From then on, twice a week, someone checked up on the ewes. Nothing could be done for the men, but at least they could ensure that the ewes were safe. One morning, Fernand yoked up his rickety old cabriolet and went up to the plateau with old Lucien, who wanted to count the animals himself with clean glasses. Old Maurice had also gone twice, on foot, just to prove to them all that at nearly eighty he was not finished yet, that he could still walk all day in the sun like the soldiers under the clouds in the east. Yet Maurice had more reason than most to dislike climbing up to the pastures on the other side of the hill. He used to have vines there and walking on the land brought back memories of the kingdom of abundance it had been before, a treasure trove spilling out litres and litres of fragrant nectar, the hillside covered with opulent vines. Nothing remained of that golden age except the huts and stone rows, derisory vestiges of a vanished El Dorado. Of all the men left in the village, the only one who refused to go up at all was La Bûche. At nearly sixty, he was certainly fit enough to go; in fact he was the strongest of the men left behind, but he would not hear of it. It was obvious that he didn’t like the lion tamer. Anyone would have thought that there was an old grievance between them, but as he was not the talkative type, no one wanted to ask him.

Fear continued to take hold. Ever since the villagers had learnt that entire French regiments could be wiped out in a single night, leaving heaps of bodies equivalent to ten large towns, they felt as if death was all around. Mothers sometimes saw in their children’s faces the ghosts of their fathers, but in order not to worry them further the women had to stay strong and not show weakness. Their role was no longer to be gentle. Working the land had given them calloused, thickened hands. Hands that before had been for caresses and affectionate gestures were now hardened for work.