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Mercantour. In theory they were banking on an animal that had not been seen since last winter or on a brand-new arrival from the other side of the Alps. So theoretically the animals in the wildlife reserve’s wolf-packs were not at risk. For now. But the expressions on people’s faces, their narrowed eyes and their silent expectancy told a different story. They said: war. Men strutted around the fountain with hunting rifles hinged over their forearms or strapped to their shoulders. They were waiting for their marching orders, since several posses were supposed to leave different villages – Saint-Martin, Puygiron , Thorailles, Beauval and Pierrefort – at the same time. The latest information was that the Saint-Victor party was to join up with the men of Saint-Martin.
    The war was on.
    Nine and half million sheep. Forty wolves.
    Camille was sitting discreetly at a café table watching these martial drills through the window. Stern-faced men signalling their shared camaraderie among yapping dogs. Watchee had not responded to the call, nor had Soliman. Whether at the instruction of Suzanne Rosselin or from a personal decision, the village’s sole regal shepherd was not joining the wolf hunt. That did not surprise Camille. Watchee was more likely to settle scores on his own. By contrast, the butcher was buzzing around one knot of men then another, seemingly incapable of staying in one place. After meat. Forever after meat. Germain, Tourneur, Frosset, Lefèbvre were all there, as well as other men Camille did not recognise.
    Lucie watched the gathering from behind the bar.
    “That fellow,” she said without moving her lips, “that one’s got a bloody cheek.”
    “Which one?” asked Camille, as she moved next to Lucie.
    Lucie waved a tea-towel towards a shape on the square.
    “Massart, the slaughterhouse guy.”
    “The fat one in the blue jacket?”
    “No, the one behind him. Looks like he swallowed a gas cylinder.”
    Camille had never seen Massart before. People said he never came down from his eyrie anyway. He worked in the municipal abattoir in Digne and lived on his own in a shack high up on Mont Vence, hauling up all his supplies from town. So he wasn’t often seen, and people steered clear of him. He was supposed to be a bit odd. Camille thought he was just a loner, which comes to the same thing, for villagers. But he
was
rather odd, in fact. Physically odd. Big shoulders, a barrel-chest, short, bandy legs, simian arms. He wore his cap like a bottle-top and his hair in a fringe low over his eyes. Everybody from this part of the world had swarthy skin, save for Massart, whose pasty face made him look like a priest who had never set foot outside church. He was off to one side, leaning untidily against the side of a white van, with his rifle pointing down, and large spotted dog on a leash.
    “Doesn’t he ever go out?” asked Camille.
    “Only to go to work at the slaughterhouse. The rest of the time he’s shut up there doing who knows what.”
    “And what’s that?”
    “Who knows? He hasn’t got a woman. Never has had a woman.”
    Lucie wiped the window with her tea-towel as if she needed time to find her words.
    “Maybe he didn’t manage to do it,” she said in a whisper. “Maybe he wasn’t capable.”
    Camille said nothing.
    “Some people tell a different story,” Lucie went on.
    “Such as?”
    “Different, that’s all,” Lucie repeated with a shrug. After a pause: “Anyway, ever since there’s been wolves, he’s never signed a petition against them. And there’ve been quite a few meetings and petitions, believe you me. But him, well, it’s like he was in favour of the wolves. And what with living up there like an animal, with no woman, no nothing. Kids aren’t allowed near his shack.”
    “He doesn’t look like an animal,” Camille said, noticing that his T-shirt had been ironed, his jacket kept clean, and his chin shaved.
    “And today,” Lucie went on without hearing Camille,