Oomph! …. Oomph!

That was the tearing sound that Séraphin emitted with each swing of the axe, as if he had strained his back or as if one of his ribs had suddenly broken. Bare-headed, with the sleeves of his blue shirt rolled up and the collar open, he slogged away and he was hot.

As he bent to pick up an armful of the chopped logs, he felt on his back the heavy breath of a man or a wolf. He turned. He saw a wide open mouth, and from that mouth this cry emerged:
”Séraphin! One of your Jerseys has just fallen in the water, into the currents!“

It was Alexis who brought this news.

With one leap Séraphin jumped the fence and ran as he had never run before, to the end of his land where the bank fell steeply, where the cow had surely slid from top to bottom into the river. Alexis followed him at a distance, a rope in his hand, running as fast as he could and shouting incoherently at the top of his voice. Even in his haste, Séraphin could not help thinking that he would have to go back to see to the fence at the bottom of the field.

“This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening,” he repeated.

And he ran without seeing where he was going, as if drawn by an obsession. He ran, whipped by an extraordinary force that was none other than his passion, coming to a head. At the risk of choking on the way, he would save his cow.

Arriving at the fence which stood about twenty feet above the river, he stopped for a moment. He had stopped breathing. He was as white as the foam on the rapids. He was Séraphin Poudrier at his ugliest. He was still calm enough to observe that three posts were indeed missing from the fence, and that that was where the poor animal had got out.

Suddenly he noticed the cow spinning round in the eddy, its neck on a log. He didn’t take the time to see if Alexis had caught up with him, he slid down to the river where a rock stopped him from falling in the water.

“You’re going to drown yourself, Séraphin. Keep still, keep still,” Alexis called to him, as he too was swept along by the sand.

Both of them were now at the edge of the water. Poudrier didn’t speak. He was still as white as the foam on the rapids, and he was shaking a little. He couldn’t tear his bloodshot eyes away from the cow which, head sticking out of the water, was swimming and twisting in the current, and trying to put its hooves on the greasy logs that were rolling over one another.

The miser wanted to jump in. Alexis held onto his arm with a grip of steel.

“Don’t be mad,” he said. “Let me do it, let me do it. Get back onto the path.”

There was indeed a track made by fishermen in a nearby ditch.

“Stay there,” cried Alexis. “I’ll go and throw you the rope.”

And he went running off on top of the logs.

At this point at the foot of the rapids, the river, about forty feet wide, was shaped like a handle. The water was a little calmer, but undercurrents spiralled here and there. The logs turned slowly along the banks or stuck, crammed together, in the middle of the river.

The cow was a little lower down, ten feet from the opposite bank, where the forest began in a steep slope. It was therefore necessary to catch the animal with a lasso and to pull it to the near side, where Poudrier was waiting, worried and shaking.

Rope in hand, Alexis jumped with the agility of a squirrel. Sometimes, to steady himself, he would stop a moment on the same log, making it turn with his feet, until he found his balance. Then he would jump to another one, always getting nearer to the cow whose head was now turned towards Alexis, and who was begging him, with huge apprehensive eyes, to save her.

“Keep going! Keep going!” cried Séraphin, delighted to see his cousin leap with such skill on the sticky logs. He had heard many times that Alexis in his day had been one of the best log riders, and here today was the proof. However, at this moment he wasn’t thinking about marvelling at the prowess of this man who was so big and yet so supple, and who was moving so quickly that an otter would not have been able to follow him.

“Keep going! Keep going!” he cried.

At one point, misjudging his momentum, Alexis placed his foot just on the end of a spruce log which sank. Quicker than thought, he ran to the other end, bringing the log back on the level.

“Don’t drown yourself! Keep going! Keep going,” Séraphin shouted to him.

“Don’t worry, old man. And don’t you move from there. I’m going to get her.”

And he looked around him. He was looking for a large, well balanced log that would give him the time to throw the rope round the cow’s neck. He saw one, floating motionless; he jumped onto it with both feet. He looped the rope twice, and threw it with force towards the cow, which he caught by the horns on the first attempt.

The miser let out such a cry of joy, accompanied by such a sigh, that Alexis couldn’t help bursting out with laughter.

“Were you worried, eh, you old rogue? We’ve as good as caught her, this swimming cow.”

And he continued to run over the logs towards the bank where Poudrier stood. When he was about fifteen feet away, he threw him the rope which Séraphin caught, falling over on his back.

“Hold on to it well,” Alexis said to him.

Back on the bank beside his cousin, he said, “Don’t pull too hard. She’ll come by herself on that spruce log.”
And slowly the cow came forward under the tension of the rope, as the current made little white bubbles round her head. When she was almost at the edge, Alexis jumped in the river. The water was cold and reached his waist.

“Bloody hell! It’s not warm!” he cried.

And he worked like a horse to free the poor animal, pushing it up or pulling it by the tail. At last, the fine Jersey, for whom Séraphin would have drowned every red-headed man in the region, was on dry land, though shaking like a leaf.

“Good God,” exclaimed the miser. “What do I owe you for this, Alexis?”

“Nothing at all, old man. But you’d better fix your fence.”

“Absolutely, and the sooner the better.”

They climbed up the track followed by the cow, who every now and then stopped to lick her flank or to catch her breath. When they had reached the top Poudrier turned round and looked for a moment at the river, at the bottom of the rapids, where the logs floated endlessly by, and where his cow had almost drowned.

“Alexis, can you believe this? The dam is close by and she was going straight for it. I must fix my fence as you said, because it’s bloody steep here!”

