by Jean Teulé
‘What are you going to do, Bernard?’ asked Antony.
‘Finish my supper.’
Alain looked over at the dwelling he was not allowed to enter. Behind the mayor, he could make out one bed, a broken sideboard and four chairs. The curtains at the window had once been white but were now spattered with squashed bugs. Hautefaye’s mayor closed the door on the ugly, faded decor. A key turned twice in the lock. The mayor’s moustachioed nephew, Georges, who was a baker in Beaussac, banged on the shutters that his aunt had just closed.
‘Aunt! Uncle! Open up, if only for Monsieur de Monéys! We must protect him!’
‘It’s none of our business!’
Driven back against the wall, Alain appealed softly to the brutes.
‘My friends, you’re mistaken. I’m ready to suffer for France …’
‘You’ll suffer all right; we’ll make sure you suffer!’ said François Chambort, a blacksmith from Pouvrières, grabbing Alain by the hair. As children, they had fished for crayfish together. Alain was hurt to see his former playmate hatching some grisly plan right in front of his eyes, something vicious and relentless. François blew noisily on his hat and commanded in a cattle drover’s voice, ‘Take the Prussian over the road to the smithy! I know what we can do! We can tie him to the frame and shoe him like a horse!’
7
THE BLACKSMITH’S FORGE
The Campot brothers dragged Alain to the smithy. Buisson and Mazière kicked him in the shins to hurry him along. Chambort was shouting out orders. The crowd surged forward.
‘Castrate him while you’re at it, the son of a bitch. Then he won’t defile our women,’ bayed Madame Lachaud.
They successfully manoeuvred Alain between the four posts of the frame used to restrain horses. Lying on his back between the wooden bars, his hands and feet bound, Alain shouted feebly, ‘Long live the Emperor!’ Men surrounded him, pressing in. The ordeal was endless. Straps and ropes were tightened, constricting his chest and throat. He choked. He struggled, his legs flailing wildly. Duroulet, a labourer from Javerlhac, pulled off Alain’s brown boots and another man removed his purple silk socks. In the crowd, Lamongie – a stocky farmer with ginger hair – was brandishing a huge pair of pliers. Alain had known him as a boy; they had raided magpies’ nests together.
‘We’ll clip the Prussian’s hooves for him!’ he said.
A puffed-up turkey fled between people’s legs, flapping its wings. Lamongie gripped the lower part of Alain’s big toe with his pincers and pulled as though he were extracting a nail from a wall. He staggered backwards, holding the toe in his pincers. Alain howled. The crowd sniggered. Chambort took Lamongie’s place and held a horseshoe to the sole of Alain’s lame foot. Suddenly, he banged in a nail with a single stroke, shattering his heel. The other twenty-six bones in Alain’s foot seemed to splinter too. The pain rose to his knee, his groin and then tore into his chest, suffocating him. His shoulders tensed and he thought his head would explode. Chambort nailed a second shoe to the other foot. Alain’s head jerked backwards, his eyes rolling. Memories surged into his mind. He felt like a ship being stormed by pirates shouting, ‘Dirty beast!’
His body was weak and weary and his heels throbbed. The noise was deafening. His flesh was turning a ghastly colour. Alain was living a nightmare. The behaviour of his fellow creatures plunged him into despair. Earlier, on his way to the fair and unaware of the horrific fate that awaited him, he had been lost in the most wonderful reverie. Now, even the devil would have cried for mercy on seeing several of Alain’s toes fly from Lamongie’s pliers and hurtle through the air.
The schoolmaster’s wife was pulling faces at the window, sticking out her tongue and slobbering on the grimy glass.
‘Hurry!’ shouted a voice. ‘Hurry, drinks are on the priest! We’ve finished off the cheap communion wine, so now he’s bringing vintage bottles up from the cellar. Everyone’s invited!’
‘First I must finish clipping the Prussian’s hooves,’ said Lamongie.
‘We’ll come back! Come and have a drink. Let him suffer. He won’t go far trussed up like that. Volunteers can keep watch by the door while we wet our whistles. The priest has even opened his house and the church to hold more people. Come sit on the altar and get sozzled!’
