‘But who’s to say that one day they won’t give the Hun the slip? He’s only one man on his own; he won’t be able to fight eight wild cats …’

Everyone prayed that Le Simple up there on the pastures could not hear the roaring devils, otherwise the sheep would take fright. Sheep panic at the slightest thing. And since the supply of meat had dried up, since the army was requisitioning everything, even one ewe was worth its weight in gold. The flock was their treasure, up until now a well-hidden treasure; no one must know about them and, if one day the authorities should take it into their heads to ask questions about the sheep, they would have to be told that they weren’t there any more, that they had all panicked and thrown themselves from the top of the cliff. If the worst came to the worst, they could say they had been eaten by wolves, or they could blame the Hun and say they had been eaten by the lions. Whatever happened, the sheep must not be requisitioned.

‘They’ve stolen our men; they’re not going to take our sheep. Our sheep are not going to feed soldiers to give them strength to go and get killed …’

While everything was so grave, Joséphine felt ashamed of her feelings. Her troubles were nothing compared to the tragedies of the world. She was not so badly off, after all. She withdrew into her suffering, trying her best to be discreet, even though, unlike the others, she welcomed the roaring. She was the only one who waited for them at night, because the growling carried to her on the hot evening air made her quiver with anticipation. The roars did not frighten her but pulsed through her veins. The growling called to her from a world cleansed of fear and sin, a tempting world of savagery, verging on the impure. She must free herself from this, or she would go mad, or someone would discover her secret; they would suspect an attraction or an affair.