“Very good! Incidentally, what is your name?”
“Julius Caesar.”
“Right then, Julius Caesar, follow me. I’ll buy you some lunch.”
So Julius Caesar became Lustucru’s second-in-command. Between the two of them, they raised an army, trained it and drilled it, and then they crossed the Alps from Italy and marched into the land of Gaul.
Everyone knows the story of their victory. As the Gaulish tribes could not stop fighting amongst themselves, Lustucru began by making alliances with some tribes and playing them off against the others. In this way, he reached the heart of the land. Then he helped the Gauls in their battles against the Germans, which allowed him to work his way even further into favour. But, little by little, the Gauls began to notice that, instead of helping them, Lustucru was actually taking over Gaul. At this, they resolved to forget their quarrels and come together once and for all to drive the Romans out. The young king of the Arvernes tribe, a certain Vercingetorix, took charge of the movement, and this time it was open war. By rights, the Romans ought to have been wiped out, for they were only a handful of men in the middle of a hostile country. But while they were courageous and energetic, the Gauls were terribly lacking in discipline and team spirit. In the end, having retreated to the town of Alesia, Vercingetorix was forced to admit defeat and gave himself up to Lustucru.
Lustucru wrote the whole story down in a book and gave it to Julius Caesar, saying:
“Take this book to the Romans, and bring Vercingetorix along to show them too. Tell them that Lustucru has conquered the land of Gaul for them.”
But Julius Caesar was both envious and jealous. He took a rubber, a reed pen and some ink, and he rewrote the story. Everywhere the name Lustucru appeared, he rubbed it out and wrote Caesar; everywhere he found Lustucrum, he put Caesarem; and everywhere he found Lustucro, he replaced it with Caesari or Caesare. In short, wherever Lustucru’s name appeared, he rubbed it out and put his own.
When Caesar got to Rome, he told the Roman senators:
“I, Julius Caesar, have just conquered Gaul. Here is the book in which I tell of my adventures. And now, you must make me emperor.”
“Oh, is that what you think?” replied the Romans.
“If you won’t do it,” retorted Julius Caesar, “I’ll send my army to fight you!”
“Oh, well, in that case…” said the Romans.
And they crowned him Emperor of Rome.
Caesar entered Rome in the midst of a superb parade and immediately had Vercingetorix strangled, so he could not tell the truth about Gaul. Then Caesar sent two of his men back to Gaul, with orders to kill Lustucru. As soon as they arrived, Lustucru, who had been waiting impatiently for news from Rome, had them brought to his tent. Inside the tent, the two men drew their swords and ran his heart through. Although he was immortal, Lustucru was still painfully surprised. He realized that once again he had been robbed of first place and, sickened and frustrated, he retreated to Germania.
The Germans allowed him to live among them because of his bravery, but they refused to let him lead them. They didn’t want to take orders from a gentleman called Lustucru any more than the Romans did. Once more, our hero had to settle for an inferior position.
A few centuries later, the Germans invaded the Roman Empire and the Franks occupied Gaul. Have you heard of Clovis, king of the Franks? Well, at that time, Lustucru was one of Clovis’s warriors.
In the year 486, after defeating the last of the Roman armies still stationed in Gaul, Clovis seized the town of Soissons and ransacked it. All the valuable things found there were gathered together and then given away in a raffle. Lustucru won a fabulous vase from the church of Soissons. When the raffle was over, King Clovis came to make Lustucru an offer:
“Give me your vase,” he said, “and I’ll give you something in exchange…”
But, fed up of being treated like a nobody, Lustucru flew into a rage. With one swing of his axe, he smashed the precious vase into smithereens, saying to Clovis:
“You’ll have only your share, nothing more!”
Clovis left without another word. But, since he tended to bear grudges, he did not forget this scene. A few weeks later, coming across his soldier Lustucru, Clovis dropped his weapons on the ground. Lustucru bent down to pick them up. As he did so, Clovis brandished his battleaxe and split Lustucru’s head in two, saying:
“This is no more than you did with the vase from Soissons!”
