’43 (1843, obviously). December. Winter had come on so early and so fast that it seemed never to have left. Every day a cold north wind, the clouds gathering in the horseshoe formed by the mountains L’Archat, Le Jocond, La Plainie, Le Mont des Patres, and L’Avers. The clouds that were already dark in October were joined by the even darker clouds of November, then on top of them came those of December, dark and dense. Everything piles up on us; nothing moves. Green at first, the light turns the color of hare innards, then an extraordinary black that, black as it is, has shadows of deep purple. A week ago you could still see the shepherd’s hut on Le Jocond, the edge of the pine forest, the clearing with gentians, a bit of meadow that sits up there. Then the clouds hid it all. So. At first you could still see Préfleuri and the tree trunks tossed out after the cutting, but then the clouds dropped even more and hid Préfleuri and those tree trunks. So. The clouds stopped along the road that goes up to the pass. You could see the maples and the 12:15 stagecoach for Saint-Maurice. There was no snow yet, and people were hurrying to get over the pass in both directions. You could still easily make out the inn (the building is now called “Texaco” because the company has placed ads on its walls), you could see the inn and all the horses that were there to back up the steam drays that were rushing to get across while the road was still passable. The cabriolet from the firm of Colomb and Bernard, hardware dealers from Grenoble, was visible. It was coming down from the pass. Whenever that one returned, you knew that soon the pass would be blocked. Then the clouds covered the road, Texaco, and everything else; they dribbled down onto Bernard’s meadows and the quickset hedge; and though this morning you can still see the twenty or twenty-five houses in the village each with its thick bar of purple shadow beneath the awnings, you can no longer see the arrow atop the steeple’s weathervane because a cloud has sliced it off directly above the South, North, East, West markings.

The snow begins to fall just after. By noon, everything is covered, everything is erased, there is no world, no sound, nothing. Dense vapors run along the rooftops and cloak the houses; the flutter of falling snow tints the dark windows a cool, blood-rose in which you can see the metronome of a hand wiping the frost from the pane; then a cruel, emaciated face appears, looking out.