captivated the villagers, absorbed by their last drams of liqueur, while a new life was added to the everyday one, sparkling in the background of what was visible, and opening the freedom of dreams in waking time. He did not know whether he owed this metamorphosis to the talent of his new human companions, or to the exquisite floating feeling that each new glass of wine instilled, but he could sense the death throes of his old frustration that an intangible screen was keeping things from him. Now the screen had been shattered, and he had access to the throbbing pulse of his emotions; the world was radiant, more intense; although he had no doubt that this was possible without wine, the vine and the tale stood together with this transfiguration of levels of reality; and now that, seven decades on, he understood the message of the wild grasses in the channel, he was so moved by it that he stammered something his neighbor had to ask him to repeat.
Everyone fell silent around the table.
Maurice again asked Petrus to repeat what he’d said. They were all staring at him with those soft moist eyes that come from food and the vine, and he mumbled, his voice quavering slightly:
“It would be as if the world was a novel waiting for its words.”
How stupid he felt, dismayed by his own syntax, seeing that they were waiting for an explanation. But unexpectedly Jean-René came to the rescue, raising his little glass of brandy and declaring in a kindly tone:
“For sure, what would we do without stories by the fire and old grannies’ fairy tales?”
The congregation nodded their heads, sufficiently softened by wine to give credence to this cryptic translation. They cogitated briefly on the matter (but not too much), then returned to their conversation, which was slowed by the prospect of settling cheek on pillow, and snoring off the wine until the next day at dawn.
Still, while they were halfheartedly making their final comments for the evening, one topic Maurice broached landed on the table like a flying spark and made everyone sit up straight in their chair to enter the debate with passion.
“I say there’s no better season than winter,” he insisted, without batting an eyelid.
Then, pleased with his contribution, he rewarded himself with a final splash of brandy.
As one might have expected, the trap worked.
“What ever for?” asked Jean-René, his tone falsely amiable.
“For hunting and gathering wood, by Jove!” replied the simple man.
This was the signal for a heated discussion that Petrus only dimly understood, other than that it was something to do with hunts and dogs, timber and orchards, and a divinity in those parts whom they referred to as the whip. It lasted a pleasantly endless amount of time, which he enlivened with a few additional glasses, but in the end (and to his great regret), because it was getting close to midnight and all good things must come to an end, Marguerite took it upon herself to end the discussion.
“Every season is the good Lord’s,” she said.
Out of respect for the granny, (something to do with her mastery of pheasant), the men fell silent and celebrated their renewed alliance with the courtesy of a final splash of plum brandy. Jean-René Faure, however, who could not ignore the laws of hospitality, asked Petrus what his favorite season was—and Petrus was surprised to discover how easy it was to think, despite his drinking and eating like a Burgundian pig. He raised his little glass to each man in turn, as he’d seen done, and recited the three lines from the Canto of the Alliance:
Neither spring nor summer nor winter
Know the grace
Of languid autumn
The others looked at him, astounded, then at each other, eyes shining.
“For sure, if we start with poetry . . . ” murmured Jean-René.
They all bowed their heads with unexpected deference. Marguerite was smiling; the women nudged a leftover piece of pie with a final dollop of sour cream in his direction; and everyone seemed happier than the little angels in the great heavens.
“Time for bed,” said Jean-René finally.
But instead of taking their leave, the men stood up, their faces serious, and the women made a sign over their breast which, Petrus would later learn, was the sign of the cross. Gripped by the solemnity of the moment, he wanted to imitate them, so he stood up, made the same sign, almost tripped over his own plate, steadied himself on his clogs, and listened to the final prayer.