The Horseman on the Roof

by Jean Giono

  “Not yet,” it said, “it’s a bit early, but I can see some of them up there; there’s no doubt they’re getting ready.”

  Angelo looked in the direction of the hill. The fires were no longer throwing up any flames, but the embers were very bright; against their redness could be seen in certain places the silhouettes of people all very busy and sometimes stooping toward the ground.

  “Are we in a good place?” resumed the voice from the hedge.

  “They’re certainly going to try to dump them down here this evening,” replied the man in the willow.

  The speakers were middle-class townsmen. Even so two or three gun-barrels could be seen gleaming along the hedge.

  For quite a long while there was no further sound.

  “It’s extraordinary,” thought Angelo. “Can these bourgeois really be capable of mounting guard properly? If so, they might give us a good beating before they’re through.”

  He kept his ears peeled, but there was not another word to be heard, not even the sound of someone clearing his throat. They had even put the guns out of sight.

  “If I didn’t know they were there, I’d fall into the trap myself,” he thought.

  He was full of admiration for their efficiency.

  “Here’s something I must tell Giuseppe about.”

  Suddenly on the left there was a noise of rustling leaves, as if an animal were trying to break through the hedge. Several shadows were moving at the edge of the light from the lanterns.

  Angelo had to admit that these bourgeois knew how to crawl and spring out as well as anyone. All he heard was a slight clink of weapons, then he saw black shapes pass swiftly in front of the lantern. The patrol had just caught two men in the act of swinging a corpse over the hedge.

  They had not won the day yet, all the same. The two men caught in the act seemed very excited and were gesticulating violently.

  “Keep quiet or we shoot,” shouted someone. “We know who you are, and if you run away we’ll come and get you up there in your grove. The law applies to everybody.”

  “Let them go, messieurs,” begged a heart-rending girl’s voice. “They’re my brothers. It’s our father we’ve brought. We couldn’t bury him up there.”

  They continued to harangue and bully.

  “This is the last straw! Poisoning everybody! You have to declare your dead and be quarantined. We don’t want to die like flies.”

  “It’s in your quarantines that people die like flies.”

  “Shut up and come here. I’ll shoot you just as soon as the men.”

  A few low cries came from the girl.

  “Doesn’t she know that these bourgeois are always caught short by the unforeseen?” said Angelo to himself. “If she suddenly takes a good jump backward, she’ll escape them. Or simply if I shout ‘Halt!’ rather loudly, from here.

  “Hold on,” he added. “Are you going to get yourself knocked off by a pack of bourgeois? Keep quiet.”

  He had just remembered the sentinel in the willow. Had he stayed at his post, or had he run off with the others?

  “Who’d have thought these shopkeepers could stump me in my own trade?”

  He had the sense to lie low and keep quiet.

  Two men of the patrol led away the prisoners, who were now subdued.

  The others returned to mount guard.

  “Who was it?” asked the voice in the willow.

  “The sons and daughter of Thomé.”

  “Was it old Thomé they dumped?”

  “Yes. He seems quite dry. They must have kept him at least two days. They’re stubborn as mules. There’s no stopping them.”

  “A firm hand’s the only thing.”

  “That Marguerite tried to soft-soap me, but you heard me tell her I’d shoot her just as soon as a man.”

  “Did they catch anybody down on the right?” asked another voice.

  “They haven’t budged.”

  “Thanks for the information,” thought Angelo. “So there are others, down on the right, and perhaps down ahead, and down on the left. This is good to know. So you want to play at war, do you? Well, war isn’t like hunting, my boys. When you score a hit, you have to be as careful afterward as before. These fellows will always be amateurs. If we can’t beat them in open battle, we can win in a skirmish.”

  He took advantage of the fact that the conversation was quietly receding. He soon found, with the tip of his boot, one of those streams that divide fields in two. It was dry as tinder and deep enough to hide a man crawling on all fours. It also ran under a little bank, and the lanterns cast no light there.

