The Horseman on the Roof

by Jean Giono

  “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.”

  It was a young but sturdily built girl, well up to doing a man’s work, who came to attend to the horses.

  “How is the young lady upstairs?” asked Angelo. “Is she being looked after?”

  “Is she your wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you buy her her big ring?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “You’re generous.”

  “I’m extremely generous,” said Angelo, “especially when people serve me well. Is there any cholera here?”

  And he gave her a forty-sou piece.

  “Not too much,” said she.

  “Not too much is how many?”

  “Two.”

  “When?”

  “Eight days ago.”

  “Do something for me,” said Angelo. “Here are six francs. Go to the grocer’s and buy me ten pounds of maize flour, two sous’ worth of salt and one franc’s worth of brown sugar. Put the lot under my saddle, here, in the straw. I’ll see to the baggage.”

  Before going back into the inn, he made sure that there was no way out of the stable except by the carriage entrance, and that this was duly locked and bolted with an iron bar that couldn’t be drawn without being heard.

  The young woman was sitting by the fireplace, boiling the water for the tea.

  “You’re not cold?” asked Angelo.

  And he glanced at her legs, which were beautiful without their boots, clad in cotton stockings with arabesque designs.

  “Not in the least.”

  “Here’s the baggage,” he said, “and I’m going, if you’ll allow m
e, to be a nuisance. Have you any woolen stockings in your bags?”

  “I can answer ‘no’ without looking. I’ve never worn woolen stockings in my life.”

  “It’s not too late to begin. There must be some at the grocer’s: this village must certainly be very cold in winter. We’ll buy some. Meanwhile put on these—they’re mine and ten times too big for you, but it’s important to keep your feet very warm.”

  “One could hardly resist such well-meant gallantry,” she said. “Hold these garters for me, I’ll put on your stockings. You are right. It’s no use entering for a race if one doesn’t train. But you, have you taken precautions?”

  “I shall soon have been five months wandering about in this filth,” he said. “I’ve won all the medals going. The contagion fears me like the plague, but I’ve taken precautions for the days to come.”

  He spoke of the purchases he had had made at the grocer’s. He said that, from now on, they wouldn’t be so foolish as to buy bread but would simply make polenta out of maize flour in the kettle, as in Piedmont. They must keep well fed; they could expect some hard stretches in the mountains; even today’s stretch hadn’t been within everybody’s capacity. Whereupon he began to blush.

  “You must excuse me,” he said, turning crimson but not ceasing to gaze wide-eyed at the young woman, “but I absolutely must talk to you just as I would to one of my men. You ride astride. Aren’t you sore, or bruised?”

  “I’m surprised at this solicitude, so sure of itself, which you show toward everyone, myself included,” she said. “Reassure yourself, I can do stretches like today’s for days on end, without being anything but tired, which I am now, I don’t deny it. I’ve been riding since I was a child. My father—I lived alone with him—was a country doctor, and I used to make the rounds with him, rain or shine, on my mare. For reasons it would take too long to explain, I’ve ridden as much if not more since my marriage. Besides, I’m very well equipped.”

  And she told him in a matter-of-fact way of the leather breeches she was wearing under her skirt.

  “I’m very glad,” said Angelo. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t be comrades, just because you’re a woman and I’m a man. I admit that, several times today, I was embarrassed. For instance, this morning when I found you pistol in hand, I was tempted to slap you on the shoulder as I do with Giuseppe or even Lavinia when necessary. I restrained myself, which is a pity, for sometimes that says more than any words can at a critical moment.”

  He was on the verge of talking passionately to her about fighting for liberty.

  “Who is Lavinia?” she said.

  “The wife of my foster-brother, Giuseppe. She was my mother’s maid in Italy. She went with Giuseppe when he had to go into exile; not long afterward I was reduced to the same extremity. Later they got married. But I can still see her, when she was ten or twelve years old, softening my mother’s leather breeches with talc. Like you, my mother used to wear them under her skirts when she rode to our Granta estate.”

  And he described the forests of Granta.

  The young woman greatly enjoyed the whole chicken he had ordered for her. She finished it off, as Angelo did his. They also ate the eggs, and finished their meal with a substantial plate of soup.

  “You will now sleep in a bed,” said Angelo. “I’m not going to leave the horses and baggage. It wouldn’t take long to be robbed of them. You noticed how the mustard merchant eyed them too. At heart, I’m not a dupe except for the fun of it. When it comes to essentials, I can add and subtract like anyone else.”

  He advised her not to yield to the temptation of a warm bath; water thoroughly boiled was necessary.

  “You must,” he added, “cover yourself up very warm and keep my woolen stockings on while you sleep. Fatigue leads to shivering and, anyway, warmth relaxes one. Bolt the door and put your pistols under the bolster. At the least thing, even the least shiver, just fire your pistol, since you don’t have a bell. We’re in enemy country; it’s silly to economize on powder. Anyhow,” he added, “the main thing is that you shouldn’t run any sort of risk and that you should be spared everything. The fact of setting the whole inn in a turmoil is of no importance and perfectly legitimate. I am here to make everybody understand that.”