And off he went, believing he had killed Lustucru. In fact, Lustucru only went to bed with a serious migraine, but he also left Clovis’s army for good.
At that point, we lose track of him for quite a while. Besides, it would be impossible for us to tell you every detail of his long, long life, even if we had all the necessary records.
In the year 732, the Arabs came up from Spain and occupied the South of France. Hoping to stop their advance, the Frankish leader, Charles Martel, took the Frankish army to meet them. The two armies fought the Battle of Poitiers. It was very bloody and went on all day long. When night fell, the two armies withdrew to their camps, although nobody knew exactly who had won. Everyone was very tired, and the two sides went to sleep.
Lustucru, however, stayed awake. He crept unseen out of the Frankish camp and attacked the Arab camp, all by himself. In less than an hour, he had killed hundreds of the enemy. However hard the poor Muslims defended themselves, whether with swords, lances, axes or maces, Lustucru went on slaughtering them, and his wounds went on vanishing as soon as they were made. Seeing this, the Arabs took him for the Devil, struck their camp and scarpered without waiting for dawn.
The following morning, Charles Martel woke up and saw that the enemy had retreated.
“Look at this! How peculiar!” he said. “So who drove them away?”
“I did!” said a soldier, saluting him.
“You did? What is your name?”
“My name is Lustucru!”
Hearing his name, the entire Frankish army burst out laughing, and Charles Martel giggled:
“That’s ridiculous! How will we sound if we go about saying that Lustucru beat the Arabs at Poitiers? Let it be thoroughly understood that they were beaten by me. And whoever says they weren’t shall have his head cut off!”
So it was that, once again, the name of Lustucru was rubbed out of history.
Lustucru went on to do many more things. It was he who sounded the horn at Roncevaux, in the year 778. It was he who conquered England for the Normans in 1066. It was he too who drove the English out of France: Du Guesclin, the Eagle of Brittany, was in fact Lustucru; the Great Ferré was Lustucru too; Joan of Arc was also Lustucru… It was Lustucru who recognized Louis XVI at Varennes and who composed the French national anthem, the Marseillaise. It was not Napoleon who crossed the Bridge of Arcole on foot beneath a hail of Austrian bullets—no, it was Lustucru, Lustucru every time! Some might even claim that it was he who, on the 18th June 1940, at the microphone of Radio London, made a certain wartime broadcast… but we must stop there. Go any further and we’ll get mixed up in politics.
Poor Lustucru had lived a good two thousand years by this time, and despite all his astounding feats, his name remained unknown to history. Thoroughly discouraged, he went to find the great witch of rue Mouffetard.
“Good morning, Madame Witch.”
“Good morning, monsieur. You’re looking rather sad. What on earth is wrong?”
“Well, it’s this: I am tall, I am strong, I am brave and I’m immortal. I’ve done hundreds of great things that everyone knows about, but nobody knows that I’m the one who did them, and nobody knows my name!”
“That is a strange case,” said the witch. “And what is your name?”
“My name is Lustucru.”
“Lustucru? Now I understand! My poor monsieur, with a name like that, historians will never give you any of the credit!”
“Do you really think so?”
“I’m sure of it! If you want to be famous,
there’s only one thing to do…”
“What’s that?”
“Have a song written about you!”
“That’s a great idea! But how?”
“I haven’t a clue,” said the witch. “And it looks as though nobody else does either. Why people like Malbrough and King Dagobert are praised in popular songs while the Great Condé and King Chilperic aren’t is a mystery to me. All you can do is wait. After all, there’s no rush: you are immortal already!”
“That’s true,” said Lustucru.
He thanked the witch, then left Paris and, resigned to a long life of mediocrity, he settled down in a small village where he bought a beautiful house on the high street.
