Read Eat Him If You Like Online
Authors: Jean Teulé
Eat Him If You Like (3 page)
‘Someone said “Down with France!”’
A forest of hands went up to vouch for the fact.
‘Who shouted “Down with France!”?’
‘He did.’
Jean Campot appeared on Alain’s left and twisted his ear. His brother Étienne let go of Jupiter’s halter and dealt him a powerful blow. Jean Frédérique, coming up on his right, drove his mason’s fist deep into Alain’s stomach.
Alain knelt at the side of the road, gasping for breath. His eyes were closed and a grey mist descended. He waited for the words ‘I love you’ to come into focus, but instead heard shouts.
‘Filth! Scoundrel!’
He opened his eyes, raised his head and saw dozens of angry faces surrounding him. Their eyes, which had previously held only kindness, now contained a venom which was terrible to see. Having regained his breath, Alain rose and spoke to them.
‘You’ve misunderstood me, my friends,’ he croaked. ‘You’re mistaken.’
‘You were rejoicing in our enemies’ success,’ said one man, shaking his fist at Alain.
‘I wasn’t!’
‘You’re smiling!’
‘No, I’m not!’
‘You’d watch as they killed us all and spared your life!’
‘No. In a week’s time I’ll be a simple soldier, fighting for France.’
‘You’re sending money to the Prussians!’
‘Why would I send money to the enemy when I’m due to join the troops? That would be madness!’
Antony arrived and found Alain deathly pale. ‘Get away from here quickly,’ he urged in Alain’s ear.
Alain turned to leave but could not escape. Some men had clambered over the dry-stone wall and stationed themselves behind it to stop him fleeing as his cousin had done. In any case, he would not have been able to run quickly or far with his limp. A wave of dizziness washed over him. Alain watched Piarrouty walk slowly towards him, clutching his weighing hook. Alain’s legs felt like loose bundles of rags. He struggled to keep his balance, looking rather like one of Antoine Léchelle’s newborn calves. Antoine Léchelle himself ripped off Alain’s jacket spinning him round, then shouted abuse at him just like the other villagers.
‘Muck! Scum!’
Alain felt as if he were living a nightmare. He cast around for a face that wasn’t filled with hatred. Antony had been grabbed by the scruff of the neck and pushed to the back of the crowd, with shouts of ‘Get out of here!’ Never before had Alain seen such madness. The villagers were turning
the whole thing into a violent farce.
‘My dear, dear friends,’ Alain said, trying in vain to restore peace. His pleas were met only with abuse. The villagers cared nothing for his achievements now. He was caught in an angry storm, a whirlwind of insults. What grim fortune for Alain, being trapped in such an appalling situation. He might as well have been a bear’s plaything. Switches whipped viciously at his cheeks. He was hit with whips and riding crops - his clothes now looked as if they belonged to a court jester, and he had a button missing. The situation was getting out of hand. Where had that stain come from? Ah yes, from misfortune. With a thud, a cattle prod knocked his straw hat down over his eyes.
Shouts of ‘Bravo! Good shot!’ rang through the air. Alain wanted to put his hat back on properly but it was snatched from his hands and flew into the crowd. People passed it round, argued over it and tried it on. Behind them a ratter was grabbing vermin from a copper laundry tub teeming with the grey beasts, and killing them with his teeth. At his fairground stall, Old Moureau was offering people the chance to stone cockerels to death.
‘Three goes, one sou. If you kill a cock, you keep it!’ he called.
Leaning against the wall of the priest’s garden, Anna Mondout looked over at Alain, shocked. Her arresting yet fragile gaze betrayed infinite goodness. Being of a sensitive nature, she could tell that Alain was close to tears. He was afraid. He needed rescuing fast and effectively at all costs. Thankfully, help was at hand. Philippe Dubois and Mazerat – a villager in overalls and a bearded woodcutter
– intervened. Skilfully, they managed to intercept blows aimed at Alain.
‘Stop!’ shouted Bouteaudon, a miller from Connezac, stepping in as well.
‘He’s a traitor, a spy, an enemy … a Prussian!’ shouted Jean Frédérique, pointing at Alain. Antony, his face swollen, came back and squared up to him.
‘He’s a Prussian!’ chorused everyone behind Jean Frédérique, and others even further behind, took up the cry, ‘Come on! We’ve caught a Prussian!’
‘A Pruuuu-ssiaaan!’ yelled Jean Frédérique at the top of his voice.