  Angelo passed close to another patrol huddled against an enormous willow trunk, and he met a third party walking along with their weapons slung. This time he had only to lie flat in the stream and it concealed him completely. One member of the patrol stepped over him totally unawares. Angelo wouldn’t have traded his place for anything.

  He was so delighted with his own skill that he stood up to his full height as soon as the patrol had passed. He was just a few yards away from a thick shadow, into which he leaped. He tripped over a kneeling figure and fell full-length on top of a man who said: “Don’t say a word; let me go; I’ll give you a sugar loaf.”

  “What are you doing with a sugar loaf?” said Angelo.

  “Ah! You’re not one of those fellows?”

  “What fellows do you mean?”

  “Keep still. They’re coming.”

  Angelo heard the patrol returning. He remained lying, motionless, on top of the man—who was only a little boy.

  The patrol beat the bushes with their rifle-butts at the edge of the shadow, but they did not come closer.

  “If you moved a little I’d be able to get up,” said the boy, when the patrol had moved off.

  “I’ll let you up when you’ve told me all about your sugar loaf,” said Angelo, still in the full tide of happiness. He had even spoken out loud, very pleasantly.

  “I was helping a friend,” said the boy. “His sister died this afternoon, and we came to leave her down here, because the infirmary people bury all the bodies they find. But if they catch you, they take you off to quarantine. That’s why I hid when they went by; then just afterward you fell on top of me.”

  “How about your sugar loaf—what’s it got to do with all this?”

  “Sometimes they let you go if you grease their palms.”

  “A sugar loaf isn’t very much. You can get one for a dozen sous.”

  “That’s what you think. Since the plague started, not many people have sugar with their coffee. My family own a grocery. And there’s some people who’ve come with louis to spend and gone away empty-handed. If you really let me up, I’ll give you the sugar loaf. Don’t you believe me?”

  “Of course,” said Angelo, “but I don’t want your sugar loaf.”

  They both stood up and instinctively stepped back several paces deeper into the shadow.

  “You scared me so much I can hardly stand up,” said the boy.

  “What’s happened to your friend?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about him, he’s a fast runner!”

  “He left you here?”

  “Of course. What was the use of us both getting caught?”

  “You’re a decent lad, I must say.”

  “And who are you? Did you bring a body down too?”

  “No. I’m just passing by. I’m looking for a road.”

  “It’s dangerous to look for it over there.”

  “I’m tough,” said Angelo. “Besides, what am I risking?”

  “They’re tougher than you. Don’t you trust them. If they catch you, they’ll put you in quarantine.”

  “And what then? One fine day they’ll have to let me go.”

  “They won’t ever let you go. Everyone dies in quarantine. Of all those who’ve gone in, not one’s come out.”

  “Because their quarantine hasn’t finished.”

  “Something else has finished for a lot of them. We’ve
got eyes in our heads: we’ve seen them building a big trench. They tried to do it on the sly, at the bottom of the ravine, but we saw their spades shining.”

  “That was to bury the other dead.”

  “Then why did they dig it right in front of the quarantine area? And why did they wait till three in the morning, when everyone was asleep, to put the bodies in? And why was there all that coming and going of lanterns between the quarantine and the trench? Don’t think we were asleep!… We wanted to see. Well! we saw. And why, since yesterday, is there no sentinel any more at the quarantine?”

  “Doubtless because you’re right,” said Angelo.

  “Where are you going?” asked the boy.

  “I’m trying to get to that hill planted with almond trees, which must be over there, I think. I’m no longer exactly sure which way it is.”

  “Just about where you said, but it’s hard to get up there from where you are now. You’d have to go right through all the part where the infirmaries are. If you escaped some, you’d fall into the others.”

  “I’ve got my pistol,” said Angelo.

  “They’ve got guns and they don’t mind using them. They are either bird shot or rock salt. Just enough to shoot you.”

  “That’s a real bourgeois idea,” thought Angelo. Not for all the gold in the world did he want to make a fool of himself by getting wounded with rock salt or bird shot.

  “I’ll take you, if you like,” said the boy.