Months went by, then years. Every morning, Lustucru sat in a big armchair by his open window and spent the day gazing over at his neighbour opposite, a certain Madame Michel, who lived alone in a house with green shutters and only her cat for company. Looking at Madame Michel like that, every day, he ended up falling in love with her. One fine Sunday after church, he bought a bunch of flowers, smoothed out his best Sunday suit and put on his tie and gloves, then he crossed the road and rang his neighbour’s doorbell. She opened the door.
“Monsieur… What can I do for you?”
“Forgive me, Madame Michel, I am your neighbour from across the road…”
“You’re my neighbour? I hardly recognized you! How handsome you are! Do come in for five minutes. Won’t you have a little something with me?”
“With pleasure, Madame Michel… Here: some flowers for you!”
“Oh, you are kind! And they are pretty! Do sit down; I’ll put them in some water.”
“Tell me, Madame Michel…”
“I’m all ears, neighbour.”
“In that case… I have come to ask for your hand in marriage.”
“You want to marry me?”
“Yes, Madame Michel.”
“Oh, but that’s impossible! I hardly know you…”
“You will come to know me, Madame Michel. You can see already that I am tall, I am strong, I am brave and, what’s more, I am immortal!”
“Goodness me,” she said, “I must admit I’m interested. And what is your name?”
“My name is Lustucru.”
As soon as she heard this name, Madame Michel’s face fell; horrified, she replied:
“Oh no, neighbour, this cannot be! You are a fine man, I won’t deny it, you are even very pleasant, but I am a serious woman. I have no desire to be the laughing stock of the whole county! Ask me anything, but not to call myself Madame Lustucru. I would much rather remain alone!”
Once more, poor Lustucru’s plans were foiled by his own name. But this time he was in love, and he would not admit defeat.
That evening, while standing at the door of his house enjoying the fresh air, Lustucru caught sight of a dim shadow slinking along by the side of the road. Looking more carefully, he recognized his neighbour’s cat. He called:
“Pussy! Pussy!”
Unafraid, the cat came over, wanting to be stroked. Lustucru snatched him up, carried him into the house and then locked him in a small shed, right at the bottom of his garden. After which he went to bed, chuckling to himself and rubbing his hands.
The following morning, on the stroke of eight, Lustucru was violently awoken by high-pitched shrieks. It was Madame Michel, at her window, wailing:
“Alas, my little pussycat! Where is my little pussycat? I’ve lost him! Has nobody seen my little pussy? Who will bring back my little pussycat?”
Lustucru got up and popped his head out of the window.
“Hello there, Madame Michel, what’s wrong?”
“Ah, Monsieur Lustucru, it’s my little pussycat! I’ve lost my little pussy!”
“Why, not at all, you haven’t lost him.”
“What do you mean? Do you know where he is?”
“I do indeed.”
“Where is he?”
“With me.”
“With you? Oh, thank goodness! I’ll come and pick him up right away.”
“Just a moment, Madame Michel. I did not say I would give him back to you!”
“What—you won’t give him back? But you have no right! He is my little pussycat! I cannot live without my little pussy!”
“And I, Madame Michel, I cannot live without you! Marry me, and I will give back your cat.”
“And if I refuse?”
“If you refuse, I will eat him!”
“Oh, this is too much! I shall call the police!”
“As you wish! Off you go and call the police, and while you’re busy, I’ll just be putting the cat on the stove to stew.”
At these words, Madame Michel began to weep:
“Oh, Monsieur Lustucru! Why are you so wicked?”
“Because I love you, Madame Michel!”
Madame Michel stared at him in amazement:
“Do you love me as much as that?”
“I do, Madame Michel!”
This time, Madame Michel was quite moved.
“Poor man!” she thought. “I didn’t know there were still men capable of such great love! After all, Lustucru isn’t such a terrible name… One would grow used to it, in the end…”
And aloud she said:
“If I marry you, will you give back my cat?”
“I will give him back.”
