The Champagne Girls

by Tessa Barclay

  ‘Pretty good, pretty good.’

  ‘You can guarantee not to hit him?’

  ‘Thousand devils! Of course I can! Can you guarantee that this nincompoop won’t hit me by sheer luck when he takes wavering aim?’

  Frederic had to be satisfied with that. It would be better still to prevent the meeting, and that might still be accomplished. When he got home he took his wife aside.

  ‘Netta, the damnedest thing has happened. Phip’s got himself involved in a duel.’

  She was incredulous, and then, when he had explained, she was terror-stricken. But he reassured her. ‘It’s all right, if it actually does take place, I’ve Daubert’s word that he’ll shoot wide. So Phip’s in no real danger. But honestly, it would be better if you could talk him out of it. He’s fond of you, Netta ‒ see what you can do.’

  She flew to her brother’s room to fall on his neck and berate him for his foolishness. For once in his life Philip was angry with her. He disentangled her arms from around him, pushing her away.

  ‘This is nothing to do with you, Netta. I’m astonished that Frederic told you.’

  ‘He told me so I could put a stop to it.’

  ‘How? By persuading me it’s unimportant? You know better than that ‒’

  ‘If it’s about the stupidity at the concert yesterday, forget it, Phip! It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘But it does matter.’

  ‘No, no, I don’t really care if they wrecked my debut. It’s not important.’

  ‘I was there, Netta. I saw your face ‒’

  ‘Well, I was surprised and upset … Yes, I admit that. But really, now I think it over …’

  ‘It’s not only that, Netta. It’s things that man said. You didn’t hear him. He despises us!’

  ‘Who? Us Tramonts?’ For she recalled the chant, ‘Down with Tramonts!’

  ‘Yes, the Tramonts, and anybody who sympathises with Dreyfus.’

  ‘Oh, God, forget Dreyfus, Phip! What’s he really got to do with us?’

  ‘I understand now,’ Philip said in a low tone, ‘for the first time, I really understand, that Dreyfus was a victim. Until today I wanted an open trial, no secrecy, the evidence produced ‒ that’s what I wanted. But now that I’ve met Daubert and his friends I see that we have to demand more. We have to demand that the people who preyed on him are brought to justice. They’re bad men, Netta ‒ really bad.’

  ‘But to bring them to justice, you don’t have to fight a duel, Phip.’

  ‘If I back down, it’ll make them worse. They despise us, think we’re useless and spineless. I have to fight Daubert just to show him we’re not like that!’

  ‘No, no, don’t talk nonsense! If this man has done something wrong ‒’

  ‘Oh, not him. Probably he’s not personally involved. But people like him hate people like me, and there comes a time when you have to make a stand.’

  ‘Please, Phip darling, don’t talk yourself into heroics! You know it’s not your kind of thing ‒’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, with unexpected bitterness, ‘that’s it, isn’t it? Poor old Phip, full of his high-flown notions, never really facing the real world. Well, this is real, Netta, and I’m facing it.’

  ‘But you can’t shoot? You know nothing about duelling!’

  ‘I’ll learn all I need to know tomorrow morning, Netta.’

  ‘But you’ll be facing a man who ‒’

  ‘I know who I’ll be facing. And I only have to do it once, after all. When it’s over he’ll know we’re not contemptible. That’s all I want.’

  She couldn’t move him. She left his apartment to hurry down to Frederic. ‘He’s determined …’

  ‘Yes, I was afraid of that.’

  ‘There must be someone who could make him see sense … Mama, perhaps?’

  ‘For God’s sake, no, Netta! If he really means to go to the Bois at dawn, the last thing he wants is emotional scenes with his mother ‒ and besides, she couldn’t get here in time to stop him.’

  ‘I know!’ Netta cried. ‘Mademoiselle Hermilot!’

  ‘Who? Oh, the petite amie … Well, that might be worth a try. Can you get hold of her?’

  ‘I’ll find her!’

  She remembered that Mademoiselle Hermilot had a post with the law firm in Philip’s building. Although it was now seven in the evening, she flew to the telephone. When the operator at last found the number and put her through, there was no reply. She asked if there was a telephone in the concierge’s office. Yes, there was. She was connected.

