Empires of Sand

by Empires of Sand (retail) (epub)

  When Paul lost the meaning of the words he focused on the man and his mannerisms. He reminded Paul of a street performer he’d seen at the Place de la Concorde, a man who had a monkey and a flute and strutted back and forth and told stories and hooted and made fun of people in the audience. The prosecutor swaggered and glared, and pointed and stared. He stood next to Jules as he spoke and leaned down and put his face up close to the colonel’s, and carried on in his voice of accusation, Paul fascinated and repelled by the man’s bobbing Adam’s apple as it punctuated his sentences. “This sneak, this deserter…” His voice droned on as a long finger indicted the colonel and waved in his face. Paul was astounded that anyone would have the guts to do that to his father. Didn’t he know how that infuriated him, how that could get him knocked on his backside? Didn’t he know he was addressing Colonel deVries?

  The hateful words kept coming. “… this wanton disregard for his men, leaving them to the Prussian sword…” As Paul watched he prayed fervently that the prosecutor would have a stroke and drop dead right there on the floor, but instead the man produced a letter from an officer named Delescluze. It was evidently very important, because he read it twice out loud as he walked back and forth in front of the judges. The prosecutor’s voice was slow and soft, but full of menace as he quoted from the letter.

  “ ‘ … as to the character of his crime, as to the certainty that he abandoned his men and had fled the battle like a coward, there can be no doubt,’ ” the prosecutor said, halting after each word to give it emphasis.

  “He reminds me of Sister Godrick,” Moussa whispered glumly.

  Paul jabbed him. “Shhhh.”

  The prosecutor’s delivery was devastating, at least as far as Paul could tell. People strained to hear. They shook their heads and muttered among themselves, and had to be quieted four times by the judges. He saw eyes filled with hatred and vengeance, all fixed upon his father. Most of the time he watched his father’s reactions as people spoke. Paul could tell if someone was lying just by watching his father’s face, because that face had been turned toward him when he lied. The colonel had a nose for it and his punishments could be terrible. But for some reason in court he just sat there and listened.

  Paul could tell when his father was upset, though, or when he was ready to explode in anger. He saw his eyes narrow and his skin color change, and his shoulders shift. Why don’t you say something, Paul wanted to shout. Tell them this is crazy, that it’s all wrong! But he didn’t. He kept quiet like Uncle Henri said and sat on his hands and wished it would end soon.

  He could tell it was trouble when the prosecutor produced a thick blue enrollment ledger from Vouziers. “It is clear from these documents,” he said, “that Victor Delescluze is indeed a captain in the Irregulars, and that” – he held the letter up at eye level, and shook it with each word, as if they would hear him better or believe him more – “this… is… his… signature. No forgery. No mistake. Proof that his letter is genuine… ” There were more murmurs from the audience, more warnings from the judge for quiet.

  The lawyers bickered about something. They did it all the time, with bad manners and big words. They couldn’t agree about anything. One said yes, another said no. One said today, another said tomorrow. Paul didn’t like any of them, not even the ones who were supposed to be working for his father. They just sat there and took it, the insults and the lies and all, and when they were done taking it they stood up and dished out some of their own. Paul wanted them to do something instead – to draw some swords and have at it, clear the air with a good fight that would leave some guts on the table and a head or two rolling around on the floor, but the bunch of them didn’t seem up to it. Even Uncle Henri just sat there and listened to the ugly business.

  The room was hot and smelly with perspiration and old tobacco. By late morning it was nearly unbearable, but the proceedings wore on. Another storm broke when the prosecutor called a witness he said he had not expected to locate, “owing to the unfortunate progress of the war.”

  “That’s one way to put it,” Moussa whispered, “when the Prussians are whipping our ass.”