“You won’t do him any harm?”
“I will do him no harm at all.”
“Cross your heart and hope to die?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“All right, I accept. I will marry you.”
“Really, truly?”
“Really, truly!”
“For ever and ever?”
“For ever and ever!”
“Cross your heart and hope to die?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die!”
“Oh, what joy! Thank you Madame Michel!”
Lustucru dressed and came downstairs and, without further delay, returned his neighbour’s cat. Six months later they were married and, just as the newly wedded couple were leaving the church, the local children began to sing:
Here’s Missis Michel who lost her cat
Who calls from her window for it to come back.
Here’s old Lustucru
Who’ll return her halloo—
Missis, now you’ve your cat and a lover anew!
“What’s this song you’re singing?” Lustucru asked them.
“It’s a brand-new song that we’re singing about you,” the children answered.
“I think it’s a stupid song,” said Madame Michel.
“Well,” said Lustucru, “I think it’s fantastic!”
Since that day, old Lustucru has lived in perfect happiness in his small village, with his wife and her cat. Every time the local children come across him, they sing his song so as to please him, and he gives them money to buy sweets.
The Fairy in the Tap
There was once a fairy, a sweet little fairy who lived in a freshwater spring, not far from a village. You know, don’t you, that in the old days, the land of Gaul was not Christian, and that our ancestors the Gauls used to worship fairies. In those times, the villagers worshipped this little fairy. They decorated her spring with flowers, brought her cakes and fruit and, on holy days, they even put on their finest clothes and there went to dance for her.
Then, one day, Gaul became a Christian land and the vicar banned the local people from bringing offerings and going to dance around the spring. He claimed that they would lose their souls and that the fairy was a demon. The villagers were quite sure this wasn’t true; still, they didn’t dare contradict the vicar, because they were afraid of him. But the oldest villagers continued to go in secret and leave their gifts beside the spring. When the vicar realized this, he was very cross. He had a great stone crucifix set up beside the spring, then he organized a procession and pronounced a whole string of magic words over the spring, in Latin, in order to drive the fairy
away. And the people really believed he had managed to chase her away, for no more was heard of her for the next 1,500 years. The older people who had worshipped her died; little by little, the young people forgot about her, and their grandchildren never even knew that she had existed. Even the vicars, her sworn enemies, stopped believing in her.
Yet, the fairy had not abandoned her spring. She was still there, deep in the spring, but she was hiding, for the crucifix stopped her from coming out. Besides, she had understood that nobody cared about her any longer.
“Patience!” she advised herself. “Our time is past, but the Christians’ time will also pass. One day, that crucifix will crumble away, and I shall be free once more…”
One day, two men came walking up by the spring. They were engineers. They noticed that the water was plentiful and clear, and decided to use it to supply fresh water to the nearby town.
A few weeks later, the labourers arrived. They pulled down the crucifix, which was in their way, then they enclosed the spring and channelled its water in pipes, all the way to the town.
This is how, one fine day, the fairy discovered she was living in a network of pipes, whose twists and turns she began to follow blindly for miles, wondering all the while what on earth had happened to her spring. The farther she went, the narrower the pipes became, branching off into even more, secondary pipes. The fairy turned and turned again, now to the left, now to the right, and in the end she popped out of a great copper tap, over a big sink made of stone.
She was lucky, really, for she could just as easily have come out in a toilet cistern, and then, instead of being the fairy in the tap, she would have become the fairy in the toilet. Thank goodness that didn’t happen.
The tap and the sink were part of a kitchen, and the kitchen happened to be part of a house where a family of working people lived: a father, a mother and their two teenage daughters. It was some time before they saw the fairy, for fairies do not come out during the day, only after midnight. It so happened that the father was a hard worker, so was the mother, and the two daughters went to school, so everybody was in bed by ten in the evening at the latest, and nobody ever turned on the tap during the night.
The Good Little Devil and Other Tales Page 4
