be the sound of pots falling to the floor, heehaw when they hit the earth. Exhaling gently onto a beech leaf chosen from among more than one hundred thousand trembling candidates, Swanscombe bleats out, then croons, groans, ululates, growls. Here is a nannygoat, a ringdove, a woodcock, an owl, and a cat which all and each one by one are calling Palafox, singing themselves hoarse, shouting at the top of their lungs, and, panting, fall silent as their voices are carried away by the wind.
The punitive raids of peasants also fail, despite the importance of their land and air forces, mobilized. Airplanes spray the region with copper sulphate on hedgehopping flights, methodically, and spread upon the cultivated land a terrible mixture made of pulverized chrysanthemums and pimpernel - excellent against certain pests, efficacious when it comes to melons and cabbage which we would willingly send away for three weeks to a mountain sanatorium before allowing on our table but which Palafox, our Palafox, laughs at. The field of his exactions has expanded. He no longer hesitates to push in greenhouse doors, breaking windows and frames, hindering the ripening - just like the unfortunate irruption of the amateur photographer’s wife in the toilet-cum-darkroom, go on, go on, I just have to powder myself and then I’m gone - of the tomatoes which will remain an unwavering yellow. And of course he avails himself of tangerines and oranges, and strawberries, strawberries above all, how couldn’t one prefer them to all other fruits, to apples that bump into the glutton’s nose and to bananas that poke his eyes, whereas the strawberries kiss one’s lips before being swallowed? As for the wolf traps hidden in bushes and ferns, that manage to trap a few field mice, Palafox has evaded them all. Fooled by a few chunks of weasel, it happens that the peasants think themselves well rid of him at last. Congratulations abound, the carcass is thrown onto the pyre. By the flicker of flames, we notice Palafox passing through, hugging the ground, gosling between his teeth. Others found him slow. He limped slightly, they claimed. He is wounded. He was the gosling. Too much talk, overhead. In truth, it isn’t unusual for animals caught in a trap to mutilate themselves to gain their freedom. Badgers and flying squirrels gnaw on their trapped paws, chew until it gives, it gives, three bites by a fox are enough, does, hares and birds of prey make the same sacrifice - all of them do it with the exception, however regularly chained to an unfriendly policeman, of man, who never has the courage or even the imagination to do this.
Perhaps one of these paws belonged to Palafox. A poacher is speaking. He dumps his game bag onto the grass, with a sinister smile, as if he were the incarnation of a critic in a choreographer’s nightmare. This poacher has forgotten one thing, or overlooked it, ophidians in general and Palafox in particular lack limbs. Consequently, when we happen upon his sinuous trail in the sand or in the dust, how can we know if we should take our own steps towards the Arctic or the Antarctic? There, his fur would within days develop a pallor sufficient to mask him within the whiteness of those lands. Meager would be our chances of spotting two black pupils in all that snow. Whatever it takes, Palafox mustn’t be allowed to reach such parts.
Once in a while a hunter boasts that he has killed him. In the minute that follows, this dark man emerges from anonymity. The wildlife photographer from the local newspaper immortalizes him, seated on the creature or gripping it by the gills, his son beside him seems so small, or by the ears, but preferably by the wings, so as to show to all the extraordinary wingspan and as if to say he’s become somebody. And these are in effect good little catches, dappled deer, wild rabbits, pike-perch, magnificent briar cocks that share the front page with General Fontechevade. (Heartening news from the front. The enemy
The punitive raids of peasants also fail, despite the importance of their land and air forces, mobilized. Airplanes spray the region with copper sulphate on hedgehopping flights, methodically, and spread upon the cultivated land a terrible mixture made of pulverized chrysanthemums and pimpernel - excellent against certain pests, efficacious when it comes to melons and cabbage which we would willingly send away for three weeks to a mountain sanatorium before allowing on our table but which Palafox, our Palafox, laughs at. The field of his exactions has expanded. He no longer hesitates to push in greenhouse doors, breaking windows and frames, hindering the ripening - just like the unfortunate irruption of the amateur photographer’s wife in the toilet-cum-darkroom, go on, go on, I just have to powder myself and then I’m gone - of the tomatoes which will remain an unwavering yellow. And of course he avails himself of tangerines and oranges, and strawberries, strawberries above all, how couldn’t one prefer them to all other fruits, to apples that bump into the glutton’s nose and to bananas that poke his eyes, whereas the strawberries kiss one’s lips before being swallowed? As for the wolf traps hidden in bushes and ferns, that manage to trap a few field mice, Palafox has evaded them all. Fooled by a few chunks of weasel, it happens that the peasants think themselves well rid of him at last. Congratulations abound, the carcass is thrown onto the pyre. By the flicker of flames, we notice Palafox passing through, hugging the ground, gosling between his teeth. Others found him slow. He limped slightly, they claimed. He is wounded. He was the gosling. Too much talk, overhead. In truth, it isn’t unusual for animals caught in a trap to mutilate themselves to gain their freedom. Badgers and flying squirrels gnaw on their trapped paws, chew until it gives, it gives, three bites by a fox are enough, does, hares and birds of prey make the same sacrifice - all of them do it with the exception, however regularly chained to an unfriendly policeman, of man, who never has the courage or even the imagination to do this.
Perhaps one of these paws belonged to Palafox. A poacher is speaking. He dumps his game bag onto the grass, with a sinister smile, as if he were the incarnation of a critic in a choreographer’s nightmare. This poacher has forgotten one thing, or overlooked it, ophidians in general and Palafox in particular lack limbs. Consequently, when we happen upon his sinuous trail in the sand or in the dust, how can we know if we should take our own steps towards the Arctic or the Antarctic? There, his fur would within days develop a pallor sufficient to mask him within the whiteness of those lands. Meager would be our chances of spotting two black pupils in all that snow. Whatever it takes, Palafox mustn’t be allowed to reach such parts.
Once in a while a hunter boasts that he has killed him. In the minute that follows, this dark man emerges from anonymity. The wildlife photographer from the local newspaper immortalizes him, seated on the creature or gripping it by the gills, his son beside him seems so small, or by the ears, but preferably by the wings, so as to show to all the extraordinary wingspan and as if to say he’s become somebody. And these are in effect good little catches, dappled deer, wild rabbits, pike-perch, magnificent briar cocks that share the front page with General Fontechevade. (Heartening news from the front. The enemy
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