Father and son entered the dark, smoky interior of the tavern. Julien the bartender was cleaning glasses with a cloth. "Evening, Auguste," he called. Auguste raised his hand in greeting.
Many of the regulars were already inside, sitting on barstools or at small tables with drinks in front of them. Gaston recognized them all from the daily life of the village: there was the baker, the cobbler, the tanner, the miller, the farrier, and other familiar faces. Yet in the dark tavern, lit by the flickering light of the fireplace and the kerosene lamps, the air filled with the murky scent of smoke and sweat and alcohol, the men seemed different, mysterious, less civilized somehow. Away from the proprietary eyes of their wives and the humdrum routine of daily work, free to be as drunk, raucous, lewd or profane as they liked in their masculine lair, they had an air of danger and recklessness about them. The atmosphere was dark and secretive, menacing yet exciting, as though anything could happen. Or so it seemed to a young boy entering the forbidden zone for the first time.
The men called greetings to Auguste. He cleared his throat and announced, "Good evening, men. You all know my boy Gaston here. I'm proud to announce that today, this fine young lad took my rifle and, all by himself, brought down a 200-pound deer with a 16-point rack, from a distance of no closer than 90 yards. Finest shooting I've ever seen, from man or boy."
"Well done!" "Fine boy!" "Takes after his father!" Congratulatory exclamations filled the air.
Auguste held up his hand for quiet and continued. "And to celebrate Gaston's success: tonight, all drinks are on the house!" The men burst into cheers and whistles at the news.
Julien gestured Auguste over, looking concerned. Auguste and Gaston went over to the bar. Julien leaned forward. "Auguste, free drinks all night? We'll lose a fortune!"
Auguste glanced around. The men were still cheering raucously. Satisfied that no one would hear, he murmured to the bartender, "Just water down all the drinks a little for the next few weeks. They won't notice, and it'll all even out by the end of the month."
Julien nodded with a grin. "You got it, boss."
Seeing Gaston listening, Auguste winked at him. "It's all about the image. Right?"
Gaston thought about it. It didn't seem quite honest, somehow. Yet, as his father had pointed out, the men wouldn't notice the difference in the drinks. This way, Auguste wouldn't lose any money. And the effect was impressive: men were toasting Auguste and loudly proclaiming him the most generous man in town. Gaston had to admit he couldn't see a downside to it. His father really was smart.
The grandiose gesture reminded Gaston of last year's hunting season. Auguste had had his most successful season ever, bagging an astounding eight deer in only one week – a village record. But as proud as he was of his trophies, his success left him with a problem: what to do with all that extra meat? Two deer was more than enough to feed his tiny family of three for the entire winter. It seemed wasteful to let it spoil. Gaston remembered his parents sitting up late that night, pondering the problem.
The next day, August had called all the villagers together at the town hall to make an announcement. "When I set out this year to go hunting to feed my family," he began, "I had the good fortune to bag two deer right away. I could have turned back then. Yet, something compelled me to continue. I found myself thinking of the poor orphaned children and destitute families who are not blessed with a good hunter to provide for them. What would they do during the long, cold winter ahead? I vowed then that I would use my God-given talent to try to help those less fortunate than myself." He paused a moment, seemingly overcome with emotion, before continuing. "Providence was with me; as you know, I brought home an astounding eight deer in one week, an amazing feat unmatched in the history of the village. Therefore, I am happy to announce that I am donating two of the deer to the village orphanage, to feed the poor hungry waifs. And with the remaining four deer, I will throw a feast for the entire village! I think we can all use some merriment to liven up these dark winter months. And anyone who is hungry can enjoy their fill without feeling as though they are taking charity."
The woman who ran the orphanage was so moved by the gift, she threw her arms around Auguste, thanking him over and over. The feast was a tremendous success, and toast after toast was drunk to Auguste's extraordinary generosity and benevolent nature. His already-sterling reputation had been enhanced considerably.
Best of all, from Auguste's viewpoint, was that it was all at no cost to himself. "It's all about the image," he cheerfully explained to Gaston afterward. "A man's reputation is the most important possession he has. When people look at you, what do you want them to see?" He held up a finger, counting off his points. "Well, first of all, you want respect. People have to know that you stand up for yourself, that they can't take advantage of you or push you around. Next, you want them to admire you and look up to you. So, never be shy about your accomplishments. Be proud of what you've done, and let the world know! Respect and admiration - that's the key. But after that, if they also like you and think you're a great guy…well, son, then you really have it made."
His father certainly seemed to know what he was talking about, Gaston reflected now. He was by far the most respected, successful, popular and well-liked man in town.
"Three cheers for Auguste!" the baker cried.
August held up his hand in protest. "It's Gaston you should be thanking," he pointed out, putting his hands on his son's shoulders. "Tonight's drinks are in honor of his extraordinary hunting success."
