Free The Life of Elves by Muriel Barbery, Alison Anderson Page B

smells better than the wild celery.”
    â€œBut isn’t as effective?”
    â€œThat depends, my little angel, that depends on the wind.”
    â€œAnd isn’t periwinkle melancholic?”
    â€œYes indeed, it is melancholic.”
    â€œDon’t people give it to show when they are sad?”
    â€œYes, they also give it to say politely that they are sad.”
    â€œAnd are the periwinkles from our woods?”
    â€œThey are periwinkles from the embankment behind the rabbit hutches.”
    â€œAnd they’re not as effective as the ones in the woods?”
    â€œThat depends, my sweet, that depends on the wind.”
    â€œAnd what about the mint, Auntie?”
    â€œThis mint, my sweet?”
    â€œWhere does it come from at this time of day?”
    â€œIt comes from the wind, my little angel, like everything else, it comes from the wind, which leaves it wherever the Good Lord asks it to, and where we pick it, in honor of His good deeds.”
    Maria loved these dialogues; they were infinitely more dear to her than the ones at church, and she provoked them for a reason that became clear in light of a new event which poured into the farm that day with its exotic effluvia. At around eleven o’clock Jeannot knocked on the door to the kitchen where all the grannies were assembled, busy with the same considerable chore—the end of Lent was approaching and they would soon be eating the feast that made up for all their willing sacrifices. The kitchen smelled of garlic and game and the table was crammed full of magnificent baskets, the biggest one overflowing with the first meadow mushrooms of the year: so many had been picked that they were spilling all around the mass of wicker, and they’d have enough for ten years of aromatic meals and fragrant jars. All this, and only the end of April.
    They saw at once that Jeannot was flustered about something having to do with his position, because he was wearing his postman’s cap, and he was holding his leather satchel with both hands. They hurried him into the warmth and, although they were dying of curiosity, they sat him down to a slice of
rillettes
and a little glass of local wine, because the event deserved the honors which are customarily paid with a little bit of pork fat and a glassful of red wine. He hardly touched them. He did take a polite sip but it was plain to see that he was concentrating on some serious event of great import that was now his responsibility. Silence fell over a room lulled only by the crackling of the flames under the stewpot, where a rabbit was cooking. The women dried their hands, folded their towels, adjusted their headpieces and, still in silence, pulled out their chairs and sat down in unison.
    A moment went by, brimming like the milk.
    Outside, it had begun to rain, a fine downpour, my word, coming from a black cloud that had burst all of a sudden and would provide the violets and of the animals with their water for the day. The room was full of the sound of water and the whispering of the fire, muffled in a silence that was too great for the five humans sitting around the table and feeling the pulse of fate. Because there could be no doubt: it was surely fate that had given Jeannot that solemn expression they’d only ever seen when he talked about the war, where he’d also served as a courier, and where, like the others, he had been forced to inhale gunpowder and endure the misery of combat. They watched as he took another sip of wine, but to give himself courage this time, and they knew he had to muster his strength before he began. So they waited.
    â€œWell now,” said Jeannot at last, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket, “I have a letter to deliver.”
    And he opened his satchel to reach for an envelope, which he placed in the middle of the table so that everyone could see it with ease. The old women stood up and leaned closer. The silence returned, as vast and