by Lydia Syson
Jules was a watcher. He didn’t like to shout out, to tell people what to do or where to stand. That was meant to have been Anatole’s job for the day. Luckily, one of the officers who had been guarding the darkroom volunteered to convey his instructions. Happy to help, he said, on such a glorious day as this. Vive la Révolution.
26.
17th May
A day later, Marie stood in the backstage lobby, and studied the envelope for clues.
‘Aren’t you going to open it then?’ the doorkeeper said, over the top of his newspaper.
Not in front of you, she thought, holding the letter defensively against her chest, but she wasn’t so stupid as to get on the wrong side of him.
‘When did it arrive?’ she asked. ‘Today?’
He stuck out his lower lip as he pondered the question. You would think she’d asked him to draft a peace treaty with Versailles.
‘No, I believe it was …’ He got to his feet with a groan, and began to sift through a pile of papers and envelopes. Marie tried not to tap her toe. It was all very aggravating. ‘Oh yes, it must have been yesterday.’
‘Yesterday?’ Marie was horrified.
‘The messenger said it was urgent. I wonder who it’s from,’ he said.
You wonder, thought Marie, taking the envelope. Wonder away. You’re not going to find out from me.
‘Thank you so much …’
She skipped upstairs and found an empty dressing room. A few unused costumes for If I Were King hung lifeless on their pegs. Marie sat down in front of a mirror, made a space on the table among the jars of pearl powder and pomade, and laid down the envelope. She knew exactly who had sent it. She recognised the writing from the note that had summoned her to an audition a few days earlier. The Opéra. The most prestigious stage in Paris. It was almost too terrifying and thrilling to bear. How many times had she imagined a moment like this? She told herself not to rush. If it was the news she was hoping for, she ought to savour it.
Perhaps her luck was changing. Or perhaps she should make it change, she corrected herself, suddenly grim. If there was still no word from her brother by Monday week, she decided to grit her teeth and go back to the Prefecture. Her mouth crimped in disgust at the thought of Rigault’s wet lips hiding in that repulsive beard. Next week she would decide. Now, with a deep, calming breath, she turned her attention back to the letter in her hand.
Marie could hardly bring herself to take the next step, but she knew she couldn’t put it off any longer. She used a pair of tweezers to slice open the envelope. Scrambling down the page, her eyes struggled at first to read the lines in order. The first words she recognised were ‘so sorry not to be able’. And then she understood. She had not been rejected … Monsieur Melchissédec had agreed to sing after all. Ah, that was a calculation Marie understood. The baritone’s father, a police commissioner in the old regime, had just been arrested. Cooperation with the Commune was clearly the best strategy for his son at this point. But then she wondered if she had misjudged the Commune. Could it be so very terrible if it was prepared to open doors like this to people like her – doors that had for years been so very firmly and so very unfairly shut?
She went back to the letter. There had been a change of plan, it seemed. Unforeseeable circumstances. (Resignations?) And there wasn’t much time – the first rehearsal was due to take place the following day. Could Mademoiselle Le Gall please confirm as quickly as possible that she was already familiar with the part of Leonora in Verdi’s Il Trovatore? Unfortunately, they would only perform the final act on 22nd May – the execution scene – but this was the most demanding in the opera for any soprano. Marie was to understudy Madame Lacaze.
She knew it would have been unrealistic to hope for a solo. But even to be asked to understudy was more than enough for Marie: it kept hope alive, right to the very last moment. Any singer could catch a chill overnight and ruin her voice. She could trip and twist an ankle between the dressing room and the stage. The important thing for Marie was to be ready for anything.
She knew every note. And more importantly, she had already thought long and hard about how she would play Leonora, if she ever got the chance. Not as a wilting wallflower, but bold and brave, impetuous and passionate. After all, she had to be ready to lay down her life for her lover.
