While awaiting that still-problematic wedding, Charles had to dispense with Cousin Drouet. Let us admit that she was, in any case, far from his thoughts when he got up, at three o’clock in the morning, on the day that was to be the great day.
Bertrand Valois had been on watch until then. “Nothing new,” he said, on seeing Charles come into the studio.
It was pitch dark. A fine drizzle was pattering on the large bay window. In the plate, however, the closed shutters of César’s study filtered a dawn light clear enough to permit the dial of the octagonal clock to be made out. It marked a few minutes past four.
“So,” Charles murmured, “on César’s last night, nothing abnormal occurred in the room where he was soon to be assassinated. Good.”
Colas-Dunormand and his secretary arrived at that moment, at the same time as the cinema camera-operators. The day’s principal workers were punctual; other people followed them almost immediately, Luc de Certeuil among them. Thanks to Madame Christiani, the household servants were up and about. The studio gradually filled up with the 38 guests—a strictly limited number—that Charles had invited for that early hour. He excused himself for cutting short the greetings.
Light chairs had been disposed in a semicircle. Scientists and various technicians were seated therein, instinctively conversing in hushed voices, huddled around the celebrated chemist who had analyzed a specimen of luminite—which was, he said, “a sort of silico-aluminate of potassium.” They had brought binoculars, on their host’s advice. All of them having come previously to take account of the properties of luminite, there was no further explanation to give them. They even knew what the shadowy figures were that were visible in one corner of the plate, which recalled in an indelible fashion the stratagem employed by César to disguise it as a writing-slate. More than one was equipped with photographic apparatus as well as his binoculars.
Needless to say, all the important spectators were primarily interested in Fieschi’s assassination attempt, and, without making it manifest, relegated the obscure tragedy of César Christiani’s murder to the second rank.
Someone asked for the studio ceiling-light to be put out, in order that the great dawn of July 28, 1835 could be even more clearly seen. Someone else proposed that Colas-Dunormand or Charles Christiani should make a brief commentary on the first light of the day that would go down in History.
Charles excused himself, wishing to confine himself to the role of observer, but Colas-Dunormand obliged with a good grace, and began by regretting that the shutters of César’s study were closed. “For if they were open,” he said, “we would doubtless be able to see something of Fieschi. He got up at daybreak after a very bad night. He will go out at five o’clock, not quite knowing which way to turn, hesitantly. He will go to the home of one of his compatriots, named Sorba…”
He suddenly stopped speaking, and the audience gave voice to a brief rumor compounded from little exclamations.
César had come into his study through the drawing-room door. He crossed the room, went to the window, and opened it, along with the shutters. They saw the old man, clad in a dressing-gown and slippers, lean on the sill to look out into the boulevard.
It was the beginning of a splendid morning. A multitude of tricolor flags, at the windows of the houses opposite, received a light that was already bright, coming from the right. It was noticeable that their blue and red were more vivid than in our time.
The four rows of elms had fine thick foliage, which the awakening of the sparrows caused to quiver in places. Shops and restaurants were visible through the branches and the trunks, decorated with sheets of cloth in the national colors. Multicolored streamers hung from the street-lanterns.
The paved causeway extended between verdant borders, separated from the contraflow by large stone blocks set at regular intervals. Blinds were opening almost everywhere. The Parisians were early risers that day. New flags were added to the others, brightening the windows whose shutters had been closed for the night.
“Need I remind you,” said Colas-Dunormand, “that the Three Glorious Days of July 1930 were the 27, the 28 and the 29? Each was commemorated in its own way, and the festivals of 1835 confirmed to that custom. Today is the 28; yesterday, the 27, was the festival commemorating the dead; several funereal ceremonies have been celebrated, not only in honor of the combatants killed in 1830, but the victims of the riots of 1832 and 1834; that’s why you can already see so many flags—they’ve been there since yesterday.
