Eat Him If You Like Read Free Page B

Maillard. ‘It says so in the newspaper.’
    Silence descended on the villagers who had gathered around de Maillard, the bearer of bad news. Many of them stared at their feet or gazed into the distance. The labourer from Javerlhac was sad that his glass was already empty and that he couldn’t afford to refill it.
    ‘You’re an idiot,’ he said.
    ‘You’re no more able to read than we are,’ said a sawyer from Vieux-Mareuil, examining a large fly crawling on his finger.
    ‘The French will never retreat!’ shouted a butcher from Charras, flicking the fly away as it came to land on his nose.
    But de Maillard was emphatic. By saying that he knew for certain that the most recent battles had been even bloodier than reported in the Dordogne Echo , he was spreading panic amongst the relatives of soldiers. He said the government had ordered that the real numbers of dead be hushed up in case people started to worry. He said the war was lost, that Napoleon III was beaten and that perhaps nothing could stop the Prussians from taking over France. ‘Regrettably,’ he said, wincing, but nobody heard his sigh.
    His pessimistic analysis of the situation caused indignation. A donkey brayed. Pigs banged their snouts against the fences. Two men in leather aprons carrying goads chivvied along a calf. The tinsmiths started to bang on their cauldrons with mallets. Horse traders, whips slung over their shoulders, moved closer, their voices growing louder. The strong wine was already going to people’s heads.
    ‘It’s awful to hear such things. To think that some people are happy about what’s happening!’ grumbled a villager under his breath, fiddling with his shirt-tails and not daring to look up.
    ‘Long live the militia!’ shouted somebody, already tipsy on cheap wine.
    Camille de Maillard’s servant, Jean-Jean, who was standing nearby, must have sensed danger. Failed businesses,drought and now fear of invasion were poisoning the fair’s atmosphere. He whispered urgently into his master’s ear. As de Maillard turned his head sideways, Alain could not fail to recognise his sideburns, cut in the style of old King Louis-Philippe. Suddenly, the arrogant young man bolted, pushing people out of his way, and jumping over the low wall to the right of the road with Jean-Jean at his heels. They ran across the sloping field and headed for a small wood. Three villagers jumped the barrier as well and followed them. It was almost like a children’s game, like watching little tin soldiers on a green baize surface. The farmers soon fell behind, their boots hampering their progress. De Maillard and his servant fled as quickly as they could. People seemed furious that they had managed to escape. Their pursuers returned, climbed back over the low, stone wall and surveyed the crowd.
    ‘Now now, my friends, what’s going on?’ said Alain, limping towards them.
    ‘It’s your cousin,’ explained a pedlar. ‘He shouted, “Long live Prussia!”’
    ‘What? No! Come now, I was standing just here, and that’s not what I heard at all! And I know de Maillard well enough to be sure that he would never say such a thing. “Long live Prussia”? That’s almost as ridiculous as shouting “Down with France!”’
    ‘What did you just say?’
    ‘I beg your pardon?’
    ‘You said “Down with France!”’
    ‘What? No, of course I didn’t!’
    ‘Yes, you did! You said “Down with France!”’
    ‘But no, I didn’t say that. I—’
    ‘All those who heard him cry “Down with France!” raise your hand!’ said the pedlar, addressing the people standing by the low wall.
    ‘Oh, I heard him say “Down with France!”’ said a voice, and a hand shot up.
    Other fists were raised, five, then ten. Some villagers who may not even have heard the question saw hands go up and raised theirs too. People asked their neighbours what had happened.
    ‘Someone said “Down with France!”’
    A forest of hands went up to vouch for the fact.
    ‘Who