"Yes! Three cheers for Gaston!" the men shouted in agreement, raising their glasses to the boy. "Hip-hip-hooray!"
It was an indescribable feeling. Gaston's parents praised him all the time, of course, but this – this was something new. This was a whole roomful of adults, grown men, cheering for him, celebrating his accomplishment. It was the greatest feeling in the world. Gaston felt like a king.
Auguste pointed at the trophy wall. "I'm going to have your trophy mounted and put it right over there, in the middle, where everyone can see it whenever they come in," he told Gaston.
The barmaid, Desiree, sashayed over, the enticing movement of her curvaceous figure drawing appreciative whistles from the men. She had long blonde hair and big blue eyes, and her low-cut white peasant blouse revealed her ample bosom to a degree that was just this side of being indecent. "So this is your son, Auguste? He's cute."
She had stopped right in front of Gaston, which gave him a close-up view of her female assets. The young boy almost stopped breathing. He had never seen so much of a woman's exposed flesh before.
She saw him staring, and laughed. "Look at him! His eyes are as big as saucers." She chucked him under the chin playfully. "Like what you see?"
Gaston blushed, not knowing what to say. "Uh…yes, mademoiselle."
The men laughed raucously at that, Auguste joining in. "That's my boy! He knows what he likes!" He took a swig of ale. "Finest boy I've ever seen. Brought down a deer today, clean as any man alive could do it."
"So I've heard," said Desiree. "Very impressive! I think such a big accomplishment deserves a reward, don't you?" She winked. "What do you say, Auguste? Want me to take him upstairs and make a real man out of him?" Although she was ostensibly a barmaid, it was an open secret that Desiree earned considerable extra income by – as Auguste put it – "keeping the customers happy." He didn't mind; it gave the men yet another reason to patronize his establishment, and she always gave him a kickback.
Gaston panicked at her words. Ogling her figure was one thing, but what she was suggesting – he wasn't ready for that. He'd never even kissed a girl. But if his father told him to go with her, he'd have to do it. He couldn't chicken out, not in front of all his father's friends.
But to his relief, his father just chuckled and said, "No, I think he's had enough excitement for one day. But in another couple of years, I'll bring him to you, let you show him the ropes. Maybe for his 13th birthday." He elbowed Gaston in the ribs. "How'd that be for a present, eh, boy?" The men laughed again.
"Sure, Pop," said Gaston, glad that it wasn't going to be tonight. "That'd be great."
"Give the lad a drink, Desiree," Auguste said. "Let him wet his whistle."
"You got it." She set a tankard of ale in front of Gaston, then went off to serve other drinks and flirt with the customers.
"Drink up, lad," said Auguste, downing the rest of his tankard in one gulp.
Gaston took a sip. It tasted strange, not altogether pleasant, and burned a little going down. But following his father's lead, he quickly gulped down the rest of the tankard. Another appeared before him, and he drank it down too. He began to feel a buoyant sense of well-being. Everything seemed pleasantly blurred at the edges, like a dream.
The men were talking and joking as they drank, and as the evening wore on, the jokes became lewder and the language cruder. Gaston knew his mother would not approve of her child being exposed to such vulgar talk, let alone drinking alcohol. Some of the raunchier jokes made Gaston blush. But he tried to act worldly and casual, as though he was entirely used to such topics. He felt very grown-up and manly, being here among the men and listening to the rough language they would never have used in polite company. He wondered if the village wives knew how their husbands talked about women when they weren't around. He tried to remember some of the bawdy jokes to tell his friends later – they would be impressed, he knew.
The sound of angry voices caught his attention. A poker game in one corner of the room had become heated. "You cheated!" shouted Henri, the farrier. "I won't pay you one sou!"
"You filthy liar!" Jean, the carpenter, yelled back. "You just can't stand to lose!"
Henri lunged forward and tackled him. The two drunken gamblers rolled on the floor, punching each other. The other men circled around them, shouting encouragement.
Gaston jumped up and looked at his father, expecting him to break up the fight, but he just stood watching, seeming almost amused. "Pop?" he asked. "Shouldn't you stop them?"
Auguste shrugged. "Nah, they're just letting off steam," he said unconcernedly. "This isn't a church social, Gaston; it's what guys do."
Gaston backed away from the mayhem and watched from a safe distance. Out of range of the violence, it was kind of exciting. He wondered which man would win. Jean seemed to have the upper hand, he thought.
Auguste let them go at it for several minutes, then judged it was time to get involved, before anything in his place got broken.
"All right, boys, that's enough," he said, wading in and pushing them apart. "Henri, how much did you lose tonight?"
"50 francs," Henri said sullenly.
"All right. Hardly your life's savings, is it?" Auguste pointed out. "And if I recall, you won 70 francs last week. So you're still ahead. Pay up." Henri glumly dug in his pockets for the money.
"And Jean," Auguste continued, "you'd better make sure to play an honest game from now on, because I've got my eye on you." Jean nodded, not meeting his eyes.
