THAT
DEVIL’S
MADNESS
THAT DEVIL’S MADNESS
DOMINIQUE WILSON
MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA
www.transitlounge.com.au
First Published 2016
Transit Lounge Publishing
Copyright © 2016 Dominique Wilson
This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Inquiries should be made to the publisher.
Cover image: ©David et Myrtille Paire & Vardelle/Trevillion Images
Cover and book design: Peter Lo
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
A cataloguing-in-publication entry is available from the
National Library of Australia: http://catalogue.nla.gov.au
ISBN: 978-0-9943957-0-2
The author acknowledges the support of Arts SA.
For Katie & For Leah
When we the workers all demand
‘What are we fighting for?’
Then, then we’ll end that stupid crime
That Devil’s Madness – War
‘Michael’ – Robert William Service [1874-1958]
1
The man whipped his donkey up the tortuous road and cursed. He was late and the beast was slow under this noonday sun, but he couldn’t afford to slow down. It was important to him to show his respect, for Pauline de Dercou had been a woman he’d admired. Born the same year in the little village of Sablières, their lives had been linked through their fathers, who’d travelled together to Lyon for work. As children, he and Pauline Orsat – as she was then – had been friends, and with each passing year his feelings for her had grown stronger, so that he never doubted they would eventually marry. But on her fifteenth birthday Pauline had married Marius de Dercou.
He had left the village that very day, swearing never to return.
And now, some twenty years later on this 15th day of October 1896, Pauline de Dercou was being buried, and he was going back.
The man whipped his donkey harder but the stubborn beast only slowed its pace even more, then stopped. The man cursed once again.
When he’d left the outskirts of Privas at dawn the previous day, he’d hoped to reach Sablières that night, but his donkey had developed a limp that slowed his progress. As a result he’d missed the wake, and now he’d probably miss the funeral as well. In the distance he could see the first slate roofs of the village nestled amongst the golden leaves of the plane trees, high on the mountainside above desolate gorges. But it was of no use – when this obstinate creature stopped, there was nothing to do but wait until it decided to go again.
As he sat on a boulder to wait out his donkey’s caprice, the knell of the village church bell reverberated deep in the gorges surrounding Sablières.
#
‘.…lux perpétua lúceat ei. Requiéscat in pace…’ The priest’s voice droned on. Around the coffin stood Marius and his sons, caps in hand.
By a freshly dug mound of more rock than soil, Gustave le sot cried great body-shuddering sobs, but no one comforted him, even though those around the gravesite shared his pain and understood his grief at his mother’s death. Gustave always cried thus, at every funeral – whether out of pity for the deceased, or because it was his job to dig the graves in this hard, stony ground, no one knew.
A small bird landed on the handle of the shovel stuck into the mound, fluffed its feathers then trilled briefly. Louis, the youngest son now twelve, became distracted from his own grief by the bird’s song, and he watched it hop back and forth along the handle until a slap on the back of the head from Jean, his oldest brother, brought his attention back to the priest.
The day was unseasonably hot and the freshly cut wood of the simple pine coffin filled the air with its resinous smell. Marius ran a finger along the edge of his collarless shirt. Gustave sobbed louder and the bird flew off.
‘Anima ejus, et ánimæ ómnium fidélium defunctórum, per misericórdiam Dei requiéscant in pace…’
Louis became more alert, recognising the words that indicated the end of the graveside service. He glanced at Fernand, his favourite brother, and was reassured with a wink.
‘Aa-a-men…’ intoned the priest as he sprinkled holy water then incensed the coffin.
‘Amen,’ came the responses, and the bell knelled.
Gustave stopped sobbing and wiped his eyes and nose with the back of his sleeve. He reached for the shovel. ‘Amen amen amen amen aaaaaamen!’ he sing-songed as his father and brothers moved away from the grave, and the bell knelled once more.
#
On the road leading up to the village, the donkey decided to move again. But the man from Privas heard the bell and knew that he was now too late. He turned the beast around and headed back down the mountainside, whilst within the village all became quiet again. The women of Sablières, and those few men too old to travel to Marseille or Nîmes or Lyon for work, had attended the wake the previous night and left at daybreak to ready for the day’s labour. At this time of day the women would be out in the forest gathering the chestnuts that formed the main diet of the village. Children not in school would be sitting under the trees, freeing the nuts from their spiny husks and layering them between peat moss in wooden boxes for winter storage, and the old men of the village would be sitting under the shade of a tree dozing as they minded infants. And somewhere on the mountainside, the goatherd would be watching the few goats that provided the village with milk.
At the cemetery Gustave, having refilled the grave, sat beneath a tree to wait for the village stonemason who was bringing the simple headstone Marius had ordered.
#
In the semi-darkness of the cottage the air was cool, the thick stone walls providing shelter from the heat. Marius picked up the loaf of bread on the table, and with his knife traced the sign of the cross on the underside before cutting a thick slice for each of them. The coffee percolator boiled over and Louis ran to move it to the side of the range. Marius took a small paper-wrapped package and opened it – inside was a little earthenware pot not much bigger than an eggcup, filled with butter. He carefully divided this into five equal segments and placed a portion on each of his sons’ plates, and one on his own.
