Houses came into view and with them men, choked with fear and worry, traces of hope still glistening on their faces, running about as if they were drunk. It had not rained for three weeks. People walked with their mouths hanging open.
Sparkling silver and gold, the Seine could be seen from the slopes of the hill, together with its sandy little islands where supplicants sought refuge in troubled times. At dawn, a light rose from behind the pallid sun and a slight breeze skimmed the fronts of the squat houses; it slipped through openings, arches and windows, bringing with it an unjustified optimism despite the drought.
I had seen other towns, with vast clusters of wood and stone, that seemed to follow a divine plan. But here, in spite of forests of church towers that loomed up like masts, a very human madness prevailed, a filthy but marvellous confusion in which ruins and new buildings, areas of grovelling wretchedness and huge tracts of vines, all the havoc and enthusiasm of a new dawn, existed side by side without there being any clear line to distinguish them. It was as if a fire or an army of looters had ravaged the town, while at the same time and without stopping work, amid the noise and the streams of blood, builders and joiners, painters and stonemasons, working collectively and without guidance had, through some mysterious communal impulse, constructed new dwellings for the pleasure of the grandees or the glory of Christ. There were new bell towers complete with their bronze fittings, broken spires, ruined steeples, collapsed walls, scaffolding that seemed to reach to the sky, from which the walls of an apse could be seen soaring up, or the broken arches of a nave. As I was standing there speechless, admiring the layers of this miraculous disaster, a little man with a tonsured head tugged at my coat.
‘Have you a sou, friend?’
I turned out my pockets.
‘Nothing. Where are we?’
‘The church is known as Notre-Dame-des-Champs. That big farm and that wine-press you see down there were the Roman baths. They make wine there now. Are you a pilgrim?’
‘If you like . . .’
In disbelief he scratched the wound that adorned his skull like an insect.
‘What are you looking for here?’
‘I wander around towns in search of masters . . .’
‘This is a town with too many masters,’ he sniggered.
‘And you, are you a prince among thieves, or a thief among princes?’
He stared at me, intrigued.
‘Both, I imagine. I survive. I follow my master and shall not be yours. Come with me.’
Some men had gathered around us, all looking alike in their rough, frequently patched-up robes: there is only one way of being poor. He turned towards me.
‘We are joining the procession. From afar we shall see Bishop Galon and God knows what relics that are being carried to Notre-Dame. Secretly, it is said that we are praying for rain . . . But shhh! . . . that smacks of paganism. So, will you come?’
The little man was ugly and had the agility of a devil, but sometimes his face opened out into an innocent smile; a group of people was gathering around him – they were gesticulating and shouting, and I, who had spoken so many languages, no longer understood any. When they all began moving, I followed, just doing my best not to fall.
We stumbled along the slopes of the Mount Sainte-Geneviève and, after trampling through rows of vines, we re-joined the body of the procession at Saint-Julien-le-Pauvre.
Below the Petit Pont, in the arches, the windmills had stopped turning. A few bathers were waving their arms around and the water came bursting through in gushes – silt-laden water that could no longer rid itself of impurities, scraps of fish and remains of animals, in the flow of the river.
In order to see, you had to stand on tiptoe and contort yourself; grubby children had climbed up onto the shoulders of men whose backs were as large as a double harness.
The sounds of men shouting and the noises of animals combined in unison as they waited in exasperation. The dry heat affected the throat; I looked at the dust rising from the ground, thrown up by thousands of footsteps. I was thirsty.
In the distance the quays along the Grève and the market were at a standstill since all the townspeople were at prayer in the streets or in the shade of walls. On the other side of the island, if you twisted your neck to the south and towards the Mount Sainte-Geneviève, the eye could follow the undulating wave of churches and vines, gardens and ruins; and beyond the sea of hats and bonnets fifty feet ahead, just at the level of the small castle by the Petit Pont, I could see the tall figure of the bishop with his stooped shoulders.
In his mitre, with its representations of the miracles of the saints, and his white silk cloak, embroidered with threads of silver and gold, he looked like an angel sent on earth by Our Lord to announce the good news.
Just in front of the bishop, the deacons were carrying shrines containing relics that were being taken to Notre-Dame: one of St Denis’s fingers, St Geneviève’s heart and – directly from Jerusalem – a nail from the True Cross bearing the actual dried blood of Jesus Christ on it.
In front of me was a girl in a blue coat wearing a golden flower in her hair, the nape of whose neck disappeared the moment I came a little too close. The few paces that separated us constituted an entire journey: she was there, she was not there, she returned, she was gone.
When I saw the flower fall from her hair, I hurled myself among the forest of legs to pick it up. I don’t know how I didn’t fall, or how I found the energy to rise to my feet again and rush onwards. I opened my hand: a few crushed petals.
As we left the Rue Saint-Christophe, we emerged onto the square, among the ruins of the old cathedral of Saint-Étienne. Over there, opposite the porch of the Last Judgement, framed by saints and doctors of the Church, Bishop Galon was waving his arms about, his words coming and going on the stiff wind. ‘Kneel down! Kneel down!’ people were crying, while I remained standing – I was searching for the girl I’d lost. The flower was falling apart in my clenched fist.
The bishop went into the church, the crowd surged forward again, and the throng was unbelievably dense, picking me up and setting me down like a castaway in the midst of strangers, who all wanted to touch those shrines, and to kiss them.
The church was just a droning crush of men who were trying to climb up onto the plain columns and hold onto the leaves and birds on the chapiters. Those who continued to come in knocked over the pews as well as their companions.
When I got my breath back, the girl was there before me and I was within touching distance of her shoulder. Next, she disappeared into the swarm of men and I charged forward, crying out, bumping into people and hurting myself. She was on the ground, a flower in blue, being trampled. Trying to protect her head, she had scratched her hand, and there were drops of blood on her fair hair. I knelt down to grasp her arm.
The light of her pale blue eyes.
‘Come on,’ I begged her, ‘you must get up or else you’ll die.’
I don’t know what she heard but her arms clasped my neck. I lifted her up and I forced my way through, heedless of the blows and protests.
I am not strong. I have never carried a woman.
We passed the porch, making our way against the flow of the crowd that continued to jostle and push. We managed to escape to the far side of the baptistery and alongside the wall of the Close. When I put her down I suddenly had no more breath left and had to sit down beside her, my chest burning like a furnace. We remained where we were for a few moments, covered in dust and sweat, desperately trying to take our minds off the terrifying scene that almost smothered us. It was she who spoke first.
‘Thank you.’
‘I had your flower . . .’
She looked at me, her blue eyes