‘You imbecile!’ spluttered Antony. ‘He’s no Prussian, he’s Alain de Monéys! I heard you asking him to explain his plans to divert the Nizonne just ten minutes before you kicked him in the stomach. You were talking to him!’
‘I’ve never talked to a Prussian!’
‘Dear God, Jean Frédérique, you even voted for him!’
‘That’s not true!’
‘I saw you, last Wednesday, coming out of the polling booth in Beaussac town hall.’
‘I didn’t vote for him!’
‘But, Frédérique, it was unanimous. Everybody voted for Alain.’
‘I did
not
vote for him!’
‘Quite right too!’ clamoured voices from nearby. ‘We don’t vote for Prussians!’
‘Jean Frédérique, hey, wake up, Frédérique!’ exclaimed Antony, waving his arms about as though trying to rouse his companion from a dream. But the Beaussac stonemason
managed to reach round Antony and whack Alain full in the face with a stick, causing him to cry out in pain.
‘Argh! Oh!’
‘Did you hear that? He said “
Ach so
”. He speaks German! He’s a Prussian!’
Men in wooden clogs – boys and old men, but very few in between, since they were all at war – clamoured:
‘He’s a Prussian! Pru-ssi-an, ru-ffi -an, Pru-ssi-an!’
Alain had never had a nickname before, but it seemed that this one was sticking. In vain he repeated, ‘I am Alain de Monéys, Alain de Monéys,’ but his words fell on deaf ears. People refused to accept his true identity. Despite the crowd’s obstinacy, Bouteaudon, Dubois, Mazerat and Antony continued to proclaim Alain’s innocence, but the mob just would not listen.
‘He’s our enemy and he must pay for it!’ said a voice from the sea of straw hats bobbing in front of them.
An ill-tempered man barely known to Alain shouted that Alain was a Prussian and raised his bludgeon. Mazerat blocked his arm.
‘For heaven’s sake, you’re about to hit Alain de Monéys!’
‘Shut up and let us defend our country. He’s a Prussian. Jesus Christ, let’s get him!’
Someone kicked Alain in the buttocks.
‘Come on then, dirty Prussian, let’s hear you shout “Long live the Emperor!” Shout it, shit bag, shout it.’
‘Long live the Emperor!’ Alain proclaimed.
‘Louder, Prussian, louder!’
Alain was hit with enough force to kill a donkey. People stabbed his arms and shoulders repeatedly with goads. His shirt tore.
‘Hit him hard enough and maybe the rain will come!’
People jostled to get to the front. Alain recoiled from their attack, backing up against the dry-stone wall. Suddenly, he received such a sharp blow to the skull that he thought his head would explode. He turned and saw his absurd shadow sliding down the wall on which Piarrouty was standing, holding a hook covered in blood. Alain reeled from the attack. He could hear cheers and the thunder of loose stones as the dry-stone wall collapsed from where he lay right up to the cherry tree further along. He got up quickly, slipping and sliding comically on the rubble, cradling his head one minute and then flinging his arms out in front of him the next. The sleeves of his yellow nankeen suit were splattered with red.
‘Oh no, my suit is stained. I can’t go back to Bretanges like this. What will I tell my mother?’
He felt a surge of deep shame. He had a gash on his head and blood was running down his neck. Tears were running down his face too, though not many. Things would be resolved; people would see reason eventually. In the background, Anna stood terrified, her hands over her mouth, watching with the beautiful dark eyes that had captured his heart. But Alain was dragged under by another hail of blows.
The poor unlucky soul had fallen victim to a horde of phantoms who danced wildly in the scorching summer heat. Antony found himself pushed to the back of the crowd once more, along with Alain’s other supporters. Alain was alone. Mazière – the man who had been talking to Piarrouty when he had overtaken them on his way to the village – was
shouting shrilly. It was giving Alain a headache. All those faces, smells and shouts!
A harsh, harpy-like cry rose up and Alain turned in the direction it came from. It was the schoolteacher’s wife. The schoolteacher’s wife? She was standing on a small cart, its shafts pointing upwards.
‘Hang the Prussian!’ screeched Madame Lachaud, puffing out her chest, her breasts bursting out of her blouse. Almost immediately, a chant of ‘Hang him!’ broke out and rippled through the air, like the national flag.
‘Hang me?’ echoed Alain incredulously.
Étienne Campot deftly released the hemp halter that was fastened round Jupiter’s thick neck and held it out to his younger brother.