  ‘Who’s there?’ came a very loud voice. The concierge was one of those women who distrusted telephones ‒ frightening things that rang when you were busy.

  Netta explained that she needed to get in touch with Mademoiselle Hermilot from the notary’s office.

  ‘Oh, they’ve gone, madame. All gone home half an hour since.’

  ‘Do you know Mademoiselle Hermilot’s address?’

  ‘No-o … Wait, I believe she once asked to have a package sent on if it was delivered here. Pamphlets and that, it was …’ A long delay. Netta could imagine the woman searching among scraps of paper. ‘Yes, here it is. Forty-seven Rue de Gons, that’s in Montparnasse.’

  ‘Is there a telephone number?’

  ‘No, madame.’

  Nor could the operator help. ‘There’s no telephone in the name of Hermilot nor for that address, madame.’

  Netta seized a wrap before running to the door. ‘I’m going to find her, Frederic. I’ve got the address.’

  The building was a neat little three-storey block at the top of a steep hill. The concierge came out of her lamplit office, mouth full of bread and cheese, to say that Mademoiselle Hermilot wasn’t at home.

  ‘Do you know when she’ll be back?’

  ‘Generally she’s home by now if she’s coming. Gone to one of her meetings, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Where? Have you any idea?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t seen much of her over the weekend, see. She went to some affair at Nancy yesterday, came in a bit flustered-like, didn’t stop for a chat as she often does. Went out early this morning as usual, never said if she’d be home her regular time. Lessee … Was it tonight she was to be at the Trade Union office in Rue Lussier? Or was that tomorrow?’

  ‘Rue Lussier? What number?’

  ‘Dunno. You can’t miss it, though. It’s got a red flag in the window.’

  Netta got back into the cab, calling to the driver to go to the Rue Lussier as fast as he could. It was true, you couldn’t miss the shop that was the headquarters of the Paviours and Road-menders Union ‒ but there were only two men there, painstakingly going over the books.

  ‘No, lady, the meeting Mademoiselle Hermilot was coming to is tomorrow. Sorry.’

  ‘Have you any idea where she might be this evening?’

  ‘Did she mention anything, George? Lemme think … I believe she said she couldn’t come tonight to help with the books ’cos she would be at Avenue Allenton.’

  From place to place, address to address, Netta pursued Mademoiselle Hermilot. At ten o’clock she went back to Rue de Gons, hoping that she might have come home. But no.

  ‘May I come in and wait? Surely she can’t be long now!’

  ‘Just as you like, madame.’

  She waited till one o’clock. Mademoiselle Hermilot didn’t appear. The concierge’s husband came out, frowning, to say they would like to lock up now, if you please.

  ‘But Mademoiselle Hermilot hasn’t come home yet!’

  ‘Nor won’t, neither. This must be one of the nights she stays with a friend ‒ Mademoiselle Dalbie, perhaps, or that little widow over near Pere Lachaise.’

  Exhausted, Netta gave up. The man found a cab for her, she drove back to the Avenue d’Iena. Her husband and her brother were nowhere to be found.

  She never thought of going to bed. She fell asleep sitting up in an armchair, waiting.

  It was bad luck for Philip Hopetown-Tramont that he had chosen his
brother-in-law as confidant. Frederic, although he had never been the kind of officer typified by Jules Daubert, was bound by the same code of honour. It never occurred to him to do the one thing that would have prevented the duel. He didn’t call the police.

  Instead he took his brother-in-law out to a shooting range on the outskirts of the city, and there in the covered gallery he attempted to teach Philip how to handle a gun. It was a hopeless task: Philip had no aptitude for it. In any case, Frederic’s old army revolver was nothing like the elegant duelling pistol that would be produced from its case by Daubert’s seconds.

  At about the time that Netta was returning home, the two men went to a hotel nearby, where they had some food and a few hours’ sleep. Then, a little after four in the morning, they set out for the Bois.

  As they reached it, a light rain was falling. The trees were draped in a grey cloak. Frederic was cheered by the sight. If Philip couldn’t see well normally, his opponent wouldn’t be able to see well because of the weather.

