Eat Him If You Like (8 page)

A large hand with stubby fingers unceremoniously prodded the stomach of an inert recumbent figure, an extremely fragile white statue whose features were frozen in an imploring expression.

‘Oh, forgive me! I’m very sorry!’ exclaimed the doctor, hastily withdrawing his hand.

‘Grim,’ muttered his assistant, taking from his satchel a notebook and quill, which he dipped in ink. His fingers poised, he added, ‘I’m ready, Dr Roby-Pavillon.’

The portly doctor, who was also mayor of Nontron, rubbed his palms together, sending up a cloud of ash like rice powder. He wiped his hands on his clothes, leaving white smears on his black trousers.

‘We are no longer of the same clay, Monsieur de Monéys,’ sighed the doctor, sadly.

His voice echoed through Hautefaye’s small church, where Alain’s charred remains had been carefully transferred. Alain lay on a white sheet draped over the altar. It was lit by several church candles, and others from the grocer, Élie Mondout, their flames flickering in the dim light of mournful day. A ray of sunlight shone through
the stained-glass window and danced prettily over Alain’s neck and shoulders, like a brightly coloured scarf, a tiny, unexpected delight.

The victim of the execution, carried out by means abolished centuries earlier, lay on the slab. Silence reigned, shattered only by the doctor’s stentorian voice dictating the autopsy report to his assistant.

‘The body is almost entirely burnt and is lying on its back.’

The doctor had a trim beard and a round head of tight curls. He walked around the altar and examined Alain’s remains, giving a meticulous description.

‘The face is turned slightly to the left, and the lower limbs are extended. The right hand is missing three fingers and is raised in supplication.’

Occasionally the doctor stumbled over an empty bottle which rolled noisily over the flagstones. The whole place smelt of wine, and the fragrance of incense mingled with the stench of vomit. The doctor’s shoes crunched on broken glass.

‘The left hand sits on the corresponding shoulder, the fingers splayed as though begging for mercy.’ Alain’s facial features were frozen in an expression of agony, his twisted torso thrown back. The flames had captured Alain’s dying moments and preserved them as evidence.

A groan emanated from elsewhere in the church. It was the priest, disturbed by the doctor’s loud voice. His cassock somewhat the worse for wear, the priest was sitting in a pew, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, nursing an awful headache. The Norman arches had witnessed unheard-of
goings-on the day before, and the priest was now hung over. It was bad enough that the pinewood statue of Christ was being eaten away by dry rot, sprinkling the floor with dust. ‘Keep your voice down,’ the priest ordered the doctor, who continued to dictate his report.

‘Having examined the victim’s corpse, it is reasonable to conclude firstly that Monsieur de Monéys was burnt alive. Secondly, his death was caused by burns and asphyxiation. Thirdly, the recorded injuries on the corpse were caused by pointed, sharp and blunt instruments while he was still alive. Fourthly, one of the injuries, a blow to the head, was delivered from behind the victim while he was still standing. Fifthly, Monsieur de Monéys was dragged along while he was still alive. Sixthly, the combination of his injuries would inevitably have led to his death. Signed in Hautefaye, on 17 August 1870, by Dr Roby-Pavillon, physician.’

The portly doctor turned round. His shoes squeaked, causing the priest to wince. He was having trouble sobering up from the day before. His complexion was literally green and he was close to vomiting. Just then the bronze church bells struck nine, ringing out over Hautefaye.

Police on horseback had combed the surrounding countryside and were now returning to the village. They had arrested several men, who plodded behind them, attached to ropes, hands bound and heads bowed. They were escorted to the already crowded village square and left there. The police officers then set off again in search of other culprits on all the farms and in all the shops in the area.

The public prosecutor from Bordeaux, a young man with sideburns, who had arrived at dawn, had a word with one of
the sergeants.

‘Take it easy! Don’t bring back too many. We can’t lock them all up! There are only twenty-one cells in Périgueux jail, and the court won’t be able to try that many either. Think about it. Do you realise that you’d have to arrest six hundred people? It’s a … most unusual crime.’

The prosecutor removed his glasses, wiped them and put them back on as though he could not quite believe his eyes.

‘Very well,’ replied the sergeant. ‘But should we arrest the first man who knocked out his teeth with an iron bar, for example?’

‘No, why? You’ll see there are so many people who did worse … Just settle for the main perpetrators.’

‘And the man who gouged out his eye with a fork?’

‘Yes, well … the man who gouged out his eye, if you like. But don’t worry too much, we’ve got enough. Is that the prefect of Ribérac’s carriage I spy behind those trees?’

‘Yes, that’s him.’

‘The whole of Périgord is deeply concerned,’ said the prefect, alighting from his carriage.

Hautefaye was still in a state of shock as it began to stir. It was almost as though the entire village was hung over. The fierce beauty of the surrounding countryside seemed to beg the question ‘What on earth did you do yesterday? What came over you?’ The villagers shuddered again, appalled at themselves. ‘What did come over us?’ Confusion and bewilderment reigned. Apart from the main square, the village was deserted, almost abandoned. It was in a state of numbness. Residents stayed at home, hiding behind drawn curtains. Sitting around helplessly behind locked doors,
eyes staring blankly, mouths hanging open.

