They called him Saint Anthony, because his name was Anthony, and also,
perhaps, because he was a good fellow, jovial, a lover of practical
jokes, a tremendous eater and a heavy drinker and a gay fellow, although
he was sixty years old.
He was a big peasant of the district of Caux, with a red face, large
chest and stomach, and perched on two legs that seemed too slight for the
bulk of his body.
He was a widower and lived alone with his two men servants and a maid on
his farm, which he conducted with shrewd economy. He was careful of his
own interests, understood business and the raising of cattle, and
farming. His two sons and his three daughters, who had married well, were
living in the neighborhood and came to dine with their father once a
month. His vigor of body was famous in all the countryside. “He is as
strong as Saint Anthony,” had become a kind of proverb.
At the time of the Prussian invasion Saint Anthony, at the wine shop,
promised to eat an army, for he was a braggart, like a true Norman, a bit
of a coward and a blusterer. He banged his fist on the wooden table,
making the cups and the brandy glasses dance, and cried with the assumed
wrath of a good fellow, with a flushed face and a sly look in his eye: “I
shall have to eat some of them, nom de Dieu!” He reckoned that the
Prussians would not come as far as Tanneville, but when he heard they
were at Rautot he never went out of the house, and constantly watched the
road from the little window of his kitchen, expecting at any moment to
see the bayonets go by.
One morning as he was eating his luncheon with the servants the door
opened and the mayor of the commune, Maitre Chicot, appeared, followed by
a soldier wearing a black copper-pointed helmet. Saint Anthony bounded to
his feet and his servants all looked at him, expecting to see him slash
the Prussian. But he merely shook hands with the mayor, who said:
“Here is one for you, Saint Anthony. They came last night. Don't do
anything foolish, above all things, for they talked of shooting and
burning everything if there is the slightest unpleasantness, I have given
you warning. Give him something to eat; he looks like a good fellow.
Good-day. I am going to call on the rest. There are enough for all.” And
he went out.
Father Anthony, who had turned pale, looked at the Prussian. He was a
big, young fellow with plump, white skin, blue eyes, fair hair, unshaven
to his cheek bones, who looked stupid, timid and good. The shrewd Norman
read him at once, and, reassured, he made him a sign to sit down. Then he
said: “Will you take some soup?”
The stranger did not understand. Anthony then became bolder, and pushing
a plateful of soup right under his nose, he said: “Here, swallow that,
big pig!”
The soldier answered “Ya,” and began to eat greedily, while the farmer,
triumphant, feeling he had regained his reputation, winked his eye at the
servants, who were making strange grimaces, what with their terror and
their desire to laugh.
When the Prussian had devoured his soup, Saint Anthony gave him another
plateful, which disappeared in like manner; but he flinched at the third
which the farmer tried to insist on his eating, saying: “Come, put that
into your stomach; 'twill fatten you or it is your own fault, eh, pig!”
The soldier, understanding only that they wanted to make him eat all his
soup, laughed in a contented manner, making a sign to show that he could
not hold any more.
Then Saint Anthony, become quite familiar, tapped him on the stomach,
saying: “My, there is plenty in my pig's belly!” But suddenly he began to
writhe with laughter, unable to speak. An idea had struck him which made
him choke with mirth. “That's it, that's it, Saint Anthony and his pig.
There's my pig!” And the three servants burst out laughing in their turn.
The old fellow was so pleased that he had the brandy brought in, good
stuff, 'fil en dix', and treated every one. They clinked glasses with the
Prussian, who clacked his tongue by way of flattery to show that he
enjoyed it. And Saint Anthony exclaimed in his face: “Eh, is not that
superfine? You don't get anything like that in your home, pig!”
From that time Father Anthony never went out without his Prussian. He had
got what he wanted. This was his vengeance, the vengeance of an old
rogue. And the whole countryside, which was in terror, laughed to split
its sides at Saint Anthony's joke. Truly, there was no one like him when
it came to humor. No one but he would have thought of a thing like that.
He was a born joker!
He went to see his neighbors every day, arm in arm with his German, whom
he introduced in a jovial manner, tapping him on the shoulder: “See, here
is my pig; look and see if he is not growing fat, the animal!”
And the peasants would beam with smiles. “He is so comical, that reckless
fellow, Antoine!”
“I will sell him to you, Cesaire, for three pistoles” (thirty francs).
“I will take him, Antoine, and I invite you to eat some black pudding.”
“What I want is his feet.”
“Feel his belly; you will see that it is all fat.”
And they all winked at each other, but dared not laugh too loud, for fear
the Prussian might finally suspect they were laughing at him. Anthony,
alone growing bolder every day, pinched his thighs, exclaiming, “Nothing
but fat”; tapped him on the back, shouting, “That is all bacon”; lifted
him up in his arms as an old Colossus that could have lifted an anvil,
declaring, “He weighs six hundred and no waste.”