"All right. Now, I think it's about time both of you ought to be getting home." It was an order, not a suggestion. Henri looked like he was about to protest, then shut his mouth. Auguste's word was law in the tavern, and everyone knew it. The two men shuffled out.
Gaston looked at his father with admiration. He was impressed at the way Auguste had such control of the situation, how everyone always listened to him and did just what he said. It must be great to have that much power.
But suddenly, Gaston realized that he wasn't feeling so great. He had started out pleasantly tipsy, but now he was feeling dizzy and nauseous. His head was pounding, and the candlelight seemed too bright, and the room was spinning.
"Hey, Auguste," said the cobbler with amusement, "I think your boy's about to fall out of his chair."
Auguste looked over at his son. Feeling sick, his coordination off-kilter, Gaston was indeed starting to slide right off the chair. Auguste caught him before he hit the floor. The men laughed, Auguste included. "No shame in that – I'd wager all of us have ended up under the table a time or two!" he said jovially, adding, "Some of us more often than others, eh, Jacques?"
Jacques, the miller, grinned, unoffended by the ribbing. "I'll drink to that!" he joked, lifting his tankard.
Gaston looked up at his father queasily. "Pop?" he whispered. "I don't feel so good."
Auguste smiled. "I guess you've had enough for one day." He slung Gaston over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and rose. "I'd better get the boy home. Julien, you lock up at the end of the night."
"Sure thing, boss," Julien replied.
They left, amid farewells and jokes from the men. The cool night air felt good after the overheated tavern. If he hadn't felt so queasy, Gaston would have enjoyed the rare feeling of being carried in his father's strong arms. Auguste often wrestled and roughhoused with him, teaching him how to fight, but he hadn't carried him gently like this since he was a baby.
Under the circumstances, however…"Pop, put me down!" Gaston suddenly whispered urgently. Auguste set him down. Gaston ran behind a bush and threw up several times, his sides heaving. His throat felt raw, and his stomach cramped as though his insides were coming out.
Auguste waited for him to finish. "All done?" he asked, wiping Gaston's mouth with his handkerchief.
"I-I think so," Gaston said. He looked up at his father. "Is that supposed to happen?"
"Your first time? Absolutely," Auguste assured him. "You're still just a kid. When you get bigger, you'll be able to hold your liquor better. Of course, a man can't drink like that every night. You do that, and you'll become the town drunk! Don't want that. Myself, I usually only have three or four drinks over the evening. You don't want to be a drunken fool; you want to stay sharp and keep your wits about you." He picked Gaston up again. "But once in awhile, to celebrate something as momentous as your first deer…why then, it'd be a shame not to get rip-roaring drunk! That's how I see it."
"Will I feel better in the morning?" Gaston asked.
Auguste laughed. "No, I expect you'll feel worse in the morning, I'm afraid. Right now you're just drunk; tomorrow you'll be hung over, and that's when the real fun begins! But by tomorrow night, you'll be fine. It's all part of being a man."
Mireille was waiting up worriedly when they came in the door. She gasped when she saw Gaston lolling on his father's shoulder, limp as a rag and looking green. "Mon Dieu! What happened to him?" she said, rushing over to him. Gaston raised his head weakly to look at her, his eyes bleary.
Auguste carried Gaston into his room and set him on the bed. "Just had a bit too much to drink is all," he said, unconcerned. "He'll be fine."
Mireille bit her lip, but didn't say anything. She went over to the bed and sat next to her son, putting her hand on his forehead. He felt hot. "How do you feel, honey?" she asked gently.
"I threw up," he said, his speech slurred.
Auguste put the chamber pot next to the bed. "If you feel like you need to throw up again, just use that," he said. He took Mireille's hand. "Come on, Mireille. Let's go to bed."
"What? I can't leave him like this!" she protested.
"He's just drunk, woman - not dying," said Auguste impatiently. "He'll have a hangover tomorrow, and be fine by tomorrow night. It's nothing every man hasn't been through a hundred times. Why must you make such a big deal of everything?" He pulled her up next to him, putting his arms around her. "Come on. The boy will be fine. Right now I need you." He grinned lasciviously, his eyes roaming over her body.
Mireille looked back at the bed worriedly. "I don't think—"
"Gaston," Auguste interrupted brusquely. "You'll be all right here, won't you, son? You're not an infant. You don't need your mother hovering over you, do you?"
Feeling as dizzy and sick as he did, Gaston wanted nothing more than his mother hovering over him right now. But he forced himself to smile. "No, Pop, I'm fine." He knew his father despised any hint of weakness.
"There, you see? He's fine." Auguste was already kissing her neck and pawing at her breasts. "Come on to bed now."
Mireille sighed. She turned back to the bed, leaned over Gaston and kissed his forehead. "Try to get some rest, sweetheart. Call me if you need me."
"I will," said Gaston. But he knew he wouldn't. Not with his father around.