Since the lions’ roars had started to echo round the hills, an instinctive fear of predators had been reawakened, predators that attacked men as well as livestock. But this did not affect Le Simple, who was the only soul on earth not to know that there was a war. He thought that the bells on 1 August had been a fire alarm, and no one had corrected him; yes, a big fire had indeed broken out somewhere far away. They also did not tell him about the lions for fear he would panic. In the east, downwind, he could not hear them. Le Simple was a child born too late, as the saying went; he wasn’t quite right in the head, but he had clear opinions, slow but clear. It was agreed in the village to make him the shepherd, which suited everyone. No one else wanted to live for six months all alone on the high plateau, spending the fine days watching over the sheep. And the nights in abandoned gariottes, those drystone huts built during the Second Empire, with ill-fitting doors and no creature comforts. In the winegrowing days, the huts had been used for storing tools, protecting them from the elements, but they hadn’t been intended for sleeping in.

Twice a month, someone took Le Simple bread. It was a three-hour walk, but old Lucien declared that from now on it would be wise to go more often, and to count the sheep once a week. Everyone had faith in Le Simple; he was a skilful, hardy shepherd. He knew how to read the sheep and slept close to them on a stone bench, or on the grass, even when there was a hut nearby. He liked to sleep in the open air, and even if he did not get much sleep, it meant that he could keep an eye on the sheep. In between the supply trips Mayor Fernand would go up to check for himself that everything was all right, and also to get away from the village for a bit. Morale was at a low ebb and the women were exhausted, because not only was the work endless, but now the days were getting shorter. As time went on, the feeling of impending doom grew.