  Paul recognized the uniform of a sergeant of the Dragoons on a towering man, full of power and presence, a cavalry officer who looked the absolute picture of French glory. His uniform was crisp and dazzling. He wore a red tunic with a white sash. There were scarlet epaulets on his shoulders and gold buttons at his sides, and shiny leather boots that rose almost to his knees. He removed his gold helmet and placed it under his arm, and stood at attention until the judge bade him come forward. All eyes were upon him as he walked to the front of the room. The prosecutor had him introduce himself. Paul could tell from his father’s look that he was unhappy to see the sergeant.

  The witness began to tell his story, and it was a story of damnation delivered with calm assurance. Oui, he told the prosecutor and the judges and the court full of people, it was he who had written the note on the back of the letter from Delescluze. Oui, he said, it was he who had observed the colonel trying to escape from his guard. Oui, he assured the court, this was the man – he pointed at Jules deVries, pointed with authority, without the slightest shred of doubt or hesitation – this was indeed the man, and he said it in a voice that was firm and rang with conviction and truth. Oui, the court heard, he had pulled this man off a hapless guard who was merely attempting to follow orders and do his duty and escort the prisoner to Châlons. Oui, he said, he had witnessed the assault from its beginning, had seen the colonel sneak up behind the guard and assault him viciously. Oui, he said, the colonel had admitted to him right there that he was trying to escape!

  Oui, Paul heard, oui over and over, yes guilty, yes he did, yes sir, yes yes until he wanted to cover his ears and cry, wanted to jump up and smash the man in his stupid face, smash him until his filthy lying brains were spilled all over the floor. After a while Paul didn’t listen to him anymore. He closed his eyes and shut him out. Moussa watched his cousin and saw a lone tear trickle down his cheek. There was nothing to say. He put his hand on Paul’s shoulder.

  The sergeant had just been excused when a major burst into the courtroom and rushed to the front. The newcomer whispered excitedly into the judge’s ear. The judge went pale and raised his hand for order, to silence the room. Gravely he stood to address the court.

  “An announcement has been made by the Government of National Defense,” he said. He cleared his throat and the room fell silent, all eyes upon him. “Marshal Bazaine has surrendered his forces and the town of Metz to the Prussians,” he said. “The marshal did so unconditionally, without a fight. The Prussians have entered the city. Our valiant troops are captive. This court is recessed for two hours. Vive la république!”

  An uproar shook the room as all three judges left hurriedly. Angry spectators shouted passion and fire, hurling their outrage at everyone and no one. “The last perfidy of the empire! The coward!” one shouted. “Bring him to us! We’ll show him how to surrender!” One man, an ancient figure sitting bent and alone on a bench, wept bitter tears. Guards began herding the spectators toward the door, and the courtroom emptied quickly. Paul had heard of Bazaine and had been to Metz once, but beyond that it didn’t mean much to him except that he wondered miserably whether this was somehow more bad news for his father.

  Jules conferred with Henri and then rose to be escorted out by a guard. As he stood he saw Paul for the first time and froze. Paul got to his feet. Father and son regarded each other across the room. Uncertainly at first, Paul walked toward him, and then in a flood of emotion fairly flew the last few feet, and banged into the colonel and hugged him hard round the waist. Jules was embarrassed. He looked to see if anyone was watching. No one but Moussa was paying attention. Jules permitted himself a pat on Paul’s back.

  “Father, Father!” Paul cried, and tears were pouring down his face, and he hugged him tightly, not wanting to let go, not even as Jules tried to pull him away, gently at first, then with greater firmness. “Paul,
that’s enough,” he said. “Control yourself. This is a public courtroom.”

  Paul looked up at him, half-crying, half-smiling. “I missed you, Father,” he said. “I want so badly to help. I want to do something but I don’t know what. I want to make them stop telling their lies. I want to make them let you go. I want to kill all the Prussians, and the guards and judges and the lawyers too. I want you to come home.”

  Jules was afraid to say anything for fear his voice would crack. He had never felt such a need for anyone as he did that moment for his son, but he didn’t know what to do just then that wouldn’t look… weak. So he did nothing, said nothing. Feeling hopelessly awkward, he could only nod. He motioned to Henri to come get Paul, to take him away. Henri put his hand on Paul’s shoulder. “Come, Paul,” he said gently.

