by SUZANNE MALAVAL
When Fanche was born, her parents were sad; sad, for she was the eighth child of eight, and finding a godfather in the neighborhood was practically impossible.
Just the same, she was a pretty little thing, Fanche in her cradle—plump as a little pig, pink, her cheeks smooth as fruit from the tree.
The mama was sleeping, Fanche beside her in the big bed, when the devil, the real one, the most horned, the most hairy, came knocking on the door.
Sitting up with a start, the mama said, “Come in,” and the devil gladly obliged.
“Good morning, woman! I come to ask for your Fanche as my goddaughter.”
“Oh, no!” said the mama.
The eighth child of eight, already Fanche was loved eight times more than the others.
The devil, he was a perfect scoundrel, but he didn’t say anything: when a woman just out of childbed talks in that tone of voice, even the devil himself has nothing to say.
Only, the papa coming back from the rye fields said yes, that he did, without looking at his wife, who was making faces at him.
Fanche was asleep, pretty as a daisy.
For sure, it wasn’t at the church that they had the baptism with such a godfather. But it was a gay, noisy baptism, with many mortal sins.
It was only the mama who was sad: everything she ate tasted of sulphur.
* * * *
Little Fanche grew bigger. She went through seven years like nothing.
The brothers, the sisters, the whole kit and kaboodle took her along to Mass. The mama, she felt her heart beating.
Arrived at the holy church, impossible to bring the little one in. It was as if she were planted in the ground.
The poor little thing pushed with her feet, pulled with her hips, but nothing: she stayed where she was, stuck in the ground like a rosebush.
They went back home, not very proud.
* * * *
Time passed.
* * * *
Fanche was fifteen, so beautiful it was a marvel.
When she watched the flocks, the dog was utterly fascinated, and the sheep too.
One day when she was walking in the fields, she saw a gentleman coming who made her feel cold to the bottom of her soul.
“I’m your godfather,” he told her.
She had not known she had a godfather of such ugliness.
“Come with me!”
She was obliged to do as he asked: he had taken her by the wrist, squeezing hard enough to make her arm go numb.
Hell is so close to the earth that she was there quickly, the poor goddaughter.
“You’re queen of all this here. You ask, you get,” the devil told her, with a sweeping gesture,
“I want to go back home.”
But of course that was impossible.
Up above, they were worried, they searched for her in the bottoms of the ponds; but the mama knew very well what had happened,
* * * *
Fanche didn’t cry long. She was a crafty little thing, that Fanche, and never at a loss.
She made herself nice, sweet and good, so much so that the devil’s wife grew jealous. She was dark, with a squashed nose, and anyone who stroked her would prick his hand.
Also the devil spent a lot of time looking at his goddaughter, blonde as the wheat, fresh-cheeked, her voice like a song.
Fanche, my heaven: she was never out of the godfather’s sight.
She was not astonished at all, hut really not at all, when he came up to her and said: “Fanche, dolling, I want you give me a kiss.”
“Uh-uh, godfather, no kiss!”
“I take one by force, if you don’t let me.”
“Godfather, you know I’d bite you.”
He didn’t doubt it.
“Dolling, on the forehead!”
“Not on the forehead.”
“On the ear.”
“Not on the ear, not anywhere else.”
The devil, he got furious, he wanted that kiss so much.
“Fanche, my godchild, pull up skirt, let me see your calf.”
“No, godfather, not as far as the calf!”
“As far as the ankle.”
“Not even as far as the ankle!”
“If you don’t, I grab you by the waist and pull up as far as the knee!”
“Godfather, you know I’d scratch you.”
My heaven, how he knew it!
It was always the same routine.
“Listen, godchild, I ask you a riddle. If you guess it, I give you the keys to Hell. If you flunk, you give me that kiss . . . and not on the forehead! ‘What is it that’s as big as the Eiffel Tower, and doesn’t weigh as much as a grain of flour?’”
Fanche was alarmed to hear this, for she knew that in taking the kiss, he’d slip his hand into her bosom, down there where it was pink and round.
Sure as sure, it meant damnation. After death, Hell again.
The devil’s wife saw how the land lay, and knew that if she lost, the devil would bewitch her.
She whispered: “It’s the shadow of the Eiffel Tower.”
All Fanche had to do was repeat it. How furious he was the devil!
“Listen, godchild! I ask you another riddle. If you guess it, I give you the winged horse. If you lose, I pull up your dress . . . and not just as far as the calf! ‘On the wooden shoe of Father Fred, what can it be that walks on its head?’”
Fanche was in despair, for she knew that in pulling up her dress, he’d rumple her panties, down there where they were so well stitched.
Sure as sure, it meant damnation. After death, Hell again.
The devil’s wife saw how the land lay, and didn’t want the goddaughter to stay there and drive her devil mad.
She whispered: “It’s the nails in the shoe.”
The devil, he turned completely green at that. But a promise is a promise, even for Satan.
He gave the keys of Hell, he gave the winged horse— and good-bye.
* * * *
When Fanche found herself at the door of her house, it was raining in the sunlight.
She knew what that meant—the devil was beating his wife.