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 through the 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 shoulder, the fingers splayed as though begging for mercy.’ Alain’s facial features were frozen in an expression of agony, his twisted torso thrown back. The flames had captured Alain’s dying moments and preserved them as evidence.
A groan emanated from elsewhere in the church. It was the priest, disturbed by the doctor’s loud voice. His cassock somewhat the worse for wear, the priest was sitting in a pew, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, nursing an awful headache. The Norman arches had witnessed unheard-of goings-on the day before, and the priest was now hung over. It was bad enough that the pinewood statue of Christ was being eaten away by dry rot, sprinkling the floor with dust. ‘Keep your voice down,’ the priest ordered the doctor, who continued to dictate his report.
‘Having examined the victim’s corpse, it is reasonable to conclude firstly that Monsieur de Monéys was burnt alive. Secondly, his death was caused by burns and asphyxiation. Thirdly, the recorded injuries on the corpse were caused by pointed, sharp and blunt instruments while he was still alive. Fourthly, one of the injuries, a blow to the head, was delivered from behind the victim while he was still standing. Fifthly, Monsieur de Monéys was dragged along while he was still alive. Sixthly, the combination of his injuries would inevitably have led to his death. Signed in Hautefaye, on 17 August 1870, by Dr Roby-Pavillon, physician.’
The portly doctor turned round. His shoes squeaked, causing the priest to wince. He was having trouble sobering up from the day before. His complexion was literally green and he was close to vomiting. Just then the bronze church bells struck nine, ringing out over Hautefaye.
Police on horseback had combed the surrounding countryside and were now returning to the village. They had arrested several men, who plodded behind them, attached to ropes, hands bound and heads bowed. They were escorted to the already crowded village square and left there. The police officers then set off again in search of other culprits on all the farms and in all the shops in the area.
The public prosecutor from Bordeaux, a young man with sideburns, who had arrived at dawn, had a word with one of the sergeants.
‘Take it easy! Don’t bring back too many. We can’t lock them all up! There are only twenty-one cells in Périgueux jail, and the court won’t be able to try that many either. Think about it. Do you realise that you’d have to arrest six hundred people? It’s a … most unusual crime.’
The prosecutor removed his glasses, wiped them and put them back on as though he could not quite believe his eyes.
‘Very well,’ replied the sergeant. ‘But should we arrest the first man who knocked out his teeth with an iron bar, for example?’
‘No, why? You’ll see there are so many people who did worse … Just settle for the main perpetrators.’
‘And the man who gouged out his eye with a fork?’
‘Yes, well … the man who gouged out his eye, if you like. But don’t worry too much, we’ve got enough. Is that the prefect of Ribérac’s carriage I spy behind those trees?’
‘Yes, that’s him.’
‘The whole of Périgord is deeply concerned,’ said the prefect, alighting from his carriage.
Hautefaye was still in a state of shock as it began to stir. It was almost as though the entire village was hung over. The fierce beauty of the surrounding countryside seemed to beg the question ‘What on earth did you do yesterday? What came over you?’ The villagers shuddered again, appalled at themselves. ‘What did come over us?’ Confusion and bewilderment reigned. Apart from the main square, the village was deserted, almost abandoned. It was in a state of numbness. Residents stayed at home, hiding behind drawn curtains. Sitting around helplessly behind locked doors, eyes staring blankly, mouths hanging open.
‘Open up! It’s the police!’ Fists rapped on the doors.
‘What have we done?’
A surveyor was pacing up and down Hautefaye’s narrow lanes, taking measurements. The taste of slow poison and the smell of death still lingered in the air. He took some tobacco from a pig’s-bladder pouch and stuffed it into his pipe. The surveyor then took out a notebook and sat in the blazing sun marking off the various stations at which Alain had stopped during his ordeal, and plotted a map of his zigzag progress through the village.
Journalists in elegant, grey loose-fitting coats and felt hats hurried over to the prefect, who was donning a cocked hat sporting a large ostrich feather. They followed him to the little lane by Bernard Mathieu’s house, which was surrounded by drummers, scarlet uniforms and black horses.
‘To Alain, who died in God’s love,’ intoned the priest above the roll of goatskin drums. Still nursing his headache, he was now alone in the church.
The elderly mayor of Hautefaye descended the steps of his house wearing just a vest and a somewhat stained and crumpled tricolour sash. He must have slept in it. Above his head, a police officer was perched on a ladder, taking the French flag down from his house. Several men emerged carrying registers of births, marriages and deaths, jostling Bernard Mathieu as they passed.
‘Where shall we take them?’
‘To Mousnier’s place,’ the mayor suggested. ‘They knew Alain very well.’
The alarmed prefect shook his head.
‘Ah yes, I forgot!’ the mayor continued. ‘Well, take them to the schoolmaster. Madame Lachaud was very fond of Monsieur de Monéys …’
‘Clearly, you were elected mayor by virtue of your age alone,’ said the prefect, raising his eyes to the heavens. His voice was cold and harsh. ‘Gentlemen,’ he ordered, ‘take these registers to Élie Mondout’s inn. He shall assume the mayor’s duties for the time being.’
The prefect then drew his gleaming sword. The moment of reckoning had arrived. He slid the sword under Bernard Mathieu’s tricolour sash and gave it a violent tug. Bernard Mathieu bit his lip. Everybody was expecting him to say something, but there was a lump in his throat and no words came out. He farted.
‘Wait, that’s not what I meant!’
Élie Mondout’s inn had become the investigating magistrate’s chambers. Men of the law sat at tables and ordered the country folk with their ragged clothes smelling of manure and garlic to parade before them. They had been reported by Antony, Mazerat, Dubois and the rest of Alain’s protectors, who were present at the inn. Élie Mondout tried to recall the names of the customers who had been sitting outside the day before.
‘There was Roland Liquoine, Girard Feytou, Murguet, Lamongie, the Marthon notary. Who else was here? There were so many of them …’
The accused entered the inn, awkward and disconcerted at finding themselves under arrest. Thibassou came in flanked by two gendarmes, his hands bound. The boy was rather proud to be considered a man and treated as such. He was oblivious of the error of his ways and confidently met people’s eyes. Anna was slicing bread and serving drinks.
‘I was the one who squealed,’ she said, walking past him. She gazed at him sadly and then closed her eyes. She opened them again and stared straight at him.
‘You animal!’ she spat with sheer hatred.
She left the room and headed for the kitchen. She did not speak, smile or sing as she worked. She was just a shadow, slowly going through the routine of getting out plates and cutlery. She stopped dead in the middle of her tasks and then went back to preparing a simple meal of cod and chestnuts.
Soon, through the small window that opened onto the countryside, she heard the pounding of horses’ hooves on the dry earth as they dragged away the two prison wagons.