"What's going on in this place?" asked the lad selling the bread. "Did someone die?"
"No," replied the blacksmith, who was there too, despite it being a Saturday morning when he could sleep until late. "Someone's having a bad time and we're all rather worried."
Chantal couldn't understand what was happening.
"Go ahead and buy what you came to buy," she heard someone say. "The lad has to get going."
Mechanically, she held out her money and took the bread. The baker's lad shrugged his shoulders--as if abandoning any attempt to understand what was going on--gave her the change, wished everyone good day and drove off.
"Now it's my turn to ask what's going on in this village," she said, and fear made her speak more loudly than good manners usually permitted.
"You know what's going on," the blacksmith said. "You want us to commit a murder in return for money."
&n
bsp; "I don't want anything! I just did what the guy told me to! Have you all gone mad?"
"You're the one who's gone mad. You should never have allowed yourself to become that madman's mouthpiece! What on earth do you want? What are you getting out of it? Do you want to turn this place into a hell, just like it was in the Ahab stories? Have you lost all sense of honor and dignity?"
Chantal began to tremble.
"You really have gone mad! Did you actually take the wager seriously?"
"Just leave her," said the hotel landlady. "Let's go home and have breakfast."
The group gradually dispersed. Chantal was still trembling, clutching her bread, rooted to the spot. Those people who had never agreed about anything in their lives before were, for the first time ever, in complete accord: she was the guilty one. Not the stranger, not the wager, but she, Chantal Prym, the instigator of the crime. Had the world turned upside down?
She left the bread by her door and set off towards the mountain; she wasn't hungry or thirsty, she didn't want anything. She had just understood something very important, something that filled her with fear, horror and utter terror.
No one had said anything to the baker's boy.
Something like this would normally be talked about, either with indignation or amusement, but the lad with the van, who delivered bread and gossip to the various villages in the region, had left with no idea of what was going on. It was clear that everyone in Viscos was gathered there together for the first time that day, and no one had had time to discuss what had taken place the previous night, although everyone knew what had happened in the bar. And yet, unconsciously, they had all made a pact of silence.
In other words, each one of those people, in their heart of hearts, was thinking the unthinkable, imagining the unimaginable.
Berta called to her. She was still at her post, watching over the village, though to no avail, since the danger was already there and was far greater than anyone could possibly have envisaged.
"I don't want to talk," said Chantal. "I can't think, react or say anything."
"You can at least listen. Sit down here."
Of all the people she had known, Berta was the only one who had ever treated her with any kindness. Chantal did not just sit down, she flung her arms around Berta. They stayed like that for a long while, until Berta broke the silence.
"Now go off into the forest and clear your head; you know you're not the problem. The rest of them know that too, but they need someone to blame."
"It's the stranger who's to blame!"
"You and I know that, but no one else does. They all want to believe they've been betrayed, that you should have told them sooner, that you didn't trust them."
"Betrayed?"
"Yes."
"Why would they want to believe that?"
"Think about it."
Chantal thought. Because they needed someone to blame. A victim.