The Mute

by Libby Sparks

  “I have friends like that, too. One in particular is very worked up about it.” Remy’s face darkened at the thought.

  “This petition in the paper has made things worse. It has riled up a large crowd.”

  “A crowd of workers; who have no say. I know you’re worried, but I don’t think you need to be. There isn’t much that can be done. Think about how many outrages they’ve printed in the paper before, and nothing has come of it.” What he really wanted to say was that he’d never let anything happen to her again.

  She smiled at him, and held on to his arm a little tighter, the fine curls around her face shifting in the breeze.

  “Perhaps you are right, Remy.”

  “Come, it’s getting cold. Allow me to walk you home.” That was the last thing in the world he wanted to do, but he knew he had to get her back.

  Remy walked Claire to her door, noting where she stayed, and bade her good night. He wanted to take her face in his hands, to bend forward and put his face close to hers. Already her sweet lips were drawing him towards them with such power he’d never experienced before. She didn’t pause at the door, though, and thanked him for the evening. Claire disappeared into a dimly lit room and in a moment was gone. He sighed and leaned against the wall next to her door. Then looked up. The clouds were thickening and the smell in the air promised snow, perhaps the last of the season. He hoped it would be the last. Snow was not good news for a builder. It also meant that he would struggle to keep warm through the night. He pulled his coat tighter around him against the cold, and walked into the avenue. His mind was racing with thoughts of how strongly he’d felt the need to be closer to her.

  “Remy,” a voice softly called and he jumped when Francois materialized next to him into the glow of a street lamp, skipping a little to try catch up with his long stride. He must have been in one of the dark alleys.

  “Francois! Don’t sneak up on me like that. If I didn’t recognize you I could have thought you were trying to rob me. And I’m twice your size.”

  “Oh you don’t scare me, you’re too good to hurt anyone, eh?” He nudged him with his elbow, “But listen, I need to talk to you. I spoke to Leon today. You know, the one that calls on the maidservants in the upper class. Those maid servants are all so young, but they hear, and they talk. I don’t know where he gets time for talking, we all know why he’s really there--”

  “Yes, Francois, but I’m not going to stand in the snow for gossip. What do you want?”

  “Relax, friend, I’m getting there. And it’s not snowing yet. Leon spoke to one of the maid servants that heard from her mistress about a scandal that’s filling up the living rooms of the wealthy. It appears that Minister Lockroy--you’ve heard of the man, haven’t you? I know you don’t really care about these things - that he rigged the entries in the Exposition Universelle!”

  Remy looked at Francois. A conspiracy; this was more than the poor man could have even thought of himself. He sighed. Francois’ voice was almost hoarse with excitement, and he kept breaking into a jog as he rambled.

  “Did you hear what I said Remy!? Lockroy rigged the votes! So that Eiffel’s tower would win!” Francois was jumping up and down now, “the tower was never supposed to have won!”

  Slowly it became clear. Of course this would excite Francois - the government being involved in some way. There would be no end to his rant now.

  “I don’t see how that helps your cause, though,” Remy said carefully.

  “Remy you are blind! If word of that comes out, then they will have to stop it.”

  “And how will it come out? You certainly can’t say anything without getting laughed at by anyone who matters. They will say it is a rumor the workers have started. It is known everywhere that the workers are against the government. What say do we have now?”

  “The workers are not powerless, Remy! Look what happened with the Paris Commune. They rose up, and they were in control. They stood together, united, and the government had a very hard time!”

  “A very hard time… for three months. And then what happened? 20,000 of our people were executed. Treason is the name of this game, Francois. Let sleeping dogs lie. It’s not necessary to make such a big thing over something harmless. The tower isn’t hurting anyone. In fact, if we get it done in time, I believe it will be a great hit.”

  “You don’t know what you are saying, Remy. You don’t know what is at stake! You never fought in the wars; you don’t know what it is like losing half your family to a cause the government refuses to see. I will not go down without a fight for us to have the right to choose our future.”

  “Francois, the tower has nothing to do with the government and your future. It’s art. It’s culture. Get a grip, man!”

  Francois was seething, his anger in the air all around them.

  “Fine. If you don’t want part in this it’s your choice. But you don’t know what’s coming, Remy. You have no idea. It’s passive people like you that end up with their rights taken away because you never fight for what you’re due. You can’t just let everything work itself out, something has to be done before they will give in. The only way the worker’s class will get anywhere is if we keep fighting for what we believe and not just stand watching how the country makes its choices for us, but without us.”

  He turned around and stormed off, swearing under his breath. Remy shrugged and turned to leave for home. Francois was crazy, but he was sure he wouldn’t cause any real harm; not about something like this, where the upset workers were really the only people involved in the fight. The best he would be able do was get a few workers passionate about the cause. The scare they all got when the government gunned down most of the people they knew was enough to prevent an uprising like the Paris commune for years to come. Remy remembered it well. His father had died long before, so Remy was never involved in any of it. He was only 16 at the time. But a lot of the men in the working class were upset about the way the government was treating Paris. They weren’t allowed to elect a council because they were deemed to be an unruly people. Thousands of workers stood together and formed a group called the Paris Commune, who not only fought against the Prussians in the war, but also against their own government. The outcome was heart-breaking. The worker’s class was put in its place. Everyone had lost family members. This is how Claire had lost her father.

