Nothing would grow on Mont d’Orcières, not even new grafts, because the soil was too chalky. Around Bordeaux, on the other hand, the new grafts took quickly because the ground was soft and well irrigated by the Garonne river. The Orcières winegrower and his wife, exhausted by a succession of harvests ruined by chemicals, tore up what remained of the vines before setting fire to everything and hanging themselves from the big oak tree. They even threw the casks and the wine press into the flames, so that the conflagration took over the whole hillside, devouring the vegetation round about, including the juniper above the rocks. Everything was destroyed except for the house and the handful of trees which gave it shade. By making a human chain and passing buckets of water up from the reservoir, the villagers had at least been able to save these.

As the land was damned anyway, the German might as well move in there with his big cats. He might survive but no one could prosper up there. Not even lions and tigers and their master. The mayor lent him the house and land for as long as he wanted. At least his being there on the roof of the world with his cages and carriages would mean that they had one strong, able-bodied man in case of emergency. As for the lions and tigers, no one was sure if they should be frightened of them or not. Everyone knew about the Champawat Tiger, shot by an English hunter; the newspapers had reported her killings constantly. In areas where wolves still prowled, the image of that Bengal tiger that had killed four hundred people in India had awakened ancient fears. Other than in newspapers and illustrated books, creatures like that did not exist for the people of the causse. They might also have seen pictures of them on circus wagons and posters, but no one wanted to see them in real life. And knowing they were up there was unsettling.