‘Open up! It’s the police!’ Fists rapped on the doors.

‘What have we done?’

A surveyor was pacing up and down Hautefaye’s narrow lanes, taking measurements. The taste of slow poison and the smell of death still lingered in the air. He took some tobacco from a pig’s-bladder pouch and stuffed it into his pipe. The surveyor then took out a notebook and sat in the blazing sun marking off the various stations at which Alain had stopped during his ordeal, and plotted a map of his zigzag progress through the village.

Journalists in elegant, grey loose-fitting coats and felt hats hurried over to the prefect, who was donning a cocked hat sporting a large ostrich feather. They followed him to the little lane by Bernard Mathieu’s house, which was surrounded by drummers, scarlet uniforms and black horses.

‘To Alain, who died in God’s love,’ intoned the priest above the roll of goatskin drums. Still nursing his headache, he was now alone in the church.

The elderly mayor of Hautefaye descended the steps of his house wearing just a vest and a somewhat stained and crumpled tricolour sash. He must have slept in it. Above his head, a police officer was perched on a ladder, taking the French flag down from his house. Several men emerged carrying registers of births, marriages and deaths, jostling Bernard Mathieu as they passed.

‘Where shall we take them?’

‘To Mousnier’s place,’ the mayor suggested. ‘They knew Alain very well.’

The alarmed prefect shook his head.

‘Ah yes, I forgot!’ the mayor continued. ‘Well, take them to the schoolmaster. Madame Lachaud was very fond of Monsieur de Monéys …’

‘Clearly, you were elected mayor by virtue of your age alone,’ said the prefect, raising his eyes to the heavens. His voice was cold and harsh. ‘Gentlemen,’ he ordered, ‘take these registers to Élie Mondout’s inn. He shall assume the mayor’s duties for the time being.’

The prefect then drew his gleaming sword. The moment of reckoning had arrived. He slid the sword under Bernard Mathieu’s tricolour sash and gave it a violent tug. Bernard Mathieu bit his lip. Everybody was expecting him to say something, but there was a lump in his throat and no words came out. He farted.

‘Wait, that’s not what I meant!’

Élie Mondout’s inn had become the investigating magistrate’s chambers. Men of the law sat at tables and ordered the country folk with their ragged clothes smelling of manure and garlic to parade before them. They had been reported by Antony, Mazerat, Dubois and the rest of Alain’s protectors, who were present at the inn. Élie Mondout tried to recall the names of the customers who had been sitting outside the day before.

‘There was Roland Liquoine, Girard Feytou, Murguet, Lamongie, the Marthon notary. Who else was here? There were so many of them …’

The accused entered the inn, awkward and disconcerted at finding themselves under arrest. Thibassou came in flanked by two gendarmes, his hands bound. The boy was
rather proud to be considered a man and treated as such. He was oblivious of the error of his ways and confidently met people’s eyes. Anna was slicing bread and serving drinks.

‘I was the one who squealed,’ she said, walking past him. She gazed at him sadly and then closed her eyes. She opened them again and stared straight at him.

‘You animal!’ she spat with sheer hatred.

She left the room and headed for the kitchen. She did not speak, smile or sing as she worked. She was just a shadow, slowly going through the routine of getting out plates and cutlery. She stopped dead in the middle of her tasks and then went back to preparing a simple meal of cod and chestnuts.

Soon, through the small window that opened onto the countryside, she heard the pounding of horses’ hooves on the dry earth as they dragged away the two prison wagons.

‘Raise your right hand and say “I do solemnly swear”.’

‘I do solemnly swear, and long live the Emperor!’

‘What emperor?’

‘Er, that ’Poleon … that heaven-sent envoy, Napoleon III!’

‘There is no longer an emperor in France.’

‘What?’

‘He surrendered at the Battle of Sedan on 2 September and was captured. France was declared a republic on 4 September.’

‘What?’

‘You haven’t heard?’

‘Well, no … News takes a long time to reach us out here in the country, and now that we’re in prison …’

‘The crime you are charged with took place under the Second Empire, but you will be tried by the Third Republic.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘You seem miles away. Can you tell me what date it is today, François Chambort?’

‘Not really. It’s winter, isn’t it? I saw snow falling through my cell window.’

‘It is 13 December 1870. This is the last of three days of deliberations here in Périgueux criminal court. A verdict will be reached shortly and then you will learn your sentence.’

‘I see.’

‘You could at least have had a haircut!’ called a member of the public.

‘Silence! Or I shall have to clear the court,’ ordered the judge.

The judge was a fair man. He sat on a raised chair behind a green baize desk, his long sleeves hiding the armrests. The desk was stacked with papers and weighty law tomes. In front of the desk was a small table displaying various exhibits – whips, bloodstained sticks, a ragman’s hook, pebbles stained with human fat.

