The Champagne Girls

by Tessa Barclay

  Robert went to his room afterwards to change. Laura was already in a dinner gown, and waved her maid out as Robert came in.

  ‘Don’t worry about it any more, dear,’ he said. ‘It was a boyish fight about name-calling.’

  ‘But David doesn’t fight ‒’

  ‘This was different, my love. You forget his age. At seventeen, if someone makes a slighting remark about a certain young lady, you get very angry.’

  ‘Oh, goodness!’ She gave a muffled shriek of laughter. ‘It was about a girl?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. So don’t ask him anything about it. He’s very tender on the subject.’

  ‘Of course not, my dear.’ She helped him out of his jacket ‒ he had dispensed with a valet as an economy, although Laura kept her maid. ‘So David is interested in a young lady,’ she said. ‘What an extraordinary thought …’

  ‘Not at all. He’s just at the age … If you see a few letters winging back and forth, don’t remark on it. But as a matter of fact, she may not be as keen as David.’

  ‘Who is she? Anyone we could know?’

  ‘Oh, no, darling. The daughter of a tobacconist in Épernay. It’s just one of those little flirtations. It’ll die a natural death.’

  He was ashamed of the fluency with which he invented the lie. Between them there was an almost total honesty which had seemed as natural as the air they breathed.

  He couldn’t help feeling a secret resentment against the Dreyfus Affair, for causing him to lie to his wife.

  Philip Hopetown-Tramont was much more active than his Aunt Laura and was working with a much less respectable group. Some radical journalists, some political commentators, a few intellectuals from the university, and one or two self-educated trade unionists ‒ these made up his colleagues.

  ‘I don’t know what you think you’re doing!’ his father, Gavin growled. ‘Moiret is an anarchist ‒ I suppose you know that?’

  ‘Nothing of the kind, Father. That’s one of those libels the conservatives invent to discredit ‒’

  ‘If they catch him with a bomb actually in his hand, will you believe it then? I tell you, Philip, your getting yourself in with a bad lot!’

  With surprising stubbornness, Philip resisted Gavin’s attempts to make him toe the respectable line. He was less easy in shrugging off his sister’s anxieties.

  ‘You’re putting yourself in a very odd position, Phip. Papa says these people are nihilists or anarchists or something. Of course I see you’d want to support a cause you think is just ‒ that’s just like you. And you want to help Aunt Laura. Though why a respectable married woman should get involved …’

  ‘You’d be surprised at the kind of woman who gets involved, Netta.’

  ‘Should I?’ She studied him with interest. ‘Have you one in particular in mind?’

  ‘Not at all. Though there is a young lady who is a supporter of Dreyfus ‒’

  ‘Well now! Has she a name, this young lady?’

  ‘She’s called Elvire Hermilot.’

  ‘Elvire!’ said Netta, raising her eyebrows at the literary allusion.

  ‘Her friends call her Elvi.’

  ‘Oh? And is that what you call her, little brother?’

  ‘I have that honour,’ he said, stiff with embarrassment. He took off his glasses and began to polish them, a trick he had when he needed to avoid a direct glance.

  ‘Well, well … How long has this been going on?’

  ‘Nothing is “going on”. I was able to be of service to her when her position was made untenable by the unwelcome attentions of her employer. I was able to find her a post with a law firm in the same building as the Scholarly Chronicle ‒’

  ‘Her employer! What are you saying? She’s a working girl?’

  ‘There’s no need to make an outcry, Netta! Grandmama Tramont was a working girl at first.’

  ‘Grandmama? Your thoughts fly to the family, I see. Are you thinking of bringing this working girl into ours?’

  ‘There’s no question of that at present. I am Mademoiselle Hermilot’s friend.’

  ‘And what does she work at. Mademoiselle Hermilot?’

  ‘She’s a steno-dactylographer ‒ very useful to our group because she can go to meetings and take quick shorthand notes.’

  ‘Phip, Phip …’ She was half laughing, half anxious. How like Phip to fall in love with an earnest little anarchist-nihilist shorthand-typist.