‘Here, take this to hang the Prussian from that old cherry tree opposite the priest’s garden.’ He turned to Thibassou and ordered, ‘Thibassou, you’re quick and agile, go and help Jean.’
And so amid shouts of ‘Prussian bastard!’ Alain was seized and bound. Thibassou, the very boy Alain had paid to look after his horse, scaled the old cherry tree as nimbly as a squirrel.
The gnarled trunk of the centuries-old tree was S-shaped and a long, thick branch overhung the collapsed wall.
Thibassou was thrilled that this execution would give him the chance to do a man’s job, and set to work with zeal. He attached a rope to the branch while Jean Campot fashioned a noose around Alain’s neck. He then clambered higher and balanced on a branch, looking out at the crowd.
‘Anna Mondout, Anna! Look, I’m helping hang the Prussian!’ he called.
Thibassou bounced up and down to test the tree’s strength, but the branch snapped, falling on several people below and taking him with it. The injured men swore furiously at Alain and hit him in retaliation.
‘Bloody Prussian, you’re really pissing us off!’
At the foot of the tree, tempers were fraying and a fight broke out between farmers and pit sawyers. Roumaillac – a man who sold planks in Vieux-Mareuil – was yelling at the elder Campot brother.
‘What a stupid idea to hang a Prussian from a cherry tree! Everyone knows their branches break easily. You should know that, Étienne. Call yourself a farmer?’
‘Yes, but … but …’ stammered the elder Campot brother. ‘For goodness’ sake, Roumaillac, we’re not used to doing things like this. Personally, I’ve never hanged a Prussian before. I don’t even know how it’s done!’
From under the tree, Alain reminded them of one small detail. ‘I’m not Prussian. My friends, you’re about to kill a French soldier.’
Étienne Campot hit him for the second time.
‘Quiet, Bismarck!’
‘That’s who we really should be hanging!’ applauded the crowd.
‘How about if we pulled the rope higher, draped it over a branch and tied it to the trunk?’ came a voice from the mob.
‘Not a bad idea,’ said Roumaillac, suddenly the expert. ‘It’ll be stronger. To work, men!’
Alain was gasping for breath. He could hear a voice calling and see two hands waving from the back of the crowd.
‘Father! Father! Father Saint-Pasteur!’ called Anna. She vaulted the gate into the priest’s garden and ran to bang on the door of the house.
‘What is it?’ asked a voice as the door opened.
‘Th-th-they’re over there in the road. At least a hundred of them. They’ve surrounded Monsieur de Monéys and they’re beating him, beating him like a carpet! They want to hang him. They’re going to hang him, I tell you!’ said Anna, gasping as Alain had earlier.
The priest went back inside and returned immediately, holding a big gun.
‘You have a weapon?’ asked Anna, shocked.
‘An heirloom from my uncle. He was in the military.’
The local priest, still in his cassock, jumped over his garden wall into the road.
‘Let me through! Make way!’ He pointed his gun at anyone who blocked his path. ‘Let me through!’
‘Leave him to us, Father. He’s only getting what he deserves. He’s a Prussian!’
‘Shut up. You are blaspheming, you idiots. He’s your neighbour!’
‘He was the one blaspheming. He shouted “Down with France!”’
‘Get back, get back, you fools,’ boomed the priest, in his strong Pyrenees accent. He was an athletic man, with broad shoulders and a thick neck. He approached Alain and pointed his weapon at the old ragman, who was once more raising his hook above Alain’s battered head.
‘Put down that hook, Piarrouty, or I’ll shoot!’ shouted the priest, holding his gun to Piarrouty’s face.
‘But, Father, my son was shot to smithereens because of him.’
‘Put it down or I’ll shoot!’
Antony went over to the priest, grabbed the ragman’s tool, flung it aside and loosened the rope round Alain’s neck.
‘Father, you and Antony are traitors!’ voices cried, growing louder and louder as Antony untied Alain.
‘Shout “Down with France!” now, if you’re brave enough,’ someone called out.
‘No, sir, I shout “Long live France!”’ boomed the priest in his pious voice, turning round. ‘I take collections for our injured and offer up prayers for our fighters. You’d know that if you came to church more often.’
‘Right, well, if you truly do say “Long live France!” then you should pay for our drinks,’ demanded a builder from Javerlhac. ‘Give us the communion wine for free. Then we’ll be able to drink to the health of the Emperor!’
