‘That,’ said Blount, ‘is a slander!’
Lagarde agreed. He was alert for slanders because of those spread about himself – for instance, that he had deserted Darboy from ultramontane spite. ‘The Communards smashed the pillar,’ he told Nicola, ‘from hatred of the Bonapartes. They may shoot Monseigneur for the same reason. As the Emperor’s man.’
‘God’s man, surely?’
‘For us,’ said the abbé despondently. ‘Not for them!’ Fresh danger signals had come from the city. The Red Virgin wanted the hostages shot. ‘Louise Michel. I used to see her during the Prussian siege. She would march into our churches collecting money for the ambulances. Always with a red belt and a gun on her shoulder. Her father was a landed gentleman and her mother a chambermaid. The Commune’s other virago, Elizabeth Dimitrieff, is a bastard too.’ The progeny of mismatches, said the abbé, were forcing-pits for revolution. ‘Topsyturvydom is policy now and such freaks are bloodthirsty.’
Nicola tried not to feel resentful. Personal feelings had no place here – and perhaps the son of the Baron Lagarde did not mean what he said. One must hope not, for his drift was woundingly clear: the viragos were viragos because they were bastards, and misfits aimed to tailor the world to fit themselves. But: was Monseigneur Dupanloup not the son of mismatched parents? And Jesus Christ? Both their sires had picked ancillary loves and left their sons a soft spot for underdogs. Hence Dupanloup’s Liberalism and the Sermon on the Mount.
A Commune rampaged through Nicola’s thoughts. Veuillot would have said he had encouraged it by dallying with Liberalism: a bastard creed. Would Lagarde? It was hard to know what he thought about anything other than his impugned honour, his archbishop’s doubts of him, and his hopes of outwitting the Reds. Unity was fracturing and the air hazy with sunshot dust.
Meanwhile, Darboy was plumbing a humiliation custom-made for grocer’s stock, as he tried to peddle an unwanted lot made up of himself and five fellow hostages. His last two pleas were delivered to Monsieur Thiers on Saturday and Sunday, 20th and 21st May. That same Sunday, government troops entered Paris and the news, which reached Versailles in time for after-dinner toasts, filled the archbishop’s friends with dread. ‘That’s it then. Thiers won’t negotiate now. And the Communards will fight like cornered rats.’
Wolves! Badgers! Baited bears! Over the next weeks, idlers in Versailles would enjoy the pleasures of zoo-visitors as they threw stones and dung at the convoys of captives who came hobbling in their thousands through their town. These, said Blount, were the lucky ones. Ferocious stories were leaking out of Paris.
*
The day after the troops went in, their advance was halted. Though welcomed in the wealthy western districts, they came up against a line of resistance stretching from the Batignolles, through the Gare St Lazare, across the river to the Chamber of Deputies and south to Montparnasse. East of this front lay Mazas prison where the hostages were held.
That evening, the sky over Paris was red; and next day stupefied Versaillais, many of whom owned houses in the capital, saw columns of black smoke rise, spread like the branches of an umbrella pine, then, erupting still higher, form a vast, red-tinged, glowing mushroom. The city was on fire.
Rumours clashed with counter-rumours. The Tuileries were burning and so perhaps was Notre-Dame Cathedral! What about the prisons? Had the bridges been blown up? The dry, windy weather was perfect for arson, and it was not until the Friday that rain came.
All week Nicola prayed for Darboy who, in his aching mind, fused with other figures visible in the shabby gloom of Versailles churches: stoned Stephens, Jeromes with their tamed lions, meek Christs. Remembering what the abbé Delisle had said about the uses of martyrdom, Nicola, even as he begged the Virgin to take pity on the hostages, fancied he saw a sardonic twitch to her lip.
*
Early on Saturday, 27th May, a manservant of Flavio’s called at Nicola’s lodgings with the 60,000 francs for the hostages’ ransom. Although ill, the duke, said his man, had forced himself to travel. He had got here from Brussels last night but was now too sick with a fever to take the money into Paris, as he had hoped to do. Besides, it was too late. It would be foolhardy to venture into that furnace. The rules of war were being observed by neither side. Paris was a slaughter-house, but the duke wanted Monsignor Santi to know he had done his best. He had done it for him because he knew that he had come to think of the archbishop as Amandi’s successor and must dread to see him, too, struck down.
