flowers on that hillside.

  It wasn’t for the sun or for the beautiful view. It was because, in spite of everything that had happened, life went on there thanks to those two women; and, whatever that life was, we couldn’t detach ourselves from it. We had the impression that, perhaps one day, around the bend of five minutes, or from a burst of laughter, a teardrop, or anything at all, something would suddenly explain to us what had never been explained. We still had our eyes fixed on the spot where Langlois had been, which is why some of us would often go smoke our pipes on that hillside overlooking the hedge maze of the Bongalove.