Eat Him If You Like by Jean Teulé Page B

thankfully we both did,’ sighed the elder Campot brother gratefully. He was an intelligent, warm-hearted man with a moustache, a wide forehead and big eyes. His eyes filled with tears as he looked at Jupiter, who would soon be going to war. He clenched his fists and tried to think of something else.
    Alain overtook a few small, exhausted donkeys laden with ripe-smelling melons, and a crowd of artisans from neighbouring parishes.
    ‘I like to dance like there’s no tomorrow!’ declared one of them, a stonemason who was talking about love, happiness and pleasure.
    The plain was as dry as a bone. As Alain continuedcontinued on his way, he was surrounded by goodwill. Flowers of friendship blossomed in his path, and he was met by shouts of ‘Good day, Monsieur de Monéys’, ‘How are you, Alain? And is your mother well?’ François Mazière, a farmer from Plambaut, close to Hautefaye, was telling a man he had come to sell his two bullocks. From time to time, he chivvied them along in patois. ‘ Aqui bloundo! Aqui! Véqué !’
    Alain knew the man who was walking beside him as well. He was a jocular middle aged ragman. He and his small donkey that travelled everywhere with him would go to the farms in Nontron and collect all the tattered clothes and rags. Sometimes people gave them to him for free and sometimes he had to pay a small price. He would then bag them up and deliver them to the paper mills in Thiviers.
    ‘Piarrouty, you must pass by and collect our “scraps” as you call them. I’m sure we have some old rags we can give you. For free, of course,’ Alain added.
    ‘Thank you, Alain,’ replied the ragman, doffing his large hat. ‘I’ll call by next week. You live on the Bretanges estate in Beaussac, don’t you?’
    ‘Yes. When you come, tell my parents I sent you.’
    Alain noticed that the ragman, usually so cheerful, had a melancholy air about him. It seemed as though the heavy weighing hook he carried on his back was dragging him down.
    ‘Is something bothering you, Piarrouty? Your son’s not with you today. He’s not ill, is he?’ asked Alain.
    Piarrouty shook his head and put his hat back on. On the horizon, beyond the shrivelled yellow grass and juniperbushes and well beyond the Nizonne marshes with their stagnant water that poisoned cattle and spread disease and epidemics, Alain noticed a small white trail of smoke from a steam train.
    ‘Périgueux is sending whole trainloads of oats to feed the horses in Lorraine,’ said Mazière, who was standing next to the rag collector.
    Alain galloped along the curved path that led up the hill to Hautefaye and then pulled gently on the reins. His horse slowed down with a flick of his head. They came to a stop outside the school – an isolated building just beyond the main village. Alain jumped from the saddle, using a cork oak for support. He could tell it was a softwood tree from the feel of the bark.
    ‘Here, Thibassou, put my horse with the others. I’m entrusting him to you,’ he commanded, holding the reins out to a boy of fourteen and proffering a coin.
    ‘Thank you, Monsieur de Monéys,’ the boy said, delighted.
    ‘Alain!’ exclaimed a voluptuous woman who was sitting on a chair nearby, in the shade of a lime tree. She looked up briefly from her embroidery and met his gaze.
    ‘How are you, Madame Lachaud? Where’s your husband? Are you teaching even though it’s the fair today?’
    The schoolmaster’s wife had soft round arms and wide hips, and the top buttons of her blouse were undone. She was in no hurry to do them up. On her left stood a young girl of twenty-three who was trying to recite the alphabet.
    ‘Are you no longer ironing clothes in Angoulême, Anna?’ asked Alain, surprised to see her in the village.
    ‘I decided to come back. Do you remember me, Monsieur de Monéys?’
    ‘Oh yes! I sent you a letter, but you never replied.’
    ‘That’s because I don’t know how to write.’
    ‘It must be two years and three