  “You know the way?”

  “I know a way nobody else knows. It leads straight there.”

  “All right, let’s go,” said Angelo. “At any rate, if they catch us I’ll kick up a row; while that’s going on, you get away.”

  “Right,” said the boy. “Don’t worry.”

  They walked more than an hour through a maze of very dark sunken lanes. After gradually becoming convinced that there was no danger, Angelo stopped playing the game that had so delighted him, and started to chat with the boy. The boy told him that here they might think themselves lucky: in Marseille, in certain streets, the dead were piled higher than the doors of the shops. Aix, too, was devastated. An appalling variety of the epidemic was raging there. The sick were first attacked by a sort of drunkenness, which set them running in every direction, staggering and uttering horrible cries. They had blazing eyes, hoarse voices, and appeared to have rabies. Friends fled from friends. A mother had been seen with her son running after her, a daughter pursued by her mother, newlyweds hunting one another; the town was now no better than a hunting-ground. They had recently decided, it seemed, to beat the sick senseless: instead of stretcher-bearers the roads were patrolled by a sort of dog-catcher armed with cudgels and lassos. Avignon was also in delirium; the sick threw themselves into the Rhone, or hanged themselves, hacked their throats with razors, tore open the veins of their wrists with their teeth. In certain places the sick were so burned up with fever that their corpses turned into tinder and would catch fire suddenly of their own accord, whenever a breath of wind passed over them, or just from their own excessive dryness, and they had set fire to the town of Die. The stretcher men had to wear leather gantlets, like blacksmiths.

  “There are places in the Drôme where the birds have gone mad. At any rate, not very far from here, on the other side of the hills, the horses have refused everything. They’ve refused oats, water, stabling, the care of the man who usually looks after them, even when he seems perfectly well. It’s been noticed, too, that when a horse refuses, it’s always a very bad sign for the person or house it refuses. The sickness may not be apparent, but it’s sure to turn up immediately afterward. The dogs: naturally there’s the dogs belonging to all those who have died, and they wander all over the place, feeding on corpses. But they don’t die; on the contrary, they grow fat and give themselves airs; they no longer want to be dogs; they change their appearance, you ought to see them; some of them have grown mustaches; they look so funny. But when you go by, they hold the middle of the pavement; you threaten them: they get angry; they insist on respect; they have swelled heads; it’s no joke! Anyway, one thing’s sure: they don’t die, far from it.

  “There’s a little place not so far from here, in the hills; first the people sweated blood, then they sweated everything: green phlegm, yellow water, and a sort of blue cream. Of course they died. Later, it seems, the corpses began to weep. There’s a woman from here who went to visit her sister-in-law. She says there was a lot going on all at the same time. She distinctly saw stars in broad daylight, next to the sun, not standing still like they do at night but toddling off to right and left, like the lanterns of people looking for something. Where it seems to be really bad is in the valleys, down behind there; and it’s quick. They’re eating in a farm, seven of them. All of a sudden all seven fall with their noses in their soup plates. Pass the nutmeg. Or else a man’s talking to his wife and doesn’t finish what he’s saying. You can’t be sure of anything. You’re sitting down, will you ever get up? They don’t even bother now to say: ‘I’m going to do this’ or ‘I’m going to do that.’ Does anyone know what he’s going to do? They’ve stopped giving orders to servants. Orders to whom, to do what, and why? How long will the servants be there? People just sit and look at each other. They wait. But that’s nothing to what’s happening over Grenoble way. The people rot on their feet. Sometimes it’s the belly; all of a sudden it’s so thoroughly rotted that it won’t hold any longer and bursts in two. But they don’t die at once: that’s where the pain comes in. Or else it’s the leg: you’re walking and it falls in front of you, or you leave it behind. You can’t shake hands with anyone. To lift a spoon to your mouth is quite a business. You’d need to be sure of still having fingers and an arm. Naturally you get a little warning in advance from the smell. The trouble is, there’s already a fine old smell of rotting with all the dead bodies and the heat. So you never know if what you smell is your own smell or the others!

