“Of course,” Murat said. “I have heard of the case. Most unfortunate. But I am afraid you presume a great deal, madam. I am a bishop, not a general. I will remember him in my prayers. But beyond that, what can I do?”
“You are too modest, Eminence. I have spoken with officers who regret in these times that they are generals and not bishops,” she said, smiling. She leaned forward. “They believe you can do a great deal in my husband’s case, Eminence. A great deal.”
“They have had more than their share of troubles with the Prussians, it is true,” the bishop acknowledged, “but I fear they underestimate the Church’s own difficulties. The war has caused so much upheaval. Nothing works as it once did. Men have turned away from God’s peace to pursue the devils of war. Nevertheless, it is true that with the help of the Almighty I have tried in my own small way to be useful to those in need. Madame deVries” – he looked at her with a knowing eye. He knew of her liaisons with the late General Delacroix, whose discretion had never been complete – “I know that you are a woman of intelligence. You have not come here without something quite specific in mind. What is it exactly you wish of me?”
Elisabeth did not hedge. “General Trochu will be appointing a panel for a court-martial. I have learned that he will do this within a fortnight. There are three men who I believe would look favorably – fairly, that is – upon my husband’s situation.” She named them. The bishop nodded. He knew them all. Elisabeth continued. “It would be… useful to have them selected as the panel for the court-martial, Your Grace. And once appointed it would be – how should I say it – most fortunate if they…”
“—knew which was the just and proper path,” he finished for her. “Of course. I understand.” A simple business.
Murat rang a bell and a male servant appeared. “I will have brandy,” he said curtly. “Would you care for a refreshment?” he asked Elisabeth.
“Thank you, Eminence, perhaps I will join you.” The servant disappeared and quickly returned with a crystal decanter. Murat dismissed him with a wave, and poured a glass for Elisabeth. She took a small sip. She drank rarely and the brandy burned her throat. The bishop downed his in one swallow, and quickly poured more. He turned to her and smiled, and Elisabeth braced herself. The delicate moment had arrived.
“It is not outside the realm of possibilities that I might be of some use in your cause. Let us say for the moment that I am willing to try. I do not believe you are naïve in these matters. So let me simply say it is customary for those who come to pray in the cathedral to make an offering to the Lord, in order that His servants might carry on His good works. I must ask, madam, what it is that this house of God might expect for your prayers?”
They said he was direct. Elisabeth flushed, and took a large swallow of brandy. It burned all the way to her chest. “Your Grace, I am afraid I have little to offer. I am’ not a woman of means. My husband was – is – a career officer who has been paid modestly for a life of service to his emperor and his country. What little I have, of course, is available.” She saw him look away as if bored. “But perhaps Your Grace might suggest something—?” She wailed inwardly at her lack of resources. All these years, and she had nothing to give but that. The bishop rose and walked to the window. He was silent for a moment, and then he spoke.
“There is a thing, madam.”
So now it comes, she thought, certain she knew what was coming next. Men are men, whatever their uniform – only lust underneath.
“Yes, Eminence?”
He turned to face her, and their eyes met. Dear Lord, he is grotesque, she thought. There were angry veins on his face and he was hugely fat. She thought of what it must be like underneath him, the sweat and the breath and the gropings of pushy jeweled hands. Bernard had at least kept himself fit.
“You still live with your brother-in-law, the count,” the bishop said.
The unexpected direction took her by surprise. “Why yes, Your Grace.”
“He has something of value to me.”
Elisabeth shook her head. “I am afraid the count does not consult me in the matter of my own husband, Eminence. But if he has something you wish then I could certainly approach him—”
“It is not something he would give willingly,” Murat interrupted sharply. His eyes were intense and held hers directly. “It is something that must be taken.”
“Je ne comprends pas.” Elisabeth looked at him uncertainly. She had no idea where he was leading her.
Marius Murat had never forgotten the land that Henri had withdrawn, or the deep hatred he felt for the countess. The land didn’t matter anymore, not financially. The emperor’s outer boulevards had all been built, and already had outlasted the emperor. The diocese had recovered from its monetary setback, which had been serious but temporary. Murat wanted the land because it would finish something unfinished. It was a matter of his pride. Victory was an impulse, a habit that required feeding as he himself did.
“You know where he keeps his papers. The important ones, I mean, for his holdings.”
Elisabeth blinked. She had never paid much attention to such matters. “I suppose so, Your Grace, but the count has not—”
“Never mind the count. I want you to find certain of those papers. I will tell you exactly which ones, what they will say and look like. You will bring them to me.”
“Your Grace, I – I don’t quite know what to say,” Elisabeth stammered. Taking papers from Henri – well, it was wholly unexpected.
