On the ramparts near Marcel two other guards came racing up after the first shot to see what was happening. “Down there!” Marcel shouted as they drew near.
“Where?” one asked. “I don’t see a thing!” Marcel himself was still firing more at a suspicion than at a clear target, but he knew the position of his suspicion, and pointed. “Voilà! There, you see? In the middle!” His tone of certainty removed all doubt in the others, who aimed their weapons in the general direction where he pointed, and fired. A moment later they fired again. Then they stopped and listened, to see whether their fire would be returned. “Do you see anything?” one asked. Marcel shook his head. He cursed the blasted muskets they used. They probably couldn’t hit the river with them, much less something on it. Below their position the nose of the shallop pulled past the wall, its crew straining at the oars, its dim form heading swiftly downstream in pursuit of the intruders.
“Hold fire!” shouted the bosun from the shallop. Just as he spoke more gunfire erupted and drowned him out. He waited until the shots died away and then tried again. “Hold fire!” he shouted up at the wall. “Shallop in the water, making chase! Hold, I say!” He listened for a response. He heard nothing and shook his head in disgust at the trigger-happy green troops on the wall. “Ship your oars,” he ordered, “else we’ll be taking shot from our own troops!” His men needed no persuasion and quickly pulled their oars from the water.
The first fusillade from Marcel and his two companions was the last as far as Moussa and Paul were concerned. The bullets splashed wildly around them in the water. If they stayed where they were they would be hit. They both had the thought at the same time.
Jump!
They flung their paddles aside and dove overboard just as the second round was fired from the ramparts. A bullet smacked into the raft, sending splinters of wood flying. One splinter caught Paul in the cheek as he went over the side. Moussa felt a violent tug on his shirt. The next instant he was swallowed by the cold wet blackness. The splash of their entry into the water was lost in the pandemonium of the city’s defenses. Gunboat engines turned over and men shouted on the wall. Volleys of gunfire all ran together, shattering the quiet of the night.
After the firing stopped, the crew of the shallop set out again. The muscular sailors pulled at the oars as the boat glided downstream. The bosun crouched in front, staying as close to the bottom as possible so that the light armor on the side of the boat might protect him from enemy fire. He held a pistol, and his eyes were alert for surprises. No one had actually seen anything, so no one knew exactly what they were looking for. At the rear sat the gunner, his weapon at the ready. Behind them the first gunboat was passing the wall. Two others were almost at steam, ready to join in the chase. The shallop was still well out front, slicing through the blackness. For long moments it hunted alone in the dark water. On the shore toward Billancourt horsemen raced along the soft turf near the river’s edge, alerted by the disturbance at the wall. A huge electric light flared on in the distance at the fort at Issy, much too far away to do any good.
For the next two hours the defensive forces of the republic were on full alert on the southwest edge of Paris. Seven hundred men on the walls commanded fourteen cannons and a mitrailleuse and scores of Chassepots as they waited and looked and listened, every man itching to fire on the cursed Prussians.
The shallop passed once around the islands near Billancourt, then worked back upstream on the other side, patiently searching. At one point, it passed within a few meters of the little raft, empty except for a coil of rope. No one saw the raft as it floated along with the current.
Two hours after the first shots were fired the major in charge of the guards on the wall appeared at last. “It was at least three boats, Major,” Marcel reported, “full of Prussians. I seen them clearly, their faces all black. They must have had explosives. Must have been trying to blow the gate for a larger attack!” The other guards chimed in. “That’s right, Major! Bastards cut and ran when we fired at them.”
Five hundred meters downstream, the bastards in question had dragged themselves up onto the island in the middle of the stream. They were exhausted and deathly afraid, and lay in the low, thick bushes along the shore. They watched as the shallop went by, and then the gunboats. Once some of the crew from one of the boats tramped around on their end of the island, searching mostly up in the trees. The boys held completely still, their chins mashed into the mud as they tried to keep from being seen. For more than an hour they heard the crews of the different boats calling back and forth, or hailing the horsemen ashore. It was, Moussa guessed, the most commotion he’d ever seen about anything, and it didn’t die down much for a couple of hours. Terrified, they lay there without moving the whole time. They were both soaked and shivering, cold deep to the bone.
“You hurt?” Moussa whispered when they’d caught their breath.
“Just a scratch on my cheek,” Paul replied. He was as low and miserable as he’d ever been, and still not over the fear. “I peed my pants, though. What about you?”
“I’m all right.” Moussa was silent for a moment, thinking. He decided it was okay to admit it, but only to Paul. “I peed mine too.”
“Good,” Paul said. “That was a stupid plan.”
Moussa nodded. Things hadn’t gone exactly as he’d hoped. “I guess so.”
