The Horseman on the Roof (38 page)

“I don't understand,” said Angelo; “here they had shelter.”

Then he thought of the captain.

The horses, which had covered a lot of ground the day before and had not been unsaddled all night, were beginning to snort. Angelo took great pleasure in watering them, washing them, grooming them. The leather of the saddles and saddlebags, the hides salty with sweat, had a comforting smell of barracks, of male fraternity, in this desert, in this sinister light. He was very pleased with his stout farm horse. He remembered the little skirmish in the meadow and the fine spirit he had suddenly felt in the animal. The young woman's horse was likewise very sturdy, though better bred. Also he was more subtle. He preened a little under the curry-comb and responded prettily to the grooming hand. He tended to take an interest in distant objects. He pricked his ears and rolled his eyes when Angelo tethered him in a little field, beside the big farm horse.

“What's his name?”

“I don't know,” said the young woman. “I stole him. I wanted to buy him at first, but they held a knife at my throat.”

“Did you really steal him at pistol-point, as I did this summer on the high road?”

“No, I broke a padlock. I went groping for him in the dark in the stable where they'd showed him to me.”

“You made a good choice. He's certainly a half-blood. One can see at once that he's got sturdy legs. If he were trained over fences he'd make an excellent hunter.”

“I saw that too, at the first glance. Later the desire to have him became irresistible. I didn't wave my pistols under anyone's nose because there wasn't anybody guarding him; but I'd have done so. I was mad to get away. Not, as the phrase goes, to save my skin, but to leap, to fly over the obstacles, the barricades, the disgusting corpses, to bound off into the Alps. The cholera frightens me. I shouldn't like to die in that way.”

“Nor should I: it's too stupid.”

“What's the good of being a captain,” he was thinking, “if one has to die vomiting something that looks like boiled rice?” He was drawing a contrast with the corpses left behind on the field by a charge.

“When I see the reason for something, I don't care,” he said; “but in this case I'm like you. Something you don't even know picks you up by the ears like a rabbit from a hutch, gives you a sharp blow on the neck, and you're done for. There's no way of gilding that pill.”

“Add that it's the common lot,” said she, “and then we're ready for most things.”

In spite of the gray light that flattened out colors and shapes, they were enjoying their delicious insecurity near those emaciated houses.

“The only unpleasant thing,” thought Angelo, “is that corpse lying across the road, a couple of leagues from here.”

They heard the sound of nailed shoes attacking the road, and they saw come out from the crossroads a man carrying a largish bundle on his back. The stranger waved, obviously in friendship, and approached them. He was a figure so mustached and bearded that he no longer looked human. He greeted them from a long way off by raising his hat. He took care, nevertheless, to keep his distance: he stopped twelve or fifteen feet away from them, put his bundle down, and greeted them again. Only his smiling eyes were visible in his hairy face.

“Good day, m'sieu-dame,” he said. “May I have your leave to rest my legs by the side of two living Christians?”

He was a sturdy peasant with enormous hands.

“Things seem to have been shaken up here too,” said Angelo.

“We must cling to straws, monsieur,” said the other. “It's the only way.”

“What's this place called?”

“This is Villette, madame.”

“What happened to make them leave?”

“They went two different ways, monsieur. The green shutters over there was Jules's. He kicked the bucket more than a month ago. The others wouldn't stay. It's understandable. If they'd listened to me, I'd have given them the formula.”

“The formula for what?”

“The formula for keeping alive, by God!”

“If you know that, you'll make your fortune.”

“I don't exactly make a fortune, but I make a living.”

“You sell it?”

“Well, you don't think I'd give it away? It isn't dear, that's a fact. One little écu, three francs, what's that when you've got your ass in a fire? Sometimes I give it away. In certain cases. But it's a queer thing; I'll have to admit that in those cases it doesn't work very well. People have to pay. Then it works. And properly. I've already saved hundreds and thousands.”

“What with?”