  The cab rolled along the well-made road. Frederic was looking out for signs of the meeting-place. Lieutenant Lenotre stepped out from the shelter of the trees, holding up a hand to stop the driver.

  A small group of officers was waiting on the edge of a clearing somewhat into the woods. Daubert, an older officer who would act as umpire, a man wearing the regimentals of the Medical Corps, two others in mufti. There was also an army groom to hold the coats and hats.

  ‘It’s my duty to ask if the matter can be resolved by an apology,’ Lenotre inquired, looking past Frederic to Philip.

  ‘He’s the one that should apologise,’ Philip replied, jerking his head angrily at Daubert.

  ‘You are determined to settle the matter by use of arms?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very well. Colonel Sissincourt?’

  The older man came forward, summoning Daubert. He gave them instructions on how they must conduct themselves: twenty paces which he would count off, turn when he called the command, and fire at his signal. Honour would be satisfied by the discharge of both weapons, blood drawn or no blood drawn. Agreed?

  Agreed.

  Frederic caught Jules Daubert’s eye. He gave the very faintest of shrugs, meaning, ‘He still can’t shoot ‒ remember your promise!’

  Daubert nodded.

  The two men selected weapons, Daubert giving Philip preference as a gesture to his inexperience. They stood back to back. The colonel asked if they were ready. ‘Very well. I begin counting now. One, two, three …’

  The distance between them seemed very short when the counting ended.

  ‘Turn. Fire!’

  They turned. They fired, Philip stretching out his arm and trying to sight along it as Frederic had explained. But the rain was on his glasses and he couldn’t see a thing. His shot went sailing off into the rain.

  Daubert, true to his promise, fired one foot to the right of his opponent.

  It was just the greatest bad luck that the bullet struck a tree-trunk ten yards away, ricocheted off, and winged straight into the heart of Philip Hopetown-Tramont.

  Chapter 9

  Emile Zola was being given a conducted tour of the vine rows close to the manor house. It was an exceptionally fine July day, so the fields were busy even though it was a Sunday. The sixth spraying had been done, and the third hoeing, so soon it would be the time for the second leaf trim. There is always work to be done in a vineyard in July even if the weather is poor, but if the sun shines the sense of urgency becomes almost frantic.

  ‘Well, I am of course no expert,’ Monsieur Zola said, pausing with hands behind his back to study the plants, ‘but they look exceedingly healthy to me, mademoiselle.’ Gaby Fournier-Tramont, his escort at the front of the group of visitors, gave a little smile and a sigh. ‘At last! The grafts seem to be successful at last. We have had a very anxious time, you know, Monsieur Zola.’

  The great novelist gave her a glance that was admiring though somewhat patronising: ‘It’s unusual for a young lady to be so knowledgeable about matters of business, Mademoiselle Gaby …’

  ‘I’m not knowledgeable. It’s just that here at Calmady we live and breathe the vines. And of course the success or failure of the new method has meant the difference between life and death to wine production.’

  ‘And now these plants from America … is that correct … will make your fields immune to the insect?’

  ‘Not exactly. Our native vines will always succumb to the phylloxera aphid, it seems. But by importing American roots and grafting upon them, a certain amount of protection can be given. It appears the insect either doesn’t attack the old wild vines or, when it does, makes little headway. From these roots our own grafted vines can take nourishment, as you see.’ She made a little gesture with a gloved hand at the healthy green on the vine leaves. ‘This is the second year of grafted vines in full production. We’ve put all our vines in one basket!’ She laughed, anxious to keep the great man entertained.

  To tell the truth, she didn’t find him good company. He was so self-centred, so self-important. But he had done something vital for the cause of Alfred Dreyfus so it was necessary to be grateful to him, to show concern for him, to offer him hospitality and admiration.

  Behind her the rest of the Tramonts and their friends were following in desultory groups. Her brother David was squiring Mademoiselle de Caillavet, at whose salon an equally great writer, Anatole France, had often spoken strongly in favour of Dreyfus. One of the lawyers involved in Zola’s defence had given his arm to Gaby’s mother and was bending his knee to listen to some quiet comment from her.

  The senior menfolk of the House of Tramont were at the back of the group, standing about, evidently talking about the possibilities of this year’s grapes, or deep in conversation that excluded thoughts of their surroundings.