They watched the river and their teeth chattered. A gunboat passed by, leaving a small wake that came at an angle and lapped at their arms. They waited until an hour before dawn. No night ever took so long to finish. When the activity died down a little they cut some branches with their knives and covered themselves against the cold. It didn’t help much, but it felt good to move around a little. The defenses relaxed slowly. The boats disappeared toward their berths on the other side of the wall. The shore patrols stopped, and the area slipped back into silence. When they thought it was safe they slid back into the water and swam across. They made their way through the dying night back to the château. With relief they saw the house was still all dark. They climbed up the tree and back through the window into their bedroom. After the long night that seemed it would never end, the room felt warm and comfortable and safe. They had never been so glad to be home. They were both a mess. Their faces were scratched from the bushes, especially Paul’s cheek where the splinter of wood had gouged it. They were too tired to think up a story just then, and would have to work on some serious fiction when they woke up.
“Look at that!” Moussa said as they were getting undressed. He held out his shirt for Paul to see. There was a neat hole under the right arm, and another near the left chest. One of the bullets had passed straight through the shirt, right to left, while he was diving into the water. The boys stared at the holes, wide-eyed. Moussa inspected himself again to be sure there weren’t any surprise holes or anything. As he did he saw that the bullet had caught one corner of his amulet, nicking the leather.
Wearily they collapsed into bed. Paul was asleep the instant his head touched the pillow. Beneath the warmth of his covers Moussa held the amulet. He ran his finger over the edge and felt the nick. It was lucky again, he thought. His mother had told him it was blessed. Mostly he had believed her, but never as much as he did now. He closed his eyes and clutched it tightly, and saw himself going over the side of the raft in a hail of bullets. He had a last thought before exhaustion tugged him under.
It saved my life.
Outside their window roosters crowed and the sun came up and Paris was safe once again.
CHAPTER 10
As Henri predicted, Elisabeth eventually emerged from her room. She was ravenously hungry and weary of her mood, even if she could not shake it. Her tears were finished. She could be a very practical woman. She realized that she needed to find some alternatives, and the dark places of her melancholy held none. She had to face the realities. Jules was in prison, and did her more harm there than out of prison. If he could not be a marshal, at least he need not be a felon. She would busy her
self with seeing him freed, and then rebuild her life. Our lives, she corrected herself, without much conviction.
But it was not the same Elisabeth who came out of the room. The bright canvas of their future that had once been so glorious had been painted over with the bleak colors of scandal and shame. Whatever might become of Jules, she knew deep down that her fairy tale had died. Its death took the sparkle from her eye and put a heaviness in her step. She was bitterly disappointed with the lack of sympathy and understanding shown her by Henri and Serena. She expected commiseration and shared tears; she expected something. Instead they were unfeeling and harsh. She was betrayed and alone.
A hairdresser and manicurist were summoned to the château to tend to her cosmetic needs, enabling her to venture once again into the salons of her peers. At one she encountered a friend who, blessedly, had not heard of Jules’s arrest, or at least did not suggest an awareness of it. The woman chattered mindlessly about the current amusements to be enjoyed courtesy of the war. From a safe distance, she told Elisabeth, she had witnessed a battle at the village of Bagneux, applauding enthusiastically as the French troops advanced to test the Prussian lines, then moaning and declaiming in disgust at the subsequent if smartly executed French retreat. “Really, dear Elisabeth, it was grand opera at the city gates. How ever could you have missed it?”
Elisabeth was only half-listening. The time had come when she must see Jules. She dreaded it, but there was no choice. If she were to influence his release, she would have to apprise herself of his situation, and find out what she could about other officers of the Guard. Henri arranged everything for her visit.
Her mood sank as she approached the cold facade of the École, then plummeted as she walked through the penal compound inside the courtyard. It took all her effort to keep her gaze forward and hold her head up as she passed between the rows of fenced-in prisoners. It was a smelly, vile gauntlet she walked. She felt their eyes undressing her, and heard their lewd invitations and disgusting suggestions. What distressed her most was not their crude lechery, for she expected that, but the mortifying thought that anyone might associate her with one of the prisoners. She kept her eyes forward and walked quickly and told herself that Henri would have to find a different entrance if she were to return.
There was one small blessing, she reflected: at least she wouldn’t have to see Jules in public, in the common pens. Henri had seen to that, thank heavens. Jules had originally been confined outside, in the common pens with the others, but had since been moved inside the École. His room was small, barren except for a cot and chamber pot. Henri had brought books that stood in a small pile next to the cot. It was not much, yet it was a vast improvement, and left Jules a measure of dignity he had not felt in a long while.
Jules was surprised to see her. The private who had escorted her smirked at the colonel and left the room, shutting the door and leaving them in privacy. Henri had seen to that too. Jules sprang to his feet and moved forward to greet her, for an instant almost losing his military restraint, his stiffness. The delight in his eyes was real, but she noticed that something was missing from them. The hell he had been through had stolen their stern fire. He’s a ghost of himself, she thought. Her own smile was cold and tight, her manner restrained. She offered him her cheek, and pulled away as he tried to embrace her. Confused, he backed away.
“Elisabeth! Aren’t you glad to see me? I thought you would be glad.”
For a moment the actress in her was missing. She did not feel strong enough to sustain a deception. “How could anyone be glad of this?” She waved her hand and looked around. “I’m sorry, Jules, but how could anyone be normal here? It’s so appalling.”
