Eat Him If You Like (6 page)
Read Eat Him If You Like Online
Authors: Jean Teulé
Scared off by the threat of Mondout's blunderbuss, the vast, frenzied mob moved towards the village square. Antony, Mazerat and Dubois hurried over to Alain. They had been forced to skirt round part of the village, until they found Alain being kicked around outside Mousnier's inn. His friends, together with Bouteaudon and the mayor's nephew, picked him up and tried to help him into the inn but the door was banged shut, crushing his hand. Three fingers fell to the floor.
As the door swung back open slightly, Alain used his good eye to scour the inside of the newly restored inn. It was an open room with light wooden beams. He could just hear the ticking of a gold clock standing on the mantelpiece.
The pendulum shone momentarily behind the glass. The wallpaper had a pretty, delicate floral pattern. A picture of Alain's fellow sufferer, Christ crucified on Golgotha, hung on the wall. Alain was facing a looking glass, where he was able to see himself for the first time that day.
His head had become a bloody globe, with death laughing impatiently in his left eye. His face had suffered an avalanche, and was pitted with holes and craters. He was unrecognisable, a pitiful sight. His naked torso was deformed, his whole body twitched. In the mirror's reflection, he could see a man in a straw hat approaching him from behind, armed with a hatchet. It was Jean Brouillet, the owner of the Gaugrilles estate. As boys, he and Alain had built tree houses together. Now, however, a sly Brouillet seemed in a hurry to finish Alain off, even though he had done him no harm. Finally! Alain turned round and focused his remaining eye on the brute, who no longer recognised him.
âGo on, hi' me, hi' me, migh' as well! Go on! Go on!'
Alain's jaw was broken in several places and he was unable to articulate clearly. He awaited the inevitable blow that would perhaps kill him, but Bouteaudon stepped in front of the hatchet.
âStop, Brouillet! Leave him be!'
Bouteaudon was all the more supportive of Alain since he himself had always been something of an outsider, as millers often are. Mazerat and Dubois came to his aid, pushed Buisson aside and forced the Campot brothers back, while Antony begged Mousnier to let Alain in. But the innkeeper â a man with a weak chin who was wearing a black
wide-brimmed
felt hat â stood blocking the doorway, and refused.
âYou're out of your mind! A Prussian in my inn?' he said, from the entrance.
âHe isn't a Prussian, he's Monsieur de Monéys!' retorted Antony angrily.
âIs that so? I don't recognise him,' replied Mousnier, looking at Alain. âWhat if he is a Prussian? My newly renovated inn will be destroyed if I let a Prussian in.'
âThis young man lent you money for the work, interest free â¦'
âI never borrowed money from a Prussian!'
âAch! 'Ousnier, iss 'e, A-ain!' protested Alain, trying to force his way in.
âI don't even recognise that voice,' said the innkeeper to Antony. âHe's got a strange accent, he has. I didn't understand a word he said. Was that German?'
And Mousnier slammed the door in Alain's face, leaving him to the mercy of the baying mob. Someone threw a stone that hit the wall to the right of his head. Alain stood hunched, clutching his head in his hands. A mason known to be gregarious and to love dancing â the life and soul of the party â eyed him slyly and smiled. He thought deeply, sure that he could dredge up some vice that would do just as much damage as any shining sword.
âThe report that this man wants to send to the government is not a plan to divert the course of the Nizonne! In fact, it's a ludicrous plan to stop people keeping their cows' horns, unless they dress like him!' he sniggered.
âWhat? Why?'
So it was that this strange tale now spread like wildfire through Hautefaye.
âWho on earth does he think he is? Let's pull off the rest of his clothes and then he'll have to remove his cows' horns too. Strip him! Strip the Prussian!'
They flung themselves at his legs and tore off his trousers. Alain was now completely naked and still being attacked. The torment was unending.
âWhen the time comes, the Emperor will know who hit him and he will reward everybody. He will pay out!' promised a woodcutter from Fontroubade.
âReally?'
A child aimed a slingshot at Alain's nose.
âCome now,' shouted Antony. âSurely there are fifty men here who will help us put a stop to this atrocity? Who's with us?'
