by Lydia Syson
Rose gulped. ‘But that wasn’t your fault …’
The Vigilance Committee woman moved swiftly on. ‘Any factory experience? Ever worked in munitions?’
‘No,’ Zéphyrine whispered, ever more wretched. ‘I used to make … I used to make flowers.’
A half-smile, lowered eyes.
‘I see. Then I’m sure you are good with your hands. We are setting up sewing workshops —’
‘I’m not experienced in fine work,’ said Zéphyrine quickly.
‘Oh dear. You don’t seem to have a very high opinion of yourself.’
Zéphyrine didn’t feel she could argue with that.
‘Plain sewing, I can do,’ she said quietly. ‘And I can cook. I’m good at that. When I have something to put in the pot.’
‘Excellent.’ The woman was already leafing through her files. ‘Then I think I have just the right position for you.’
8.
23rd March
There was still an odd expectant silence on the pavements a few days later when Anatole and Jules set off for an evening drink. The stillness was broken from time to time by the hoarse cries of the newspaper boys, their voices raised by the drama of the coming election. ‘Le Cri du Peuple!’ shouted one. ‘The People’s Voice!’ On the next corner, politics came in a slightly different shade: ‘La Vérité! The Truth! Le Vengeur! The Avenger!’
As they strolled to their usual café, Jules bought a selection of papers, saying that he preferred to see all sides of a situation before coming to a decision.
‘How very sensible,’ said Anatole.
‘Very dull, is what you mean,’ said Jules. ‘But I’d rather be dull than ill-informed. By the way, you haven’t told me why you need to borrow more money,’ he said, holding the door open.
‘I —’
‘Not that I grudge it,’ Jules added hastily. ‘My father will hardly miss it. And his cheques seem to be getting through again now, which is just as well.’
‘That’s good to hear. I may have been a bit of a fool, I’m afraid. Long story. I’ll tell you over a beer.’
Jules knew how to be patient. ‘Billiards first?’
Anatole nodded, and followed him upstairs. As they played, the talk inevitably turned towards the elections.
‘Thiers has dug his own grave, abandoning the city to the Reds like this,’ said Anatole, chalking his cue. ‘I don’t understand it. If he was so scared of the radicals and the workers and the socialists, never mind the mutualists and the trade unionists, or the International Workingmen’s Association come to that …’ Anatole paused to think whether he might have missed anyone out. ‘Oh yes, and the women and children of course! If he was so bloody worried that he had to try to steal the National Guard’s cannon, why on earth didn’t he stand his ground when there was resistance? What exactly did he expect to happen?’
‘He obviously wants to stay head of the provisional government and he expected his army to follow orders, however unnatural …’ Jules pocketed another ball with his usual grace.
‘Well it didn’t. Perhaps it never will again,’ said Anatole. ‘We’ll just have to see how the National Assembly reacts to the Paris elections, I suppose.’
‘Have you heard of any of the men standing? Who on earth are they all?’
‘Fair question. I think one’s meant to be an acrobat of some kind – a circus sword-swallower. A few journalists of course. A shoemaker, I think, believe it or not. But we’ll find out soon enough. Just because nobody’s ever heard of the fellows, it doesn’t mean they’re no good. They just haven’t had a chance before. Damn.’ Anatole had misfired again. ‘The table’s yours.’
Jules leaned across the green baize to set up his shot. Anatole watched as one long check-trousered leg rose lightly from the floor. Jules’s quiet elegance and precision infuriated Anatole as much as it intrigued him, and he knew exactly what would happen next. Sure enough, Jules’s ball hit Anatole’s with a crack, bounced off the red with another satisfying thunk, and rolled against the rail. A breath of a smile, but Jules never gloated.
Anatole laid down his cue, held up his hands and bowed his head in mock-surrender. ‘Your game, sir … I think drinks are on me. After a fashion.’
They made their way downstairs to the bar. Cloth in hand, the white-aproned proprietor was quietly polishing glasses while keeping his ear on as many conversations as he could. Monsieur Louvet had built up his business from nothing. Now he had a place to be proud of, he didn’t want it collectivised, or whatever it was the workers were planning. But nor did he want his widowed sister over in Belleville evicted because she couldn’t come up with the rent. If only Paris could just get back to business as usual.