  “They say that if you went into Grenoble you wouldn’t hear a sound. There’s nothing to be done, is there? Haven’t you heard about that shepherd who’s made a remedy out of mountain herbs? Not just any old herbs. They say it’s a job getting them. They grow in impossible places. But he got them. They cure completely. When they found him, he was the only one left alive. ‘You’ve been lucky!’ they said. ‘I know the cure,’ he said. He let some people drink from his bottle: they all recovered. It seems that a fat gentleman wanted to buy the whole bottle for a hundred thousand francs, but he said to him: ‘Since you’re so rich, send your servants to fetch you some.’ It was a good answer. Apparently it had a great effect on him. The gentleman said: ‘You’re right. I will send my servants, but it’ll be for everyone; show me the place and I’ll pay you.’ That was good, too. The shepherd has a cart and two horses now. He’s got a regular setup. I think they’re going to have some here—the medicine, I mean. Some people are attending to it.

  “Then, there’s another thing you can do. This happened at Pertuis. There’s a priest who says masses, but not the usual ones. It seems he’s got something that’s a little more complicated but has better results. He’s cured a lot of people, and what’s so specially good is that he protects you in advance. No danger any more. You’ve no more need to worry. You give your name and, well, I don’t know if you pay; I don’t think so; he’s an old priest with a beard. And that’s that. Maybe you also repeat some words. Anyhow, it works. At Pertuis they’ve perhaps had less than a hundred dead in all. To my mind that proves it. Seems that all around that priest’s house it’s full of people camping, sleeping, cooking meals, waiting. As soon as he comes out, you ought to see it! The people climb on each other’s backs to say: ‘Me, me, me!’ And they shout out their names. Well, in the end, he writes them down on bits of paper and says: ‘Don’t worry, it will be all right. I’ll just go into the church.’ Then the whole lot follows him. That seems very fine. A hundred dead all told since the start, that’s nothing. And now that he’s got things properly going, he has pictures t
hat he can send in a letter, and they stop you from catching the plague, and even cure you.”

  In this way they arrived at the foot of a cliff. The almond-tree hill was up above. Gazing upward, one could see foliage black against the stars. A path climbed up through the rocks.

  “All you have to do now is to take this path,” said the boy. “You don’t need me any more. I turn off here. You see? I knew the way all right.”

  The sentinel posted under the big oak let Angelo go past, then said to him: “Hey there, artist, where are you off to?”

  Once more he began to explain that he was looking for a man called Giuseppe, but this time he received the answer: “If that’s it, it’s easy; come over here. I’ll take you.”

  As they passed a brazier, Angelo saw his guide. He was a young laborer who had strapped a belt over his blouse. The trigger-guard of his rifle glittered.

  “The weapon’s well kept,” thought Angelo.

  Giuseppe lived in a handsome reed hut with a fire burning before its door. He was evidently not asleep, for as soon as Angelo moved into the light of the flames he shouted from inside: “Ah! Here’s his mother’s son, at last!”

  They chewed each other’s muzzles like two puppies. Giuseppe had half risen from a low bed on which a young woman was asleep, with all her extremely opulent bosom uncovered. Giuseppe rubbed her belly, which was broad and supple, calling out: “Lavinia! Here’s My Lord!” And he burst out laughing because she swiftly crossed herself before opening her eyes, still pouting adorably with lips darkened by a faint down.

  “You see,” said Giuseppe, “he isn’t dead and he’s found me.”

  The young woman had a round head and huge, startled eyes; however, she narrowed them knowingly when she was thoroughly awake.

  “No,” said Giuseppe to Angelo, “first you’re going to sleep. I shan’t tell you a thing tonight. Only this: you’re lucky. If I’m not dead, it’s because I’ve nine lives like a cat: but it’s sheer good sense that keeps me going. I lead a regular life and I’m going to make you lead one. Come over here. There’s room for three in this bed. It’ll be a bit of a squash but that’s the right thing when you’re fond of each other.”