‘“Wrapped in this dark night”,’ she began to sing to the mirror, ‘“you do not know that I am close to you.”’ This had long been her favourite aria. She would make an audience swoon with the smoothest legato, trilling crescendos, crystalline pianissimo. She would be so sweet and sad that no eye in the house could remain dry. Her thoughts rushed ahead. Perhaps, in rehearsal, she would sing so beautifully, so convincingly, that once he realised her talents, the director would find an excuse to demote Madame Lacaze. ‘“On the rosy wings of love …”’
She would have to see. But this made up for so much. Really, Trovatore was more than Marie could have hoped for: gypsies, disguise, civil war, love … destiny of course. And vengeance, terrible vengeance.
Just before six that evening, as if in retribution for the felling of the Vendôme column, a vast, thunderous boom resounded through Paris. Every building in the city seemed to rock. Marie was hard at work in a practice room in the attics of the Théâtre Lyrique with a young baritone also recently elevated from the chorus; she grabbed hold of the piano, and found herself gabbling a prayer. Anatole, hurrying to meet Zéphyrine, wondering whether this might be the evening she finally let him accompany her up the hill and into her room, hoping it would be, steadied himself on the nearest lamp post. Zéphyrine herself was just a few streets away. She stopped dead with her hands over her ears, crushing her black glass earrings so their spikes dug into her neck. Abandoning his printing, Jules rushed to throw open the studio window: it was like being caught in the roar of an express train as it rushes through a country station. He gasped for breath. His ears sang.
But a train passes quickly, and is gone. This grew louder, as if the skies themselves contained an army. Above the southern rooftops, a towering, roaring cloud, hundreds of feet high, appeared from nowhere. It was like an evil genie. From deep within the clouding smoke, the endless firing continued, a violent crick-cracking like musketry, but deeper. Or the hammer blows of an almighty anvil, only quicker. From this distance, lit by the sun’s glow, the cloud had a capricious, uncapturable beauty: innumerable silvery ostrich plumes, continually unfurling, whirling, twisting in the air, revolving round themselves and others, endlessly and speedily rolling in and out of one another. White and black and grey and yellow, the colours kept changing places as Jules watched. The metallic rattle and ringing continued. And from the sky fell burning timber, molten lead, empty bullet cases and human remains.
It was only a matter of minutes, but it seemed forever. Finally the monster softened into mere smoke and dispersed. The noise died down and elements drifted away to spread the news around the city. Just a few wispy shreds hovered above the empty space on the avenue Rapp where once a cartridge factory had stood, where hundreds of women and girls used to work. Nobody knew who was to blame.
27.
21st May
The applause died down in the Tuileries Garden and the musicians of the National Guard’s brass band put away their instruments, their minds on a cooling drink.
‘Citizens!’ A staff officer spoke from the conductor’s platform. ‘Yesterday Monsieur Thiers promised to enter Paris. Still he is not here. We say he will never enter our city. So you are cordially invited to rejoin us in the gardens next Sunday, right here, to enjoy the second of our concerts for the benefit of the widows and orphans of the Commune. We look forward to seeing you then.’
Under the trees, the four friends parted. Marie was the first to bid her farewells.
‘Sleep well! You must look your best tomorrow night!’ Anatole called after her.
‘I hope I will. See you at the Opéra.’ She hurried off, still hoping some mishap might strike Madame Lacaze in the night.
A glimpse of a face in a crowd soon unsettled her. It was so much like Emile’s that she diverted her course through the lime trees, about to run right up to the young man. Of course it wasn’t him. She realised just in time. How could it have been? A trick of the light, and too much wishing, too hard and for too long. His resemblance to her brother had been uncannily close and Marie could not shake off the feeling that Emile was close now too. Her nerves must be getting the better of her.
Jules waited for Anatole in the shade of a tree, and looked away. Anatole was making one last effort to persuade Zéphyrine to let him walk her home. He was thoughtful enough to glance quickly round to check Jules wasn’t watching before he slid his fingers round the nape of her neck, lightly stroking the soft short hairs hidden beneath her cap in a way which he knew would make her arch her back. She did of course, pushing towards him and bending away at the same time.
