Mankind, overnight it seemed, embraced barbarity, rage and death, that universal blight that affects all species. In the space of four years, generations of men were wiped out, along with millions of horses, oxen and mules, and as many dogs, pigeons and donkeys. And that’s without counting all the game mown down in the insanity of gunfire, all the wild animals caught unawares by bombardment, all the deer and foxes slaughtered without even having the honour of being hunted, and the hares obliterated in scorched earth. Other animals were poached by shadowy figures desperate for something to eat.
Sheep, cows and goats were requisitioned from farms and dragged off to combat zones for meat. Every day trainloads of trembling animals were taken to the front to feed soldiers exhausted by fear and fighting. Thirty-five thousand cows a day had to be killed to keep the troops going. And even that was barely sufficient for the millions of hungry soldiers who were served soup, cold by the time it reached them, in which there was no sign of meat, only kidney beans, which were starchy but unsatisfying. The cows or sheep which had been sacrificed to assuage the hunger of the troops had been boiled in stock and broken down so much that they were almost useless.
Men who were fit and healthy had left for Gramat or Cahors to cram themselves onto trains for the front, but it was still necessary to get the harvest in before the weather worsened or the crops spoiled, so it had to be managed without them. According to the newspapers, in big cities men were proud to go and fight, so fired up by the idea of killing the Boches that they climbed onto the trains singing. But, in villages, men departed downcast and in tears. The women left behind also had to give up their horses and oxen, and even their mules and donkeys, if they were any use, because until factories were working at full capacity, the war effort needed horsepower. Their precious pigeons reared high up in the dovecotes were all recorded or set free; sometimes gendarmes killed them on their own initiative, for fear that they would be used to help the enemy.
The one thing in Orcières’s favour was that it was hidden in the hills, and gendarmes did not normally go there. So the mayor, Fernand, hid the flocks that were grazing up on the summer pasture from the requisition committees. He hid two hundred sheep, keeping them safe, away from prying eyes, in the meadows beyond Mont d’Orcières. And he also, a week later, said nothing about the five lions and three tigers which arrived in his village, eight large wild beasts hidden away behind the yellow and red panels of Pinder’s Circus wagons. Eight deadly dangerous animals, roaring and enraged.
August 2017
Franck and Lise had set off that morning. Their aim was to arrive mid-afternoon to pick up the keys at the agreed place and get to the gîte in time to explore the surroundings before nightfall. With a bit of luck, they might even be able to get back down to do some shopping, if they could find a town, and the shops didn’t close too early. They were confident that at the height of summer there would be something open after seven o’clock.
Yet, from the very beginning, nothing had gone to plan, starting with the traffic jams on the way out of Paris. It was the first time they had had to leave in peak holiday traffic on a Saturday at the beginning of August, and they got caught up in the big rush. Then at lunchtime there was the endless wait at the service-station restaurant, followed by a problem starting the huge hired Audi 4×4, driven poorly by Franck. It was as complicated as it was cumbersome, but it was all they could find to rent.
After the motorway, there was a main road and then a series of small roads, at which point the satnav was so inaccurate it seemed they would never reach Orcières. Again and again, they would be nearly there, only to get further away once more. The directions the computer voice gave seemed to contradict one another. Franck began to doubt whether the place really existed. From the start he had had a nagging feeling that they were being taken for a ride. He had always thought there was something odd about the advert. The telephone number they had tried to call was in Asia – Singapore, to be precise – and even though it was possible that the owners lived there, there was still the strange fact that they only ever responded via email. Maybe the advert was a hoax, and they had been defrauded of their €1,400 deposit.
No expert in hire cars, Franck finally understood why he couldn’t get to Orcières. The vehicle was so big that the rental company had put the satnav in camper-van mode for safety purposes, and because of this it only recommended the larger roads. The narrow or steep ones were never suggested, so they were just circling around their destination.
It was seven o’clock by the time they finally reached the village where they were supposed to be picking up the keys, Orcières-le-Bas. It was more a sparsely populated hamlet with tracks leading to a number of unsignposted farms. There was someone waiting to hand over the keys in one of these, though they could not tell which one, as no names or house numbers were visible at the entrances. It was still so hot – the dashboard read thirty-six degrees – that the shutters on the doors and windows were kept closed. Three times they knocked at doors without success. The fourth time, someone appeared.
‘Sorry to disturb you, but do you know where Monsieur or Madame Dauclercq lives?’
The old woman replied coldly, ‘The Dauclercqs are the last farm, at the end on the right.’
Franck saw in his rear-view mirror that she was eyeing them suspiciously, probably because of the size of the car and its imposing appearance. They finally found the right farm, La Combe.
This time, Franck drove the 4×4 straight into the yard. He noticed a figure at the back of a shed: this must be Madame Dauclercq. He hooted in a friendly manner, but instead of coming towards them, the elderly farmer headed towards the house. Franck and Lise got out of the car to follow her, but the woman had already come out again with a bunch of keys, holding them in front of her as if to get rid of them, clearly indicating that she had nothing to say to them. Even so, Lise tried asking some questions, to which the woman replied sharply.
‘Is the house on the hill up there?’
‘No, it’s not that hill, it’s the one six kilometres further away. At the hairpin bend you take the track on the left and go up.’
‘Thank you. It’s pretty here.’
‘You think so? It’s too dry.’
‘And for shopping, do you have to go to the village at the bottom of the hill?’
‘No, there’s nothing there.’
‘But there is a shop in the village, isn’t there?’
‘There isn’t a village any more.’
Irritated, Franck shot back, ‘Wait, there is a supermarket; I saw it on the internet.’
‘If you want shops you have to go down to Limogne or Saint-Martin, but it’s quite a drive.’
‘Oh really? How far is it?’
‘A good half-hour.’
‘So not far.’
‘Yes, it is far.’
As he was speaking, Franck noticed a surprisingly large kennel near the shed. The kennel must have been at least one and a half metres high, as if it housed some sort of enormous dog, but at the moment it was empty.
They were still standing in front of the woman, who was herself still standing on the doorstep. She had not asked them inside, much less offered them a drink. Franck felt that not only were they bothering her, they were also incurring her sharp disapproval. From this he concluded that the woman had no wish for the gîte to be rented. Quite clearly it wasn’t hers and she was only looking after the keys, but deep down, for whatever reason, she didn’t like the idea that it would be occupied.