The Champagne Girls

by Tessa Barclay

  ‘Philip should have been here,’ Alys said. ‘He should have shared the triumph that he worked for. But oh, what I really want is for it all to be over!’ She glanced about apologetically. ‘Forgive me, Laura ‒ I don’t want you to think I begrudge the work and time we’ve all put in. But I’m so tired of being at odds with my neighbours, with seeing our name in some of the papers classed with criminals and traitors …’

  To Netta’s surprise Alys began to cry. She went to her, putting a protective arm about the shaking shoulders in their half-mourning of grey silk. ‘Don’t cry. Mama. It will be over soon.’

  It was known that the counsel for the defence would finish his summing up of the case about noon. The Tramonts expected the verdict to be announced soon after lunch, and then either Robert or Gavin would telephone the news to them. But the prosecuting counsel had asked for the right to reply and although this was unusual, it was allowed. The seven officers acting as judges had retired after his final speech.

  The ladies amused themselves by playing with Netta’s little boy Pierre. At five he was lively and active, very like his father in appearance, dark, curly-haired, recently barbered out of his baby locks.

  Five o’clock came. Netta ordered afternoon tea, as was the fashion, but few touched the pretty English-style sandwiches or the tiny iced cakes, although they all drank thirstily. When it was cleared away, Gaby and her mother strolled out into the little formal garden for a breath of the fresh September air while Netta went upstairs to see her son put to bed.

  When they heard the telephone ringing faintly in the hall, they all hurried towards it.

  Netta took the receiver from the housemaid. ‘Yes, speaking ‒ yes, Papa. Yes. What?’

  It was an explosion of amazement. The others gathered round her, trying to hear the tinny voice in the earpiece.

  ‘When? But that’s … No, I’ll tell her at once. Au revoir.’

  She turned, took her Aunt Laura’s hand. ‘They found him guilty.’

  ‘Guilty!’

  ‘By a verdict of five judges to two.’

  A stunned silence grasped them all. Then the sturdy little Mademoiselle Hermilot began to sob. ‘No, no! It can’t be! After all the work, all the evidence of fraud and conspiracy we unearthed! And Philip … Philip …!’

  Gaby went to her. ‘Don’t,’ she whispered. ‘It’s bad enough for his mother and sister ‒ don’t.’

  The other girl made a big effort to check her sobs. The women stood helplessly staring at one another.

  ‘Should we telephone to Madame Dreyfus?’ Alys said, keeping her voice steady with an effort.

  ‘No, if they have any decency they have let her be with her husband.’

  They had heard from the men who attended the trial how pitiful Alfred Dreyfus looked ‒ thin, ill, a scarecrow in his uniform, unable to swallow French food now and living almost entirely on milk. Their own dismay and despair was as nothing compared with what the man and his family must be undergoing.

  Elvi Hermilot took her leave, with a friendly hug from Gaby and a promise, not entirely meant on Gaby’s side, to meet again. When Frederic came back from the office Laura, Alys and Gaby accepted his escort to the station for the evening train to Calmady. They were too exhausted by the long anxiety of the trial to have the energy for a renewed campaign yet ‒ and besides, who knew if that was what Madame Dreyfus would want?

  Netta had a concert to give next day, a Sunday. It was in honour of St Cloud, whose memorial day was a few days earlier. The concert was to be held in a hall of Versailles, near where he died. Alfonsini always insisted that the evening before a concert she must eat sparingly, read some relaxing tale or listen to some undemanding music on the Gramophone, and go to bed early.

  This ideal advice she tried to follow, but it was useless to go to bed. She had looked at a portrait photograph of her brother, taken on the birthday before his death, and over her there rushed a flood of memories ‒ Phip polishing his glasses as he murmured about Mademoiselle Hermilot, Phip chasing a boy who had been tying a tin can on a stray dog’s tail …

  ‘And he’s gone, and what was the use?’ she cried to Frederic. ‘He faced up to just the kind of man who served on that panel of judges ‒ Army men, blinkered, unable to admit they could possibly be wrong.’

  ‘Darling, do come to bed. You’ll be fit for nothing in the morning. You won’t be able to sing a note.’