He had got into the habit of making people offer his “pig” something to
eat wherever they went together. This was the chief pleasure, the great
diversion every day. “Give him whatever you please, he will swallow
everything.” And they offered the man bread and butter, potatoes, cold
meat, chitterlings, which caused the remark, “Some of your own, and
choice ones.”
The soldier, stupid and gentle, ate from politeness, charmed at these
attentions, making himself ill rather than refuse, and he was actually
growing fat and his uniform becoming tight for him. This delighted Saint
Anthony, who said: “You know, my pig, that we shall have to have another
cage made for you.”
They had, however, become the best friends in the world, and when the old
fellow went to attend to his business in the neighborhood the Prussian
accompanied him for the simple pleasure of being with him.
The weather was severe; it was freezing hard. The terrible winter of 1870
seemed to bring all the scourges on France at one time.
Father Antoine, who made provision beforehand, and took advantage of
every opportunity, foreseeing that manure would be scarce for the spring
farming, bought from a neighbor who happened to be in need of money all
that he had, and it was agreed that he should go every evening with his
cart to get a load.
So every day at twilight he set out for the farm of Haules, half a league
distant, always accompanied by his “pig.” And each time it was a
festival, feeding the animal. All the neighbors ran over there as they
would go to high mass on Sunday.
But the soldier began to suspect something, be mistrustful, and when they
laughed too loud he would roll his eyes uneasily, and sometimes they
lighted up with anger.
One evening when he had eaten his fill he refused to swallow another
morsel, and attempted to rise to leave the table. But Saint Anthony
stopped him by a turn of the wrist and, placing his two powerful hands on
his shoulders, he sat him down again so roughly that the chair smashed
under him.
A wild burst of laughter broke forth, and Anthony, beaming, picked up his
pig, acted as though he were dressing his wounds, and exclaimed: “Since
you will not eat, you shall drink, nom de Dieu!” And they went to the
wine shop to get some brandy.
The soldier rolled his eyes, which had a wicked expression, but he drank,
nevertheless; he drank as long as they wanted him, and Saint Anthony held
his head to the great delight of his companions.
The Norman, red as a tomato, his eyes ablaze, filled up the glasses and
clinked, saying: “Here's to you!”. And the Prussian, without speaking a
word, poured down one after another glassfuls of cognac.
It was a contest, a battle, a revenge! Who would drink the most, nom d'un
nom! They could neither of them stand any more when the liter was
emptied. But neither was conquered. They were tied, that was all. They
would have to begin again the next day.
They went out staggering and started for home, walking beside the dung
cart which was drawn along slowly by two horses.
Snow began to fall and the moonless night was sadly lighted by this dead
whiteness on the plain. The men began to feel the cold, and this
aggravated their intoxication. Saint Anthony, annoyed at not being the
victor, amused himself by shoving his companion so as to make him fall
over into the ditch. The other would dodge backwards, and each time he
did he uttered some German expression in an angry tone, which made the
peasant roar with laughter. Finally the Prussian lost his temper, and
just as Anthony was rolling towards him he responded with such a terrific
blow with his fist that the Colossus staggered.
Then, excited by the brandy, the old man seized the pugilist round the
waist, shook him for a few moments as he would have done with a little
child, and pitched him at random to the other side of the road. Then,
satisfied with this piece of work, he crossed his arms and began to laugh
afresh.
But the soldier picked himself up in a hurry, his head bare, his helmet
having rolled off, and drawing his sword he rushed over to Father
Anthony.
When he saw him coming the peasant seized his whip by the top of the
handle, his big holly wood whip, straight, strong and supple as the sinew
of an ox.
The Prussian approached, his head down, making a lunge with his sword,
sure of killing his adversary. But the old fellow, squarely hitting the
blade, the point of which would have pierced his stomach, turned it
aside, and with the butt end of the whip struck the soldier a sharp blow
on the temple and he fell to the ground.
Then he, gazed aghast, stupefied with amazement, at the body, twitching
convulsively at first and then lying prone and motionless. He bent over
it, turned it on its back, and gazed at it for some time. The man's eyes
were closed, and blood trickled from a wound at the side of his forehead.
Although it was dark, Father Anthony could distinguish the bloodstain on
the white snow.
He remained there, at his wit's end, while his cart continued slowly on
its way.
What was he to do? He would be shot! They would burn his farm, ruin his
district! What should he do? What should he do? How could he hide the
body, conceal the fact of his death, deceive the Prussians? He heard
voices in the distance, amid the utter stillness of the snow. All at once
he roused himself, and picking up the helmet he placed it on his victim's
head. Then, seizing him round the body, he lifted him up in his arms, and
thus running with him, he overtook his team, and threw the body on top of
the manure. Once in his own house he would think up some plan.
