Acta de entrega-recepción

[193] ‘At that time Jesus said to his disciples “I am the good shepherd; the good shepherd gives his life for his flock.”’ Up in the pulpit the priest paused. For once, the service was proceeding in a most reverent atmosphere. Not a word from the upstairs gallery where Ficelle and Pierre were standing, backs straight, eyes straight ahead. Not a false note either in the choir or in the nave. It would be easy to think that only saints were present at the service! Everyone had joined vigorously in the hymns and recited the prayers with one voice. While he wasn’t fooled, this unusual religious fervour gratified the priest; should he be admonishing his flock or showing indulgence? He resumed in a gentle voice: ‘But those who are not good shepherds, or those who care only for themselves, lead their sheep to graze on uncultivated land frequented by wolves. Then the wolf attacks the sheep and disperses the herd which he pursues into the abyss of sin, of intolerance, of mockery and a lack of neighbourly love.’

The priest broke off and surveyed the congregation with a satisfied expression. He knew that for once he was being listened to attentively and that heads were bowing:

‘I am the good shepherd, I know my flock and my sheep know me, as my Father knows me, and as I know my father . . . ,’ he intoned.

The priest looked for Barbaste and could barely discern him given how he was cringing behind Benjamin and Portalès. As for Elodie and Antonia, their reverent attitude expressed their total humility.

[194] Silence reigned throughout the church.

‘Lord deal with me not according to the magnitude of my transgressions, but according to the greatness of Your mercy . . . Let us pray . . . I confess to almighty God, and to you also, my brethren . . .’

With one accord, the assembly took up the prayer fervently, following which the priest concluded, ‘I will take confession on Friday from nine until eleven for those who have a troubled soul and those who have misbehaved . . . Amen.’

The Sunday sermon following on Saturday’s collective lunacy made an impact on a few consciences, and for a few days, absolute peace reigned in the village. Even the bench in the square remained deserted. At lunchtime, the men went straight home and those who crossed paths in the village curtailed their conversations.

Ficelle remained invisible. To pass the time he cleared his few small terraces at L’Olivette that he was certainly never going to cultivate. Barbaste, absorbed in covert and rather disreputable activities, or anxious about his summons to appear before the judge, disappeared for several days. Elodie confined her confidences to Perlette. Antonia made herself scarce. The village slumbered in its daily humdrum. However, this apparent tranquillity was concealing quite a few fears or secret anxieties. Although racked with regret, Ficelle was now brooding on ways to avenge himself. Antonia and Elodie were awaiting the arrival of Friday even more apprehensively, fearing in advance the moral lecture that the priest would no doubt be giving them.

Pierre and Colette were champing at the bit in the hope of good news from the priest. The latter was unobtrusively observing all and sundry, taking discreet

precautions to ensure that no incident intervened to disturb the ambient calm. He was worried about the forthcoming annual celebratory dinner for the war veterans scheduled for the following Saturday at Le Vigan.

[195] He had a difficult, if not impossible, problem to solve: how to reconcile Ficelle and Barbaste and Ficelle and Arnaud in so short a time, all three being veterans, and to persuade Ficelle to give his enemies a lift in his truck. The possibility that the Saint

Bresson branch of the war veterans might be absent from the banquet would, in his view, be a disaster for the village’s image.

Ultimately everyone, distressed by this unfortunate affair, which had shattered their day-to-day harmony, was hoping ardently that good will and good humour would return as soon as possible. Even the children, detecting the malaise, were being careful to organize their games away from the village. Everyone was hoping for an initiative from the priest, an expert in reconciliation and brotherhood.

Arnal examined Barbaste. The poacher had made an effort with his appearance. His blue work trousers and his shirt were clean and freshly ironed. His beret looked new! However, he had not done a good job of shaving his moustache and his gloomy expression and abrupt gestures said everything about the state of agitation he was in.

‘Have you had a bite to eat?’

Barbaste shook his head: ‘I couldn’t swallow a thing; God knows, nothing would go down.’

‘You should have forced yourself; everyone feels better on a full stomach.’ Arnal looked at his watch: one o’clock. He grabbed his motor scooter which was leaning on the wall and said, ‘Let’s get going. It’d be better to leave early, that’ll give us time to have a quiet drink. You need it!’ He straddled his machine and kicked the

starter: ‘Jump on!’

Barbaste grimaced as he settled himself on the pillion. He wondered fretfully if his friend would be bringing him back to the village that evening.

[196] ‘God Almighty, what the hell’s he doing? He’s forgotten me!’

‘Calm down, Barbaste. You’ve been summonsed; your turn will come. You can see there’s at least seven or eight of you!’

‘This judge seems like a swine to me. I’ll be sleeping in prison tonight, you’ll see!’ said Barbaste in a strangled voice.

Arnal turned to Barbaste and looked at his clenched features: the sweat was running down his temples and he had a continuous tic in his lazy eye. Tight-lipped, with his hair all tousled, he was shifting about restlessly, completely distraught! Arnal

reflected that his friend’s behaviour was more like that of a hunted animal than the proud hunter he knew. Today Barbaste was the prey! He sought to reassure him: ‘Don’t be so pessimistic.’