  ‘Aunt Laura has worn herself out over it. Did you see how frail she looked today?’

  ‘I wonder your Uncle Robert lets her go on. Perhaps he’ll put a stop to it now.’

  ‘Put a stop to it?’ She had been pacing up and down the bedroom, but now turned to stare at her husband, who was propped up on his pillows paring his nails.

  ‘Well, what’s the use now? They’ll never allow a new trial.’

  ‘But they must!’

  ‘Darling, the army have done all they intend to do. They’ve reduced his sentence to ten years.’

  ‘He’ll never survive that long! They can’t send him back to Devil’s Island!’

  Frederic knew only too well that they could, and perhaps would. He still had friends among army officers for there were those in the army who sided with the Dreyfusards although it did their career no good ‒ and they told him that the senior ranks were furiously determined to condemn Dreyfus once and for all. They could not admit he was innocent. Too many officers would be condemned for perjury if they did. The honour of the French Army would be gone for ever.

  ‘It’s gone already,’ Frederic would murmur in response to such remarks. ‘If you saw the foreign press regularly, as I do in the course of business, you’d know that every nation looks at the French Army and recoils in horror.’

  But that, he knew, would only make the generals close ranks. Foreigners …! What did they understand of the honour of France?

  Netta slept badly, rose with a slight headache, but was encouraged to hear when she tried a few scales that her voice hadn’t suffered. Unfortunately such peace of mind as she was striving for was done away with when her father telephoned from Calmady to say that Aunt Laura had had to have the doctor. ‘It’s a chill, nothing serious, I think. But if anyone from the campaign office rings you asking for her, say she ought not to be disturbed for a day or two.’

  ‘She was broken-hearted yesterday, I could see it.’

  ‘Your mother wasn’t any too happy either. She’s tried to put Phip’s death behind her, but yesterday it all came rushing back …’

  ‘I know, Papa. I’m sorry.’

  He sighed. ‘You’re a good girl, Netta. You’ve done a lot for the campaign.’

  ‘Not as much as I should have …’

  ‘Nonsense. Well in the circumstances, you’ll understand if we don’t come to your concert, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course, Papa.’

  ‘Sing well, dear.’

  Frederic comforted her when she told him the news. ‘Don’t worry. Aunt Laura only needs rest. And as for Mama-in-law, she’s got so much common sense … She’ll get over yesterday.’

  He accompanied her to the hall. Alfonsini wasn’t there. He was growing too old to jaunt about to halls outside Paris, he said. But his accompanist and assistant, Lipeta, was there. He smiled and made a sign for good luck as she went into the green-room.

  It was a concert with a small orchestra, and a trio of singers who would sometimes sing in harmony and sometimes solo. They had rehearsed earlier in the week. The order of songs had been finalised. Moucherouz, the conductor, had decided to put Netta first with a rendering of the Exsultate Jubilate by Mozart so as to open in a fine, rousing fashion for the local saint.

  The waiter for the green-room brought a pitcher of water for the singers. The baritone who was to sing second was humming a few half-notes to himself. Netta went outside into the corridor to take a few deep breaths to calm her nerves. There, on the stone floor of the corridor, lay a newspaper that had fallen out of the waiter’s pocket.

  Idly she p
icked it up, smoothed it out. A cruel caricature leapt up, almost as if to slap her in the face.

  It showed Alfred Dreyfus, labelled ‘Traitor’ so there could be no mistake, being wrapped in chains like a bundle of rags and being carried to the ship for transportation back to Devil’s Island. The caption read, ‘Rubbish goes back where it belongs.’

  She shuddered and threw it down. The orchestra ended their muted tuning up on stage. The conductor came into the passage, pulled down the front of his morning coat, patted his cravat, and gave his hand to Netta. ‘Ready, madame?’

  She was led on, to a brisk outbreak of applause and some hissing. A small anti-Dreyfus claque had come to the hall ‒ it was only to be expected, she was resigned to it these days.

  She took her place to the left of the conductor’s dais. Moucherouz frowned at a clatter of sound as a clarinettist dropped his spare reed. He nodded at the musicians for complete silence, then glanced at Netta.

  She didn’t look back at him. She was staring out at the audience, clearly visible in the September sunshine streaming in at the tall windows of the hall.