“I did not choose the room, Elisabeth,” Jules said with a trace of sadness. “It is wonderful to see you, to know you are safe. I thought you weren’t coming.” Elisabeth sat down on the cot. The little lies still came easily. “I have been so busy, Jules,” she said. “The theaters are being converted into hospitals, and they need so much. I’ve been helping them.”
He nodded. “It was the right thing for you to do, of course. You have always been so giving of yourself.” They talked of Paul and traded small talk, avoiding the war, the siege, and the arrest. When she didn’t ask he finally volunteered the story of what had happened. He recounted it in detail, leaving out nothing except the humiliations he had suffered in captivity. She listened in silence, stunned by the unfairness of it all. His tale brought back all the disgrace, the grief, and her mood descended into blackness once again.
She stood when he finished, and paced the little room. “Oh Jules,” she said, “I am so fearfully unhappy. How could you let this happen?”
“How could I?”
“I love you. I have always loved you. But I must tell you that this is so… so low. I am so disappointed, so terribly disappointed. Wasn’t there a time you could have done the honorable thing out there? Wasn’t there a time you could have…” Her voice trailed off.
Stunned, he stepped back. “You would rather I died?”
“Wouldn’t you?” Her wail was from the heart. “Wouldn’t you, Jules? Do you prefer this to death? Do you, really?”
“My God, Elisabeth, what I prefer is to clear my name.”
“Don’t you see? That’s just it. Our name will never be clear again. Even if they let you out—”
“If?”
“All right, you know what I mean. When they let you out, your name will be destroyed. People will believe the worst!”
“To the devil with what they believe! What matters is that the truth be told. I did not do this thing!”
“Jules, you’re such a simple man. You see things so clearly that aren’t clear at all. The truth doesn’t matter! It doesn’t matter whether you did what they say or not. Everyone thinks you did it! Don’t you see that? Don’t you see that this has ruined us?”
“I—” Jules looked at his wife, and saw a complete stranger. “My God,” he said sadly. “I don’t… I cannot believe…” He couldn’t stand any longer, and sat down heavily on the cot. He had never felt so weary. There seemed to be no end to this tunnel of his. No light, only more darkness and surprise. Everything felt so heavy and confused. He put his head in his hands and closed his eyes.
Elisabeth looked at him with sad condescension. She actually felt sorry for him. He really didn’t understand. She moaned, hating the ugliness and the shame. “Oh Jules,” she wept, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I’m so confused, it’s all so unfair, I don’t know what I mean anymore, or what I want. I – I just don’t know.” Her voice dropped, and she sagged against the wall. “I only wonder whether death would not have been better than dishonor.”
Jules could not answer. If he hadn’t known exactly what to expect from Elisabeth, he hadn’t expected this. He realized that he didn’t know his wife, didn’t know her at all, and it shocked him into silence. He had never paid as much attention to her as he ought to. He knew it, and regretted it. The Guard had always come first. He had always been so busy. Their lives together were perfunctory. He gave her position and security. She gave him her body, and was the mother of his son. Was that all? Was it really that empty? He wondered whether love was a part of it, whether it had ever been, or whether it was simply show between them, a slow empty dance.
Now he did not know what to say to his own wife.
Better death than dishonor.
He had said it himself before. He had said it to his troops. And now the word honor had gotten all fuzzy in his mind and he didn’t know what it meant anymore.
Everything I touched is dead. The woman, her child, my troops. The private, young Etienne.
And now us.
Now we are dead too.
* * *
“It was kind of you to see me, Your Grace.” Elisabeth knelt before him and kissed his ring, and took the chair he indicated. The chair was velvet and soft, like the palace, a quiet island of peace in a mad place. She found herself in his palace because she had nowhere e
lse to go, and because in the end it was the best place to be. Bernard Delacroix, the general with whom she had slept to seal a bargain of favor for Jules, was dead, slaughtered at Flöing with his cavalry division. She greeted the news of his death with indifference, except for a sense of waste. He had never seemed the sort of general who would die with his troops. Such a pity, she reflected. All that effort lost with an old man on a battlefield. There were others she knew, men of prestige, but they too were gone, dead or missing or in Belgium. No one was left to help, and there was no time to build new alliances. The war was so maddeningly disruptive. As she had asked questions and sought her way, the subtle signs kept pointing to the bishop of Boulogne-Billancourt. He was everywhere, on committees for defense and committees for provisions, and it was said that he bought and sold men like cattle. The tentacles of his influence ran deep with the generals and politicians. His power ran far beyond the realm of the Church.
So Elisabeth came to him in desperation, to strike a bargain for Jules’s freedom. She did it with no idea what she might use to buy what she wanted. She had no illusions about the bishop’s charitable nature, and little money with which to improve it. There were rumors about his sexual appetites, rumors that, as she looked across the room at him, she hoped were not true, “What can an old bishop do for you, my child?” he said. His smile was fixed, the expression in his icy gray eyes impenetrable. I know those eyes, she thought. She was afraid of him, and knew instinctively that the stories of the bishop’s abilities were true. I have come to the right man.
“I need your help to free my husband from prison, Your Grace. He is a colonel, Jules deVries. He has been accused of desertion. Falsely, of course.”
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