‘It’ll blow over,’ he said out loud, wiping up a few drops of crimson from the marble bar-top before they could stain. His movements were precise, and oddly soothing.
In the mirror behind Monsieur Louvet, Jules watched Anatole. Hesitant at first, he finally confessed what had happened with Zéphyrine.
‘… and when I got back to the box, she was gone, and so was my money. Oh, and all the food of course. She must have been starving.’
Jules raised an eyebrow. ‘Picking up a street girl. You can do better than that. I suppose she’s the type that thinks property is theft.’
‘Very funny,’ said Anatole.
Jules ran a finger round the edge of his wine glass, sounding a high thin hum. ‘I don’t know what possessed you,’ he said.
‘I’m not sure I know either,’ admitted Anatole. ‘I just felt sorry for her, I think. She looked so desperate. Not any more though.’
‘Sounds as if you’ve had a lucky escape.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ Anatole took another swig of beer.
‘What is this urge you have to rescue complete strangers? Always playing the hero.’ Jules looked at him sternly. ‘Very odd. Too long in the orchestra pit, I reckon.’
‘Oh, really? Is that your diagnosis?’
‘Let me see now. We need to look at the symptoms.’ Jules pretended to consult a notebook. ‘Prone to grand gestures, speedy seductions, sudden overflowings of passion. Occasional confusions of identity. Yes, everything seems to be there. I think what you’re suffering from is an inability to tell the difference between opera and real life.’
‘Oh, doctor … will I live?’ Anatole feigned a swoon. ‘Is there a cure?’
Jules caught him before he tipped off his stool, and set him upright. ‘It’s possible. I believe I can do something for you. But it’s unlikely to be overnight.’
At that very moment, a couple of elaborately costumed National Guard officers strolled into the bar, gold braid glittering, boots polished to a high sheen.
‘Oh look,’ said Anatole. ‘It must be catching. There seems to be an epidemic. You’d better take my pulse.’
He pushed up his sleeve, and offered Jules his wrist. Three cool fingers on his skin. Eyes quickly meeting.
‘Far too fast,’ Jules said briskly. ‘I think you need another drink. Don’t worry, I’ll get this.’
But it took some time to attract Monsieur Louvet’s attention. At the other end of the bar a stack of saucers had mounted up, another round just ordered, and the discussion was getting very heated. The patron leaned over towards his customers and gently observed that not everybody who lived in Belleville was filthy scum.
In the sudden silence this produced, Jules signalled their order. ‘Your health!’ he said when it arrived.
‘And yours. Thanks.’
Their glasses chinked – Anatole’s beer against Jules’s wine – they drank and shifted on their stools.
‘You’ve got beer froth on your moustache,’ Jules told Anatole, on the point of leaning forward to wipe it away.
Anatole checked himself in the mirror behind the bar. ‘Oh yes … so I have.’
When he pulled out a handkerchief to clean himself up, he realised it was Marie’s. He’d forgotten to tell Jules. ‘By the way, I’ve invited that soprano to
come with us to hear the election results. I thought you should see her. She’d make a wonderful model for you – and heaven knows you need a change.’
9.
26th March
A few days later, when votes had been cast and counted, the crowds gathered in front of the Hôtel de Ville. It was like a sea at sunset, rippling with red. Red sashes across shoulders, red rosettes pinned to lapels, red hair ribbons and liberty caps, and red lapels too of course. A red banner still billowed out over the City Hall itself, and many more now fluttered from handheld flagpoles and open windows. Warm and bright, the sun caught the brass muzzles of the Guardsmen’s rifles and made them glow. It brought out the heady scent of spring flowers stuffed down gun barrels, shedding fragrant petals. Violets. Baby daffodils. Vivid blue Muscari. A radical new governing body had been elected for Paris, by Paris – by those who had been prepared to vote, at any rate, and were the right sex to do so: it was called the Commune, just as it was in 1789, after the storming of the Bastille. Another new dawn for the city of Paris, and independence from the rest of France.