‘Let me come home with you,’ he begged again.
Her head was light as spindrift, her body melting like tar in the sun. If Anatole came even as far as the bottom of her lane, she didn’t think she could send him home tonight. She thought she could trust him now. He had convinced her that he wouldn’t disappear overnight like Marie’s banker. Better than that, over the sewing and the chopping and the stirring, women had been talking. They argued a lot: was it right for a bastard child to have the same rights as a legitimate one? They compared notes too: how much easier it was to walk down the street these days without a man trying to take advantage. And they discussed other stuff too – important, secret stuff – in lowered voices. Zéphyrine had picked up a thing or two at last. Despite what Gran’mère had always said, Zéphyrine had worked out for herself there didn’t always have to be a baby. There were ways of stopping it, things you could do.
But the next day was Monday. At six in the morning she was due in the kitchens, by six that evening at the Opéra. This wasn’t something to rush. They had all the time in the world. They could wait a little longer.
‘Tomorrow’s too big a night! I don’t want to be falling asleep, do I? Nor you either.’
He kissed her evasive eyes. ‘I won’t stay. Just to the bottom of the hill?’
‘It’ll be another long walk for you for nothing,’ she said firmly.
‘Not nothing. More time with you.’
‘Go home with Jules. Who could blame him for turning you out altogether, when you leave him alone so long? Then where would you be?’ She raised her voice deliberately.
‘I’m not that hard-hearted,’ Jules called back. ‘But I am going home now myself. See you later. Goodnight.’
They heard his footsteps on the gravel. Zéphyrine couldn’t find it in herself to push Anatole after him, and he made no effort to go. Instead, he kissed the back of her neck.
‘Come on then,’ she said, twisting with pleasure. ‘I’ll show you where I live. It’s about time. But you mustn’t stay for long. You know you’ve got to get a decent night’s sleep tonight.’
It was a long walk up the hill, and they had almost given up on words by the time they reached the house. There was no sign of Madame Mouton, or any of the other lodgers, but they were silent on the stairs. Once the door was safely shut behind them, and Zéphyrine had lit a candle, the first thing Anatole noticed was the gingerbread pig on the beam.
They had come too close, too many times, to be very shy with one other now. There was awkwardness of course. Moments like this are rarely perfect. Bodies have to work things out. At one point Zéphyrine’s eyes filled with tears and she closed them, and Anatole kissed them. Saying goodbye was very hard.
There was a sticky heat to the night, which felt more like August than May. Back in his own bed, Anatole lay with a sheet tangled round his legs, his body still aching with tenderness and lust. He had got home at midnight, true to his word, but his mind would not let him sleep. He had thought it would never happen, and finally it had. It made him want even more from Zéphyrine.
He loved her independence, though perhaps she wasn’t quite as independent as she liked to make out. Certainly not of Rose and her influence. Equal pay for equal work was one thing of course. Fair enough. But all this talk in the clubs of marriage as slavery … Did Zéphyrine really believe that? He hoped not. He would go mad if they didn’t discuss their future soon, if he couldn’t persuade her.
Something changed in the quality of the bombardment’s rumble, which put sleep out of reach entirely. He might as well get up and see what he could see, instead of lying there alone, listening and worrying. Anatole wrapped the sheet round himself and stumbled, yawning, into the drawing room.
Jules was still up, watching from the balcony. ‘Something’s happening. I’m not sure what. Over towards the Arc de Triomphe, I think. It’s hard to tell exactly where.’
Anatole grunted, and joined him at the window. Nothing outside could be more important than what was going on in his head. He had to talk about it. Except for that one terrible argument, Jules had always been so understanding about Zéphyrine. Surprisingly so, really – you couldn’t ask for a better friend. He ought to be the first to know. It would be wrong not to tell him first. After a few minutes, Anatole blurted it out.
