The Horseman on the Roof by Jean Giono Page B

The sight of the villages down there ahead of us isn’t exactly a bedtime story either.”
    Angelo perceived that the young man was at the end of his tether and only kept on his feet by the force of things. It was his eyes that made him ironical. Angelo found this very likable. He had already forgotten the chill breath of the corpses. “That’s the way to be!” he told himself.
    â€œYou say these houses are full of dead?” asked the young man. Angelo described how he had gone into three or four of them and what he had seen in each. He added that the others were full of birds and that there was no chance of finding anyone alive there.
    â€œThat’s the end of the story for Les Omergues,” said the young man. “It was a decent little hamlet. I came here to treat some cases of inflammation of the lungs six months ago. I cured them too. I used to get some fine drinks right over there, believe me! I’ll look the place over in a minute. You never know. Suppose there’s still one who isn’t completely moldy in some corner or other. It’s my job. But what the hell are we doing in the middle of the road?” he added. “Don’t you think we’d be better off under those trees?”
    They went into the shelter of some mulberry trees. The shade was not cool, but they felt freed of a cruel weight on their necks. The grass crackled as they sat down.
    â€œYou’re in a bad spot,” said the young man; “we may as well face facts. Leave your legs in the sun. What on earth were you doing in these parts?”
    â€œI was heading toward the Château de Ser,” said Angelo.
    â€œThe Château de Ser is done for,” said the young man.
    â€œAre they dead?” asked Angelo.
    â€œCertainly,” said the young man. “And the others, who weren’t much better, piled into a post-chaise and decamped. They won’t get far. I wonder what you’ll do?”
    â€œMe?” said Angelo. “Well, I don’t mean to decamp.” He was addressing the ironical eyes.
    â€œAgainst this mess, my friend,” said the young man, “there are only two remedies: fire or flight. A very old system, but a good one. I hope you know that?”
    â€œYou look as if you knew it yourself,” said Angelo, “yet here you are.”
    â€œMy job,” said the young man. “Otherwise, take my word for it, I’d be off in an instant. Seems it hasn’t started yet in the Drôme, and that’s back yonder, five hours away by mountain trails; let’s be sensible. How are those legs of yours?”
    â€œAll right,” said Angelo, “they’re damned good legs, but I can guarantee they only go where I want them to.”
    â€œThat’s up to you,” said the young man. “You’re a better color now. Obviously, as soon as you’re a better color you’re the sort it’s difficult to make understand where his interest lies.”
    â€œNow it’s you who look queer,” said Angelo, smiling. The ironical eyes appeared to understand his smile perfectly.
    â€œOh, that! I admit I’m a bit washed out,” said the young man. He leaned back against the trunk of the mulberry tree. “Would you mind passing me the drug, please?”
    Thanks to the bitter-smelling alcohol in the little flask, and above all to the presence of the ironical eyes, Angelo’s blood was back where it should be. He suddenly longed for a smoke. He must have a few cigars left, from those he had had the hostler buy him yesterday at Banon; there were just six when he opened his case.
    â€œYou want to smoke?” said the young man. “Well, that’s a good sign. Here, give me one, just to see. I must say, for three days and nights I haven’t given tobacco a thought; I can’t guarantee it won’t knock me out, you know.” But he puffed away with great contentment. “Odd bodies we