‘That’s Gustave’s,’ he said, pointing to the segment still in the little pot.
Louis poured everyone a coffee then quickly returned to his seat. For a moment everyone was silent as each concentrated on spreading this delicacy onto his bread before taking a savouring mouthful.
‘She makes good butter, the widow Boucher.’
Around the table three heads nodded in agreement. Outside the cottage only the cluck-clucking of a hen could be heard.
‘So, have you decided on a date?’ Marius asked Fernand.
The young man sat a little straighter at the table. ‘We’ve decided to wait until early next spring, before the planting season. Jean can take some time off then, and we’d like him and Madeleine to be our witnesses. Bernadette’s happy to wait.’
Marius nodded his approval. Fernand reminded him so much of himself at that age – he too had never wanted to leave Sablières, and he’d worked at two jobs in order to be able to buy this little farm before marrying Pauline, and though the village was poor, and their farm small, they had managed and been happy. But with the birth of each son, they’d begun to realise that what they had to pass on to them was really very little, so that when the French Government finally changed the requirements for land grants in Algeria from ‘single men only’ to ‘large families’, they had applied. It had taken many months, and in that t
ime Pauline’s health had deteriorated, so that now only he and Louis would make the journey. He wiped his mouth with his serviette and sat back in his chair.
‘It’s settled then,’ he said, looking around the table. ‘Fernand, you’ll go on living here with Gustave – and Bernadette too, of course, once you’re married. At least that way, if things don’t work out in Algeria, we’ll have something to come back to. With just the three of you, you should be able to manage on your earnings. Look after your brother, Fernand, for your mother’s sake…’
Fernand nodded.
‘Jean,’ Marius continued, ‘even though you live in Nîmes, as the eldest you’ll be head of this family while I’m away – so keep an eye on your brothers. Louis, of course, will be with me…’ He pushed back his chair and rose, suddenly old. ‘Wait here a moment,’ he said as he walked to his bedroom and shut the door.
Louis looked at his brothers, but each was absorbed in his own thoughts. He could hear his father moving around the next room, then nothing. The minutes ticked by. Outside, the chicken clucked again. Louis sighed but was silenced by a frown from Fernand. He wriggled in his chair. A fly came in through the open door and buzzed around the butter pot. Louis watched it until Jean covered the little pot with his serviette. From the bedroom came the sound of Marius blowing his nose. Louis looked at Fernand, eyebrow raised; Fernand answered with a small shake of his head.
‘Amen amen amen!’ Gustave said as he entered the cottage. He stopped and looked at his brothers, and their serious expressions quietened him. He removed his cap and sat down.
‘Here, for you.’ Louis cut a slice of bread and passed Gustave the butter. Marius came back into the room, older still and red-eyed. He sat back into his chair and opened his hand to reveal the wedding ring and the small gold crucifix on a slim gold chain that, until now, had been worn by his wife. He put them on the table and gently spread the chain out with his finger until it formed a perfect circle. No one spoke.
‘Your mother never took it off,’ he said at last, picking up the ring and handing it to Fernand, ‘but I know she’d be pleased for you to have it. For Bernadette, next spring.’
The crucifix and chain he put in his pocket. ‘I hope never to have to sell these,’ he said, ‘but if I do, I want you all to know that it’ll be because I have no other choice. Algeria is still a savage country…’
‘We understand, Father.’
‘Now Jean – when you go back to Nîmes tomorrow, take your mother’s coat for Madeleine. It’s only fair, since you were the one who bought it for her. And Fernand, once we’re gone, I want you to take your mother’s clothes and give them to the widow Boucher. Tell her to share them amongst the women who laid your mother out. They did a good job – tell her I thank them.’ Fernand nodded. ‘I have to see some people before we leave tomorrow. I’ll be back by supper time.’
‘Gustave comes,’ Gustave said, picking up his cap.
‘Finish your lunch, Gustave. I’ll be back soon.’
‘No. Algeria. I want to go too.’
Marius sighed and sat back down. ‘Gustave, we’ve been through this before. You can’t come. Algeria’s a wild place still. Dangerous—’
‘I’m not scared. I’m strong.’
Marius sighed once more as he looked as his son’s childlike face. Yes, Gustave’s body was strong – years of digging graves and carrying coffins had seen to that – but his mind was that of a small boy’s. Here in Sablières, at least, he had a life – Pauline had made sure of that. When it became obvious their child was feeble-minded, she’d refused to even consider that he may not lead a normal life. So she’d set about teaching him what, to others, were nothing more than ordinary behaviours – spending hours showing him how to wash and dress, teaching him what was acceptable behaviour and what was not, and later how to go to the village bakery and buy a loaf of bread, even how to count a little and how to write his name, though she’d never managed to teach him to read. And when he was old enough, she’d convinced Father Étienne to give the young man work, so that all those in the village considered him one of their own, even if they did attached le sot to his name. But Marius knew this fragile cocoon of normality was only possible because of the respect the villagers had for his family. In an untamed country like Algeria, how could he possibly hope to insulate his son from the dangers that stalked such naivety?