Marie felt every drumbeat vibrate in her bones. She clung to Anatole’s arm and tried not to show her nervousness. Everyone else seemed to be having such fun, leaning out of windows, throwing hats in the air, basking in the warmth. Anatole’s head was thrown back, and he was pointing. ‘Look over there!’
Bread held aloft on bayonets. Marie thought it was absurd, and a waste of good food. She was on the point of repeating what she’d overheard on her way here: that with half of Paris still in the countryside, and frightened to return, it was an easy victory for the Commune. But she held her tongue. Rifles were pricking up like a field of corn, endless battalions of the National Guard filing into the huge square. Cantinières stood around in jaunty Tyrolean hats, braided jackets and pert skirts with red striped hems, painted casks slung across their shoulders ready to administer to the troops from golden taps. Marie looked at them acidly. The women in uniform were certainly enjoying the attention their presence always attracted. She felt invisible, and even Anatole barely seemed to notice she was there.
‘Will it be long now?’ asked Marie, leaning in so Anatole could hear. It was very aggravating. He might not have much money, but he did make a very handsome escort, and behaved more like a gentlemen than the real thing ever did. He’d certainly do for the time being. Yet he seemed almost immune to her charms.
He didn’t even turn round to reply. ‘I don’t think so – look!’
Anatole was right. There must have been some sign from inside the City Hall, for the men perched on the surrounding windowsills began to wave their flags with even greater passion. A platform had been constructed in front of the building. More drapery and red banners were arranged like the curtains of a stage, a backdrop to the proceedings. At their centre was a statue of Liberty herself – fair Marianne.
‘At last,’ shouted Marie through a deafening volley on the drums.
The air shivered and the ground trembled, and a troop of red-sashed deputies strode onto the dais. A great many beards. Gold tassels, silver fringing, rosettes and ribbons galore. The new government of Paris stood before the people in all its glory. The Commune.
‘Here we go. Let’s hope he can keep it short. Can you see?’ asked Jules.
‘Yes – just about. What a shame you can’t photograph this,’ said Marie helpfully.
‘You read my mind.’
One of the men in the front row was shuffling papers.
‘Who’s that, I wonder?’ asked Anatole.
The answer came from a stranger standing nearby, a man with a pencil in his hand, taking notes. He could have been a journalist or a spy.
‘Ranvier. Mayor of Belleville. Used to paint plates, I believe.’
Marie just caught the word ‘Belleville’ and shuddered automatically. These people. Why, when she was growing up, working-class Belleville hadn’t even been part of Paris proper! Hearing the name, Marie imagined filthy streets swarming with cut-throats and revolutionaries, anarchists and pickpockets, society’s outcasts all plotting and scheming and planning the downfall of anyone with a sous to their name. Could people like that actually be running Paris now?
The plate-painter on stage began to speak. ‘Citizens! My heart is too full of joy to make a speech. Permit me only to thank the people of Paris for the great example they have given the entire world … In the name of the people … the Commune is proclaimed!’
He was drowned out by an answering cry from the surging crowd.
‘Long live the Commune! Vive la Commune!’
A military band struck up ‘La Marseillaise’.
‘Le jour de gloire est arrivé! The day of glory has arrived!’
Marie winced at the sound of several thousand voices singing a song they loved in six or seven different keys. But the spectacle of so many fluttering handkerchiefs was charming. From the river came the repeated boom of cannon, sounding in triumph for a change. Gunpowder hung in the air. Men wept. ‘Aux armes, citoyens! To arms, citizens!’ they chorused.
‘What could go wrong?’ Jules murmured. ‘The people have pronounced.’
Anatole was grinning like a child on his birthday. ‘This is exciting, you’ve got to admit …’ He turned from Marie to Jules, who stood on either side of him, and they saw his eyes were brimming over too. ‘What more could you ask? A peaceful revolution! Democracy! Justice! This’ll make up for the last few decades, surely. We must be on the right track now.’
Marie looked away.
Jules shrugged. ‘The royalists won’t stand for this,’ he said. ‘Never mind the Bonapartists.’ The National Assembly at Versailles was made up of as many political shades as the newly elected leaders in Paris, but it was united in its opposition to the Commune.
