‘You’ve already been told we speak only French here, you bumpkin from standing-stone land. Where’s the vinegar? I’m thirsty.’
‘So is death,’ declared Hélène Jégado, wheeling round abruptly on her heels. ‘Drink this milk I’ve prepared for you. You’ll see, it prickles too.’
As soon as the glass was empty, the cook instructed the boy, ‘Now go and lie down, my lad, since you’ve got stomach ache.’
‘No I haven’t. Even vinegar doesn’t … Aaaaargh! Help!’
‘See, what did I tell you? But you never listen.’
The spotty youth collapsed in a heap on the floor. Beside adresser with plates on its shelves, the servant knelt down by the still conscious Émile and confessed, ‘I’m the Ankou who travels through Brittany. I have stuck my scythe in your heart and will turn your blood as cold as iron.’
She wiped the sweat from the boy’s forehead with her hand, adding, ‘It’s not because you’re wicked that I’m doing this. Even if you were kind it would be just the same. This way, to be honest, it’s a pleasure, though. You’re someone I shan’t miss. Be assured of my utter contempt.’
Shaking her victim a little to make sure he was dead, the cook took a deep dish for the compote and got to her feet. As she straightened up she noticed her shadow, still slender-waisted, growing longer on the wall of the house. She removed her headdress and unpinned her chignon, letting her hair fall over her shoulders. Its outline now resembled the Ankou’s hood. Next the woman from Plouhinec put her right arm straight up in the air, holding the dish by its edge. The shadow of her raised limb looked like the long handle of an agricultural tool and, as Thunderflower tilted it this way or that, the dish described the curved blade of a scythe.
The door on to the courtyard opened, allowing in a burst of rain and the father, who asked the servant, ‘What are you doing holding that plate in the air?’
‘Daydreaming …’
‘Poor Hélène, you’d do better to— Oh, Émile! What’s happened to him?’
*
The next morning, the Mayor of Pontivy was standing in the kitchen, wearing the blue outfit of full mourning. He unfolded a letter near his servant, who was sitting on a chair, lethargically calm. The din of the rain splashing against the panes of the glass room could be heard, and then the father’s voice as he read the words on the sheet of paper aloud.
‘8 March 1838. Autopsy report. Émile Jouanno. Inflammation of the stomach. Corrosion of the intestines, which may be attributed to recent inordinate consumption of mustard and vinegar.’
The hand holding the letter dropped back along the thigh of the town’s chief magistrate, who spoke bitterly: ‘I’d told you, “Dangerous substances have to be kept hidden.”’
‘That’s what I do, Monsieur.’
‘My son’s death proves otherwise.’
‘But—’
‘Hélène, you will have to look for a new situation.’
Thunderflower stood up, put on her coat, threw her bag over her shoulder and set out again. As she closed the gate behind her, she hailed the statue of Saint Thuriau, ‘Give my regards to Madame the Virgin, not forgetting the Trinity.’
Suddenly the heavy rain clouds hanging in the sky above Rue du Fil burst into hail. The little balls of ice rattled on the roofs, ricocheting off the sheet metal. Very rapidly tons of them fell on the ground. The Rue du Fil, turned to silver, gleamed. The two Normans walked round their cart in utter disbelief: ‘It can’t be true. That’s not po-po-possible.’ They skidded on the words just as their shoes, worn down by years of pulling the cart, wentsliding on the loose hailstones. They fell over, got up again. They were like two shipwreck survivors from the sky. They held on to each other, arm in arm, as if about to do a Breton circle dance. Fragments of wood flew off the wobbly trellises of their vehicle’s sides, and the ruined cloth of the bales on the floor of the cart split open
‘So is death,’ declared Hélène Jégado, wheeling round abruptly on her heels. ‘Drink this milk I’ve prepared for you. You’ll see, it prickles too.’
As soon as the glass was empty, the cook instructed the boy, ‘Now go and lie down, my lad, since you’ve got stomach ache.’
‘No I haven’t. Even vinegar doesn’t … Aaaaargh! Help!’
‘See, what did I tell you? But you never listen.’
The spotty youth collapsed in a heap on the floor. Beside adresser with plates on its shelves, the servant knelt down by the still conscious Émile and confessed, ‘I’m the Ankou who travels through Brittany. I have stuck my scythe in your heart and will turn your blood as cold as iron.’
She wiped the sweat from the boy’s forehead with her hand, adding, ‘It’s not because you’re wicked that I’m doing this. Even if you were kind it would be just the same. This way, to be honest, it’s a pleasure, though. You’re someone I shan’t miss. Be assured of my utter contempt.’
Shaking her victim a little to make sure he was dead, the cook took a deep dish for the compote and got to her feet. As she straightened up she noticed her shadow, still slender-waisted, growing longer on the wall of the house. She removed her headdress and unpinned her chignon, letting her hair fall over her shoulders. Its outline now resembled the Ankou’s hood. Next the woman from Plouhinec put her right arm straight up in the air, holding the dish by its edge. The shadow of her raised limb looked like the long handle of an agricultural tool and, as Thunderflower tilted it this way or that, the dish described the curved blade of a scythe.
The door on to the courtyard opened, allowing in a burst of rain and the father, who asked the servant, ‘What are you doing holding that plate in the air?’
‘Daydreaming …’
‘Poor Hélène, you’d do better to— Oh, Émile! What’s happened to him?’
*
The next morning, the Mayor of Pontivy was standing in the kitchen, wearing the blue outfit of full mourning. He unfolded a letter near his servant, who was sitting on a chair, lethargically calm. The din of the rain splashing against the panes of the glass room could be heard, and then the father’s voice as he read the words on the sheet of paper aloud.
‘8 March 1838. Autopsy report. Émile Jouanno. Inflammation of the stomach. Corrosion of the intestines, which may be attributed to recent inordinate consumption of mustard and vinegar.’
The hand holding the letter dropped back along the thigh of the town’s chief magistrate, who spoke bitterly: ‘I’d told you, “Dangerous substances have to be kept hidden.”’
‘That’s what I do, Monsieur.’
‘My son’s death proves otherwise.’
‘But—’
‘Hélène, you will have to look for a new situation.’
Thunderflower stood up, put on her coat, threw her bag over her shoulder and set out again. As she closed the gate behind her, she hailed the statue of Saint Thuriau, ‘Give my regards to Madame the Virgin, not forgetting the Trinity.’
Suddenly the heavy rain clouds hanging in the sky above Rue du Fil burst into hail. The little balls of ice rattled on the roofs, ricocheting off the sheet metal. Very rapidly tons of them fell on the ground. The Rue du Fil, turned to silver, gleamed. The two Normans walked round their cart in utter disbelief: ‘It can’t be true. That’s not po-po-possible.’ They skidded on the words just as their shoes, worn down by years of pulling the cart, wentsliding on the loose hailstones. They fell over, got up again. They were like two shipwreck survivors from the sky. They held on to each other, arm in arm, as if about to do a Breton circle dance. Fragments of wood flew off the wobbly trellises of their vehicle’s sides, and the ruined cloth of the bales on the floor of the cart split open
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