“Madam, let me be blunt. You wish your husband freed, whatever the inconveniences of the facts in the matter. I am perhaps more familiar with his circumstances than you might realize. I must say that his prospects are not appealing. The military is in the hands of rabble who cannot distinguish between a fine officer and a corrupt one. The distinction is not one that will assume much importance in their deliberations. It will be the empire on trial, fueled by the despair of an inferior lot who have lost in the field to the Prussians. Justice has little bearing on these matters. You have asked me to do a thing that can be done, God willing. But to complete the task I must go to great lengths. General Trochu himself cannot be approached directly. There are back doors and side entrances to such a thing. It will have to be done with great delicacy. These papers are the only thing that interest me sufficiently to extend myself so. You must obtain them for me. I will see to certain changes in them, and then I will require you to witness those changes, as the count’s sister-in-law, so that there can be no question later as to their authenticity. There is a notary with whom I work most closely on these matters, Monsieur Pascal. He will prepare everything. That is how your husband will be saved, Madame deVries. That way and no other.”
Her heart raced. To deceive Henri! To steal his papers, and after a forgery to witness them! Her signature, on paper! He would know everything. He would cast her out. It was too much. She could not do it.
“Your Eminence, it is impossible! The papers, oui, perhaps I could get them, but to sign something, to witness it as you suggest, would be evidence he would see! He would know! He would ruin me! I cannot do that, I cannot risk it!”
The bishop shrugged. “It is of little consequence to me, madam, if you cannot bring yourself to the task. It is a choice you must make. All of your choices are difficult. Do as I ask, and yes, you may forever incur the wrath of your brother-in-law. There are worse things, I suppose, that could befall you. Do nothing, and – well, your husband may pay with his life. I do not envy you your dilemma.” He poured himself a fourth glass of brandy, and took it again at a swallow. He did not bother to offer her any.
“But I would have nothing left.” She said it with a voice as empty as the prospect.
“You would have a husband.”
Elisabeth’s brain reeled. She didn’t like it. The one certainty remaining in her life was her home. She would always have shelter and food for herself and Paul so long as the count considered her family. But to betray him, to do as the bishop asked? Sadly she
shook her head.
“Eminence, I cannot. I must think of my son, of his support and future. The count—”
“There is something else.” He knew what was in her mind. He could see it clearly, as he saw all things that people wanted, things that they would give and not give, things that they would do and not do, things that they must have in return. It was his gift to see them.
“Perhaps it will help you make up your mind. There is, of course, some considerable value in this transaction. Enough that I could assure you and your son an annual allowance from the proceeds. Assuming, of course, that you could deliver the papers I require, and that you sign everything as agreed. There would be no going back.” As he anticipated, his words sparked a light in her eyes. He watched her carefully.
No going back, she thought. No chance to change her mind later. It would have to be substantial.
“Forgive me for asking, Eminence, but how much of an allowance would you be suggesting?”
“Four hundred thousand francs.”
Elisabeth gasped inwardly. It was more than she and Jules had in ten years.
“You will guarantee this in writing?”
“Of course. With suitably vague reasons for the payment, naturally, but I will give it to you with the seal of the diocese so that my successors are bound by my act.”
“The allowance will run forever?”
“For as long as you or your husband live,” Murat replied, the brandy warming him and making him feel generous, “and half that amount for your son as long as he outlives you both.” It was a pittance compared to the worth of the land, but it wasn’t the money that drove him. It was the having.
Elisabeth weighed the offer. Never in her life had she done such a thing, but never in her life had she faced such a threat to everything she knew. Never had the stakes been so great for Jules. Once uncorked, her bottle of reasons for going through with it flowed like champagne. She told herself that it was for Jules, that it was best for Paul, that Henri could easily withstand such a setback, as his holdings were vast and this would make no difference, none whatever. She told herself that she deserved it, they all did, that she could do no less for her family. A last problem nagged. Jules would eventually find out. He would never countenance her action. But after the thunder and lightning of his discovery passed, after the storms of his fury had abated, what would be left? She had always been able to lead him where she wished. If she could not do it again, he would leave her and Paul. But she would still have the money, and the money would be her freedom. She and Jules would never be the same again anyway. Would that be so bad, really? Can’t the death of one dream give birth to another?
And finally she knew her mind. She felt a great weight lifting, a burden that had not eased since the humiliations of Sedan. She leaned forward to the bishop, her eyes more alive than they had been in weeks.
“I believe I’ll have another brandy, Your Grace.”
* * *
Léon Gambetta is a horse’s ass, Henri thought for the hundredth time. He’d known the man for years, and for years had found him pompous and full of himself. He was a lawyer-politician with a glass eye and golden tongue, flamboyant to the bone, and at the moment was minister of the interior, preparing to climb aboard a balloon. For all his dislike Henri wished him success. It was a moment of great drama for the country and the city, as Gambetta departed to raise an army to come to the relief of Paris. It was a long shot, Henri thought, but if anyone could do it, it would be the horse’s ass Gambetta.
Henri had worked nonstop as one balloon after another took flight with the hearts and hopes of Parisians, who cheered the balloons and their aeronauts from every vantage point in the city. Count von Bismarck also watched them from Versailles and was infuriated. He ordered Krupp to make a special cannon to shoot them down, but the cannon was a failure and still the balloons flew, one every forty-eight hours or so, balloons that carried men and mail and carrier pigeons in little cages, to be released later from the provinces to fly messages back into Paris. It was the only way possible, for the Prussians had a virtual stranglehold on the city. For safety, the balloons started to fly at night, but they flew defiantly, a triumph of the French spirit.
