fact,
one
franc.) She had never before met that especially French version of avarice in which money—the coin itself—is the center of all consideration, more important than goods, comfort, dignity. Indeed, more important than real wealth. She had no way to know that, although they bore Basque names, these village people had become thoroughly French under the corrosive cultural pressures of radio, television, and state-controlled education, in which modern history is creatively interpreted to confect that national analgesic,
la vérité à la Cinquième République.
Dominated by the mentality of the
petit commercant,
these village Basques shared the Gallic view of gain in which the pleasure of earning a hundred francs is nothing beside the intense suffering caused by the loss of a centime.
Finally realizing that his dumb show of pain and disappointment was not going to extract the two francs from this young girl, the proprietor excused himself with sardonic politeness, telling her be would be right back.
When he returned twenty minutes later, after a tense conference with his wife in the back room, he asked, “You are a friend of M. Hel?”
“Yes,” Hannah lied, not wanting to go into all that.
“I see. Well then, I shall assume that Mr. Hel will pay, should you fail to.” He tore a sheet from the note pad provided by the Byrrh distributors and wrote something on it before folding it two times, sharpening the creases with his thumbnail. “Please give this to M. Hell,” he said coldly.
His eyes no longer flicked to her breast and legs. Some things are more important than romance.
* * *
Hannah had been walking for more than an hour, over the Pont d’Abense and the glittering Gave de Saison, then slowly up into the Basque hills along a narrow tar road softened by the sun and confined by ancient stone walls over which lizards scurried at her approach. In the fields sheep grazed, lambs teetering beside the ewes, and russet
vaches de pyrénées
loitered in the shade of unkempt apple trees, watching her pass, their eyes infinitely gentle, infinitely stupid. Round hills lush with fern contained and comforted the narrow valley, and beyond the saddles of the hills rose the snow-tipped mountains, their jagged arêtes sharply traced on the taut blue sky. High above, a hawk balanced on the rim of an updraft, its wing feathers splayed like fingers constantly feeling the wind as it scanned the ground for prey.
The heat stewed a heady medley of aroma: the soprano of wild-flower, the mezzotones of cut grass and fresh sheep droppings, the insistent basso profundo of softened tar.
Insulated by fatigue from the sights and smells around her, Hannah plodded along, her head down and her concentration absorbed in watching the toes of her hiking boots. Her mind, recoiling from the sensory overload of the last ten hours, was finding haven in a tunnel-vision of the consciousness. She did not dare to think, to imagine, to remember; because looming out there, just beyond the edges of here-and-now, were visions that would damage her, if she let them in. Don’t think. Just walk, and watch the toes of your boots. It is all about getting to the Château d’Etchebar. It is all about contacting Nicholai Hel. There is nothing before or beyond that.
She came to a forking in the road and stopped. To the right, the way rose steeply toward the hilltop village of Etchebar, and beyond the huddle of stone and
crepi
houses she could see the wide mansard facade of what must be the château peeking between tall pine trees and surrounded by a high stone wall.
She sighed deeply and trudged on, her fatigue blending with protective emotional neurasthenia. If she could just make the château… just get to Nicholai Hel…
Two peasant women in black dresses paused in their gossip over a low stone wall and watched the outlander girl with open curiosity and mistrust. Where was she going, this hussy showing her legs? Toward the château? Ah well,
one
franc.) She had never before met that especially French version of avarice in which money—the coin itself—is the center of all consideration, more important than goods, comfort, dignity. Indeed, more important than real wealth. She had no way to know that, although they bore Basque names, these village people had become thoroughly French under the corrosive cultural pressures of radio, television, and state-controlled education, in which modern history is creatively interpreted to confect that national analgesic,
la vérité à la Cinquième République.
Dominated by the mentality of the
petit commercant,
these village Basques shared the Gallic view of gain in which the pleasure of earning a hundred francs is nothing beside the intense suffering caused by the loss of a centime.
Finally realizing that his dumb show of pain and disappointment was not going to extract the two francs from this young girl, the proprietor excused himself with sardonic politeness, telling her be would be right back.
When he returned twenty minutes later, after a tense conference with his wife in the back room, he asked, “You are a friend of M. Hel?”
“Yes,” Hannah lied, not wanting to go into all that.
“I see. Well then, I shall assume that Mr. Hel will pay, should you fail to.” He tore a sheet from the note pad provided by the Byrrh distributors and wrote something on it before folding it two times, sharpening the creases with his thumbnail. “Please give this to M. Hell,” he said coldly.
His eyes no longer flicked to her breast and legs. Some things are more important than romance.
* * *
Hannah had been walking for more than an hour, over the Pont d’Abense and the glittering Gave de Saison, then slowly up into the Basque hills along a narrow tar road softened by the sun and confined by ancient stone walls over which lizards scurried at her approach. In the fields sheep grazed, lambs teetering beside the ewes, and russet
vaches de pyrénées
loitered in the shade of unkempt apple trees, watching her pass, their eyes infinitely gentle, infinitely stupid. Round hills lush with fern contained and comforted the narrow valley, and beyond the saddles of the hills rose the snow-tipped mountains, their jagged arêtes sharply traced on the taut blue sky. High above, a hawk balanced on the rim of an updraft, its wing feathers splayed like fingers constantly feeling the wind as it scanned the ground for prey.
The heat stewed a heady medley of aroma: the soprano of wild-flower, the mezzotones of cut grass and fresh sheep droppings, the insistent basso profundo of softened tar.
Insulated by fatigue from the sights and smells around her, Hannah plodded along, her head down and her concentration absorbed in watching the toes of her hiking boots. Her mind, recoiling from the sensory overload of the last ten hours, was finding haven in a tunnel-vision of the consciousness. She did not dare to think, to imagine, to remember; because looming out there, just beyond the edges of here-and-now, were visions that would damage her, if she let them in. Don’t think. Just walk, and watch the toes of your boots. It is all about getting to the Château d’Etchebar. It is all about contacting Nicholai Hel. There is nothing before or beyond that.
She came to a forking in the road and stopped. To the right, the way rose steeply toward the hilltop village of Etchebar, and beyond the huddle of stone and
crepi
houses she could see the wide mansard facade of what must be the château peeking between tall pine trees and surrounded by a high stone wall.
She sighed deeply and trudged on, her fatigue blending with protective emotional neurasthenia. If she could just make the château… just get to Nicholai Hel…
Two peasant women in black dresses paused in their gossip over a low stone wall and watched the outlander girl with open curiosity and mistrust. Where was she going, this hussy showing her legs? Toward the château? Ah well,
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