When the Prussian had devoured his plateful, Saint Anthony gave him another, 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; we will fatten you or we’ll know the reason why, you 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 everyone. 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 humbug. 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 humour. No one but he would have thought of a thing like that. He was a born joker!
He went to see his neighbours 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 fellow, Antoine!”
“I will sell him to you, Césaire, for 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 his hips, shouting, “That is all bacon”; lifted him up in his arms like those of an old Colossus who 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 neighbourhood 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 plagues upon France at the same 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 neighbour 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 great fun to feed the animal. All the neighbours ran over there as they would go to High Mass on Sunday.
But the soldier began to suspect something, 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 tavern to get some brandy.
The soldier rolled his wicked eyes, but he drank, nevertheless; he drank as long as they wanted him, and Saint Anthony kept up with him, 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, by God! They could neither of them stand any more when the bottle was emptied. But neither was conquered. They had 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