The balloons suffered every fate, but most of the fates were kind. They were shot at by Uhlan troops who chased them from the ground, but the bullets fell short. They were lost at sea. They suffered sudden descents and bad landings in trees. Some were dragged along the ground, injuring the pilots. One carried photographic equipment aloft that was used to record enemy positions, on the ground, another dogs trained to return to Paris with dispatches tied around their necks. The occupants of nearly every balloon delightedly pissed on upturned Prussian faces. One carried two boxes of dynamite for disposal on the Prussian lines, another optical equipment for studying a solar eclipse. From their launching pads in Paris the balloons floated out to every corner of Europe, once even crossing the North Sea to Norway. A few balloons were captured, but most arrived safely, carrying hope and military secrets and the messages of the besieged residents to their loved ones on the outside.
Gambetta was a stout man. He wore a heavy coat and fur-lined boots. He had some difficulty getting into the wicker basket, but the gift of making it look easy to those watching. The mood in the Place St.-Pierre in Montmartre was festive. Large crowds had gathered to see the minister off. The flight had been delayed for two days because the winds weren’t right. Now two small trial balloons had gone up, and conditions were perfect. Henri was talking with the pilot Trichet, giving him last-minute instructions. “Don’t worry,” Henri said, motioning toward Gambetta, “if you run short of lift the minister’s got gas enough to get you all the way to Tours.” Gambetta roared with laughter, and the pilot joined in uncertainly. The minister could poke fun at himself as easily as the next man, and for that at least he had Henri’s respect. “Well said, Count,” he beamed, “but don’t tell him what to do if he needs to lose ballast.”
Henri smiled. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Minister, but he’s a good pilot. He may think of it himself. Godspeed to you. Bring us back an army.”
“That I will, deVries, that I will.”
The ropes were cast off and the great yellow balloon soared up above the crowd. Ever the showman,
Gambetta waved his sealskin cap to the throngs below, and unfurled the tricolor.
“Vive la France,” he roared, his voice triumphant. Vive la république!” they roared back, and Gambetta was gone.
* * *
That night after dinner, an exhausted Henri sat outside the château on the large porch swing with Serena. Elisabeth was away in the city. Paul and Moussa had been conducting frog races on the lawn. Paul’s frog had won seven times straight and he had emptied Moussa’s pockets of every marble and sou. Eventually, the boys tired and climbed onto the porch. They sat with their backs against the railing and drew up their knees and watched the sky, and traded stories about great frogs they had known.
The October evening was unseasonably warm and humid. A massive bank of white clouds had gathered during the afternoon, large thunderheads that puffed and billowed like cotton and towered as high as the eye could see, so luminous that not even the approach of darkness could swallow them. The setting sun had suffused them with deep crimson that faded to soft pink and finally to purple. As night fell the clouds suddenly came to life once again, streaked through with bright flashes of yellow and red. At first no one could make out what it was, but then it dawned on Henri. “It’s the light of cannon fire,” he said.
It was beautiful and looked eerily like a dry lightning storm of summer, only there was color and no sound and they knew they were witnessing the awful distant flicker of death. Every so often one of the windows would rattle in the carriage house. The horses whinnied nervously in the stables.
“Do the Tuareg have sieges like us, or just plain battles?” Moussa asked his mother after one spectacular flash.
“Most often battles. But there was a siege, once, a
very famous one.”
“Tell us!”
“Surely you’ve had enough of sieges and war. There is so much trouble in the world. Wouldn’t you rather hear the story about Tahat, the mountain that—”
“Yecchh.” Moussa grimaced. “Not another love story, Maman. We’ve heard that one already. We want to hear about the siege.” Paul nodded his agreement.
Serena looked at Henri. His head had slipped onto her shoulder and his eyes were closed. She did her best to cover him with her shawl without disturbing him. “Very well,” she said with a sigh, “I’ll tell you the tale of Tashmani, a boy who saved his people. He lived long ago in the Hoggar, the desert mountains where I grew up. Tashmani was a Targui of the Kel Rela, the noble house of the Tuareg to which Moussa and I were both born. Even when he was very young he proved himself to be a skilled hunter who knew how to trap hares and even gazelles. Like all young boys he was impatient to grow up. He longed to go out with the men, to guide and protect the great caravans of gold and salt and slaves that passed through his land, and one day to make his sword famous in battle. But every Tuareg boy, no matter how nobly born, must first learn to care for the goats and camels that belong to his tribe. So Tashmani would spend all day in the mountains where his goats could graze. Often he would stay out all night too, for to live with only the stars for a roof is to be Tuareg, and to be Tuareg is to be free, and that is what Tashmani valued most of all.”
Moussa was intrigued. “Is that all a Targui has to do, is go out and watch some animals? Doesn’t he have to go to school?”
“The Sahara is a land of many lessons. A boy studies the world around him.”
“But there aren’t any teachers?”
“The women all teach, and so does the marabout, sometimes.”
“Isn’t he like a man nun?”
“Something like that.”
“Not much of an improvement,” Moussa grumped. “But I like the idea of watching goats better than sitting in a classroom all day.”
Empires of Sand Page 25