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at the open window by the front door refused.
    â€˜So that they can come and smash our crockery? Whatever next? Bernard, come back and finish your dinner!’ she commanded, resting her hands on the shoulders of her eight-year-old granddaughter, who was sobbing in panic at the sight of the fists and sticks raining down on Alain in a swirl of light, dust and mist.
    â€˜Alain, go and play somewhere else; you’re making my little granddaughter cry,’ requested the mayor, ever the attentive grandfather.
    â€˜I don’t believe it. The mayor … This is outrageous,’ said Bouteaudon, devastated.
    â€˜What are you going to do, Bernard?’ asked Antony.
    â€˜Finish my supper.’
    Alain looked over at the dwelling he was not allowed to enter. Behind the mayor, he could make out one bed, a broken sideboard and four chairs. The curtains at the window had once been white but were now spattered with squashed bugs. Hautefaye’s mayor closed the door on the ugly, faded decor. A key turned twice in the lock. The mayor’s moustachioed nephew, Georges, who was a baker in Beaussac, banged on the shutters that his aunt had just closed.
    â€˜Aunt! Uncle! Open up, if only for Monsieur de Monéys! We must protect him!’
    â€˜It’s none of our business!’
    Driven back against the wall, Alain appealed softly to the brutes.
    â€˜My friends, you’re mistaken. I’m ready to suffer for France …’
    â€˜You’ll suffer all right; we’ll make sure you suffer!’ said François Chambort, a blacksmith from Pouvrières, grabbing Alain by the hair. As children, they had fished for crayfish together. Alain was hurt to see his former playmate hatching some grisly plan right in front of his eyes, something vicious and relentless. François blew noisily on his hat and commanded in a cattle drover’s voice, ‘Take the Prussianover the road to the smithy! I know what we can do! We can tie him to the frame and shoe him like a horse!’

7
THE BLACKSMITH’S FORGE
    The Campot brothers dragged Alain to the smithy. Buisson and Mazière kicked him in the shins to hurry him along. Chambort was shouting out orders. The crowd surged forward.
    â€˜Castrate him while you’re at it, the son of a bitch. Then he won’t defile our women,’ bayed Madame Lachaud.
    They successfully manoeuvred Alain between the four posts of the frame used to restrain horses. Lying on his back between the wooden bars, his hands and feet bound, Alain shouted feebly, ‘Long live the Emperor!’ Men surrounded him, pressing in. The ordeal was endless. Straps and ropes were tightened, constricting his chest and throat. He choked. He struggled, his legs flailing wildly. Duroulet, a labourerfrom Javerlhac, pulled off Alain’s brown boots and another man removed his purple silk socks. In the crowd, Lamongie – a stocky farmer with ginger hair – was brandishing a huge pair of pliers. Alain had known him as a boy; they had raided magpies’ nests together.
    â€˜We’ll clip the Prussian’s hooves for him!’ he said.
    A puffed-up turkey fled between people’s legs, flapping its wings. Lamongie gripped the lower part of Alain’s big toe with his pincers and pulled as though he were extracting a nail from a wall. He staggered backwards, holding the toe in his pincers. Alain howled. The crowd sniggered. Chambort took Lamongie’s place and held a horseshoe to the sole of Alain’s lame foot. Suddenly, he banged in a nail with a single stroke, shattering his heel. The other twenty-six bones in Alain’s foot seemed to splinter too. The pain rose to his knee, his groin and then tore into his chest, suffocating him. His shoulders tensed and he thought his head would explode. Chambort nailed a second shoe to the other foot. Alain’s head jerked backwards, his eyes rolling. Memories surged into his mind. He felt like a ship being