"Why did you do that?" the priest exclaimed, upset.
No one replied.
"Well, why? What a spineless act!"
"But they're like snakes, they bite," said a boy with a long pointed nose and a pale, dazed expression.
"Don't be ridiculous! Lizards are harmless."
"Oh! We didn't know, Father," he replied in a sly voice, with a feigned innocence that didn't fool the priest.
But he knew it was neither the time nor the place to insist; he just nodded briefly as if he were satisfied with the answer and added, "Well, now you know."
He organised them into lines to follow him. Until now he had let them walk as they liked, but he suddenly thought that some of them might try to run away. They obeyed him so perfectly, so mechanically-no doubt used to hearing the whistle blow, to standing in line, to being docile, to enforced silence-that it broke his heart. He glanced at their faces, which had suddenly became glum and lifeless-as closed as a house when the door is locked, the life within withdrawn, absent or dead.
"We'd better hurry up if we want to find shelter tonight," he said. "As soon as I know where we'll be sleeping and after we eat (you'll be getting hungry soon!) we can make a campfire and you can stay outdoors as long as you like."
He walked among them, talked to them about his young boys from the Auvergne, about skiing, mountain climbing, trying to interest them, to get closer to them. All in vain. They didn't even seem to be listening; he realised that anything he said to them-encouragement, reprimands, information-would never sink in, for their souls were shut off, walled up, secret and silent.
"If only I could look after them for longer," he thought to himself. But in his heart he knew he didn't really want to. He only wanted one thing: to be rid of them as soon as possible, to be relieved of his responsibility and this feeling of unease he felt weighing down on him. The duty of love which, until now, he had felt was almost simple, so great was the Grace of God within him, now seemed almost impossible to feel. "Even though," he thought humbly, "it would mean that, for the first time perhaps, I would really have to try, it would be a true sacrifice. How weak I am!"
He called over one of the younger boys who was always lagging behind. "Are you tired? Do your shoes hurt?"
Yes, he had guessed correctly: the lad's shoes were too tight and hurting him. He took his hand to help him, talking to him quietly and, since the boy was slouching-his shoulders stooped, his back round-the priest gently placed two fingers round his neck and pulled him up straight. The young boy didn't resist. In fact, with a distant, indifferent look on his face, he leaned his neck against the hand that held it, and this light, insistent pressure, this strange, ambiguous caress (or rather this expectation of a caress) made the priest blush. He took the child by the chin and tried to look into his eyes, but his eyelids were lowered and he couldn't see into them.
He walked faster, trying to collect himself with an internal dialogue, as he always did at sad moments. It wasn't exactly what you'd call a prayer. Often it wasn't even a collection of words recognisable as human speech. It was a kind of intangible meditation from which he emerged bathed in joy and peace. But both abandoned him today. The pity he felt was corrupted by a stirring of anxiety and bitterness. It was only too clear that these poor wretches were lacking Grace: His Grace. He wanted to be able to shower them with Grace, inundate their barren hearts with love and faith. It would take but a sigh from our Crucified Lord, the flutter of a wing from one of His angels to bring about the miracle, but nevertheless he, Philippe Péricand, had been chosen by God to soften them, to unlock their souls, to prepare them to receive God. He suffered because he was incapable of bringing it about. He had been spared the moments of doubt and the sudden hardening of the soul that take hold of some believers, abandoning them, not in the hands of the princes of this world, but in a terrible darkness halfway between Satan and God.
His temptation was different: it was a kind of impatience to be holy, the desire to gather liberated souls around him, a ripple of urgency which, once he had opened someone's heart to God, propelled him towards other conquests, leaving him forever frustrated, dissatisfied, disappointed with himself. It wasn't enough! No, Lord Jesus, it wasn't enough! The old heathen who had confessed, taken Communion in his final hour, the sinful woman who had renounced vice, the pagan who had wanted to be baptised. Not enough, no, not enough! He recognised something similar in the way a greedy man hoards his gold. And yet, no, it wasn't exactly like that. It reminded him of certain moments he'd spent at the river when he was a child: the quiver of joy every time he caught a fish (yet now he didn't understand how he could have liked such a cruel game, and even found it difficult to eat fish; vegetables, dairy products, fresh bread, chestnuts and that country soup so thick the spoon stands straight up in it all by itself, these were all he needed to sustain him). But as a child he had been fanatical about fishing and he remembered his anguish when the sun began to set on the water, when he had hardly caught any fish and he knew the day was nearly over. He had been criticised for his excessive scruples. He himself feared they might not come from God but from an Other… Yet never had he felt that anguish as he did today, on this journey, beneath this sky where lethal planes sparkled, among these children whose physical bodies were the only thing he could hope to save…
They had been walking for some time when they saw the first houses of a village. It was very small, intact, empty: its inhabitants had fled. However, before leaving, they had firmly secured the doors and windows; they had taken their dogs with them, carried the rabbits and chickens. Only a few cats were left behind, sleeping in the sunshine on garden paths or walking along the low roofs, looking replete and tranquil. It was the time of year when all the roses were in bloom, so above every doorway beautiful flowers opened their petals, generously, happily, inviting the wasps and bumblebees to drink from deep inside their hearts. This village abandoned by its people, where no footsteps, no voices could be heard and where all the sounds of the countryside were absent-the creaking of wheelbarrows, the cooing of pigeons, the clucking from the poultry yards-this village had become the kingdom of the birds, the bees and the hornets. Philippe thought he had never heard so many vibrant, joyous songs nor seen so many swarms all around him. Hay, strawberries, blackcurrants, the little sweet-smelling flowers in the borders, each flower bed, each lawn, each blade of grass gave off a soft buzzing sound, like a spinning wheel. All these small plots had been tended with loving care; all of them had an archway covered with roses, a tunnel where you could still see the last lilacs of the season, two iron chairs, a bench in the sunshine. The redcurrants were enormous, transparent and golden.
"What a wonderful dessert they will make for us tonight," said Philippe. "The birds will have to share with us-we won't be harming anyone by picking this fruit. Now, you all have plenty of food in your backpacks, so we won't go hungry. But don't expect to be sleeping in a bed tonight. I don't suppose sleeping under the stars for one night would frighten you, would it? You have good blankets. Let's see, what do we need? A meadow, a natural spring. The barns and stables don't appeal to you, I bet! Me neither… It's so beautiful out. Come on, eat some fruit to keep you going and follow me, we'll try to find a good spot."
He waited a quarter of an hour while the children gorged themselves on strawberries; he watched them carefully to make sure they didn't step on the flowers and vegetables but he didn't have to intervene, they were really very good. He didn't blow the whistle this time, he just spoke loudly. "Come on, now, leave some for tonight. Follow me. If you don't dawdle you won't have to line up."