He walked slowly, racking his brain, but without result. He saw, he felt,
that he was lost. He entered his courtyard. A light was shining in one of
the attic windows; his maid was not asleep. He hastily backed his wagon
to the edge of the manure hollow. He thought that by overturning the
manure the body lying on top of it would fall into the ditch and be
buried beneath it, and he dumped the cart.
As he had foreseen, the man was buried beneath the manure. Anthony evened
it down with his fork, which he stuck in the ground beside it. He called
his stableman, told him to put up the horses, and went to his room.
He went to bed, still thinking of what he had best do, but no ideas came
to him. His apprehension increased in the quiet of his room. They would
shoot him! He was bathed in perspiration from fear, his teeth chattered,
he rose shivering, not being able to stay in bed.
He went downstairs to the kitchen, took the bottle of brandy from the
sideboard and carried it upstairs. He drank two large glasses, one after
another, adding a fresh intoxication to the late one, without quieting
his mental anguish. He had done a pretty stroke of work, nom de Dieu,
idiot!
He paced up and down, trying to think of some stratagem, some
explanations, some cunning trick, and from time to time he rinsed his
mouth with a swallow of “fil en dix” to give him courage.
But no ideas came to him, not one.
Towards midnight his watch dog, a kind of cross wolf called “Devorant,”
began to howl frantically. Father Anthony shuddered to the marrow of his
bones, and each time the beast began his long and lugubrious wail the old
man's skin turned to goose flesh.
He had sunk into a chair, his legs weak, stupefied, done up, waiting
anxiously for “Devorant” to set up another howl, and starting
convulsively from nervousness caused by terror.
The clock downstairs struck five. The dog was still howling. The peasant
was almost insane. He rose to go and let the dog loose, so that he should
not hear him. He went downstairs, opened the hall door, and stepped out
into the darkness. The snow was still falling. The earth was all white,
the farm buildings standing out like black patches. He approached the
kennel. The dog was dragging at his chain. He unfastened it. “Devorant”
gave a bound, then stopped short, his hair bristling, his legs rigid, his
muzzle in the air, his nose pointed towards the manure heap.
Saint Anthony, trembling from head to foot, faltered:
“What's the matter with you, you dirty hound?” and he walked a few steps
forward, gazing at the indistinct outlines, the sombre shadow of the
courtyard.
Then he saw a form, the form of a man sitting on the manure heap!
He gazed at it, paralyzed by fear, and breathing hard. But all at once he
saw, close by, the handle of the manure fork which was sticking in the
ground. He snatched it up and in one of those transports of fear that
will make the greatest coward brave he rushed forward to see what it was.
It was he, his Prussian, come to life, covered with filth from his bed of
manure which had kept him warm. He had sat down mechanically, and
remained there in the snow which sprinkled down, all covered with dirt
and blood as he was, and still stupid from drinking, dazed by the blow
and exhausted from his wound.
He perceived Anthony, and too sodden to understand anything, he made an
attempt to rise. But the moment the old man recognized him, he foamed
with rage like a wild animal.
“Ah, pig! pig!” he sputtered. “You are not dead! You are going to
denounce me now--wait--wait!”
And rushing on the German with all the strength of leis arms he flung the
raised fork like a lance and buried the four prongs full length in his
breast.
The soldier fell over on his back, uttering a long death moan, while the
old peasant, drawing the fork out of his breast, plunged it over and over
again into his abdomen, his stomach, his throat, like a madman, piercing
the body from head to foot, as it still quivered, and the blood gushed
out in streams.
Finally he stopped, exhausted by his arduous work, swallowing great
mouthfuls of air, calmed down at the completion of the murder.
As the cocks were beginning to crow in the poultry yard and it was near
daybreak, he set to work to bury the man.
He dug a hole in the manure till he reached the earth, dug down further,
working wildly, in a frenzy of strength with frantic motions of his arms
and body.
When the pit was deep enough he rolled the corpse into it with the fork,
covered it with earth, which he stamped down for some time, and then put
back the manure, and he smiled as he saw the thick snow finishing his
work and covering up its traces with a white sheet.
He then stuck the fork in the manure and went into the house. His bottle,
still half full of brandy stood on the table. He emptied it at a draught,
threw himself on his bed and slept heavily.
He woke up sober, his mind calm and clear, capable of judgment and
thought.
At the end of an hour he was going about the country making inquiries
everywhere for his soldier. He went to see the Prussian officer to find
out why they had taken away his man.
As everyone knew what good friends they were, no one suspected him. He
even directed the research, declaring that the Prussian went to see the
girls every evening.
An old retired gendarme who had an inn in the next village, and a pretty
daughter, was arrested and shot.