The messenger left him staring at the useless money. Amandi and Darboy were his heart’s elect, yet he, like one of the wailing women posted along the via crucis, must stand impotently by – must he? Surely, this time could be different? Paris was in chaos, but might he not hope to turn this to account? Convince the Army of the urgency of a rescue? Bribe a Communard official at the last, critical moment? Even this week, people had been into that hell and come back. Edward Blount knew some who had, but was refusing to repeat their stories. Hearsay, he claimed, was a factor in the vengeful follies being reported and misreported.
Blount! Might he help? He had contacts in the city and knew whom to bribe. Nicola would ask him for a loan of lay clothes – and maybe the Englishman would offer to come with him. Lagarde? No. Blount was the man, decided Nicola, and set off to find him.
*
Two hours later they were in the smudgy heart of ruined Paris. Like Virgil in the Inferno, Blount named wrecked, half-deserted streets, the rue Royale, the place du Carrousel. By now the Army had fought its way east and only the fire-brigade was left and, with the help of residents, was struggling to quench fires laid by the retreating Communards. Occasional gusty flames rose, were beaten back by the wind and seemed, at moments, to creep along the footpaths. Gutted ministries – just here were the Admiralty and the vast, devastated Ministry of Finance – had been doused with petrol and set alight. Arsonists, a resident told them, had been shot out of hand.
‘We were in the cellars.’ A concierge held her door half open, ready, if need be, to dodge behind it. There had, she said, been summary killings right here. First the fédérés had killed people and, when the regular troops came, they killed them. On the spot! Up against the wall. Pan! As if she had frightened herself, she closed the door and they heard her shoot the bolt.
‘They can’t believe it’s over.’
‘It isn’t on the other side of the city. Hear the cannon?’
On their way here, the sky had been dotted with scraps of blackened paper which floated sootily for miles outside Paris. Here, at the ministries, was their source. Carbonised particles rose like black butterflies, were caught by the wind, whirled in gusty flurries, then fell back, often into one of the conflagrations still dully burning throughout the area.
Blount plucked a fragment from his sleeve and, reading ‘… nistry of Just…’, noted that that must have come from across the river. ‘The duke should be pleased. If the Ministry of Justice has lost its records, the evidence against him has gone up in smoke!’
He had a message from him, he remembered then. Indeed, he had intended telling it to Nicola this morning but, distracted by the idea of this expedition, had forgotten. ‘He’d have written, but is too ill and it wasn’t something he wanted to tell a servant. He told me last night at the station.’
‘What is his message?’
‘He wants you to know that he is adopting Maria Gatti’s son. He wants an heir. It seems he’s worried about his health. Did you know that? Apparently it’s not good, so starting the adoption procedure couldn’t wait. I gather it’s a ticklish subject. Oh God,’ Blount interrupted himself in shock. ‘Corpses!’
They had a domestic, even casual look, as if they had just slipped out for bread or milk. There were too many for that though. Spectators or combatants in some skirmish, they had been piled, six feet high, under an arcade and three urchins were turning out their pockets. Nicola got a sour smell, as the two rushed past.
There was smoke everywhere and smells of
burned varnish. Gutted buildings smouldered as they made their way down the rue de Rivoli towards the Hôtel de Ville, which had been the Commune’s headquarters. The sky showed lacily through its gouged façade, but the flames had been doused and a lambent phosphorescence glimmered from its shell. Dead horses. More bodies. Broken barricades. A hiss of water hoses everywhere, and all the time that distant rumbling growl of the cannon.
‘Look.’ Blount pointed across the river. ‘Notre-Dame Cathedral! They didn’t burn it after all.’
*
At Mazas Prison the Army was in control and the tricolour flying. The news was, however, that the retreating Communards had moved the hostages east to the prison of La Roquette which, though not far, was unreachable. Fighting in that area was intense, for the rump of the Commune was entrenched in the Mairie of the Eleventh Arrondissement which was just near the prison.