  They too had looked at that cruel cartoon. They too might be horrified as she was, or in favour of its message.

  She took a step forward. ‘Ladies and gentlemen ‒’

  ‘Hah?’ grunted Moueherouz, twisting towards her more fully.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, yesterday a great wrong was done ‒ renewed, I should rather say. Captain Alfred Dreyfus was once more condemned for a crime he didn’t commit.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ hissed the conductor.

  ‘We came here today in a celebration of the life of a saint very dear to the French, a man who turned his back on the chance to rule because he preferred goodness and charity.’

  ‘St Cloud, St Cloud!’ cried a party of youngsters from the local school which bore his name.

  ‘St Cloud escaped with his life despite the cruelty of those who ruled France at that time. Friends, another good man has not escaped ‒ he has been condemned to five more years of wrongful punishment ‒’

  ‘Not wrongful! Deserved every day of it!’

  ‘What are you doing?’ cried Moucherouz in subdued firry. ‘Either sing or get off my platform!’

  ‘Frenchmen, Frenchwomen ‒ we can’t go on punishing this man! We’re here to honour a saint of our church ‒ if our church means anything, it stands for truth and justice!’

  ‘Justice, justice!’ echoed voices in the audience, the pro-Dreyfus element.

  ‘Remember what St Paul said,’ Netta went on, her trained singer’s voice ringing through the hall. ‘ “Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.” What can we reap but the whirlwind when we refuse to admit our guilt and release this innocent man?’

  There was a strange little silence. Those who agreed with her hesitated to applaud, those who disagreed were held back by unwilling respect for the scripture she’d quoted.

  Netta glanced up at Moucherouz. ‘I’m ready,’ she said.

  The baritone marched on to the stage. ‘I object to this,’ he said in loud tones to the conductor. ‘I didn’t come here to take part in a propaganda meeting on behalf of that traitor!’

  ‘Monsieur Allier, please go back to the wings. The concert is about to begin.’

  ‘Not until I make it clear that I am not a party to this disgraceful conduct of Madame de la Sebiq-Tramont! Ladies and gentlemen,’ he went on, sweeping his portly body round to address the hall, ‘I am against what Madame has said. I ask her to withdraw it.’

  ‘Withdraw, withdraw!’ chanted the claque at the side of the hall.

  ‘I can’t withdraw what I said,’ Netta replied, speaking low to Allier. ‘I meant every word.’

  ‘Then I refuse to take part in this concert!’

  ‘Come, come, m’sieu,’ urged the conductor, ‘passions run high over Dreyfus but we’re here to make music!’

  ‘Not I! Not until I get an apology for the disgraceful behaviour of Madame!’

  ‘I shan’t apologise,’ said Netta.

  ‘Very well. Monsieur Moucherouz, either she withdraws from the performance or I do. I refuse to appear on the same stage with her.’

  ‘Don’t be an ass, Allier! We can’t rearrange the items at this late stage.’

  ‘Sir, I have my reputation to consider! I am a chief baritone at the Opera Français ‒ I cannot let my name be linked with a plea for leniency to that traitor!’

  The manager came on. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked, huddling against them so that his voice wouldn’t carry to the front row. ‘Are you going to start the concert or not?’

  ‘No, we are not!’ declared the baritone, and marched off.

  The manager and the conductor gaped at each other. ‘Oh, madame, what have you done?’ wailed the manager, wringing his hands.

  He turned to the audience. ‘There will be a slight delay in opening the concert. Please be so good as to remain in your seats.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ chanted the rowdies. ‘ “No delay, start today. That’s the rule we must obey”.’

  ‘M’sieu, madame, please follow me.’ He led them off the platform. The orchestra, shuffling uneasily and glancing out at the restless audience, remained in place.

  In the green-room Moucherouz wheeled on Netta. ‘How dare you do such a thing? If you think I came here to conduct an orchestra for a madwoman, you are mistaken!’

  ‘Madame, you could have started a riot ‒’

  ‘I’m sorry, gentleman. I know you think it was wrong. But I had no idea I was going to say a word until I stood there.’

  ‘Allier’s gone,’ reported the doorkeeper.

