The Beast of the Camargue by Xavier-Marie Bonnot Page A

merry-go-round.
    â€œ
Toque lei
.”
    De Palma turned round once more and, two meters further down, saw a huge mongrel dog, its fur ruffled by the vegetation, and its canines bared.
    â€œMatelot, it’s a friend,” the voice said.
    The dog started wagging its tail, and the shepherd emerged at last from behind a bush. He was a short man, gnarled by the years, and wore an ancient black hat, with a ribbed velvet waistcoat of the same color over a gray shirt. Beneath his aquiline nose, his thin, almost white lips were quivering, dropping down in a half-moon over a slightly protruding chin. His extraordinarily bright, jade eyes danced below bushy eyebrows, constantly shifting from his flock to de Palma.
    â€œGood day to you, M. Bérard.”
    Bérard gave no reply, but just stared intently at the police officer, leaning his knotty hands on the top of his stick.
    â€œSo she told you my name, did she?”
    â€œYou mean Mme. Steinert, I suppose … there’s no hiding anything from you, at least! You’re highly observant.”
    â€œGood lord no, I can scarcely see anything any more … not at my age.”
    â€œWell enough to have watched me just now.”
    Bérard turned toward his sheep which, driven by some whim or another, suddenly formed a file and vanished behind a rock.
    â€œ
Matelot, toque lei, aqui, ah … Aqui
.”
    â€œDid everything burn here?”
    â€œYes, three years back. Some business about hunting, and rivalry between federations. That’s the fashion around here, they burn everything down if you won’t toe the line.”
    The shepherd sat down and his stare became calm, almost engaging. He took off his hat to reveal steel-gray hair which was still curly above his broad, deeply wrinkled forehead.
    â€œHow many head do you have?” De Palma asked, gazing round in the direction of the flock.
    Bérard plucked a piece of yellow grass and chewed it.
    â€œGood lord, almost none. Forty-odd. But only old ewes. The young ones are up in the mountain pastures with my grandson.”
    The animals came back, driven once again by some unfathomable instinct, and continued to graze, in time and hurriedly. The sound of tearing grass rose up between the two men.
    â€œIn the old days, there used to be lots of flocks in the area, but now there’s no money in it. Except down there, on the plain of La Crau. But not up here in the hills … Anyway, they all think of nothing but making oil.”
    Bérard stared down at the Steinerts’ fields of olive trees. From there, the property looked huge.
    â€œIt’s because the land’s got expensive. Young people can’t afford to start out here nowadays.”
    â€œHow much does a farm like La Balme cost?”
    Bérard looked at his stick with a cunning air.
    â€œThere’s a farm on sale like this one, with its land and machines, over by Mouriès … Say a price, just to see.”
    â€œNo idea.”
    â€œOver a billion, young fellow.”
    â€œYou mean in centimes …”
    â€œYes, in old francs!”
    â€œWho can afford such a place?”
    â€œSome Americans are interested. But the youngsters are trying toorganize something with the local authorities so that they can turn it into a cooperative.”
    â€œWhat about the Steinerts?”
    Bérard looked at the Baron for a few seconds, knitting his eyebrows, then he turned back toward La Balme.
    â€œThat’s not the same. William was a real man, a master, with fine manners. I taught him how to prune olive trees and many other things about the land. I’m going to miss him.”
    Bérard licked his lips with his pointed tongue and swayed gently back and forth. Then he nervously slashed at the grass in front of him with the tip of his stick.
    â€œWhy do you say that William was a good man? What about his family?”
    â€œThey’re not the same. No one knows his wife, and she never speaks