The priest faltered for a second and then said, ‘With pleasure. I’ll wait for you at my house. And Monsieur de Monéys shall join us for a drink.’
‘Who?’
‘The man you’ve been attacking, you miscreants!’
‘The Prussian?’
Several people abandoned their prey and rushed over to the priest’s garden. He handed out glasses and personally poured wine for everybody present. Anna filled goblets as well, much to the indignation of her uncle, who happened to be passing by.
‘I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Rather than lending us a hand at the inn, you choose to help the priest, who’s stealing our customers?’
‘But, Uncle Élie, it’s because … If you knew … if you knew what …’
‘No, I don’t want to know! Get yourself back to our place, fetch the milking pails and take the goats to the mayor’s goat shed. The ladies are waiting.’
‘But Uncle …’
‘Now! Or do you want to go back to your ironing job in Angoulême?’ he ordered, dragging his niece away.
Meanwhile, people were happily quaffing the communion wine.
‘Ah, this wine warms your insides.’
‘Yes, it’s a good thing we showed that Prussian what for, or we wouldn’t have had anything to drink!’
The priest refilled their glasses and drank to their health, hoping to put an end to the violence with his gesture of hospitality. He welcomed them as he welcomed them into his church each week. Jesus forgives a multitude of sins through the words of a priest.
‘Drink as much as you like but, for heaven’s sake, don’t waste your breath hitting an innocent man so hard!’
Standing close to Alain, Thibassou hesitated for a moment and then shouted, ‘Well, I’m a man now, I almost hanged a Prussian!’
‘To the health of the Empress and the young imperial Prince!’ clamoured family men, inspired by the youth’s words.
The wind whipped around the priest’s garden, which soon became crowded. People who had been lingering by the cherry tree eventually left to make the most of the free wine as well. ‘The priest told us to; we do everything the priest tells us!’ Some people headed to the donkey market or to the various inns to show off their sticks covered in Alain’s blood. Others started trading by the roadside again: ‘So, how much did you want for those scrawny little hens?’ The crowd broke up and relaxed.
The big fallen cherry branch creaked and its dry leaves rustled in the breeze. Shoes and boots crunched over the heap of stones from the broken wall. Antony, Dubois and Mazerat had returned and were supporting Alain under his arms.
‘Where shall we take him? We can’t make him cross the meadow to the small wood. He would easily be spotted from the priest’s garden and he can barely run,’ said Dubois.
‘And it would be risky to take him back to his horse,’ replied Mazerat. ‘A lot of his attackers have gone to boast of their deeds at the pig market. If they see him go by …’
‘Why don’t we take him to the town hall?’ suggested Bouteaudon, who had just joined them.
‘There isn’t one in Hautefaye,’ replied Antony. ‘But we could take him to our mayor, the blacksmith. Come on, Alain, we’ll go to Bernard Mathieu. We’ll get you out of this mess. These men have lost their minds.’
‘Thank you, Pierre; thank you, Philippe,’ said Alain,
to Antony and Dubois. ‘Thank you, my dear friends. If it hadn’t been for you and the priest, I think they’d have torn me to shreds.’
Bouteaudon, the strong miller from Connezac, sat Alain on his forearms as if he were a sack of flour.
‘Let me carry you, Monsieur de Monéys.’
‘Oh, gladly, my friend,’ said Alain, with a look of gratitude for the protector he had previously met only in passing.
‘Why are you taking advantage of the priest’s diversion to take him to the mayor?’ called the Charras butcher angrily, following them.
‘If there are any explanations to be had, they will take place before the Emperor’s sole representative in this village,’ replied Antony.
‘Oh no, they won’t! Leave him! He’s ours!’ exclaimed the butcher. ‘I’m going to tell the others. Hey, men!’
Antony ignored his threats and asked Alain how he was feeling.
‘My head really hurts.’
‘That’s not surprising. Piarrouty cracked your skull. But the mayor will send for Dr Roby-Pavillon from Nontron, he’ll patch you up. You’ll laugh about this later.’
‘They thought I was a Prussian,’ groaned Alain, his head throbbing, as they made their way through the village.
‘That’s because they refuse to see the truth. They’re trying to get their own back for a defeat that they can’t acknowledge,’ said Dubois philosophically.
‘By attacking you, these people believed that they were helping save the Emperor and France.’
‘That’s right.’
From that point, Alain floated along, dazed and staggering as if drunk. They had arrived.