His pleas went unanswered. Instead, people repeated, âThe Emperor will pay us for doing his work!' They pummelled Alain relentlessly, carefully aiming their clogs at his kidneys, stomach and face. Hautefaye's schoolmaster, whose whiskers were reminiscent of General Cambronne's famous moustache, stood with one hand in the pocket of his white drill trousers. He kicked Alain in the head as though he were kicking a ball. His lower leg was covered in blood. Even he was under the influence of these thugs. At that point, Alain was like a small ship that has lost its mast yet still battles against the storm. He pitched and rolled under powerful eddies of kicks.
âOver there, the corn exchange! There was no corn this year. Let's take him there and quarter him!' bawled the roofer from La Chapelle-Saint-Robert, as though he had just discovered land from the crow's nest.
And so it was that Alain's soul, victim of a terrible shipwreck, prepared to cast off.
Alain lay on his back, his arms and legs splayed out like a starfish. He was suspended in midair, three feet off the ground. The Campot brothers, Chambort and Mazière had bound his wrists and his huge swollen ankles with ropes, and were pulling him in four different directions. The taut ropes were keeping Alain aloft.
‘Heave ho!’
There were shouts of encouragement. When Alain’s tormentors pulled, he was raised off the ground and when they slackened their hold, his back – an open wound – hit the tiled floor. Their movements became rhythmic and soon they were off again. Alain rose towards the rafters supporting the tiled roof.
‘Heave ho!’
His tormentors sniggered, slithering and sliding in Alain’s blood. They started again. Lord, if only it were an amusing game and not an attempt to tear Alain limb from limb. Other men arrived. Soon there were a dozen of them pulling each rope. Alain’s shoulders dislocated; his femurs were wrenched from their sockets. Did it hurt? How to be sure? His eyes were wide open yet he seemed to be asleep. His sense of time and space was distorted as the universal order was shattered. The sky itself seemed frozen.
‘This is a disgrace!’ said Antony’s voice from afar.
‘You’ve got no right!’ protested Mazerat by his side.
‘There’s no law and order any more,’ came the reply.
‘Animals, animals!’ sobbed Dubois. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘To wash my hands in his blood.’
Alain swung back and forth depending which side pulled the hardest. When they pulled in unison and the ropes were stretched to their limit, Alain’s raised body flapped like a sheet. His blood sprayed everywhere in a mist of tiny droplets. It looked like a constellation. Mingled with the specks of light filtering through the tiled roof, it was a beautiful sight. His blood fell like drizzle as he plummeted towards the tiled floor. He was yanked up once more and all his joints exploded.
The crowd, in their straw hats, smocks, clogs and colourful ribbons, gathered on three sides of the corn exchange to watch. People linked arms to support each other as they swayed back and forth, screaming insults, a harsh tide of cruel words.
The men strained like beasts of burden. Anyone would think they were torturing the man who had attempted to assassinate Louis XV. What was his name? Alain could no longer remember. His mind was gone. They hauled on the ropes. Good God, what strength! Their anger was unjustified and senseless (well, anger always is unjustified and senseless). Alain rose into the air, taking with him his morose concerns. Try not to think about the final plunge.
His healthy blood drained away by the bucketful, spurting from his arteries, forming pools. Jean Campot, at Alain’s right foot, slipped in the blood and fell, taking with him everyone on his rope. This sent the group opposite off balance and they toppled backwards. Drunk, the men to the right and left doubled up laughing and let the rope slip between their fingers.
With no one restraining him, Alain jumped up and rushed bleeding out of the hall, leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind him.
Alain was escaping! People in the corn exchange had believed he was well and truly dead this time, when suddenly he had risen to his feet. The astonished mob, taking him for some kind of ghost, a mythical creature â a
lébérou
for certain â parted in fear, clearing a path for him. He ran with an incredible surge of energy, like a headless chicken. There was no doubt it was a miracle.
His horseshoes grated on the gravel path, and his long shadow formed a strange lolloping silhouette under the burning sun. His outstretched arms were at a strange angle; his shoulders were almost halfway down his chest. His legs were also all askew. His knees rolled in a figure-of-eight movement, something not even seen in the circus. The
whole spectacle was terrifying. A howl rattled in his chest like a hurricane whistling through a ruin.