“With what's in this bundle of mine, madame. Herbs. I go a long distance to get them, and it's hard on my shoes. They're not very plentiful, and you need a sharp eye. If
you
wanted to get some, you could search till you dropped. But I know a lot of things. I give my fellow men the benefit. You've got fine-looking animals. You wouldn't like to sell me one? I've got money in my pocket.”

“No, my friend,” said Angelo. “These are our herbs.”

“I'll bet they help,” said the man. “And where are you going?”

“Do you come from here? Do you know the country well?”

“Like my pocket, madame. There's not a bush I haven't looked at all the way round. I live up there, and I'm making my rounds for about the twentieth time.”

“Where does this road go?”

“That way, monsieur, takes you to Sainte-Cyrice. But it's not very nice there.”

“And the other way?”

“There you might have a little less trouble. You go through Sorbiers, Flachères, and then Montferrant before you hit the highway.”

“The highway to where?”

“The highway to everywhere. Wherever you want.”

“Doesn't it pass through Chauvac, or Roussieux? Do you know a place called Sallerans?”

“Sallerans, no. But Chauvac—that's a long way off. If it was clear, you'd see a mountain over there. It's called Charouilles; Chauvac's behind it.”

“And Sainte-Colombe, do you know that?”

“Yes, monsieur, it's in the same direction. But it's not much of a place. Nothing to shout about.”

“Can we have a frank talk?” said Angelo.

“That depends,” said the man. “Generally speaking, it isn't fatal.”

“I'm going to buy five packets of your medicine,” said Angelo; “with an extra écu thrown in, that makes a louis. I'll throw it down at your feet if you're not afraid of contagion.”

“I have my formula,” said the man. “And a louis never gave anyone cholera. Go on, but don't ask me about the moon.”

“What are the soldiers up to hereabouts?”

“You've hit the bull's eye: they're a public nuisance.”

“They seem to be everywhere.”

“I'll give you your money's worth. Toward Chauvac, where you're heading, it's packed with dragoons, and even with infantry, because it's the highway and it's crowded with civilians. They put them through a sieve. They have to go through fifteen days' quarantine at the friars' school, which has been converted into a hospital. If you've got any cash, you run two risks: first they beat you up, to prove you tried to grease their palms, and then they pick you clean—confiscation they call it. Since they have to give it all back to you when you leave, they like you to leave feet first. And that's what happens.”

“Then there's nothing to do except avoid the town.”

“Nothing to do except avoid the town; you're right. But if you want to hear any more, it's time for another five-franc piece.”

“If it's worth it.”

“I'll say it is. Listen and you'll see. If you wait till you reach Chauvac before striking off, it's too late. They're tricky and they have horses with six legs that can climb anything—like flies. Don't try to outsmart them among the rocks; they'd catch you in no time. They've blocked all the trails, even the smallest. This is where you have to know the ropes. And, for that écu, I'll tell you.”

“There it is,” said Angelo, “go ahead; but if you get me into that mess, I'd better warn you that I'm Italian and I know how to cast spells.”

“Don't get carried away,” said the man. “I wouldn't gain anything by getting you into a mess. You're in no danger. As for spells, I've been seeing all sorts for some time now. I don't need the help of an Italian. It's as simple as pie: all that you need is to be a native of these parts. They don't catch any of us.

“Here's the story. When you start out, take the Sainte-Cyrice road. First it is level for a good while, then it begins to go down. Keep going down until you see the belfry. Then halt: it's bad ahead. It's a good spot to die in. They do that on the grand scale. There were six more last evening. On the right you'll find an earth track which goes to Bayons. Go that way. When you get to Bayons, watch out. You arrive by the wash-house. Don't go into the village; keep left and go straight on. It's plain sailing as far as Montjay. That's right, madame, write it down. Old Antoine's not the dumb bastard they take him for. Excuse my language. If I'm here talking to you, it's only because I slipped through the net.