“Today is no longer the day of Requiem; it’s that of Te Deum and military solemnity: a great review of the National Guards of the Parisian region and the troops of the garrison. Tomorrow is to be the day of popular rejoicing, celebratory salvoes and jousting competitions, free theatrical performances, greasy poles, balls, street-lights, fireworks, the illumination of public monuments—but none of that will take place. Following the assassination attempt that you will soon witness, the festivities will come to an abrupt halt.”
César left the window and went into the extraordinary “drawing-room” that was an aviary and a menagerie of monkeys. The play of the light permitted the belief that he had opened its window. A certain time went by, during which, via reflections in the mirror and the movements of shadows, it was deducible that he was occupied in taking care of his animals. That was, in any case, his habit; the observation of previous days had established that.
During this time, Colas-Dunormand watched the main door of number 50, surmounted by a placard bearing the name Paul. He hoped to see Fieschi going out, carrying the trunk that would subsequently be recovered, and which would doom him and his accomplices irredeemably—but that was not due to happen until later.
The animation in the Boulevard du Temple increased progressively. The carts of the market-gardeners were succeeded by urban carriages, tilburys and immense multi-stage fiacres furnished with steps. Little by little, the number of pedestrians in their Sunday best was augmented, some of them already sporting red carnations in their buttonholes, the recognition sign of members of secret societies. At 7 a.m., two National Guard drummers passed by, beating the call to order on their drums. A gang of street-urchins followed them and flanked them, marching in step. From upstairs windows, several people waved to the drummers as they passed by, swaying rhythmically as the blue backs of their uniforms, striped with large white sashes, faded into the distance. Then the increasingly-numerous pedestrians mingled with the uniformed National Guardsmen who were hurrying to their legion’s rallying-point, weapons in hand.
Henriette Delille brought César a little soup-dish, a bowl and a ladle on a tray. The former corsair ate his breakfast on the marble-topped table, and then disappeared, leaving his ward to sweep and tidy up the study, aided by a chambermaid.
At 9 a.m., the troops, raising a formidable cloud of dust, began to go by, heading for the positions that had been assigned to them for the parade. From then on, they saw the balconies fill up with spectators; the windows became crowded, and even the roofs were transformed into grandstands for the use of bold individuals gathered around the chimneys.
Fieschi came out then, with his trunk, in search of a porter. It was not without emotion that Colas-Dunormand pointed him out to the curiosity of the assembly. He was only visible momentarily, although he helped the porter, Meunier, to lift the package on to his hook.
The historian rapidly summarized the odyssey of that trunk, which the police ended up finding in the home of Nina Lassave, who was discovered at the moment when she had resolved to commit suicide.
Afterwards, the physiognomy of the boulevard was unmodified for quite a long time. The fifth legion of the National Guard took up position along the edge of the causeway, under the trees, in two ranks, their backs turned to the contraflow. Soon, on a command visibly pronounced by Lieutenant-Colonel Ladvocat, their arms were lowered and the men, at ease, gathered in the shade. Facing them, the soldiers of the fourteenth line regiment followed suit.
César Christiani rea
ppeared at 10 a.m. He had got dressed and was wearing his brown jacket and grey trousers, the costume in which the painter Lami had depicted him 24 hours later, lying on the Savonnerie carpet. He had undoubtedly finished his breakfast in the dining-room, for his complexion was highly-colored, he was licking his lips and he lit his pipe in a certain fashion that indicated—although it is difficult to say how—that the smoker had just left the table. He had the parrot Pitt on his shoulder, with which he was amusing himself, and he made the monkey Coburg perform a few pirouettes.
The old man seemed more cheerful. His face cleared immediately when two genteel young women came in, ahead of Henriette. All three of them had simple brightly-colored dresses, large-brimmed hats whose ribbons were knotted under their chins, light shawls retained at the neck, and slender umbrellas whose taffeta was cut into lacy festoons.
“Ah!” said Charles. “There’s Henriette, about to leave with her friends to watch the review in the Champs-Elysées!”