The crowd went off, leaving Alain. He heard the door creak behind them. Five men, who must have crept around the outside of the smithy, stole into the room. There they found Alain covered in blood, still tied up, with horseshoes on his feet. He had no toes on his right foot. He was sure they would no longer want him in the army now, even on the Lorraine front. The men who had been keeping watch left to get drunk with the others.
Mazerat and the mayor’s nephew made the most of the guards’ absence. ‘Quick, let’s free him. Those fools haven’t tied him up properly.’
Mazerat opened a penknife and sawed at the knots. Distraught, Antony propped Alain up and supported his bleeding head, cradling him and trying to comfort him, as far as it is possible to comfort a man in such a predicament.
‘Hold firm, Alain! We’ll get you out of here.’
‘Is that you, Pierre?’
‘Yes, it’s me. They’re monsters. They should be locked up.’
‘They know not what they do.’
Bouteaudon crouched down and cupped Alain’s face in his gentle miller’s hands. Miraculously, Alain seemed to be smiling. Dubois took out a handkerchief and dabbed at Alain’s brow, which was covered in sweat and dust. He even wiped the dried blood from Alain’s eyes, so that he could open them again. Alain was finding it difficult to catch his breath, but the presence of his solicitous friends gave him new hope.
‘We must tell my mother that I’ll be back later than expected …’
Antony looked at him sadly. He was a good, simple man and a loyal friend, and it pained him to see Alain being treated this way. Suddenly young Thibassou burst into the smithy. He grabbed a large knife from the workbench and ran off towards the church, shouting, ‘Quick! Quick! They’ve freed the Prussian!’
Mazerat and Bouteaudon slipped their heads under Alain’s armpits to support him.
‘That little bastard! Where can we take Monsieur de Monéys?’ they groaned.
‘To Mousnier’s place,’ suggested Antony. ‘When he had to do some work on the inn, Alain lent him the money he needed interest free. He’ll take him in.’
But they had barely left the smithy, heading for the town centre, when the mob arrived from the vicarage and barred their path.
‘Leave him to us!’ they shouted.
‘This is Alain de Monéys!’ Dubois reminded them. ‘He has never wronged anyone! He’s the only man in these parts who’ll let you gather wood in his forests if you’re short for the winter! And you can run after hares in his meadows without him setting his dogs on you!’
‘Shut up, idiot!’ bellowed Antoine Léchelle, grabbing Dubois by his shirt.
‘Cut off his balls!’ shrieked Madame Lachaud. Arms knocked Alain to his knees just below the mayor’s window, which opened. The son of the Fayemarteau roofer, whom Alain had wanted to hire, whacked him in the face with a stick.
‘Roland! You’ve just hit your father’s friend!’ exclaimed Antony.
‘My father has no Prussian friends! Oh, look, here he is. Tell them, Father!’
His father, drunk on holy wine, raised his iron bar. Alain looked at him and said, ‘Pierre Brut, it’s me, I was hoping you would fix a barn roof …’ But the roofer was deaf and blind to his pleas and hit him with all his strength. Others lashed his back and legs. With horseshoes on his feet and several toes missing, he stumbled and collapsed under the hail of metal blows.
‘See the Prussian dance!’ jeered the mob.
The mayor’s nephew once again implored his uncle to give Alain shelter. From the window, Bernard Mathieu pointed to the sheep barn at the end of the lane.
‘Put him in there. He’ll be just as comfortable there as in my house until you can take him back to Bretanges.’
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8
THE SHEEP BARN
Mazerat the woodcutter and Bouteaudon the miller guarded the entrance to the tiny barn where they had taken Alain, for want of a better option. The mayor’s nephew, the baker, stood with them, pitchfork in hand. Inside it was dimly lit, and Alain was lying on a pile of straw, which reeked of sheep’s urine. A solitary ray of light slipped under the door, illuminating the barn and the hooves of three rams and a ewe, which all stood staring at Alain.
His appearance was grotesque. His tortured body burnt with pain. Breathing had become mechanical. The outlook was bleak. Feverishly, Alain muttered meaningless words, softly repeating his mother’s name. The villagers continued to clamour outside. It is surprising how quickly people can lose their heads. Alain lay panting on the floor. With the three men barring the door and Antony and Dubois at his side, he started to think he might still get away alive.