  “I’m not leaving,” Paul said. “Don’t make me leave, Father, please don’t make me. I won’t do it, I won’t.”

  Jules sighed. He wished desperately that Paul hadn’t come, that he didn’t have to see any of this, that Elisabeth had had the grace and good sense to keep him away. But, of course, it was too late. “Very well,” Jules nodded. “You may stay if you wish.”

  After Jules was gone the boys wandered around outside. Paul was suffused with happiness that he’d spoken to his father at last. Just touching him had made him feel better, made him feel that things would be all right. After a difficult morning his spirits soared. He and Moussa wandered through streets teeming with agitated people fired up about the news of the war, of which Metz had only been the most recent debacle. The government looked soft and inept, and Paris was smoldering, ready to catch fire from its own anger. Irate orators stood on boxes and raised hell before eager crowds. “We’ll have a new government!” a man shouted from his pulpit to the cheers of the crowd. “The Commune forever!” Hats flew in the air and bayonets glistened, and people hugged each other and cried tears of joy. “Vive la Commune!”

  Someone threw a rock at the speaker, but it missed and landed at Moussa’s feet. He jumped back and looked at Paul. “It’s like the day the empire fell,” he said, and they scurried back to the École.

  That afternoon the courtroom was sweltering. Paul’s attention was riveted on the proceedings. He noticed every word, every sound and motion. It was his father’s turn, he guessed, because the prosecutor had fallen silent for a change, and the witnesses were ones called by the lawyers sitting with Uncle Henri. And the witnesses were saying nice things.

  “A fine officer, deVries,” said a little man with a mustache whose name was Raspail. He seems awfully small to be an officer, Paul thought. I’m as tall as he is. Well, almost. Yet not only was the man an officer but a general. The prosecutor jumped up and complained about his uniform. “Out of order!” he cried. “There is no Imperial Guard anymore. This witness has no standing!” One of the judges told him to shut up and sit down, and Paul thought nothing finer had happened in the courtroom all day. After Raspail there were other officers, another colonel and then a major who said wonderful things, things about Italy and Africa and the service of France. It was heady stuff and Paul savored every word.

  Near the end of the day Jules deVries himself rose and spoke to the court. Paul nudged Moussa to make certain he was listening as hard as he ought to be. This will shut them up, he knew. There’s no way they can doubt him now. His father’s voice was not loud but strong and firm, its tone captivating the room as no other voice had. It was a voice Paul had heard a thousand times, a voice that had told him to stop doing this, or to start doing that, a voice that invariably scolded or taught some lesson.

  Paul listened raptly as the voice described what had happened since he left Paris on his way to the Prussian front. He told the story carefully, in great detail, missing nothing, from the look of the smoke over Châlons to the Uhlan patrol in the forest near Attigny to the position of the bodies in the farmhouse. He looked straight at the judges as he spoke, head erect, shoulders up, and to Paul he looked a million times better than the officer of the Dragoons. The stories he told were confusing, though. Instead of cavalry charges his father spoke of drunken soldiers. Instead of secret patrols there were French supplies put to the torch. Instead of great battles there were French soldiers, murdering women and children. It was all wrong, all mixed up. Paul didn’t know what to make of it.

  Paul saw that the judges listened carefully as his father spoke, all three of them leaning a little toward him and tilting their heads as if they might hear better. But the spectators paid no such attention. He could hear the jokes and the doubts and the mean things they said, undermining every word, every statement, laughing and shaking their heads and keeping up a steady murmur of distraction and disbelief. He glared at them. This is my father speaking.