Blount said he knew some people east of here who might have news. So they pressed on laboriously, taking roundabout routes to avoid the rubble of barricades. His acquaintances were café owners who had closed their shutters and were reluctant to open them. In the end, however, they let the two in and agreed to give them a scratch meal. The Englishmen had made their acquaintance when distributing provisions bought by the Lord Mayor of London’s Fund. He asked the patronne for news of the hostages.
‘You didn’t hear? They were shot in La Roquette prison on Wednesday. The men from the firing squad were in the wine shops afterwards, spending their fifty francs and talking their heads off. Besides, there were plenty of witnesses in the Place Voltaire when help was recruited.’
‘You’re sure they shot the archbishop? Darboy?’
Nicola felt dizzy with disappointment, but Blount put a hand on his. ‘Don’t despair!’ he said. Most rumours were untrue. ‘Remember Notre-Dame Cathedral? We just saw it intact, yet two days ago a man swore to me he’d seen it in flames! We’ll go to La Roquette now.’
The woman came back with some preserved fruit. ‘Life goes on,’ she said, dishing it up. ‘Just! This morning soldiers shot a child here in the street. A chimneysweep. They said he had gunpowder on his hands, so they shot him. It wasn’t gunpowder. It was soot!’
The other side, she told them, was no better. They’d massacred fifty prisoners in the rue Haxo. Maybe more? Some were priests. That was yesterday. They’d taken them from La Roquette prison and, although Commune officials tried to rescue the prisoners and there was no proper firing squad, they were mown down by the mob. ‘Shot like rabbits. Turned into human porridge.’ That was what she’d heard from a man who had got a shaking fit while he was telling her. Anyone who had a gun just shot into the mass without taking aim or even lining them up. They did it because of what the regulars did to their own people. ‘“An eye for an eye,” they said.’
Blount’s eye held Nicola’s. These are only stories, it signalled. On their way out, Nicola’s attention was caught by a poster. It was a call to arms by the Committee of Public Safety. ‘Citizens,’ he read. ‘Treason has opened our gates to the enemy … If Thiers wins you know what awaits you. Labour without fruit and poverty without relief … To arms. No pity! Shoot all those who might help the enemy. If you are defeated they won’t spare you …’
‘It’s not all lies,’ said the woman indecisively. She pointed to the words ‘Woe to those caught with powder on their fingers or smoke on their faces’. ‘I told you about the chimneysweep. A child! And you may be sure he wasn’t the only one. That’s Monsieur Thiers’ justice for you!’ Carefully, she unpinned the poster and, as they stepped out, locked her door. The sound of guns was close.
*
There was a cluster of marines within three hundred yards of La Roquette. They had captured a barricade and were sheltering behind it. Priests, they told Nicola and Blount, had tried escaping from the prison in small groups. Two had got this far and by now must be safely home in their presbyteries. They had reported that others too might try to get out, for the prison authorities had run away and the remaining guards were ready to defect. The danger was the die-hards fighting between here and the gaol. Already, several fugitives had been caught and shot.
Meanwhile, inside one wing of La Roquette, prisoners, many of them captured regular soldiers, had broken out of their cells and raised barricades against the mob which they feared might invade. The prisoners in the other wing were still locked up.
‘What about the archbishop?’
The marines didn’t know but noted that anyone making a run for it would wear civilian clothes. ‘Your archbishop won’t come out wearing his pectoral cross.’
At that moment a sniper picked off a marine close to them and the fighting started again. An officer ordered the two civilians out of the line of fire.
Blount thought they should approach the gaol from another direction. He had lost his hat, had blood on his jacket and smelled unusually high for an English gentleman. Nicola guessed that he too had a gamy tang. His clothes were sticking to him and the unaccustomed trousers felt tight around his crotch. As they moved off, the sniper fire grew fiercer and the marines retreated. The officer told them that the prison was unreachable for now.
‘But,’ asked Blount, ‘might the Communards not burn it?’
The officer shrugged. ‘We’ll go in when we can.’
The sun had now set but a persistent radiance in the sky suggested that it might re-arise. Tomorrow was Whitsun, the feast when the Church celebrated the Holy Ghost’s descent on the timorous apostles. Then, too, He had come in the form of tongues of fire. A marine told the two civilians that they should return to the safe part of the city. In an hour or so, the troops would have tightened their noose around the prison and might even have freed it.
