Free Eat Him If You Like by Jean Teulé Page A

dispersed in all directions by the wind. They slipped under the soles of the men who were leaving as they wiped their greasy mouths contentedly on their sleeves.
    ‘There are too many Prussians in Lorraine to put up with one in our village! This one’s burning. I think we’ve made an example of him.’
    ‘I’m glad I hit him in the face four times with my stick, and that those blows really counted against that de Monéys.’
    ‘Against who?’
    ‘Against the Prussian.’
    ‘Oh yes, me too. I whacked the Prussian too.’
    ‘You missed a wonderful roast!’ they told everyone they met. ‘He had as much fat as three sows, that Prussian. He would have lasted us the whole week!’
    The ratter retched on hearing all the culinary details.
    ‘Oh, don’t act all high and mighty!’ laughed the cannibals. ‘You eat rats, and old ones at that!’
    ‘But that was Monsieur de Monéys.’
    ‘What?’
    As they exhaled, fatty residue landed on men’s shoulders. The burnt remains of Magdeleine-Louise and Amédée de Monéys’s son floated up in the air and drifted southwards. The moon gave off an oppressive light that night. Falling leaves whirled and sparred on the path that led to Bretanges. A young man carrying a lantern ran in the direction of the distant house. A frail mother stood at the open drawing-room window worrying about her son. Even though it was dark, the heat was still suffocating. She closed the lid of the piano and saw a plume of smoke rising up over Hautefaye. The sound of running footsteps was like a downpour on the dust. It was their servant, Pascal.
    ‘Why is he running so fast when it’s so hot?’ wondered Alain’s mother, in surprise.
    ‘Madame de Monéys! Madame de Monéys!’
    Pascal burst into the seventeenth-century house.
    ‘It’s Alain, he’s been …’
    A terrible scream tore through the countryside and the night.

16
THE NEXT DAY
    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 throughthe 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