  ‘Gone? Where?’

  ‘Out of the hall. He’s left.’

  ‘Oh-h!’ wailed the other singer, a contralto who had remained in the green-room throughout. ‘We can’t do the programme without Allier!’

  ‘It’s absurd! It’s outrageous! D’you know what you’ve done, madame? You’ve put an end to this concert!’

  ‘I’ll have to refund the money,’ the manager wailed.

  ‘I’m sorry, monsieur ‒’

  ‘It’s no good saying you’re sorry! You’ll suffer for this, let me tell you, madame!’ stormed Moucherouz. ‘I won’t be made a fool of in public and so I warn you!’

  The audience could be heard growing noisily restive. The manager went to announce that the performance was cancelled. Frederic appeared with Netta’s cloak. ‘My love, what a mad thing to do!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Frederic,’ she said, and began to cry.

  ‘Now, now … Come along … I’ve got a cab outside, if we go quickly we can avoid any trouble.’

  At home she went completely to pieces, shuddering, crying, cold to the marrow and then suffused with pulsing heat. Frederic sent for the doctor. ‘A malarial attack, that’s all.’

  ‘Malaria!’

  ‘I h-had it in M … Milan,’ Netta said through chattering teeth.

  Twenty-four hours later she was returned to something like normality. She sat up in bed sipping broth, looking at the newspapers which recounted her extraordinary outburst.

  ‘Although we cannot recommend such actions to other performers, we salute the courage of Madame de la Sebiq-Tramont for saying in public what many decent citizens must feel in their hearts. Who now can follow the tortuous course of the evidence against Captain Dreyfus? It fills many volumes, and much of it has been clearly shown to be false. Madame de la Sebiq-Tramont spoke for many of us when she said, as we hear, that the church should stand for truth and justice. Much has been made of the fact that the French Army is defending the honour of the Catholic church as well as its own. What we ask now is ‒ does our church really demand further suffering? Or, as is rumoured, will the President listen to the pleas of those like Madame de la Sebiq-Tramont and extend a pardon to Alfred Dreyfus?’

  ‘Perhaps it did some good,’ she murmured.

  ‘Darling, you were lucky to get out of that
hall without having your head knocked off!’

  ‘I never thought of that. I wasn’t the least frightened.’

  ‘Well, I damn well was! Never do a thing like that again, Netta!’

  She gave a wavering smile. ‘It’s hardly likely, is it?’

  Next day she was allowed up. Monsieur Alfonsini came to see her, leaning heavily on his cane. With him he brought the concert manager who handled Netta’s bookings.

  ‘My dear,’ he said, after kissing her gently, ‘you have done a very rash thing. Laurent is very upset.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Netta. She had already said she was sorry a score of times ‒ to her father who had telephoned in great alarm, to Elvi Hermilot who called in person to scold her, to Moucherouz and the contralto Lili Spezza.

  ‘It’s not enough to be sorry. You must repair the damage. And how it’s to be done I don’t know,’ Laurent said, brushing at his moustache and beard with angry fingers. ‘I have had two cancellations already ‒ the Orchestre du Midi refuses to have you sing with them.’

  ‘Good God, the entire Orchestre du Midi can’t be anti-Dreyfus?’ Frederic put in, half-laughing.

  ‘Who knows? They don’t want to associate with her. They don’t want someone so unreliable and odd as their soloist. And the same goes for the management of the Salle de Fecamp. You’ve scared off a lot of possible engagements, madame. And there are plenty of hungry singers they can book instead.’

  Netta knew she was in disgrace. ‘What ought I to do?’ she inquired in a timid voice.

  Alfonsini sat down beside her, taking her hand in both of his old, dry palms. ‘You ought to go abroad.’

  ‘Abroad!’

  ‘To sing. Laurent can get you engagements in Belgium and Germany, probably also England ‒’

  ‘No!’ cried Frederic.

  Alfonsini shifted so as to look round at him, his old bones creaking in protest. ‘She cannot sing again in France for at least a year.’

  ‘She can’t go abroad!’

  Alfonsini looked at Netta. ‘Madame Netta?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I can’t go abroad. I have a little boy. I have a husband and family. I’m needed here.’