  He then went and smoked a cigar outside the door.

  It was still raining gently. The mountain was sighing above the village.

  Angelo made his bed in the straw, beside the horses. He was just falling asleep when he heard the sound of wheels, and a moment later the small door communicating with the inn opened, the innkeeper hurried across the huge, echoing stable, and drew the bolt of the main entrance.

  It was to let in a cabriolet. A man stepped down from it to whom the innkeeper kowtowed for all he was worth.

  When the commotion subsided, the man came back with the stable girl and some trusses of straw. He too made ready to sleep beside his horse.

  He was a man of about fifty, severely dressed in clothes of good quality; his stock was of choice cashmere. He spread a large Scottish plaid over his straw.

  “I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” he said, noticing that Angelo had his eyes open. “If I’d followed your example earlier I’d have saved myself a lot of trouble.”

  He described how, three days before, he had been robbed of a magnificent horse and carriage. He’d had to pay a stiff price for this one. He had come from Chauvac. He was trying to get to the Rhone valley where, with luck, he hoped to get a boat across the river and reach the Ardèche, where, it seemed, the air was putting up a victorious fight against the infection. He came from Savoy, where the cholera was raging beyond all belief.

  Angelo asked him whether the soldiers were causing travelers much trouble at Chauvac.

  “To tell the truth,” said the man, “I’m more inclined to think now that they’re not doing enough. They could certainly have found my robbers and got me back a lovely horse, which those peasants will only ruin without anyone being the better off. I must admit, anyone who’s a little hotheaded has a hundred occasions a day for flying into a rage with those arrogant officers; they seem to believe you can deal with cholera by a military expedition, but actually they’re (forgive the expression) pissing in their boots, figuratively, before the force of things brings them to do so in reality. As their orders are to stay put and they’re scared, they’ve invented orders designed to give them as much company as possible, especially that of people like you and me. If you are going up into the Alps, monsieur, what lies ahead of you is not pretty.”

  He explained that the towns were at their last gasp.

  “Do you know the stage things have reached in the biggest of them—towns where, with fifteen to twenty thousand inhabitants, you might expect there’d be some spirit left? The stage of absolute funk (they don’t beat about the bush). The stage of masquerades, carnivals on the corso. People dress up as Pierrots, Harlequins, Columbines, clowns, to get away from death. They wear masks, they put on cardboard noses, false mustaches, false beards, they paint themselves ludicrous faces, they play at ‘après moi le déluge’ vicariously. We’re right back in the Middle Ages, sir. At every crossroads they’re burning straw effigies entitled ‘Father Cholera’; they insult it, they laugh at it. They dance around it and then go home to die of fear or diarrhea.”

  “Monsieur,” said Angelo, “I despise people who lack a sense of humor.”

  “That’s an excellent rule of conduct,” said the man. “If one dies at your age, it’s perfect. If one reaches mine, one modifies it. So it gives no trouble in any case. It’s been said again and again with variations that the best medicine against the cholera is a swift horse. And it’s true. Result: here we are both lying in the straw at our horses’ feet for fear of having them stolen; you from prudence, no doubt, for which I congratulate you; I from experience. It’s no use pretending we have much love for our neighbors. You may say: ‘I’m not doing anyone any harm.’ Be careful: the opposite of love is not hate; it’s selfishness that’s oppo
sed to love, or, to be more exact, sir, a sentiment you’ll hear much talk of from now on, both good and ill: the spirit of self-preservation.

  “But I’m preventing you from sleeping and no doubt you still have a long way to go, with many ambushes; so have I. And while I’m on the subject, I should tell you that people around here seem to have taken to robbery with violence, to holding up passengers on the roads, even to stripping the dead. I saw three thieves shot the day before yesterday with a great deal of ceremony. They were actually very humble-looking fellows. Thieves at a fair.

  “Let’s not be over-particular, let’s be content, sir, with what we have this evening (and were certainly looking for): a raft at sea, just wide enough to sleep on.

  “Good night, sir.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The young woman was up early and obviously in perfect health. Angelo had supervised with great care the boiling of the water for the tea. He also showed great personal satisfaction over the bag of maize flour, the brown sugar, and the dozen hard-boiled eggs he had had the wit to order.

  “The news I have about Chauvac isn’t good,” he said.

  He described the man who had slept beside him, who had left at daybreak.

  “I think we’re going to have a struggle getting there. In any case, this is my idea. Tell me if you agree. Let’s stick to the wildest and most deserted part of the country. Let’s keep away from the roads and towns, everywhere where there are people. It seems that not only have they the cholera, but they’ve gone mad as well. In the mountains we’ve only one thing to fear: brigands. Apparently there are some about. We shall see.