And he went looking for the cedar fence posts along the side of the meadow, still thinking about the possible loss he had to prevent, while the cow grazed quietly under the sun which warmed her with its cloak of light.

Séraphin was away a long time. He returned with three fence posts and repaired the fence soundly. Then he said to Alexis, “I’ve just had a thought. My fence was fine last week. It must be somebody who’s mad with jealousy playing a dirty trick on me. Good God! Wait till I catch him!”

And he swore, while Alexis slapped his arms and thighs to dry out his clothes and to warm himself up. Now they were walking towards the house. The weather was calm, and they could hear perfectly the faintest sounds of nature, the flight of a bird amongst the young leaves, the leap of a hare, a falling twig.

Suddenly, in the distance, where the curve of the horizon falls to infinity, they noticed patches of yellow and black smoke rising like clouds.

“That’s not the logging fires,” said the miser. “It’s more localised than that.”

“It doesn’t look the same,” agreed Alexis.

They went faster. The cloud of smoke kept getting bigger, and rose blacker and blacker in the sky.

“It looks as though it’s not far from your place,” said Alexis.

They stopped for a moment. The miser, motionless, dry and brown as a tree, stared straight ahead. He went pale. Then suddenly, he cried in a terrible voice, “My house is on fire!”

And he was off in a flash. He ran as fast as he could. Twice he fell over. He got up immediately and ran even faster. Alexis, who had thrown away the rope, followed closely.

“My house is on fire!” Séraphin repeated in a strangled voice, his arms outstretched as if he wanted to catch something or to ward off a catastrophe that was bound to happen.

Thick grey smoke was pouring from the windows and door of the house, while a blacker smoke blanketed the roof or sent sporadic puffs swirling skywards. Séraphin approached nearer still, and on his face he could feel gusts of air bearing the smell of lime and burning leather.

Before Alexis had time to do anything Poudrier rushed panic-stricken through the kitchen door, where he disappeared, engulfed in a black cloud.

“Séraphin, are you crazy?” cried Alexis.

He tried to follow the miser into the house. He had just enough time to hear him climbing the staircase at the far end. Could he try to reach him? If only he could grab his arm. Twice he tried to do this; twice he had to retreat. He couldn’t see anything through the clouds that were as dense as sand and which burned his eyes. He wanted to cry. An acrid smoke caught his throat. He managed to get back to the kitchen again. Eventually he discovered the doorframe through which a pale light filtered, and let himself out.

Alexis was now outside, as hot as a furnace. He had completely lost his head, and began to jump around like an epileptic cat. He shouted, he went looking for buckets, he called for help.

The house was no more than a cloud of smoke with, here and there, some red twisted lines. Then it burst into flames. Millions of sparks flew everywhere. The hut and the cowshed burned along with the house. The flames were multiplying, burning redder and faster. Suddenly they were coming out of a window running the length of the cornice. Alexis realised that a section of wall could fall on him. He drew back, terrified. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he could see a shadow through the window, surrounded by smoke and flames.

Was it Séraphin? Could there be any doubt? He had not seen him come out. He had certainly perished there, burned alive. And Alexis shouted louder and louder, cursing the fact that he could not save his cousin. Was there anything on earth more terrible than this fiery house, with Séraphin burning inside? And him, powerless to save his life?

Alexis was still in shock when he saw Johnny Frappier, Simon Destreilles, Blackie Gladu  and big Bardeau coming running across the fields. They arrived just as the roof and two walls collapsed with a crash, amidst smoke and flames spiralling upwards into the blue of the sky.

“There’s nothing we can do,” said Simon Destreilles.

They turned to Alexis to question him.

“Does Poudrier know about this?” asked Bardeau.

Alexis looked at him for a moment, with red wild eyes. Then, pointing to the inferno with his large shaking hand he yelled, “Séraphin? He’s in there. He burned. He’s dead.”

“No? No? He can’t be,” said the frightened farmers, milling around like livestock in the yard.

They tried to get near the fire, but the heat was too great. They had to retreat immediately, with such an air of despondency that the brave Alexis could not hold back his tears.

“At least his barn won’t be destroyed,” said Simon Destreilles stupidly.

“I don’t think so,” agreed Alexis dully, “for the wind is in the other direction.”

And all of them, transfixed with horror, watched from a distance as the last wall collapsed.

What remained of the house burned until six o’clock in the evening.

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Many people rushed over from all around. Bare-headed women with babies in their arms, men with lanterns, gangs of children either crying or laughing. A great curiosity drew these impoverished people. That Poudrier had literally thrown himself into the fire was the most alarming news that had ever shaken this wretched land. Everyone wanted to know if the body had been recovered and what sort of state it was in.

They had to wait until nine in the evening before it was safe to approach the still smoking ruins. By the light of several lanterns and with the aid of spades and pitchforks they managed slowly to clear the site  of what was, scarcely a few hours previously, the house of the wealthy Séraphin Poudrier.

Under all the debris, right at the bottom of the cellar, they found him, half charred, stretched out on his stomach under the stove, his head trapped as if in a vice, his arms crossed under his chest, his fists closed.

They managed to free the body. With the greatest of care, aware that this skeleton of the man who was once the miser could crumble into dust, they turned him on his back. How horrible! Two holes where the eyes had been, the mouth wide open with the lips burnt away, and a tooth, one solitary tooth hanging in this hole. All the rest of the body looked as though it had been rolled in clay.

Twice Alexis bent over the corpse. He wanted to know something. He found it.

He opened Poudrier’s hands. In the right one he found a gold coin and, in the left, a few grains of oat that the fire had not touched.

THE END