âCatch him! The Prussian's escaping!' yelled Chambort.
Resembling a fallen gargoyle, Alain ran. He mistakenly thought he was on the road to Nontron, but arrived at a dead end, where the wool merchant â Donzeau â had parked his cart. A fatal error â especially since the mob was closing in on him, like a raging army.
Like bloodhounds on his trail, they continued to hurl abuse at him, in a volley of slanderous accusations. Their forked tongues hissed venomous words. Such shameful and disgraceful human behaviour had never been seen before. Enough of this Waterloo! Enough of this mob! He could take no more from his attackers. Enough! Leave him alone!
â'Eave 'e! 'Eave 'e!'
He sprang forward â how was this possible? â and grabbed a stake from the wool merchant's cart. He turned to face his pursuers. Naked and covered in blood, shit and wounds, a half-blind amputee, Alain faced the raging horde alone. He was the scion of a long line of Périgord knights and he wanted the family name to live on. Determination burnt in his tearful, throbbing head! His limbs beat the air like wings. He stumbled. His thoughts flitted like bats. Ãtienne Campot stepped forward and removed the stake from Alain's hands without difficulty, raised it and dealt him a massive blow. Alain keeled over backwards between the shafts of Donzeau's cart, horseshoes waving in the air. His body rolled and finally came to rest under Mercier's wagon.
Clogs clattered on the wooden planks, like a spatter of heavy raindrops. Alain lay on the ground, curled in a bleeding ball, eyeing the many feet that were trying to kick him.
He was safe between the wheels of the large horse-drawn carriage parked against a wall. Feet could not reach him there. Men gathered round in ascending circles, banging on the wheels, the suspension, and the planks of the cart, which was used to drive families to funerals and weddings or to take them to Périgueux market.
They stamped up and down in their heavy clogs, the studs in their soles hitting the metal frame and sending up showers of sparks. Their heels came thumping down on the rotting shafts, which splintered. The floor caved in. Between the broken slats, Alain could now see the underside of the
seats and the thin upright columns at the four corners of the carriage. The curtains came loose and flew off. It was surreal! Tornadoes of dust glittered in the sunshine.
The carriage, specially decorated for the parades, was like a motorised machine. With pistons and explosions, it seemed to be turning into an automobile and moving all by itself. Wait, no, men were pushing it. Buisson and Mazière hauled Alain out by his legs. His head dragged behind, bumping on the stones. He was back in Hautefaye village square once more. Bernard Mathieu appeared, sporting his mayor's sash, jiggling the tassels and fringes.
âHey, Moureau, don't you think he's had enough?' he asked the old farmer from Grand-Gillou, who was pelting Alain with stones.
âBut, Your Worship, he's a Prussian. He must pay the price!'
The old farmer's reply was met with cheers of âPrussian! Villain! Villain!' The men surrounding Alain laughed and boasted, playing up their horrific behaviour to impress each other. Look how many of them supported Napoleon III. They weren't fooled by a Prussian except ⦠Alain was no Prussian. But he no longer had the strength to contradict them. Battered and weary of the constant attacks, the gratuitous jibes, he let them drag him along without putting up the slightest resistance.
Some of his attackers were tired as well. They could be seen wandering around, dishevelled and clutching bloodstained sticks. âHitting a man for two hours is exhausting!' They left to have a drink.
Despite Alain's cordial greeting earlier, they did not
even deign to say goodbye. He could not endure any more, but his few friends still did not desert him. Brutal hands continued to pummel him and his situation became ever more desperate. Antony shouted at Bernard Mathieu â a good-for-nothing king presiding over an execution.
âYour Worship, rather than putting on airs and strutting around in your sash, help us save him! A terrible crime is being committed in your village!'
âWhy are you meddling?'
âI'm meddling because someone is being murdered and you're doing nothing!'
âGet this man out of here,' the mayor ordered the men holding Alain's ankles, taking a step towards them. âHe's blocking the road. Take him somewhere else.'
Antony sighed in despair.
âWhat shall we do with him somewhere else?' enquired Buisson and Mazière.
âWhatever you want!' replied the mayor, completely out of his depth. âEat him if you like.'