That Devil's Madness (2 page)

‘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've 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…'

‘I don't understand.'

‘Monsieur Seguin's goat. You don't know the story?'

Louis shook his head.

‘May I?' the man asked Marius, indicating the vacant chair at their table with his pipe. Marius nodded. ‘A man called Daudet – Alphonse Daudet – wrote the story, about twenty… no, thirty years ago. But it's as true today as it ever was. Shall I go on, young man?'

Louis nodded.

‘Well, Monsieur Seguin was a man who loved goats, but he never had any luck with them.' He reached across to his table for the bottle of wine, along with his glass. ‘Monsieur?' he asked Marius, indicating the wine. Marius nodded.

He poured a glass for Marius and himself, and a small amount for Louis, which he topped up with water.

‘Anyway, like I said, he had no luck with his goats. No matter what he did, no matter how he treated them, they always ran away. Monsieur Seguin was so upset he decided to never keep a goat again.'

The man took a sip of his wine and shook his head, as if Monsieur Seguin's problem was his problem. Then, with a sigh, continued. ‘Of course, he did get another goat. Only this time he made sure it was a young one, so she'd grow up used to him. And what a goat it was! A beautiful little goat with soft brown eyes and a gentle manner. Her hooves were jet black, and so shiny you'd swear they'd been polished. Her coat was pure white – so long that it formed a houpelande around her, and she had beautiful twisted horns. He called her Blanchette. You like the wine, Monsieur?'

‘Yes. Thank you. The goat?'

‘Ah yes, the goat. Well, Monsieur Seguin wanted to keep this one, so he put her in his best paddock, where the clover grew sweet and abundant, and where there were big shade trees to keep her cool in the middle of the day. He tethered her, of course, but made the rope long so she could wander at will. And every day he would visit her and talk to her so she wouldn't get lonely. And at first the little goat was happy – happy, that is, until she noticed the mountains not far away and wondered what it would be like, up there…

I see you're smiling, young man, but that's how it all starts, this want of freedom. Listen. You'll see…

One day, as Monsieur Seguin was milking her, the little goat turned to him and said
Monsieur Seguin, I'm so bored. Undo my tether and let me go to the mountain.

Mother of God in Heaven!
cried Monsieur Seguin.
Not you too. Aren't you happy, Blanchette? Haven't I given you my best paddock?

Yes, Monsieur Seguin.

Is your tether too short? I can lengthen it, if you like.

It's not that, Monsieur Seguin
, said Blanchette.

God in Heaven and all the Saints preserve us,
cried the poor man,
then what is it?

I want to be free
, the little goat answered.

Free? Free? Mother Mary help me! No, I won't have it. Don't you know that there's a wolf on that mountain? That every goat of mine that ran away ended up being eaten by the wolf? All six of them. All much bigger and stronger than you. What will you do when the wolf comes for you, hey? Tell me.

I'll fight him with my horns
, answered the little goat quietly.

You're nodding your head, young man. You think the goat's right, I can see. But wait. Wait till you hear what happened.' The man refilled Marius' glass, then his own.

‘Your horns are nothing to the wolf
, said Monsieur Seguin.
I had a goat called Renaude once, as big and strong and mean as the meanest billy goat that ever lived. Her horns were twice the length of yours. Well, she went to the mountain, and she fought the wolf all night long. But by morning, the wolf ate her anyway.

I don't care, Monsieur Seguin
, answered Blanchette.
I still want to go to the mountain.

Well, as you can imagine, Monsieur Seguin was beyond reason, so upset was he. He took the little goat and put her in the cowshed, then locked the doors with a padlock so she couldn't get out.' The man refilled his pipe. Marius did the same. When the pipes were well lit the man continued. ‘Yes, he locked her up, but he forgot the window. No sooner was he out of sight that the little goat headed for the mountain.'

He looked closely at Louis to gauge his reaction, but Louis kept his face expressionless.

‘It was a beautiful day, and the little goat ran and jumped and rolled in the wild flowers on the mountaintop. She was so happy! No more tether, no more stake. Nothing to prevent her from going wherever she wanted. She was free. At one point, when she came to a rocky ledge, she saw Monsieur Seguin's house far down in the valley, and behind it the paddock where she had been tethered.

How small it is,
she thought.
No wonder I was bored.
She splashed for a while in a nearby brook, then lay down on a warm boulder to nap.

When she woke, the gentle breeze had turned to a cold wind and the sun no longer shone. She looked over the ledge once more, but the valley below was filled with fog, and all she could see of Monsieur Seguin's house was a little bit of roof and smoke coming out of the chimney.' The man paused and stretched, took a sip of wine.

‘Monsieur?' asked Louis.

‘Be patient, young man. Be patient.' He took another sip, checked how much wine was left in the bottle.

‘The little goat looked about her, surprised. The mountain was turning purple. Night had arrived.
Already?
she thought. She heard cowbells very faintly from below in the valley. A hawk brushed her with its wing as it flew homewards, and the little goat shivered. Then, suddenly:

Ahooooo! Ahooooo!

She knew it was the wolf, and all the happy memories of the day disappeared. Then she heard, deep in the valley, the rich sound of a horn. It was Monsieur Seguin calling her one last time. Blanchette wanted to go home, but then she thought of the tether and the small paddock, and she knew she could never go back. The horn stopped calling. She heard a rustle of leaves behind her. She turned.