  “Delescluze took me prisoner when he realized I’d caught him in the act of murder,” he heard his father say. “He was a twisted man. He wrote the letter for revenge against the empire. He did it drunk as we sat by a campfire. He wanted nothing more than to destroy my honour, and wrote the letter in the specific belief that the empire would fall at the hands of the Prussians, that this very trial would be the result…”

  He spoke for nearly an hour, and when he was done his voice was hoarse. “I am not guilty of these charges,” Paul heard him say. “I am not a coward. I have told you the full truth about what I have done, and what has been done to me. I stand ready to fight for my country. I stand ready to die for her.”

  It was the best speech Paul had ever heard. He wanted to jump up and shout, but the words didn’t seem to have the same effect on the others in the courtroom, who hung far more intently on the closing words of the prosecutor.

  “The whole history of France is covered with military glory,” the prosecutor said. “For two centuries she has held Europe in her hands. It is impossible to consider that she should have fallen in the field so thoroughly without the duplicity, the treachery, and the desertion of key officers. We have seen it in Sedan, with the despicable acts of a man who pretended to be emperor, yet who then raised the white flag to the Hun. We have seen it in Metz this very day, behind the spineless actions of a poltron whom we cannot in good conscience call Maréchal de France. And then” – he stood once again before Jules and leaned down, his face within inches of the colonel’s – “we have seen it in Jules deVries. In this man, we have seen the mighty spine of France crumble. For him there can be but one end. From you, honorable panel, the honor, the glory of France demands nothing less than a bullet to the brain of this most low and cunning coward.”

  The crowd erupted at that, exploded like nothing Paul had heard all day. The awful feeling of dread settled over him again, the one that brought the panic and the fear. He reminded himself it didn’t matter what the audience thought. His uncle said it was the judges who made the decision. But he looked at the audience cheering, and he looked at the judges who allowed it, and his uncle’s assurances didn’t help. Didn’t help at all.

  When quiet returned there were others who spoke, but it was too hot and too much and it all ran together in Paul’s mind. In the end the judge in the middle spoke and said all the evidence had been heard and to come back in the morning for a decision.

  Why do they need until morning? he wondered, but he stood when everyone else did, and then at last it was over for the day.

  Regret to inform you Major Dupree killed at Flöing. Unable to locate balance of unit. No sign

  Delescluze. Still looking.

  Blanqui

  Henri received the note after court that afternoon. It had arrived in Paris three days earlier by pigeon post, and was contained with thousands of other microscopic messages on photographic paper. The authorities had taken several days to transcribe them all for delivery. Miraculously, it had finally made its way to the château. Henri’s heart sank as he read it. He debated whether to give the message to his brother, or spare him the awful news. His chances were withering, or gone. Henri cursed himself.

  The great Count deVries has tri
ed everything, and it has all come to nothing.

  He should have listened to Blanqui in the first place, when he suggested breaking Jules out. Now it might be too late.

  He decided to give the note to Jules anyway. He couldn’t lie to him. As he rode across Paris to deliver it he heard a chilling sound. It was the rhythmic drumming of the rappel, calling the National Guard to arms. A sound of tumult, of terror, a sound that had last been heard in the city during the Great Revolution, a sound that preceded death. In the afternoon and evening hours, the city had come to the precipice of a new insurrection. The blows of Metz and Le Bourget had been quickly followed by talk of an armistice with the Prussians. The government was considering the payment of a massive fine to end the war, and the cession of the provinces of Alsace and Lorraine. A mob at the Hôtel de Ville had had enough of the government, and had taken General Trochu and his ministers hostage. The troops in the working-class district of Belleville were in full mutiny. The Committee for Public Safety had declared the government finished, and proclaimed the establishment of the Commune. Loyalist troops waited in the Place Vendome for the order to quell the uprising. The siege was less than two months old and Paris, as Bismarck had prophesied, was already ripping at her own throat.

  In this atmosphere my brother awaits a verdict, Henri thought grimly.

  Jules read the note his brother handed him. He crumpled it and dropped it to the floor, nodding his head as though he expected it. In the weeks of his confinement he had listened as other soldiers were marched away from the compound. He had heard the volleys of the firing squads, and the prisoners did not return. The last one had gone two days before. His thoughts were morbid.