  And indeed there was plenty to talk about. So much had happened in the last year!

  Cousin Philip’s death had changed everything. The efforts of the Tramont family to get justice for the killing had been thwarted, almost sneered at. The examining magistrate who heard the evidence against Jules Daubert ruled that there was no case and was privately heard to say that he couldn’t be expected to help a bunch of Dreyfusards to drag down an honourable officer. Daubert himself was quietly given a transfer to service in Tunis, to get him out of harm’s way.

  Although until then Gaby’s father and her Uncle Gavin hadn’t been too keen on Phip’s support of Dreyfus, the tragedy of his loss and the contempt with which they were treated had brought them to understand his feelings. Uncle Gavin had accepted an invitation to join a committee, had given what money he could. Papa had spoken in public demanding a re-opening of the case. Not one member of the family thought of protesting when Netta, with advice from the grieving Elvi Hermilot, began to work with various little groups in Paris, carrying on where her dead brother left off.

  Due to the efforts of the ‘Dreyfusards’, Major Esterhazy had been given a court-martial. To the amazement and despair of all those who knew the facts, the court cleared him.

  Emile Zola perhaps wanted a ‘cause’ to which he could pin his colours. He had just finished a great trilogy of novels ‒ Lourdes, Rome, Paris ‒ and was suffering from a feeling of listlessness, of lack of direction. And of course as a radical and a socialist he was interested in anything that would unsettle a conservative government.

  The various workers in the cause of Dreyfus supplied him with information. Netta herself had hurried to and from his house in Paris with folders of letters and pamphlets. During the thirty-six hours after Esterhazy was acquitted, Zola composed a long open letter to Felix Faure, President of France. It listed a catalogue of misdeeds and injustices, each prefaced with the words, ‘I Accuse’. He named names, cited facts. He had ended with: ‘As for the people I accuse, I do not know them … I bear them neither ill will or hatred … let them dare to bring me to the Assize Court and may the examination be made in the light of day. I wait!’

&
nbsp; On January 12th 1898 he took the letter to the offices of L’Aurore. Its editor Georges Clemenceau, later to be known as The Tiger, had the idea of running it under the banner of ‘I Accuse!’ The paper went on sale first thing in the morning. By the evening, two hundred thousand copies had been sold.

  Consternation followed in the Chamber of Deputies. The government decided to play everything down. But a petition was started, signed by almost everyone of significance in France’s cultural scene ‒ among the names were Monet, Anatole France, Marcel Proust.

  Now members of the Chamber of Deputies began to lose their tempers with each other. Insults were exchanged, the Palace Guard had to be called to stop the fighting that broke out.

  Duelling almost came back into fashion. Journalists and politicians on either side of the cause called each other out. Clemenceau fought Drumont, Picquart fought Henry. Clerics bewailed the disintegration of law and order.

  Zola’s invitation to bring him to court was accepted. He was arrested and held until charged with libel in February. His defence was that he could substantiate every accusation. Therefore dozens of witnesses were called ‒ and though the case was ostensibly against Emile Zola, the prosecution found itself having to listen to story after story which reflected on the justice of Dreyfus’s imprisonment.

  The newspapers published scores of columns of almost verbatim reporting. Major Esterhazy began to look less and less honourable. The famous bordereau, the chief evidence against Dreyfus, was almost certainly written by Esterhazy ‒ although it might have been produced at the instructions of someone higher up. If anyone had been selling information to the Germans, it looked as if it wasn’t Dreyfus.

  Nevertheless the court ruled against Zola. He hadn’t proved that his accusations against named officers and ministers were true. He appealed on technical grounds, glorying in the notoriety the trial had brought him and, to do him justice, pleased that he had brought in some much needed light and air on the Dreyfus Affair. He was released pending further proceedings.

  Now, in mid-July, he was about to be retried at a court in Versailles. Hence this gathering at Calmady on the preceding weekend, for it was clear to everyone that the courts intended to find him guilty again. This time, there would be no grounds for appeal. The sentence, which was likely to be severe, would be final. The purpose of the little weekend conference was to persuade Emile Zola to leave France.