‘We’ll do all we can to save you,’ said Antony, reassuring him. ‘But it’s not easy with a cowardly mayor and faced with these madmen.’
‘Thank you, thank you …’
Antony’s patient words and actions were worthy of a saint.
‘Oh, Monsieur de Monéys, those men!’ gasped Dubois, as he turned Alain’s face gently towards him.
‘I look a fright, don’t I?’
Dubois placed a ripe fig on Alain’s lips and he sucked on it gingerly. Outside, the mob chanted, ‘Pruss-ian! Prussian!’ It was becoming increasingly difficult for Mazerat and his men to block the entrance. Antony and Dubois decided to help them and slipped out, closing the door behind them.
‘Have you all gone mad? When did you ever see a Prussian in Hautefaye?!’ they yelled.
‘He wanted to go to war despite being exempted!’ shouted Bouteaudon. ‘You all proclaim “Long live France!” but how many of you would do the same? Leave him alone and go and fight the Prussians where they really are – in Lorraine! That would be much braver than here at the fair where you’re five hundred against your one neighbour!’
‘Shut him up!’ shrieked Mazière. ‘Bring out the Prussian!’
Roumaillac and a handful of cronies had clambered onto the barn roof, pulled off some tiles and were relieving themselves! Piarrouty was shitting on Alain from above and hurling abuse. Alain was the victim of these people ’s inner monster, visible in their contorted faces. He lay there his heart close to breaking, as they pissed and shat on him. Thankfully his few defenders – like gentle lights in the mist – were protecting him, despite his gruesome appearance. Alain recognised Bernard Mathieu’s voice yelling at the vile men on the roof.
‘You’re vandalising my building. Get down!’ he shouted, probably from his window.
‘We’re still having a crap.’
‘This is appalling! We’re surrounded by cowards!’ wailed Antony.
Chambort wanted to set fire to the barn. Someone dropped through the hole in the roof and landed in the straw. It was Thibassou, wielding the large knife he had taken from the blacksmith’s workbench earlier. Idly tossing the handle from one hand to the other, he seemed to be mulling over particularly evil thoughts.
‘I’m going to kill you,’ he said. A pool of light shone on the straw nearby.
‘But what have I done to you, Thibassou?’ asked Alain anxiously. There was a wild, feral look in the boy’s eyes.
Thibassou did not reply but shot Alain a look of disdain as he edged closer. The knife blade gleamed.
‘Psst!’ came a voice from behind them.
Anna was hidden in the dark at the back of the barn, close to two goats. Alain hadn’t noticed her. The light coming in through the damaged roof made Anna stand out like a shining beacon sent to save him from despair. She hitched up her dress and called to Thibassou again: ‘Psst!’
The boy was in a quandary. He was torn between stabbing Alain and going to Anna. She raised her grey and green dress further. She perched on the edge of the feeding trough. Alain could see the smooth, silky skin of her calves and inner thighs and stored it in his memory. She was all sweetness, virtue and light. He was sure her bare flesh would smell fragrant and fresh. Her soft pubic hair rippled gently, clear as day, with an inviting innocence. She sat on the trough with her legs apart, her labia laughing like a clown’s grin. The paleness of her belly could only have been stolen from the moon. It drove the boy wild. Desire swelled in his breeches like a mushroom in a field. Anna removed her dress, and, unable to resist the lure of her small breasts, the youth was compelled to rush forward and kiss them. Thibassou flew, lunged, letting his knife drop as he grabbed her. Her hands roamed over his body. The young devil seemed well practised. He was like a wily wolf, his body and mouth suddenly madly infatuated with her. The way he went at it! Anna turned to look at Alain. She did not lower her gaze. Her delightful breasts, under her tumbling dark hair, were living fruit savoured by lips intoxicated by their good fortune. Her lovely thighs, pert breasts, her back and stomach were a feast for the eyes and the hands. And the charming girl started to enjoy it. Thibassou drove a burning fire into her veins which sent her rump, hips and flanks wild. Beneath his shirt, his thrusting groin was untiring, inexhaustible, and he muttered, ‘Oh, the bitch! What a little whore!’ It was such a sexual frenzy that his entire body was lusting for more. The boy grabbed Anna’s thighs and staggered forwards in the straw, knocking over a pail of milk. Clearly he was not afraid to go deep inside her. Driven by heat and passion, covered with heavy beads of sweat, he made the most of his chance to take a local beauty. She writhed and arched and the scent she exuded drove him crazy. The air was awash with their sweat and panting. She was giddy and glowing with pleasure, all the while trying to keep her eyes on Alain. Her whole being – legs, hands, feet, heart – was ecstatic.