‘Too bad! Paris will never give up its municipal rights now. I’ll put money on it.’
‘You’ll need money to put money on it,’ Jules pointed out in a low voice, right into Anatole’s ear.
‘Shhh.’ Anatole shook his head quickly, and glanced at Marie.
‘Are the Commune leaders really all foreigners?’ she asked suddenly. ‘They don’t look it, do they?’
Anatole was puzzled. ‘What did you say?’
‘Why would you think that?’ asked Jules.
‘I heard …’ She hesitated. What had she heard? ‘I heard they were all international, or internationalists, or something …’
They didn’t quite laugh at her.
‘Oh, you mean the International Workingmen’s Association?’ said Anatole, understanding. ‘No, they’re not foreign. They just all believe in socialism, and things like that.’
‘Socialism? I didn’t know …’ she said to nobody in particular, and nobody heard.
‘Will you give me a leg up here?’ Anatole asked Jules, pointing at a newly vacated lamp post. ‘I just want to get a bit higher. I’ll tell you what I can see. Do you mind, Marie?’
She shook her head and withdrew her arm to free his. ‘These crowds are very exhausting, aren’t they?’
If Anatole didn’t offer to take her home, perhaps his expensively-dressed friend would get the hint.
‘You’ll get a fresh wind soon!’ said Anatole cheerfully, swinging himself up by a cast-iron curlicue, with the help of a reluctant heave from Jules. ‘Or come and have a look from up here – you can see much better! How many thousands of people do you think there can be here …? The rue de Rivoli looks completely jammed too … It’s unbelievable. Everyone left in Paris must have turned out to see this.’
Another song started up, a stirring anthem about tyrants going down to graves, and the Republic’s summons. From his new vantage point, Anatole scanned the faces of the singers. They were rough and ready, but sang with as much feeling as any musician at the Théâtre Lyrique. That’s what was needed, he thought. Pure emotion. How could he explain this to Marie? How could you capture a spirit like this, and recreate it evening after evening? Perhaps you couldn’t. He loved watching it
all though, and being part of it. Anatole could hardly tear himself away. He looked one last time across the sea of smiling faces, before he offered to walk Marie home. But something caught his eye. He stared, and his expression turned to anger.
‘What is it?’ Marie called up, alarmed.
‘Watch out – he may be about to fall!’ Jules shouted. A person could be trampled to death in a crowd like this.
But Anatole felt anything but faint. He jumped down from his lamp post and vanished.
10.
A few moments later, Zéphyrine felt a firm hand on her shoulder.
‘Hey!’ She shook it off and spun round indignantly. At least she tried to. With so many people jostling around, pressing in on all sides, and such a racket going on, it was hard to make the dramatic gesture she’d intended.
‘Hey,’ echoed Rose, who’d made Zéphyrine come to the celebrations, thinking it would cheer her up, and inspire her with a bit of revolutionary spirit into the bargain.
‘You stole my money!’ hissed Anatole, wanting to make a scene without actually making a scene.
‘Me?’ said Zéphyrine, hands moving to hips.
A shiver of doubt crossed Anatole’s face. Her white, ribboned cap was spotless, her dress neat and crisp.
Rose frowned. ‘You stole his money?’
Anatole stared at Zéphyrine and glimpsed, just for a moment, a reflection of his own uncertainty. A flicker in her eyes that told him she knew exactly who he was. ‘I want it back.’
Zéphyrine had admitted nothing yet. Another chorus of ‘Le Chant du Départ’ broke out. ‘The Republic is calling us,’ everybody sang.
‘Now.’ Anatole raised his voice another notch, keeping up the pressure, enjoying the prospect of reporting the incident to Jules. Surely he would approve this time.
‘I – I’ve spent it.’ She tossed back her head, half-closing her eyes. Defiant, or buying time?
Of course she’d spent it, probably on that dress, which actually suited her better than the drab skirt and buttoned blouse she’d been wearing before. Anatole looked around for a policeman. Then he remembered that he wouldn’t find one: the National Guard was in charge of law and order now. There was no shortage of Guardsmen in the square. So what should he do? Grab the nearest militiaman and ask him to arrest her?