César displayed an extreme amiability with respect to his ward’s companions; he embraced the latter very paternally. She seemed quite delighted with the little pleasure-trip that he had granted her, and accepted César’s instructions without impatience.
The old man had put Coburg away. When the charming trio had departed, he set Pitt on a perch, with a small chain on his leg, on which the bird waddled to and fro. Then, extending the tubes of a marine telescope, he amused himself by watching the thickening crowd outside and the battalions that could be imagined lined up along either side of the boulevard, as far as the eye could see.
All this preamble to an imposing Parisian review required a majestic and peaceful brouhaha. Nothing, so far as could be seen, betrayed the fever and anxiety that—we are told—was vaguely present because the rumor that there might be an assassination attempt had been spreading for several days. For Madame Christiani’s guests alone—who were there as if in a theater, or rather a cinema—the sinister scarlet-painted house took on an abject, hypocritical and treasonous expression. The ambush was hidden there, in the third story, behind the Venetian blind. They felt ill by virtue of being unable to cry out to the people and the troopers: “It’s up there that everything’s prepared: 24 rifle-barrels on a framework. Warn those handsome sergents de ville who are ambling around in their blue coats and white trousers, with sheathed swords and cocked hats over their eyes. Tell them to go up…”
Grey smoke was escaping very abundantly from a chimney-stack on the roof of the red house.
“Fieschi’s just lit the fire,” averred Colas-Dunormand. “He must, therefore, have come back.”
“And it won’t be long before he goes out again,” Charles added.
“What fire?” someone asked. “A fire, in this summer heat?”
“So that he has a brand within arm’s reach,” said Charles, “with which to set light to the trail of powder poured out in advance, leading to the rifle-barrels through the holes they’ve pierced in the ‘thunderclap,’ which are known as ‘lights.’ ”
All the evidence, as usual, indicated that old César had not the slightest interest in Fieschi’s house. The idea occurred to him of fitting his telescope to an improvised tripod, and he placidly set about securing the optical instrument to the wooden guttering with leather straps.
“There’s a man who isn’t expecting to be murdered,” remarked Colas-Dunormand.
His words fell into the relative silence that the purr of cameras permitted to reign, for at least one of them was functioning incessantly, and most of the time, under Charles’s orders each of the five instruments was recording the resplendent and terrible morning from a different angle.
As the morning advanced and they saw the hands of eight-leaved clock below the corsair’s red guidon turning, an oppression tightened their chests. Colomba was as pale as candle-wax, wearied by having been up and about since 3 a.m. Bertrand and Luc were smiling too constantly for their expressions to be natural—but no one was untroubled by the deadly wait for the inevitable drama.
At 11:45 a.m., luminite time, the troops took up their weapons and lined up. The fateful moment was approaching.
Colomba, incapable of resisting the weakness that she felt invading her, had to withdraw. Her mother accompanied her but returned after a few minutes, to the great regret of Bertrand—who, in spite of everything, would have preferred the implacable Corsican to be absent.
In the plate, César, his pipe in his mouth, had pushed the widow aside and was meekly watching the spectacle.
Street-urchins climbed into the trees. The crowd became denser, massing together.
“I’m trying to locate Fieschi in the Café des Mille Colonnes,” said Colas-Dunormand. “He’s met up with Morey in the Rue des Fossés-du-Temple, who has reproached him for not still being at his post. In the Mille Colonnes, at this moment, he ought, by chance, to be facing Boireau, who is accompanying Martinault, the section-leader of the Societé des Droits de l’Homme…he’ll only leave the café to race up the steps to his home at the moment when the drums start to beat in the distance. Then he’ll hurriedly swallow a glass of brandy…ah! There’s the movement of the troops that Maxime Du Camp describes in his book.”25
Troops were, indeed moving off to the right. Others took their place.
“Now, Colas-Dunormand concluded, “it’s the second battalion of the 8th legion that’s in front of us…Colonel Rieussec, who will be killed. Watch.”