‘Ahhhh!’ Anna’s voice was hoarse as she started to moan, while the riot continued on the other side of the door.
‘Listen to him suffer! You’ve already done enough to him,’ said Antony and Dubois, asking people to listen to the low moans emerging from the barn.
But it was Anna climaxing, all in an effort to distract the youth.
‘Stay, stay, go on, do it again,’ she said, whispering in his ear. To stop him attacking Alain, she moaned, ‘More!’
‘More, more!’ came the cries of his attackers, thinking the plea came from Alain.
More? What a misunderstanding!
9
THE MAIN STREET
The door burst open. Men grabbed Alain by his shod feet and threw him into the muck heap.
‘You want more? We’ll give you more!’
Nobody noticed Thibassou, dragged by Anna to the feeding trough. Alain overheard his protectors whispering nearby.
‘How can we get them to leave the alley long enough for us to help him escape?’
Dubois had an idea and elbowed his way through the crowd to Alain.
‘Wouldn’t you rather be shot than beaten even more?’ he asked, crouching down.
‘Oh yes, let them shoot me …’
‘Do you hear that, everyone? Go and get your guns! Quick, go home and fetch your guns!’ said Dubois, straightening up.
‘No, no guns!’ sang Mazière and the others. ‘He must suffer.’
Alain found himself in the narrow street once more. He knew the place but it was no comfort to him now. He was subjected to ever more violent threats and gruesome propositions. He also received more deadly blows. They all – how many were there? – blackened his name further, calling him a coward. Oh, the irony! Everyone was venting their worst excessess on him. The flag flying from the mayor’s house witnessed the horror with disgust. Alain was not the only person deserving of pity.
A man with glasses and beady eyes – Sarlat, the tailor from Nontronneau – yelled at Alain and tore at his yellow nankeen suit.
‘Filthy Prussian!’
‘Why do you say that? You know him. You dressed him! And now you’re ripping clothes that you made!’ yelled Antony.
‘I did not make this suit!’
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br /> ‘Strewth!’ exploded Antony. ‘Look, there, in the lining, that’s your label sewn in there. Your name is on it, Sarlat!’
‘Oh, the filthy Prussian!’ exclaimed the tailor, yanking off a sleeve. ‘He’s been stealing our clothes as well!’
They clawed at his suit and his shirt. Bare-chested, Alain was at the mercy of the rabble. They dragged him to the end of the street. Alain could see the open door of the church opposite. A flaking crucifix hung behind the altar. Christ’s hair looked too long and it seemed as if he had only been put there so he could gaze down wrathfully at the barbarians.
The priest continued to drink to the Emperor in order to distract as many of the angry mob as possible. But people had been praying for a while for a miracle to happen and had seen no results. So he was now less sure of success. Alain fell to his knees in front of the church, which had become a tavern where the wine would eventually run out.
‘Tell them that if they let me go, I’ll pay for drinks as well. Crack open a barrel,’ he begged. Mazerat was appalled.
‘We won’t drink wine from a Prussian!’ shouted one of his persecutors, who had overheard.
‘Oh, my friends, my friends …’
‘Are you still talking?’ asked a man, surprised. ‘Here!’ He smashed an iron bar down on Alain’s mouth. Alain choked and spat out blood and broken teeth.
The church clock struck three. Alain heard the bells chime, tolling out his pain. He was seized by the mob, who raised him above their heads and engulfed him. The procession set off up the town’s main street. Alain lay flat on his back under the mocking sun, gasping for breath. He felt like a carnival statue, rather like the Black Virgin of Rocamadour or St Léonard of Limousin. Insults continued to rain down on him and the pain in his head was unbearable. He howled as he was passed from person to person. He felt something inside him die, destroyed by the mob’s madness.