  There had been murmurings in the family that it was time Philip settled. At going on twenty-five, he’d shown no sign of interest in marriage.

  Perhaps in normal times the Tramonts would have been busying themselves finding a suitable match. But things weren’t quite what they used to be for the Tramonts. They had slipped down a rung or two of the social ladder. It had first become noticeable after La Veuve Tramont’s funeral ‒ there had been fewer personal visits of condolence than one might have expected. Instead, cards had been left, letters of polite grief had been sent.

  A great event such as a birth or a death was a useful way of changing one’s relationship with a family. A signal was sent out by the warmth or tepidity of reaction. The Tramonts had noted that some of the haute bourgeoisie with whom they’d been close were now perceptibly more distant. Very well … It was understandable. Times were hard, the Tramonts couldn’t cut such a figure in society as formerly.

  Then the almost complete closing of the Paris house had followed. No more great balls and parties to which people longed to be asked. No more invitations to sit on the committees of important charities, those bases from which social power was wielded. No more five-o’clocks at which discreet decisions were made about which young man was suitable for which young lady.

  This change wasn’t as distressing as it might have been. The menfolk were too busy trying to save the champagne trade and, rather to Gavin’s surprise, Alys was playing an active part. Laura, less commercially minded than her sister-in-law, gave her spare time to the Dreyfus Affair. Frederic was proving useful not only in handling the scientific administration but in dabbling profitably on the Bourse, bringing in a little extra income when it was most needed.

  To Netta, the change had been a real blessing. Contrary to all expectations, she’d gone back to her singing after the birth of Pierre, and now she found there was less opposition than there used to be.

  Partly it was because society in general had become more tolerant of ‘bohemianism’. It was true, one wouldn’t be too happy if a son actually wanted to marry a girl from the corps de ballet, yet it was permissible to meet the great dancers and actors without too much embarrassment.

  Then there was the changed status of the Tramonts. Formerly Netta’s misdoings would have seemed a terrible blot on their escutcheon. Now her actions seemed less wrong, and hardly important compared with the fact that the House of Tramont itself was in danger.

  So Netta had resumed her lessons, had sung in one or two charity concerts. So far the music critics hadn’t been asked to take her seriously.

  But in October she was to make her real debut, with a recital in the Salle Berlanger at Nancy. Her head was full of thoughts and plans for the great event. She was having a special gown made, of ginger paper-silk and velvet, in the new ‘princess’ line which would accentuate her slender elegance with its unbroken sweep from shoulder to heel. She was to have a new hairstyle. Frederic had given her a set of tortoise-shell combs set with brilliants to enhance the smoothness of her bronze-coloured hair.

  She was very nervous, and yet she was confident. She knew she had a voice, and she had learned how to use it. True, this recital wasn’t of the best music ‒ mere drawing room songs, most of them. But, as the maestro said: ‘To sing a “nothing” song well is the test of a good voice. And it endears to the public, no? They love to hear what they themselves sing in the bath, but sung well!’

  The recital was booked for a Sunday afternoon, that favourite hour of relaxation for the whole family. What could be more enjoyable to the textile-makers and ironmas
ters of Nancy than a leisurely family lunch in a good restaurant, a little stroll by the banks of the Meurthe to settle the stomach, and then a little concert of pretty songs by a pretty woman? Especially, the wives said to each other, since she was a Tramont of the House of Tramont, and would be sure to wear something really delicious.

  Netta was so immersed in the preparations that she didn’t notice an event which was very important for her brother Phip and her Aunt Laura.

  The London newspaper the Daily Chronicle published a report that Alfred Dreyfus had escaped from prison. When repeated in France, the news brought a sudden surge of interest in the traitor on Devil’s Island, and a good deal of nodding and ‘I told you so’ because of course, if he was in the pay of the Germans, the Germans would have helped him escape.

  The report was entirely false. How it arose was never clear. But a cable from Lebon, the Minister for the Colonies, to Cayenne brought a complete denial: Alfred Dreyfus was safe in solitary confinement in his cell. The governor of the penal colony had seen him himself that very morning.