“You'll be at Montjay by this evening. Wait till morning so you can make sure you're right at the foot of Charouilles. Instead of going full tilt up the main road with the hairpin bends, follow upstream along the path, straight to the top. From there a child of four would know how to avoid the town; it's already a good way off to the left. That's the story.”

*   *   *

They followed the directions point by point. The peasant had gone off down a side road, wishing them luck. His instructions were admirable. Within sight of the Sainte-Cyrice belfry they easily found an earth track. It led into russet grass, under a small umbrella pine. Thanks to it, they skirted the village of Sainte-Cyrice at a healthy distance. A significant silence reigned there.

“Without the mustard merchant's directions we should certainly have finished up in that charming stopover.”

Indeed, since they had left the plateau and begun to descend the landscape had entirely changed. Friendly trees, especially golden limes and purple maples, ran in hedges and borders or swelled into groves among the fields, small vineyards, meadows, and gray fallow lands of a hilly countryside. Groves of forest pines covered the tops of the hills.

The little village below which they were passing was particularly attractive, clinging to the flank of the plateau by balustrades, eaves, pink-tiled gutters, vine arbors, ramparts, turrets, alabaster-white stairways; and autumn was bronzing the elms in its little squares. The belfry's beautiful wrought-iron cage rose before the mullioned windows of a small country château, which topped the knoll with its simple battlements and the slender cypresses of its terraces.

“I should have been suspicious of the birds,” said the young woman. “They've taken possession of the place. I can see thousands resting on the roofs. Look at those balconies laden with them. That's not black washing hanging on those wires, but crows, and no doubt the same as the one who threw himself on me when he thought I had at last consented to die.”

Fortunately the country they crossed was empty as far as Bayons. They skirted a succession of low hills, each one prettier than the last. Every bend in the path brought them fresh views of those omnipresent pines surrounding the red autumnal groves in a decorum fit for a king's court. It made one literally laugh with pleasure. They made a brief halt for the sake of the horses, by a field of oats. They did not unpack the teakettle but ate some bread with a handful or two of sugar, in spite of the idea that this might cause their teeth to fall out.

They reached Montjay on the threshold of night. A few big drops of rain were beginning to spatter. They were tired.

The village, situated at a fairly important cluster of country lanes, seemed clean and well kept. There was lodging for man and beast, right as one entered.

The innkeeper did not seem to find Angelo very extraordinary. The infection, he said, was nonsense. Nobody was dying here: except the old, as usual. Obviously there are always people who get frightened, and that upset trade a bit, but on this side of the mountain there was absolutely nothing to fear. He added that he had rooms and they were very clean.

“I believe you,” said Angelo, “but we'll talk of that in a minute. Show me your stable.”

It had begun to rain. The horses were led into a huge building designed to shelter wagons and trains of merchandise. For the moment it was empty, echoing and full of shadows; the lantern only lit a part of it.

“Here's what I want,” said Angelo, going to the corner of the mangers. “Pour two bushels of dry oats into this, and bring eight trusses of hay: five for the horses and three for me.”

“You're not very polite,” said the innkeeper softly. “You seem to think somebody has designs on your horses. Perhaps you even suspect me? It would be better to say so straight out.”

And he came nearer. He was a thickset mountain-dweller.

“When I have suspicions I don't conceal them, and I have just spoken pretty clearly,” said Angelo. “Do what I say, since I'm prepared to pay for what you do. I think as I choose. I do as I choose. And when I choose to change my mind, I shan't ask you for permission. Now, step back a bit and listen, if you want to earn your living like everyone else.”

“You are a
sous-préfet,
perhaps, monsieur,” said the man.

“That is within the bounds of possibility,” said Angelo. “Next, put two chickens on the spit. And boil a dozen eggs while we're waiting.”

“You don't do things by halves,” said the man. “All this is going to cost you dear.”

“I expect it will,” said Angelo. “A
sous-préfet's
salary can stand it. If you have a boy, send him to me for the saddlebags.”