The Solitude of Compassion by Jean Giono Read Free Book Online Page A

candy.
    For a night or two there were noises in the sky.
    â€œThat is, if, all the same…”
    But no, the mornings were blond with ripe grass; the wind smelled of gramineal, there was the circle of blue filled with sunshine which fooled us. The ground was warm beneath our feet and elastic like a fruit.
    This fourth of September then, one opened the shutters, and it was fine weather. The people from the Café du Peuple had planted a May tree before their door, a young pine that was all glistening. In its branches were hung the red scarf which one won at boule, the blue scarf which was the prize for the girls’ race, and the money which was the prize for the men’s race. All of them were floating on a stream of joyful, scented air that played like a young kid.
    The folk from the Café du Centre had installed trestles all the way down to the Liberty tree. The washhouse was filled with bottles that were cooling in the water. The baker had ordered a case of tarts from his cousin du Champsaur, and he was on his doorstep waiting for them saying to people passing by:
    â€œYou know, I am going to have tarts.”

    And we thought:
    â€œGood, that will be a good dessert.”
    Apollonia waited for her nephews du Trièves. Brother Antoine was supposed to come from Coriardes with his whole family. The boule players from Trabuech wrote down their names and they were the great players… From Montama six came, from Montbran three, and we knew that the shepherds from Oches would come, but we did not say anything.
    The first rough characters that were seen were the Coriardes folk. They put the mule in the stable, looking under it without a word, and, immediately afterwards, the father whispered to Antoine:
    â€œYou have to arrange for us to sleep here tonight, we do not want to go back at night.”
    Then the father said:
    â€œWe’ll have something strong to drink.”
    The Coriardes folk were asked what they had.
    â€œNothing.”
    And there was a black mystery in their eyes which stayed for more than two hours.
    The folk from Trièves were soaking.
    â€œIt is raining on the ridge, quite a lot…”
    Â 
    Only at that moment we were not thinking on our feet any longer. There was in the sky, like a hand spreading the pile of clouds, a little breeze flowing which smelled like meadow sweet. The sun spread out on the earth and began resting while blotting out the clouds. There only remained a threat in the direction of Montama where the clouds were still shining and dark like a heap of egg-plants.

    The Café du Centre was filled to the rafters. In the kitchen there was the sound of dishes and water so that you would think a stream was flowing through there. People were inundated with beer and wine. On the floor, when you moved your feet, they made a mark in the coating of spilled beer and wine. Outside there were people all the way to the Liberty tree. Marie went to the washhouse and filled her arms with streaming bottles of fresh water, and she carried them, shivering, because they wet her breast and in time the water ran down onto her stomach.
    When she arrived to serve them, people pinched her haunches and slapped her rump, and there were even those who stuck an arm all the way up her dress.
    â€œAh, leave it there, it’s so warm,” she said.
    For drink, there were already those who were sick and who sang “Poor Peasant.” Others quickly left the benches to go throw up in a corner. There were those who laughed about who knows what, but with such laughs! Those who pissed sitting up, and who became serious again when they felt themselves moistened between the legs. Then they began laughing and drinking again. In the Café du Peuple it was the same, except for in a corner in the back at the little table where the trio from Trièves were. They had crossed the ridge in the morning. It was not hard in September, but they said:
    â€œIt’s funny. It’s not