  Whoever started the story had done Dreyfus no service. The governor was instructed to build a double palisade round the prisoner’s cell, and to shackle him to his bed every night. At first, since the warders weren’t allowed to speak to the prisoner, he had no idea what was going on ‒ his appeals for an explanation of this additional cruelty were ignored. But Bravard, the governor, was so ashamed that he complained of his orders to his immediate superior, the Governor of French Guiana. He in his turn tried to make it clear in cables to Paris that the former Captain Dreyfus had not escaped, could not possibly escape, and never would escape.

  Of course, cables back and forth between Paris and the penal colony couldn’t be kept entirely secret. Some of the facts leaked out. The newspapers leapt on the story. The anti-semitic press started a scare that the ‘international Jewish conspirators’ were going to buy off the warders on Devil’s Island with their vast sums of money. Le Figaro replied with a reasoned case on the impossibility of escape and described, with great vividness and some sympathy, the conditions under which Dreyfus was held. It was at this point that the nightly fetters were discontinued but the double wall remained, cutting off Dreyfus from even the sight of the trees and the sea, his one comfort in a situation of loneliness and hardship.

  In L’Autorité, the editor announced that he was far from certain that the trial had been fair. He said a few unkind things about military judges, commenting on their clannishness and lack of enlightenment. Other papers took up the challenge, one of them reporting with apparent certainty that Dreyfus had made admissions of guilt on two occasions.

  A National Deputy, Castelin, announced that he would speak on the case at the reopening of Parliament.

  There was talk in the newspapers of a bordereau, a list, which had been the chief evidence at the trial. It was being murmured that the bordereau was not in Dreyfus’s handwriting after all.

  By now it had become known in military circles that an officer called Esterhazy was probably involved with Dreyfus in the passing of information to the German Embassy and might, in fact, be the real culprit. But it was essential to keep such knowledge from the general public. It couldn’t be permitted that anyone should think the Army had made a mistake.

  The staff at GHQ let it be known that they wanted support, public support, from right-minded junior officers and former officers. Frederic de la Sebiq had it murmured to him at his club: ‘I say, old fellow, oughtn’t you to tell your in-laws to stop meddling with things they don’t understand?’

  ‘My dear chap, it’s not my place to tell my in-laws anything ‒ I’m very much a junior member of the family.’

  He didn’t mention the conversation to anyone. He regarded it as just another example of the top brass getting in a state over nothing.

  Netta, totally unaware of it all, got to the concert hall on the great day in plenty of time. She’d had a light lunch and a glass of white wine, as Alfonsini commanded. Her accompanist had tested the pianoforte so that he was sure it was in tune ‒ a thing one couldn’t always be certain of, even in a provincial capital.

  Alfonsini himself had made the trip to Nancy. It was a great compliment. He seldom travelled beyond the gates of Paris, unless it was to hear a world-famous protégée in a new role.

  He greeted Netta as she came from the green-room to the wings of the concert platform. He made a little gesture with his thumb. ‘A good audience! Almost every seat taken!’

  ‘I hope they’ve come to hear the music, not just to look at Nicolette de la Sebiq-Tramont!’

  ‘It doesn’t matter why they’ve come! It’s how they feel when they go away that’s important.’

  ‘Yes, maestro.’

  ‘Now, remember ‒ if you feel tension, clasp and unclasp the hands three times behind the back.’

  ‘Yes, maestro.’

  ‘Deep breaths. Don’t rush into the Delibes ‒ it’s a good song to bring up the interval, but you want to leave a good impression while they drink their iced lemonade and discuss you.’

  ‘Yes, maestro.’

  ‘Richard, are you ready?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the accompanist. ‘Remember, Richard ‒ don’t let her rush into “The Fair Maids of Cadiz” ‒’

  ‘I won’t, maestro.’

  ‘Very well, avanti! Good luck, my child, God bless you.’ He gave her a little push to go in the wake of the pianist, then made the sign of the cross on his breast as she walked on stage. His little nightingale, his crystal-clear songbird …

  Netta had been warned not to try to descry her family in their place near the front. Frederic was there, and her brother Phip with, she thought, his young lady. Her mother was there, but not her father nor her uncle Robert; they had been unable to leave Calmady, since it was the time of the grape harvest ‒ another miniscule crop.