Chambort stood in the witness box, looking awkward in front of a full courthouse. As a blacksmith, he was much more at home handling oxen and horses and beating iron. He was squeezed into his Sunday best and had dark circles under his eyes. He stared intently at the floor.

‘What was your relationship to Alain de Monéys?’ the judge asked.

‘He was a childhood friend and was the kindest man you could ever meet. No, I’m serious – I don’t understand what came over me. It’s awful, just awful. I’m sickened by what I’ve done.’

‘But you still …?’

‘I lost my head.’

‘What happened?’

‘I let myself get carried away.’

‘What can you tell us about the victim?’

‘He always thought of others, he was a good man.’

‘Yes, he certainly tasted good!’ said a mocking voice from the public gallery.

‘Death to the cannibals!’ shouted others. ‘Leave him to us! We’ll show him justice!’

The judge banged his gavel on the desk and looked out at the sea of furious faces.

‘François Chambort,’ he continued, ‘did you torture Alain de Monéys?’

‘Yes, I shoed him and I threw straw on him. I got carried away by the excitement of the mad mob attacking Alain.’

‘And you decided to end it all with an
auto-da-fé
?’

‘I don’t understand that word.’

‘Did you help build the funeral pyre?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘The jury will consider your case. Return to the dock.’

Chambort obeyed, his legs weak.

‘No mercy for those monsters!’ booed the assembly.

Convinced he would have the support of the already emotional audience, the prosecutor rose, his gown fluttering.

‘Send them to the guillotine, Your Honour!’ he shouted, red-faced and almost frothing at the mouth.

While the judge’s cross-examination had been rather formal, the prosecutor’s summing up was nothing of the kind. He spewed epithets as he excoriated Chambort.

‘Never was there a more despicable man! There are no words to describe such an individual and I am at a loss to express the horror I feel.’

This was the prosecutor’s crowning argument, and he concluded by calling for the maximum penalty – death.

In response to this swooping attack, a stooped, weasel-like lawyer ventured, ‘My client has no previous convictions!’ in an attempt to retrieve the hopeless situation. ‘Anyway, all the accused – villagers, craftsmen – were upstanding citizens prior to this terrible day. That’s why this case is so unique. It’s not a common-law crime. Something must have triggered the mob’s behaviour and—’

‘That’s enough!’ interrupted the judge. ‘Speeches for the defence and summings up will be heard later, before the jury retires to deliberate. I call the next witness.’

The next man entered the witness box, wearing a stiff green jacket that was very coarse and very ugly. He was also wearing a woollen scarf, socks and clogs.

‘First name, surname, profession?’ asked the judge.

‘Antoine Léchelle, farmer.’

‘Describe what happened on 16 August.’

‘The sky fell on our heads.’

‘Why did you kill Monsieur de Monéys?’ ‘Because people were saying that he’d shouted “Long live Prussia!”’

‘Yet he had actually enlisted to go and fight the Prussians.’

‘Really? No one mentioned it.’

‘
He
did.’

The courtroom walls were covered in a wallpaper with a faint undulating pattern, evoking ocean waves. Everyone was foundering and Antoine Léchelle himself was carried by the tide. He wept over his washed-up life and left the witness box. The next man was mopping his brow.

‘François Mazière, you are accused of several acts of barbarity towards Alain de Monéys.’

‘People were saying that he was a Prussian and should pay the price. I’d never seen a Prussian and wanted to see one close up.’

‘Did you not then notice he was not a Prussian, but in fact your neighbour?’

‘He was unrecognisable. His head was covered in blood. You wouldn’t have recognised your own mother in that situation, Your Honour!’

‘You dragged him by the feet, still alive, to his funeral pyre.’

‘Regrettably I did.’

‘Earlier, you forced him into the smithy, where he was shod and his toes amputated.’

‘I was holding him down, but it was the mob that attacked him.’

‘You did too!’ shouted Antony from the gallery.

‘I did too? Well, we must all have lost our reason that day.’

As the witnesses testified one by one, they hunched their shoulders and hung their heads in shame. They all said the same thing: ‘We don’t know what came over us.’ It was the same story every time. Nobody said anything against the victim or suggested that he was in any way to blame.

‘Mathieu Murguet, did you use a fork to turn over Alain de Monéys’s stomach the way you turn over earth? Did you do such a heinous thing?’

‘Regrettably I did.’

Demoralised, the accused shrank into themselves, exhausted by the legal jargon, which was like a foreign language to them.

‘Why this orgy of violence?’

Piarrouty looked like the living dead. His skin was ashen and his eyes were vacant.

‘We went mad,’ declared Buisson. ‘Of course de Monéys was a good man.’

‘We acted like children,’ said Besse. ‘I think we were even dreaming at one point. When he was burning, I thought I saw a pig and Piarrouty swears he saw arms cradling a baby. Lamongie saw a bird. Liquoine said, “He looks like Beelzebub. You can see his yellow tongue flickering”.’