It was 11:50 a.m.
A battery of drums from a regiment of the line took up position on the other side of the road, facing the window. The drummers held their sticks, removed from their sheaths. In front, the drum-major leaned on his cane, ornamented with tricolor tresses.
Colonel Rieussec brought his horse to a standstill with his spurs and dismounted. Two rows of shakos with red pompons, white trousers, white crossed harnesses, and metal buttons dotting the dark blue of long tunics extended through the foliage; the flashing streaks of bayonets split the shadows.
Suddenly, while the troopers were at ease, there was a vast leftward-orientated shudder in the crowd. Heads turned; upper bodies leaned forward. The soldiers and the national guardsmen craned their necks too, while the officers rectified the alignment. Colonel Rieussec, having swiftly remounted his horse, raised his sword. His men became immobile. Facing them, the soldiers of the line came to attention with a jerk.
César leaned out and looked to the left, like everyone else.
In the studio, Bertrand’s voice was raised over the hum of the five cameras. “There must be an almighty drum-roll. Look through your binoculars at that crystal glass placed on the desk. It’s vibrating.”
At that moment, Charles placed himself well to the left of the late, in order to look straight at the two study doors, since one of them was certain to give passage to César’s murderer.
“The glass is vibrating more and more,” said Bertrand.
In the plate, above and around the statuesque soldiers, the multitude, turned toward the approach of the King, became animated. Arms, hats, handkerchiefs and scarves were already waving in anticipation, like calls for help. Their motion accelerated and multiplied; the excited gesticulations took over the entire crowd, running along the upper floors and scaling the roofs.
César’s clock marked noon.
The man who was about to die in a few seconds’ time was looking out of the window interestedly, his soul evidently serene and his conscience tranquil.
Suddenly, the drum-major raised his garlanded cane and, behind him, his men immediately began to beat their drums.
“Look out!” said Charles, in a clipped tone. “Here come the municipal guardsmen of the escort.”
A platoon of cavalry with copper helmets and red plumes advanced at pace, their sabers drawn. Two ranks of cavaliers. All of them were looking to the right, inspecting the houses and the spectators on the side of the troops that Louis-Philippe would pass in review. They were utterly neglectful of the other side, where Fieschi was posted, f
irebrand in hand, shielded by his Venetian blind.
The municipal guardsmen passed by very slowly. The junior officer bringing up the rear frequently looked behind, in order to adjust the speed of the platoon to the progress of the king, who was still invisible to the eyes of Charles and his guests.
Immediately after that advance-guard came a few men armed with cudgels who were marching hither and yon, easily recognizable as policemen in civilian dress. They too shamelessly ran their inquisitive eyes over the trees, the people and the façades located on their right.
The acclamations were visibly reaching their climax. The drummers beat their drum-skins in vigorous harmony, their white-gaitered feet marking time.
“The Maréchal Comte de Lobeau, Commander-in-Chief of the National Guard!” announced Colas-Dunormand, shivering from top to toe.
“Look out! Look out!” muttered Charles, clenching his teeth.
The Maréchal was riding alone. He wore his dress uniform open, with his right hand stuck into a waistcoat beneath the great sash of the Légion d’Honneur. It is quite true that he looked like a bulldog. He was frowning and, while examining the houses, made no attempt to hide his disquiet.
“Look how anxious he is!” observed Colas-Dunormand. And yet, he’s less anxious than he was a little while ago, for they’ve now passed the Ambigu, where everyone thought that the assassination attempt might take place, and they’re beginning to breathe easy. A false sense of security!”
Then, just as he finished, all of those to whom the words were addressed stood up, moved by a very singular sentiment—and several, under the influence of complex emotions, cried: “The King!”
Nothing, in fact, seemed more prodigious than seeing, with their own eyes, a King of France—the last one—on such a day of pageantry and blood.
At his window, César made acclamatory signals with his raised arms.
The Master of Light Page 22