So off they set, turned a corner, then another, and were in the line of fire. Confused, they bolted in different directions and, moments later, Nicola found himself confronted by four smudge-faced creatures with the white eyes of maddened horses.
‘Aha!’ cried a loose-toothed, hairless one and grappled him to his bony chest. Rubbing a blackened, stubby cheek to his cheek, he cried, ‘Don Nicola, isn’t it? A ghost? Or am I dead myself?’
He, he cried, was Don Mauro, alias Monsieur Maur! Remember? At Monsieur Lammenais’ funeral? He was fighting with the Garibaldini who had come to help the Commune. Why not? At his age it would be a bonus to die fighting. Think of it! He had expected to die decades ago of tuberculosis and instead here he was. Better a bullet than consumption! Eh? Here, take a gun. What are you doing here? What a turn-up! We’re all Italians here!
He waved at three other men, veterans all, he said, of 1848! ‘Hunker down behind this. So you threw off your cassock in the end, did you? Ha!’ cried Don Mauro, ‘they’re getting brazen!’ And turning away he began energetically shooting through a small gap at what, Nicola feared, must be the same troops as he and Blount had just left. ‘Keep down,’ scolded Mauro. ‘You’re not a combatant, I can see. What are you doing here?’
Nicola said he was seeking news of Archbishop Darboy. Was he dead? Yes, said Mauro. ‘They shot him last Wednesday inside the prison. R.I.P. The Vatican won’t be sorry, whatever they pretend.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Keep down, will you! Down!’
Bullets skidded off the top of the barricade and one of the others said, ‘We’ll have to leave here. Fall back to the Mairie.’
‘The Army says you’re surrounded.’
Don Mauro rose and peered over the top, then waved at an empty street. ‘They’ve gone!’
‘Tell me about Darboy.’
‘He was shot by a firing squad. In revenge. Six National Guardsmen had been put up against a wall by the regular army, so their mates killed six hostages. They thought it would make more of an impression if they took Darboy.’
‘What did you mean about the Vatican?’ Nicola felt sick with foreboding.
Don Mauro winked. ‘General Cluseret had ordered Darboy’s release and he was within a whisker of being freed. Instead
, someone told Cluseret’s colleagues what was afoot and they arrested him. What you must know is that that someone was an agent of Monsignor Chigi’s. And if you want to know how I know, I know the man. He’s an old Garibaldino who turned his coat. We rumbled him years back but tolerate him lest they replace him by someone more efficient. When we’re killed he’ll be laughing – or maybe he’ll miss us? Maybe he’ll put flowers on our graves?’
The lull continued. One of the Garibaldini was sucking at a loaf of bread and Nicola wondered whether he dare move on. He had, however, lost all sense of direction. Sheepishly, he consulted Don Mauro, explaining that, apart from his interest in Archbishop Darboy, he belonged to neither side. Don Mauro was amused. ‘Better not tell them!’ he said, with a jerk of his chin towards his companions, who were using the respite to make themselves comfortable. One was reloading his gun while another relieved himself in a corner.
‘It’s Judgment Day on earth!’ said the one with the bread and wrapped it in a blue check cloth. Putting it away, he squinted along the barrel of his gun. The moment absorbed them and Nicola thought, They’ve found eternity in the here and now. Just then, the one who had reloaded his gun climbed up to survey the street, stiffened, then flopped limply across the top of the barricade.
‘Merde!’ Don Mauro swivelled to point his gun the other way.
The shot had come from behind. The marines had them hemmed in.
*
‘This gentleman is a bishop. I give you my word.’
It was the small hours. Four? Five? Nicola’s watch had stopped. They were in La Roquette prison and Blount was arguing with a tight-lipped staff colonel. In the sky, a milky daylight was mixing with the incendiary blush. Dawn then? Earlier there had been arguments with lesser officers and, in between, hours of just sitting, first in an army outpost, then here in the prison registry which looked as though it had been vacated in a great hurry. Two gold-braided uniforms and a red scarf hung on a peg.
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