‘Well, it’s obvious that you’re not the one in the firing line!’

They were sitting at the back of the room where they had had trouble finding seats. As always, the meeting of the district Court was a full house. The judge, a square- faced man, with short-cropped pepper-and-salt hair and a severe expression, had already dealt with several cases: a man who had caused a drunken affray; a farmer who had destroyed his neighbour’s fence because of a complicated saga about a right-of-way, and finally a violent husband who regularly beat his wife.

Barbaste was appalled to see the audience doubling up with laughter at the

embarrassed explanations of the accused, despite the severe remonstrations of the judge who was seeking to restore order. Moreover, Dubois, seated in the front row, turned round from time to time and the stare that the Gamekeeper directed at him on these occasions increased his discomfort.

‘Monsieur Randon, Clovis . . .’

Barbaste looked dazed as he approached the bar in a hesitant manner. He had the vague impression that someone other than himself was walking

[197] forward in his place and the scoffing calls that the mention of his Christian name had provoked had thrown him into a panic.

Cool and detached, the judge began his cross-examination: ‘Your address, Monsieur Randon?’

‘I live with Monsieur and Madame Villaret, Ponteil Farm, at Saint Bresson, Your Honour.’

‘According to the police, you’re seldom there! Occupation?’ ‘Er . . . wood-cutter . . . I make stakes for vines.’

‘Oh really? Do you make a lot of them?’

‘Well, that depends on the orders . . . When I have the time . . .’ A voice called out, ‘Lazy Bones!’

The judge brandished his gavel frenetically. Barbaste turned round; he was totally disoriented.

‘And when you don’t have the time, you go poaching?’

‘I . . . No, Your Honour! I help my family on their little property.’ ‘I’m having trouble believing you, actually.’

The judge casually consulted some papers: ‘The police have passed me your file which lists several offences: no lights or numberplate on your bike, hunting during the closed season, digging up truffles on other people’s property, etc., etc. You’re a professional poacher, Randon!’

‘Excuse me, Your Honour? ‘You live on the edge of the law!’

‘Er, I do my job as best I can. I’m not harming anyone.’

‘Except when you go and gather someone else’s harvest!’ said the judge, grim-faced.

‘Thief,’ said the same voice.

The judge glared at the creator of the disturbance and shouted, ‘Be quiet. The next time I’ll have you removed.’

Then he turned to Barbaste:

[198] ‘Are you aware, Monsieur Randon, that you are accused of assault and battery against a government official during the exercise of his duty?’

Barbaste could feel Dubois’ stare boring into his back. He objected, ‘Oh no! Your Honour . . . It wasn’t me . . . No witness has testified!’

Dubois stood up: ‘It was him! I was tailing him.’

‘Sit down, Monsieur Dubois. I’m the one conducting the cross-examination!’ The judge looked Barbaste straight in the eye, ‘The police sent you a summons. If you had a clear conscience, why didn’t you go to the police station to explain yourself?’

‘Err’

‘I’m waiting.’ ‘Er, well . . .’

There was sniggering in the gallery. Barbaste, on the rack, felt that the deeper he dug himself in, the more people were laughing at him. He mumbled vaguely, in a faint voice that couldn’t be heard over the sarcastic remarks of the crowd, ‘I didn’t have the time . . . I was going to come . . .’

‘Clearly, you’re a very busy man. You had a lot of orders to fulfil?’ ‘No, I was behind . . . with the stakes . . .’

‘The stakes! Another thing: do you admit to having delivered several kilos of crayfish on three occasions, at the beginning of July, to the Restaurant du Commerce and the Restaurant du Cheval Blanc?’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you! Alerted by Monsieur Dubois, the police carried out an inspection at these establishments. There were crayfish on the menu and they weren’t farmed ones. That is strictly prohibited.’

‘Fine, I’ll explain it to you. The restaurateurs elected to have their fine reduced by providing the name of their suppliers. You and a certain Finiels.’

‘Oh, well, Your Honour . . . just a little . . . perhaps,’ Barbaste stammered, red as a beetroot, while the audience burst out laughing.

‘You’re annoying me, Randon. You sold several kilos of them!’ ‘Oh? I didn’t think it was as much as that. It was just to help out.’

The judge leant forward and said, ‘You know, I’ve a good mind to send you to prison.’

Barbaste raised his arms in front of him as if to shield himself while the audience fell silent. He faltered, ‘It’s, it’s . . . not possible! Your Honour, I beg you!’

‘Oh indeed, it is possible! You’re an unrepentant serial offender and your lame fabrications are tiresome.’

The judge turned to his clerk and consulted for a few moments with him, before announcing in a firm tone, ‘I sentence you to one month in prison . . .’

He paused, making a show of looking for a paper on his desk while Barbaste stared at him incredulously, collapsing on the rail to which he was clinging for dear life.

‘ . . . suspended, and a fine of 10,000 francs44_{. You’ve got off lightly, Randon.} For this once . . . I’ve no doubt I’ll see you again and then . . .’