  She saw a sea of faces, mainly a blur. It did perhaps drag at her attention that on one side of the auditorium there seemed to be few hats ‒ ladies in an audience were noticeable for their hats. It must mean the block of seats was taken up by men. How very flattering …!

  Richard had given only the most cursory response to the spatter of applause that greeted them. He arranged his music on the music stand. He opened the first book at the dog-eared page: ‘On Wings of Song’ by Felix Mendelssohn, the perfect concert-opener.

  He caught Netta’s eyes. She didn’t nod, but the message was passed. She was ready.

  The introduction rippled out. Netta took a breath.

  Then from the hall came a shout. ‘Dreyfusard! Dreyfusard! Down with her, down with her, Dreyfusard!’

  Richard raised his eyes from the music. Netta had faltered as she was about to sing the first note. A hot fierce colour had risen in her cheeks.

  ‘Sing!’ hissed Richard.

  ‘Down with her, down with her, Dreyfusard! Silence her, silence her, traitor’s friend!’

  It was a chant. The thing sounded as if it had been rehearsed. And it came from the block of seats that Netta had already noticed.

  ‘Sing!’ urged Richard, and began the introduction again.

  But the chanting was so loud she could scarcely hear him. And her throat had seized up, as if a steel gate had come down inside it. A red blur came and went in front of her eyes. She stood, scared and at a loss, centre-stage in front of the piano.

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ called the manager of the hall, coming partly on to the platform. ‘This is uncalled for ‒’

  ‘Shut up, shut up! Off, off! Off the platform! Down with the enemies of the Republic!’

  ‘Gentlemen, Madame de la Sebiq-Tramont is here as a singer ‒’

  ‘Singer? Can’t sing a note! Boo! Boo! Off, get off!’

  ‘Stop it! You stupid, ill-mannered louts.’

  ‘Who’s a lout! You’re a villain!’

  ‘Sit down! You’re treading on my foot!’

  ‘Oh, shut up, you old fool! You ‒ who’re you to call me a lout?’


  ‘Down with the Tramonts! Friends of the traitor! Down with Tramonts!’

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen!’

  But the manager’s bleat of complaint was lost in the uproar.

  Netta glanced blindly about. From the wings Alfonsini was beckoning, mouthing something she couldn’t hear. He was saying, ‘Come off, it’s no use.’

  Something whizzed past her ear ‒ a piece of orange peel. She winced, although it hadn’t touched her. Another missile ‒ an egg, it splattered against the piano. Richard sprang up and fled, scattering sheets of music.

  Frederic de la Sebiq forced his way down the side aisle and up the little flight of steps to the stage. His dark face was darker yet with anger. He took Netta in his arms, his back a shield against further attack from the crowd.

  ‘Come, darling,’ he said in her ear. ‘Come away.’

  He led her to the wings. Alfonsini was weeping, beating his fists against the proscenium edge.

  ‘Vandals!’ he moaned. ‘Savages! Pay them no heed, bambina mia ‒ they are not important.’

  But they were. They had booed Netta de la Sebiq-Tramont off the stage.

  Chapter 8

  In the months that followed the police were to become accustomed to brawls arising out of the Dreyfus Affair. On this occasion they were taken by surprise, so there was a long delay before the fighting groups were separated, the upturned chairs and smashed mirrors cleared up, and a safe conduct arranged for the members of the Tramont family trapped in the Salle Berlanger.

  Frederic and Netta had a room booked for the night at the Hotel Meurthe-et-Moselle. But the commotion followed them there. Netta, already in a nervous state, was driven almost into hysteria by the shouting and bawling under their windows. They were smuggled out by a back entrance and put aboard the Paris train. Alys Hopetown-Tramont was escorted in her carriage back to Calmady by a stalwart constable in plain clothes.

  It was only when they were safely at the Avenue d’Iena that Netta realised her brother was nowhere about.

  ‘He’s seeing Mademoiselle Hermilot home, no doubt,’ Frederic suggested. ‘Shall I look in his room?’