He had wanted to write on the anarchists for a while. During the last few years there had been a number of incidents in France that were supposed to be their work. Bombs had exploded, quite a few people had been killed. There had been a government crackdown, and a number of anarchists had fled to England.
But what was anarchism for? What did it achieve?
There were so many groupings on the Left. If radicalism was a tree that had grown from the ideals of the French Revolution, the mid-century graftings of Marx and Engels had now produced a plant of many branches. There were kindly utopians, trade union men, socialists, communists, anarchists and many variations in between. They all opposed the monarchy. They were all suspicious of the Church. And they all longed for a perfect society of free men. But what that society would be, and how to achieve it, was the subject of endless discussion. And no subject was more disputed than the role of the anarchists.
Le Sourd knew that the true anarchist movement, the anarchism of men like Proudhon in France, followed by Bakunin and Kropotkin, called for the overthrow of the state, which would be followed by a utopian world of friendly collectives. For these men, the violent outrages, the bombings and terrorist acts were only a catalyst—the shock needed to trigger a huge reaction—in which the state, which lacked all moral validity, would collapse. After that, miraculously, poverty, exploitation and human suffering would end.
Jacques was not an anarchist. He thought that even the original anarchist philosophers were utopian dreamers, and that most of their followers were dangerous fanatics. And the three men he’d talked with that day had confirmed all his worst opinions.
Hadn’t they learned anything from the Paris Commune? The Commune for which his father had fought and died? During its brief reign, it had run Paris successfully. But it lacked a proper army. The Communards hadn’t gotten an organization outside the capital, and the forces of reaction had been able to march into Paris and break them. The present regime, republican but corrupt, had been in power ever since.
The more he’d listened to the men this afternoon, the more he had appreciated why his father’s Commune should be his guide. The anarchists he’d spoken to wanted to throw a bomb and run away. There, they seemed to think, their responsibility ended. But his father and his friends had stood up for their beliefs, fought for them, tried to construct something concrete, and been killed for it.
Compare these anarchists with that other heroine of the Commune, still living, Louise Michel. She’d fought for the Commune up in Montmartre. Afterward, at her trial, she’d challenged the government to execute her. “Put a bullet in me,” she had cried, “for if you don’t, I’ll go straight back to opposing you.” And if she hadn’t been a woman, no doubt they would have shot her. But she’d been as good as her word. Deported, in and out of jail ever since, she’d taught, preached revolution, even taken up arms again. People called her an anarchist, but properly speaking, in Jacques Le Sourd’s opinion, she was a revolutionary.
Perhaps, he thought, this comparison might provide the structure for his article.
For Jacques had long ago concluded that the Marxists were right. There must be central organization. There must be a proper power base. Just days ago, the Jewish Workers in Russia and Poland had formed a party to promote socialism and equal rights for women. They were calling it the Bund. This was the sort of well-established development that would be needed, years of it, before the revolution would be ready.
And who knew, when the revolution did come, it might be worldwide. He hoped so. Until then, the anarchist bombs were as useless as they were cruel.
After four hours of listening to these men in the Lapin Agile, who thought that outrage was an end in itself, he’d come to the conclusion that they were vain, self-centered lunatics and artists, and he’d left in disgust.
So having walked down the hill to the boulevard de Clichy, and seeing the bright lights of the Moulin Rouge, he had decided to go in there to relax a little. He might be a revolutionary, but he still loved to dance.
The big hall was packed as usual. Here and there he saw tables where groups of women sat. Some were there to look for clients. Others were just there to have a good time. Either way, since he was tall, and dark, and danced well, he always found women happy to dance with him. And if he wanted more, he could often find that too, without having to pay for it.
Of course, when the revolution finally came, scenes of bourgeois decadence like this would surely have to go. Most of his friends said that even the small café owners would be swept away, and be replaced with cooperatives. There were already quite a few food cooperatives operating in Paris. Whether a family was operating an emporium or a tiny café, they were still profiteering, and exploiting the workers.
He shrugged. That was for another day. His eyes began to travel around the tables where the women sat.
And then, from over on his right, there was a roar. A waiter wearing a blindfold was standing by a long table of young men, who were starting to applaud. People were turning to look. The young men were laughing.
“Bravo, de Cygne,” one of them cried out.
“Bring champagne.”
“No. Oysters. Bring oysters.”
“The honor of the regiment is in your hands.”
“The honor of the regiment is between your legs!”
“Oysters for de Cygne!”
One of the officers had got up to take the blindfold off the waiter, who was smiling broadly. Now the waiter made a congratulatory bow to one of the seated men.
A few moments later the waiter came past him, still smiling to himself.
“What was that about?” Jacques asked.
“Oh, something very amusing, monsieur. A party of young cavalry officers clubbed together so that one of them could pay a visit to, one might say, the most desirable woman in Paris. I had the honor of making the draw.” He nodded. “It must be said, the cavalry has style.”
“I thought I heard the name de Cygne. Would that be the son of the Vicomte de Cygne?”
“I couldn’t say,” Luc replied discreetly.
“It’s an ancient name,” Jacques remarked casually.
“No doubt, monsieur.”