  Claire. Beautiful, innocent Claire, with the big brown eyes and the smile brighter than even the new electric lamps they’d put up everywhere. He felt sad that she had seen so much pain in her life. And still, with all the pain and sorrow she dealt with, she still saw hope in a new day, and a way to a better future in the country once she could afford it. He admired her strength, her brutal will to never let life get her down, and her solemn conviction that from dust and ashes, good can still rise. Somehow it just didn’t seem right that it happened to her. Remy felt sad that he couldn’t have protected her from it. He would have liked to, even if it seemed as if her strength didn’t need it. He found that he already cared strongly for her. Claire’s hopes of a brighter future made him resolve to take her away and give her a new life without pain, if he could. If she would let him. Oh, how he hoped that she would.

  He couldn’t help but wonder if she cared about him. She kept herself closed off, sharing only bits of herself with him. But he didn’t feel as if he were unwelcome in her life. In fact, she’d been urging him to be in it, in some way or the other. She’d even been shy a few times, making him think that she at least thought well of him.

  He smiled. There had to be something, even if it was very small. He hadn’t known her for very long, but she did something to him. Remy had been changed now and there was no changing back. He’d been with women before; women that didn’t work out because they weren’t able to give him the motivation to fight for them. But Claire made him feel something different than he’d felt before, and he wanted to do the same to her. If she would have him, he would try to give her the life she deserved.

  * * *r />
  When Remy wakes up in the morning, he follows a routine to get dressed and get to the Louvre. On the way, people wave at him, having long given up greeting and expecting a response. They assume he’s completely in character all the time, the way that Deburau was. No one had heard Deburau speak until the day of a court trial. He waves back. He hasn’t seen any of his work mates. Not since that one night at the tower. They were no doubt working hard and overtime to get it done, so he’s not expecting to run into any of them soon.

  Remy also refuses to return to the tavern where he spent nights on end, talking and laughing, fighting and getting lost in his sorrows. He can’t. How will he explain to them what happened? He has no way of communication. Besides, he’s scared. There are people there he can’t run into. He fears for his life. Without having something to wash down his agony, the nights have become long, dark, and lonely, but he’s alive. Swallowing is difficult now anyway.

  It’s mostly rich people that pass by him daily. Some who come to visit the Louvre museum, which had once been the home of the royal family, others who just pass by on their way to matinees or visits to other private business. They don’t know him, he doesn’t know them either, and that reduces his shame. They have no idea what he did, about the blood on his hands and the ache in his heart. If they did, the aristocrats would be making a wide berth around him.

  * * *

  On the way back from the construction site, Remy stopped at the market and bought a bouquet of flowers from the old lady who manned the cart. He picked out yellow and orange, the colors that reminded him of her. They were the shades of the setting sun on the Seine when they were walking together, Claire’s radiance, and the glow from her caramel curls in the last rays of light.

  He set off to her home eagerly, and knocked on the door. Claire opened the door, the sudden gust of wind swirling around her, blowing her hair up around her face. She was beautiful in the dim light from the fire emanating from somewhere deeper in the room. She took in the flowers, reaching out to stroke the petals with her fingers, and smiled as a blush crept onto her cheeks.

  “How lovely to see you,” she opened the door wider, “please come in, it is only my mother and I, and we long for company.”

  Remy entered and raised his hand in greeting to the old lady next to the hearth. He took in the room. It was small, with a table in the one corner and mattresses arranged on the floor in another. There wasn’t much space and it was clear that they got by on very little, but it was tidy, and the size of it made it easy to keep warm and cozy.

  Claire’s mother, Madame Marie, was frail. Remy could see her bony shoulders square and brittle under the blanket huddled around her shoulders, and there was hardly any color in her face. Still, she smiled at Remy and beckoned him closer.

  “Come, join us Monsieur. Oh, Cherie, he bought you flowers, what a gentleman! He is as handsome as you said!” Remy looked at Claire who shifted from one foot to the other. She blushed again, bright red this time, took the flowers from him and busied herself at the table that served as a kitchen counter and a place to eat. So she’d been talking about him! His heart suddenly swelled with an unbelievable dose of happiness. He’d suddenly become warn from head to toe and it had nothing to do with the fire flickering in the room. Instinctively he looked down at his feet but Marie called him closer again.

  “Please, come sit down. I’m afraid we don’t have much to offer but you are a friend of my Claire, and welcome in my home. My son is not in, take his seat. Have you eaten?”

  “Thank you Madame, and no, but I am not hungry.” He was starving, but he couldn’t bear to take from them. It seemed they had so little already. He knew conditions were bad--he himself didn’t have much to speak of--but it seemed they had even less. He at least had a bed to sleep on, and only his own mouth to feed, with no illness to ward off.