‘I’ve decided, Jules. I’ve got to do it, as soon as possible. It’s easy now anyway. You don’t even have to go to a church. They’ll do it in the City Hall, under a red flag.’
Jules glanced at him: bare-shouldered and sweaty and dishevelled. There was nothing to say. He turned his attention back to the sky.
‘She can always say no,’ Anatole continued. ‘I’ll understand. There are lots of good reasons why she might. But I think it’s right to ask. I think the time has come.’
Jules sighed, so quietly that perhaps Anatole didn’t notice.
‘So you’re going to propose,’ he said.
28.
22nd May
Monday. Zéphyrine almost overslept. Anatole hadn’t wanted her to put her clothes on again just to see him out. He would be careful, he promised. After a last lingering look at her, he took the candle, and she must have fallen asleep before he finished tiptoeing from the building. How strange it was to wake up naked. She quickly washed and dressed, and headed down from the attic. Just as she reached the second landing, the funereal booming ring of the church bell began to sound. The alarm peal caught her like bad news, in the pit of her stomach. Almost simultaneously, fists began to hammer on the door below, and a scream reached her ears.
‘The Versailles troops are here!’
Zéphyrine’s muscles refused to obey orders. She had to grab the rickety banister to stop herself hurtling down to the flagstones at the bottom. Madame Mouton seemed to have collapsed already, from shock, in the doorway.
‘They’re here! They’re in Paris.’
A small ragged boy with a red armband, not more than ten years old, stood on the doorstep. He repeated the words mechanically, as if saying them enough times would make them believable. There had been false alarms before.
Zéphyrine pushed past Madame Mouton, took the boy’s shoulders and shook him hard. ‘It’s impossible,’ she said. ‘It can’t be true. There’s been no warning.’
He wriggled out of her grip, and screamed into her face. ‘It’s true! It’s true! The Versailles troops are here! The Versailles troops are in Paris!’
‘Who sent you?’
‘Rose. Rose Lenoir. I’m her cousin. She’s at the town hall. She says to come right away.’
Zéphyrine turned to the concierge. ‘Take the children to the cellar. Keep them safe.’
This brought Madame Mouton back to life. She pulled herself back to her feet and planted her hands on her hips. ‘You must be joking. Do you think I’m hiding them now?’ she said, elbows like indignant wings. ‘They’ll do their share, don’t worry.’
Zéphyrine hugged Madame Mouton, eyes tightly closed. They squeezed each other with all their strength, and then Zéphyrine rushed off down the hill, almost immediately running into a fédéré who
was buckling on his ammunition belt as he came out of his own doorway.
‘What are the orders?’ she shouted.
‘I don’t know,’ he shouted back.
And everywhere it was the same, until they realised that there were no orders. There wasn’t a plan. Every neighbourhood had to fight for itself.
The throng outside their town hall was muted and scared. Everyone wanted someone else to tell them what to do. From the garrison up at the windmill came urgent drumming – the call to arms. Zéphyrine waited for people to pour into the streets in their hundreds, all ready and willing to defend Montmartre to the bitter end. Two months earlier, when the cannon were being stolen, everyone had rushed out without a backward glance. But half the men here weren’t even in uniform. It was if they were scared to be seen in their kepis.
And still not a sound from the heights of Montmartre, from the guns they had risked so much to save. When the whisper of rumour began, it was hard to know what to believe. People said the Communard general had arrived up there in the early hours and found a rusting abandoned mess of artillery, that nobody had thought to take care of Montmartre’s precious gun park. Surely that couldn’t be true? Surely, after all these weeks, Montmartre was better prepared than this?
At first, Zéphyrine couldn’t find Rose anywhere. She was about to go and look at the ambulance station when the door of the town hall opened, and there she was, limping awkwardly but determinedly down the steps. Zéphyrine called and waved, and Rose saw her, and changed direction.
‘What’s the news?’
‘They’ve taken Trocadéro. That’s where the shells are coming from – listen! There’s fighting on the streets on the Right Bank. And the station at Saint-Lazare has fallen already!’