‘Yes, Gustave, you are strong,’ he said at last. ‘That’s why you have to stay here. Father Étienne couldn’t manage without you. Who else in the village is strong enough to help with the coffins? Strong enough to dig those graves like you do, hey?’
Gustave thought for a moment, frowning in concentration. ‘No one. No one’s as strong as me. But I want to go with you—’
‘I know, son, but it’s not possible. But I have an idea – what if I send you postcards from Algeria? Lots of postcards…’
Gustave nodded, suddenly less petulant. Several years ago, Pauline had received a postcard from a friend, a photograph depicting a huge tower newly built as the entrance arch to the 1889 World’s Fair in Paris. She had given it to Gustave, and told him the writing at the bottom of the card said Paris: La Tour Eiffel. Gustave had become instantly captivated by the image, and had run his finger over and over the text, repeating ‘Paris La Tour Eiffel Paris La Tour Eiffel,’ so that Pauline had thought this a way to teach him to read, and she’d bought him other postcards from the money she managed to save from her meagre housekeeping. But it soon became apparent that Gustave was simple repeating what he’d been told, parrot fashion. Still, his love of postcards didn’t diminish, and he kept them in a tin under his bed, to look at again and again, so that a postcard was the most wonderful gift he could ever receive. He nodded once more to Marius, smiling now, and Marius silently blessed whoever had thought of inventing such a thing. He rose, patting Gustave on the back, anxious to finish his business in the village.
‘Father, wait.’ Jean reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. ‘Madeleine and I talked – we want you to have this.’
Marius opened the envelope then looked at his son, surprised. ‘That’s a great deal of money. Where did you get it?’
‘It’s not that much really – we’ve been saving for a new wagon. But that can wait. You’ll need some money to get settled.’
Marius stared at the envelope. Cleared his throat. Cleared it again.
‘Tell Madeleine… Tell her…’
‘I will, Father.’
Marius nodded and walked out of the cottage.
2
It took Marius and Louis just under two weeks to reach Marseille. Mostly they walked – down gorges and across valleys, through villages and towns, past magnificent mansions and across desolate plateaus. Occasionally a farmer would take them on his wagon, and when they were going through Avignon they were offered a ride on a small boat travelling down the Rhônes.
Marius was content to simply observe his son. Louis seemed to have lost his ability to speak, so awed was he by all he saw, and Marius remembered how he’d felt the first time he’d left Sablières. He’d been thirteen – just one year older than Louis – when he’d run away to fight in the Franco-Prussian war. Now there was no war, and they were heading south instead of north, but Marius still remembered the wonder of it all, the excitement of the new – a wonder and excitement he could now read in his son. He wondered how Louis would react to whatever awaited them in Algeria.
They slept in barns whenever they could, for the nights were frosty, and when they had no choice they slept in the open, until one afternoon the air spoke of the sea and Marius knew Marseille was near.
#
‘Are they speaking French?’ Louis asked his father, confused by the Marseilleian twang and the bustle of the streets.
Marius laughed. ‘Of course they’re speaking French! I think you’re losing your hearing as well as your voice.’ He looked at his son and noticed the dark circles under the boy’s eyes. ‘It’s been a long journey, hey? But we’v
e made it this far – let’s celebrate. Let’s buy ourselves a plate of something to eat.’
‘Something cooked?’
‘Something cooked.’
#
With a piece of bread Louis wiped the last traces of sauce from his bowl, moving the mussel shells out of the way so as not to miss a drop. He’d hesitated at first when the steaming bowl of mussels had been place in front of him, as he’d never eaten – never even seen – shellfish before, but the aroma of white wine, tomatoes and olive oil had soon allayed any doubts. When no more could be sopped up he sat back, a satisfied grin on his face.
Marius took his pipe out of his pocket and lit it. He looked at his son and nodded. The boy will be all right, he thought. He’s proven himself on this journey. Never complained.
‘So, Louis. Not missing Sablières?’
‘I’ll never miss it.’
‘Never?’
‘Never. I hate that village.’
‘Hate? But you never said. Never.’ Louis shrugged. ‘What did you hate?’
‘Everything. The village, the way nothing ever changes. The way everybody works nonstop, yet still starves. I used to look at Gustave’s postcards sometimes, and wish I could see those places… How I envied Jean living in Nîmes! At least he’s free of Sablières. I wanted to be free too.’
‘But you never said…’
‘There was nothing I could do. I knew I’d have to wait till I was old enough to leave.’
‘But—’
‘Ah, freedom – it’s not always what you think it is, young man.’
Louis turned to the man at the next table who’d just spoken those words.
‘Monsieur?’
‘Freedom. I said it’s not always what you imagine.’ The man puffed on his pipe before continuing. ‘Think of Monsieur Seguin’s goat. She wanted freedom, and look what happened to her…’
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