  “Nonsense, Remy,” Claire chimed, handing a bowl of broth to him, “eat, my brother won’t come home tonight, and I know you work hard.”

  He took the food from her and they sat around the fire.

  He found out that Claire was a seamstress, working privately for a lady that preferred her dresses handmade. She used to work as a maid servant in one of the upper class houses, but when her mother fell ill a year ago she quit the job and found another. It paid less, but she had time to take care of Marie, who couldn’t work anymore. Remy couldn’t help but be proud of her for being so noble at heart.

  “My brother works long hours. Between the two of us, we manage, but I am usually home caring for my mother in the evenings while my brother spends a lot of his time…. elsewhere.” The pain on Claire’s face was evident, and it made Remy instantly dislike her brother.

  “In the street, looking for trouble,” Marie croaked, staring into the fire. “He will get himself killed. He is not home, doing his duties as a man. Instead, he runs about town, looking for a fight, thinking that he alone can change the world.” Her eyes became watery and she pushed her hand to her mouth, trying to muffle a cough.

  “Mama, it will be ok,” Claire put her hand on the old lady’s arm, and turned to Remy, “my mother fears for his life, his reputation. We do not have much, but we do have our pride and we fear that he will do something stupid and wash it all down the drain. But let’s not dwell on things that have not happened. Tell us about you, Remy, about your life. What it’s like, what your childhood was like.”

  They spent the evening talking, reminiscing, and laughing. He got lost in Claire’s gaze every time their eyes met and he sometimes had to force himself to focus on the conversation instead of the images swirling around in his head of them in each other’s embrace, a small ring on her finger.

  “Remy, I need to talk to you. Right now. Please.”

  Remy was working on the site, hands filthy, panting from the exertion.

  “Not now, Francois, I’m working.”

  “It’s urgent, please. I know you’re working but I’m in trouble and I know you can help.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  Francois looked around, eyes darting from person to person, his hands fidgeting with the worn seam of his coat.

  “I don’t really want to talk about it here. Can we go somewhere else?”

  “I can’t just leave.” He hesitated. Then nodded, “Fine, meet me at the Pont Louis Philippe at sunset. Can you wait that long?”

  Francois looked up at the sun, squinting, sweat on his brow despite the chill.

  “Yes, yes I think I can. Please be there.”

  It was almost dark when Remy finally made it to the Pont Louis Philippe. He’d been held up at work. Francois was still there, pacing up and down the foot of the bridge, looking repeatedly at the horizon where the sun disappeared and then down the road where he expected Remy to come from.

  When he spotted him relief crossed his face and he rushed towards him. “I was scared you wouldn’t come.”

  “This is the bridge to my home. I would have to pass here sooner or later. But I told you I’d be here, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, I know, I just can’t afford to make a mistake now. You’re really my last resort.”

  ‘What’s going on?”

  Francois swallowed hard and glanced to the side.

  “Look I know you don’t care about the tower. You’ve made it quite clear. But I do, and they wouldn’t let me do anything about it, not even voice an opinion.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Don’t lecture me now. I’ve been thinking of taking the matter into my own hands.”

  Remy raised his eyebrows but Francois kept going.

  “I’ve rounded up a couple of guys and we’ve been talking. There’s too much about this that doesn’t make sense and no one will listen to us because, well, because we’re workers. And because we really don’t have any say about the tower and the Exposition.

  “They’ve shot down the artist protest; something about Garnier, that architect, who was part of the protest. They said he was one of the members that agreed
on choosing the tower as the structure that will represent the whole thing. And because he hadn’t said anything then, his protest now didn’t mean anything. Well we don’t agree. So we were talking about going to the les frères.”

  “You did what!?” Remy couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Les frères - the brothers - were the most ruthless and feared men in town. They were called the dark brothers, and for a reason. No one knew if they really were brothers, and no one cared. They were a group of very big, very rough men who disregarded the law and most concepts of morality as well. They killed for sport and took offense at the smallest things, sometimes shedding blood for no reason other than their own entertainment. They had absolutely no restraint and they had no regard for humanity.

  Law enforcement left them alone; even they were too scared to get involved. They saw the brothers as some sort of twisted vigilante justice, who took the responsibility of dealing with whoever they felt necessary, and that’s where it stayed. They were trouble to get involved with and everyone who wished to stay alive stayed away from them because if you didn’t, the chances were good that you would lose something as valuable as your life.

  “Are you mad? You’ve heard the stories, man; you know what these guys can do to you! Besides, they are pure evil. They live for evil! Do you want to be a part of that?” Remy was furious with Francois’s stupidity.

  “Yes, I know, I know. I just also thought that they will do anything if the price is right. They’re not really affected by justice, they’re usually left alone even if the things they do are found out about. Look, I know what you’re saying and I get it. The others also withdrew when talks about it became serious. But I’ve made up my mind. They can help me sort this out.”