alone!
ââEave âe! âEave âe!â
He sprang forward â how was this possible? â and grabbed a stake from the wool merchantâs 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 Alainâs hands without difficulty, raised it and dealt him a massive blow. Alain keeled over backwards between the shafts of Donzeauâs cart, horseshoes waving in the air. His body rolled and finally came to rest under Mercierâs wagon.
13
MERCIERâS 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 theseats 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 mayorâs sash, jiggling the tassels and fringes.
âHey, Moureau, donât you think heâs had enough?â he asked the old farmer from Grand-Gillou, who was pelting Alain with stones.
âBut, Your Worship, heâs a Prussian. He must pay the price!â
The old farmerâs reply was met with cheers of âPrussian! Villain! Villain!â 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 werenât 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!â They left to have a drink.
Despite Alainâs cordial greeting earlier, they did noteven 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!â
âWhy are you meddling?â
âIâm meddling because someone is being murdered and youâre doing nothing!â
âGet this man out of here,â the mayor ordered the men holding Alainâs ankles, taking a step towards them.
ââEave âe! âEave âe!â
He sprang forward â how was this possible? â and grabbed a stake from the wool merchantâs 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 Alainâs hands without difficulty, raised it and dealt him a massive blow. Alain keeled over backwards between the shafts of Donzeauâs cart, horseshoes waving in the air. His body rolled and finally came to rest under Mercierâs wagon.
13
MERCIERâS 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 theseats 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 mayorâs sash, jiggling the tassels and fringes.
âHey, Moureau, donât you think heâs had enough?â he asked the old farmer from Grand-Gillou, who was pelting Alain with stones.
âBut, Your Worship, heâs a Prussian. He must pay the price!â
The old farmerâs reply was met with cheers of âPrussian! Villain! Villain!â 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 werenât 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!â They left to have a drink.
Despite Alainâs cordial greeting earlier, they did noteven 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!â
âWhy are you meddling?â
âIâm meddling because someone is being murdered and youâre doing nothing!â
âGet this man out of here,â the mayor ordered the men holding Alainâs ankles, taking a step towards them.
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