Jacques would have liked to ask the name of the lady in question, but there was no need. For at that moment, a young officer rose unsteadily to his feet, and raising his glass cried out: “To our noble friend de Cygne, and La Belle Hélène.”
Jacques Le Sourd smiled.
“Lucky man,” he said to the waiter. All Paris had heard of La Belle Hélène.
“Tomorrow night, monsieur, the gentleman will be in paradise.”
“Indeed,” said Jacques thoughtfully. Then he looked around the Moulin Rouge at the women again. He saw one or two he’d danced with before. Perhaps he’d get to paradise himself tonight.
A few minutes later, Luc was back at the table. This time, he spoke softly to Roland.
“If you will permit me, monsieur, I have heard that the lady is particularly well-disposed toward those who send flowers to her before their arrival. And she has a particular taste in flowers. If you would allow me, I could make all the arrangements for you. I think you would be well satisfied.”
Roland was surprised, and not altogether pleased. Why was this waiter insinuating himself in his business? But before he could reply, the captain interposed.
“My dear friend, you can put your trust in Luc, I assure you. He knows everything in Paris.” He gave the waiter a wry look. “How he knows all these things, we do not ask. But let him get the flowers, and it will be to your advantage. Give him some money and he’ll take care of it.”
“How much?” Roland asked with a frown. Luc leaned down and murmured something in his ear.
“For flowers?” Roland was incredulous. He stared at Luc suspiciously.
The captain glanced at the waiter. “Special flowers, eh?”
“Very special, mon capitaine,” Luc replied quietly, and the captain nodded.
“My dear de Cygne,” h
e said to Roland, “take my advice, there’s a good fellow. I want you to leave this in the hands of my friend here. Trust me, you won’t be sorry.”
At about the same time the following evening, a covered horse-drawn cab containing Roland de Cygne rolled from the Arc de Triomphe down the avenue Victor Hugo. It was cool but not cold. A half-moon hung in the sky. By the soft lamplight, Roland could see the yellowed leaves still on the trees that lined the street.
Not surprisingly, he felt excited.
When his companions had teased him the previous night, they had been quite perceptive. He’d never regretted his choice of career. At the age of twenty-five, he was happy in the army. He enjoyed the brotherhood and companionship it offered and he was as proud of his regiment as he was of his name. But though he kept such thoughts to himself, he could not help the fact that he was a de Cygne, whose life—the family motto demanded—must be “According to God’s Will.”
Did that make him a romantic? Certainly some would say that his view of the family’s relationship to the monarchy, to God and to an almost mystical notion of France was romantic. But it was a sense of identity that fortified him for whatever noble task might lie ahead. And if the seeds of those ideas had been implanted by Father Xavier during a walk in the Tuileries Gardens which Roland had long since forgotten, everything in his life so far had served to nurture them.
Was his religion nothing more than a sense of family pride? Only if it was pride that made him cherish in his heart the memory of his mother and her gentle prayers like secret icons, as holy to him as the pure red flame that glimmered over the Host in every Catholic church. Moreover, he was ready to sacrifice his life for that tiny flame, in the hope of a greater light beyond. So that, when he looked dispassionately at the teeming life around him, the desire of the socialists to change the impurity of the world by mere material manipulation seemed as deluded to him as his hopes of redemption seemed illusory to them.
None of these reflections, however, prevented him from being a good companion to his brother officers, and he certainly wasn’t a prude. Fastidious, yes—as the madam at the regiment’s private house had discerned at once the first time he had gone there, when she selected a very sweet girl for him. But he liked women, and felt that some modest career with them, at least, was as much a rite of passage in his life as passing out of Saint-Cyr or the school of equitation. As for the fact that such adventures counted as sins of the flesh, he would go to confession in due course and receive a penance. Meanwhile, though he might not have put the thought into words, he had to assume that the deity, having destined him to be an aristocrat, would understand that it would be necessary to behave in the appropriate manner.
Indeed, the adventure tonight was something of which he could be justly proud. It was almost as good as if he’d gotten into the Cadre Noir. For a de Cygne to have spent the night with the most celebrated courtesan in Paris was done partly for the honor of the family. It was something to tell his sons and grandsons about—when they reached a certain age, of course.
The cab had reached the intersection where the avenue Victor Hugo was met by the rue de la Pompe and several others. Here it turned right, into a quiet but elegant street known, on account of the leafy trees that had formerly graced the place, as the rue des Belles-Feuilles—the street of beautiful leaves. The short downward slope of the street led out onto the broadest and grandest of the lateral avenues that emanated from the Arc de Triomphe, and the little quarter contained a number of diplomatic residences and some of the lesser embassies. Halfway down it, in a small, ornate mansion, whose entrance was reached up a half dozen marble steps, lived La Belle Hélène.
Jacques Le Sourd had first arrived there two hours ago, just after dusk.
It hadn’t been difficult to discover where La Belle Hélène lived. He’d remembered her real name, and a quick perusal of some directories in the morning had given him the address he needed.