With a final bang of his gavel, the judge concluded, ‘You may stand down.’ Barbaste hesitated. His mind in a whirl, he no longer had any idea what was going on and didn’t know if he was really free to leave. He had more or less grasped that he wouldn’t be spending that night in prison. The judge dismissed him,

[200] ‘On your way, Randon. Otherwise, I might change my mind about the suspended sentence. Next case . . .’

44 _{The author indicates in a footnote that this was equivalent to approximately a fortnight’s salary at the} time.

169

Barbaste took his beret in both hands and, as if in a dream, heard himself repeating, ‘Thank you, Your Honour, thank you very much!’

‘This time I really thought I was done for, Arnal. I can tell you I really had the wind up. A month in prison!’

‘It’s in your interests to keep out of trouble for a good while Barbaste. Because now, if you get nabbed breaking the law, you won’t get off!’

‘How can you tell me to keep out of trouble with the fine I’ve been hit with! I hope they’ll give me time to pay and that the next truffle season will be a good one.’

The two men were settled in with their drinks on the terrace of the Café du Siècle while Barbaste pulled himself back together.

‘You realize? The Café du Commerce and the Cheval Blanc dobbed me in!’ ‘Certainly, they had their own fine reduced and they know that if you want to sell, you’ll have to deal with them. Why would you expect them to give a damn?’

‘The bastards! I supply them with truffles and game and that’s the thanks I get!’

Barbaste ordered another round and went on indignantly, ‘I can’t get over it. People come to the court to have a laugh and to take the piss out of people! I felt like I was in a circus!’

Arnal shrugged his shoulders and responded philosophically, ‘It’s well known, one man’s bad luck . . .’

‘Still . . . The judge is addressing you, everyone’s laughing, you don’t know what to say and it seems to go on forever . . . I certainly hope I never go back.’

[201] ‘Well, watch out for Dubois and the cops . . .

Barbaste didn’t answer. Staring vacantly into space, he said, after a long silence, ‘I’m going to tell you something. One day, I was passing by the Cerles’ farm when I

heard a whining sound. I go over and what do I see? A poor mangy bitch, covered in scabs and terrifyingly thin. She had wounded herself badly from pulling on the rope tied around her neck. That dog, Arnal, that dog was living on a pile of turds and she looked at me with pleading eyes.’

Seized with emotion, the poacher cleared his throat. When he resumed speaking, Arnal was astonished to notice that the voice of his friend was trembling: ‘I know this creature well. It’s me who sold her to that bastard Vacquier. An excellent truffle dog! What a brute, what a stupid fool! After the season he dumps her like that! Ah, if I’d known that I was entrusting her to such a sadist!’

‘What did you do?’

‘I wanted to go back to Vacquier and punch him in the face, but that wouldn’t have helped the creature’s situation. Still, to see her in such a state made me sick and I was so overcome that I left straight away. I couldn’t bear to look at her. You’re not going to believe me Arnal . . . I’d scarcely gone any distance, and I cried like a child. Ah yes, the look she gave me totally cut me up! Does that surprise you? So I went back and cut the rope with my knife. I’d have liked to keep the dog and care for her; but she had lost faith in humans. The moment she was freed she ran away. At least I had set her free . . . perhaps she ended up by finding a good master, poor Mirka!’

‘I get the impression that you have more feeling for animals than for people, Barbaste! Why are you telling me this story now?’

‘Because I was thinking of this when the judge said, “I sentence you to a month in prison . . .” I could picture myself in the same state as Mirka after a few weeks in a cell! Only in my case, no one would have come to cut my rope and I’d have carked it without anyone caring!’

[202] ‘What are you going on about? What about me? Aren’t I your friend? Get on with you. It’s no more than a bad memory, don’t dwell on it.’

Barbaste got up, sombre-faced, ‘It’s true that you’re my friend. My mother would have been upset too if something had happened to me . . . but apart from you, there wouldn’t be too many prayers for me, y’know?’

‘Get on with you! You’re in a very black mood. Consider yourself lucky to be getting off so lightly!’

In silence the two men went down to the place where they had left the scooter. As he started the motor, Arnal turned to Barbaste and said solemnly, ‘You surprise me, Barbaste. I see you about; always irritable, big talker and ready to make a fuss about nothing. I didn’t think you were capable of feeling pity to the point of weeping, even for a dog. It pleased me to hear you talk like that.’ Barbaste shrugged: ‘That poor animal, Arnal! And her eyes . . . there you go, I’m ready to cry again!’

‘It’s just that, in the end, I’m wondering . . . How can I say . . . I’m wondering if a man isn’t more praiseworthy and likeable when he shows his frailty rather than his strength. It proves that we all have our weaknesses and that beneath the thickest hide, there’s still some good. For that matter, even brambles bear fruit. I’m pleased to have you as a friend, Barbaste!’

Taken aback, Barbaste looked at his friend uncomprehendingly: ‘What you’re saying is pretty deep, Arnal! This damned life . . . Let’s go home. I need to go and breathe the air out in my woods, it’ll do me good.’