First, he’d stood around by the top of the street, looking down it, and quickly ascertained that it was very quiet. During ten minutes, he saw only one person enter it at all. Then he walked casually down the street, taking note of her house and those on each side. After that, he’d gone out into the big avenue below, and let a little time pass. The houses on this avenue were set back even farther than those on the Champs-Élysées, and the view up the long slope toward the Arc de Triomphe was so broad and so grand and so blank that it was almost frightening. And that circumstance, it occurred to him, was curiously appropriate for his mission.
For tonight, Roland de Cygne was going to die.
Next, he went up the street again, on the other side. This time he was looking for places where he might conceal himself. This was not so easy, but there was a tradesman’s entrance to the house just downhill from La Belle Hélène’s. The fact that there was no light above this doorway was not only helpful, but it suggested that it was not much used after dark, and it was a few feet back from the street, which made it less visible. He was just eyeing this from a few yards away when a cab drew up outside the lady’s little mansion.
Surely de Cygne couldn’t be arriving so early? He wasn’t ready. But all was well, for out of the cab, carrying a huge bunch of flowers, came a man that Jacques Le Sourd thought he vaguely recognized. The fellow went straight to the side door, which was opened by a maid. Jacques saw the fellow have a brief conversation with her, then turn. And at that moment he remembered. It was either the waiter that he’d spoken to in the Moulin Rouge last night, or someone very like him. The man glanced toward Jacques, but gave no sign of recognition at all, and got back into the cab, which immediately rattled away. Jacques shrugged. A coincidental resemblance perhaps. Or if it was the waiter, the fellow clearly hadn’t recognized him. He put the incident out of his mind.
When he thought that he had done all that he usefully could, he left the rue des Belles-Feuilles. For there was still another equally important task to complete. He had to plan his escape.
He wasn’t worried about the moment of the killing itself. If there were people in the street who could identify him or give chase, then he wouldn’t shoot. De Cygne could always die another day. But the odds were good that the street would be empty. If destiny had thrown this opportunity in his way, it must be for a reason.
Then, assuming that de Cygne didn’t come on foot, there might be a coachman to deal with. The chances were that the coachman would be too shocked to react in time. But if he tried anything, then Jacques decided he’d shoot him too. It was simpler.
For half an hour he wandered about the area. The first thing to consider was the pistol. He felt inside his overcoat. It was safely concealed there, tied with string around his waist. After firing it, he wanted to dispose of it as soon as possible. He could throw it almost anywhere, but thirty yards down the street on the right was a high wall enclosing the garden of a large mansion. He could easily toss the gun over the wall as he ran past.
At that point he’d already be running down the hill, so it would be sensible to continue in the same direction. The huge avenue would be quiet at night. He could turn down it, run to the end, which wasn’t far, and then into the Bois de Boulogne. But should anyone see him, it would immediately invite suspicion. The police were quite good at sweeping the Bois for criminals at night.
At the bottom of the rue des Belles-Feuilles, however, before one reached the avenue, there was an intersection of small streets which led into a network of lanes. It didn’t take him long to find a route that took him through a succession of these lanes and led him back into the avenue Victor Hugo, where there were always people, bars, a brasserie or two. He could hail a cab if he saw one, or even stop for a drink.
Satisfied with this plan, he made his way slowly back toward the rue des Belles-Feuilles.
The street was empty as he went down it. He came to the darkened doorway he had selected and stepped into it. Carefully he drew out his pistol from its hiding place. All he had to do now was to wait. He felt very calm.
He’d always known he would kill Roland de Cygne. He’d made a vow to do it, and that was enough. But it had also become clear to him that he could take his time. When he could do so without risk, he’d do it. Until then he would wait. For there were other things, more important things, that needed to be done. When he was a boy he hadn’t really understood that, but now he did.
Like Roland de Cygne, he believed in a higher cause, a pure ideal, the freedom of the human spirit. Like Roland, he was proud of France. For wasn’t France the home of revolution? True, the American Revolution had been a noble precursor. A bourgeois revolution for a capitalist country, a step along the way, but no more. The true ideals—sullied since by dictatorship and compromise and corruption—had been born in France. And when the new international order came into being, France would have her place of honor in the history of the world.
Above all, Jacques now believed, the final resolution of the long historical struggle was inevitable. It might take time, but the earthly apocalypse, when all men should be free—free of oppression, free of bogus bourgeois comfort, free of superstition—would come. It was destiny. And that certitude gave him strength and comfort.
The death of Roland de Cygne was just a tiny part of that process, of no great importance. But it was a debt of honor he owed his father, and the memory of the Commune, and when the time was right, he would accomplish it.
He’d continued to keep an eye on Roland. He’d known when Roland went to Saint-Cyr, and the school of equitation, and when he was away with his regiment. But he hadn’t realized that the regiment had been posted to Paris recently. That had been careless of him.
So when he had suddenly caught up with him in the Moulin Rouge last night, it had seemed to Jacques that this must be destiny. The opportunity was too good to miss. There was nothing to connect him to Roland or La Belle Hélène. If someone shot the young man as he entered her door, the police would probably assume that it was a jealous lover. Paris took some pride in its crimes of passion. All he had to do was to vanish back into the streets, and the thing was done.
Paris: The Novel Page 32