Liberty's Fire

by Lydia Syson

  Marie braced her knees to stop them trembling, breathed deeply, and tried to imagine she was overcoming stage fright. She knew how to do that. She took a tentative step forward, feeling the gaze of the room hot on her face. Except for Rigault’s. His pen, monotonously scratching, continued to fill the silence. Marie held up her head and walked right up to the table, so that her shadow fell over his papers. She coughed.

  The scratching continued.

  ‘Monsieur Rigault?’ she said at last in little more than a whisper. Then she added, ‘Citoyen?’

  At last he raised his head. He stared at Marie intently and in silence through a small oval pince-nez, attached to his lapel by a fine chain. The eyes behind the glass were younger than she’d expected, not much older than Emile’s perhaps. Rigault looked her up and down, eyes pausing for a moment at the red rose. Then he smiled, his fleshy lips glistening. ‘Citoyenne. Is there some way in which I can be of assistance?’

  Was he being sarcastic?

  ‘Yes, please, I need to get a pass. I need to leave Paris, for a short while.’

  He let her words settle before responding to them.

  ‘How strange, to wish to desert the Commune at our hour of need!’

  ‘Yes, indeed, and of course I am very anxious not to miss any rehearsals. But you see —’

  ‘Rehearsals?’ he interrupted. ‘Now let me guess …’ He leaned back in his hard chair, twiddling his pen in one hand as though it would help him think. His gaze ran up and down her, and made her feel he could assess her measurements through her clothing with the precision of a dressmaker.

  She stood up straighter. He wouldn’t intimidate her. She was used to being stared at. It was her profession. She’d been trained to be stared at, hadn’t she?

  ‘You are an actress … a dancer perhaps …? No, of course, I have it – with that lovely melodious voice, you must surely be a singer. Am I right?’

  Marie held his gaze. There was no point in denying it. Perhaps she could turn it to her advantage. She tilted her head, and simpered a little. ‘Yes you are! How clever of you! And we are preparing even now for some fundraising concerts – at the theatre and also at the Tuileries Palace.’

  ‘Very important,’ he said. ‘Music can lift the public’s spirits so effectively at a time like this. We rely on good spirits.’

  ‘Oh yes, indeed …’ she agreed warmly. She had got him on her side. It had almost been too easy. ‘Music is so very valuable in that respect.’

  ‘And so, my dearest diva …’

  ‘Yes?’ She leaned forward too eagerly, then quickly mumbled that she really wasn’t a diva; she wasn’t important at all. She had only just left the chorus, she explained – since the siege – and naturally there were plenty of other eager singers who’d be more than happy to take her place if need be.

  ‘So you must be very desperate to leave if you are prepared to sacrifice your opportunity for stardom?’

  ‘We are a cooperative company now. Nobody is indispensable.’ A heroic stance would be good here. Liberty leading the people. She gazed into the middle distance.

  ‘Still, I cannot let you go.’

  Marie’s shoulders collapsed. He was deliberately twisting her words. ‘But please, I just need a few days.’

  He teased her with more silence. A trap?

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I need to … I need to … My brother, you see, he is a prisoner.’

  He sat up straight now, all attention. ‘One of ours? What’s his name?’

  ‘No, no … He is a prisoner of the Prussians. He has been for months.’

  Rigault frowned. ‘Sedan?’

  ‘No, Metz.’

  ‘I see.’ A hundred and forty thousand had surrendered at Metz in October. An entire army. ‘So where is he now?’

  ‘I think … I think …’ Marie was indeed thinking, as fast as she could. She was tempted to lie, to tell Rigault that Emile was already back in France. It might strengthen her case. But she had no proof. And she was certain this man, who seemed to know and see everything, would find out somehow that she had lied. ‘I’m not entirely sure. He was in a hospital in Bavaria after Metz. And then in a camp at a place called Ingolstadt.’

  He didn’t seem to recognise the name. Perhaps she had mispronounced it.

  ‘But the prisoners are being released, even now,’ he pointed out. ‘Thousands are returning. The Versailles army is strengthening every day, damn it. So, your brother will be back soon. And I’m sure he will try to rescue you.’

  They stared at each other. At first Marie thought they had reached a stalemate. Then, through his round glasses, his eyes narrowed. She decided it was time to ratchet up her performance.

  ‘Precisely. And, you see, I cannot bear … I cannot bear …’ Marie began to sob. He sighed noisily and gestured for one of the subordinates to supply a handkerchief, which Marie of course rejected, fumbling instead for her own. She was about to reach the turning point of this scene, but worried she was in danger of losing his attention. ‘You see, I cannot bear for him to fight against us, as an officer of the Versailles army. I believe I can persuade him to desert. And join the National Guard.’

  At this Rigault stood up so suddenly that the man behind him had to catch his chair to stop it crashing to the floor. Rigault leaned across the table. Short and stocky, he was slightly less imposing on his feet than he had appeared when seated. Still, Marie had to force herself not to back away.

  ‘I’m sure you can be very persuasive, my dear citoyenne,’ he said. Leaning on one hand, he reached across with the other, and fingered the red rose pinned to her bodice. ‘Gaston!’

  The young man at the mantelpiece straightened.

  ‘Shall we let her leave?’

  The other man opened his mouth, and shut it again without replying. Marie felt like a funambulist, a tightrope walker, balanced between the Commune and Versailles. One slip …

  ‘Or should we first check the informants’ register we are working our way through? All the sneaking toadies of the Second Empire. And all those who applied to be. Oh you’d be amazed how many there were.’ Rigault continued to look at her steadily. ‘Is it possible that this young lady is on our list of mouchards? Does she have “form”? A history of telling tales?’

  He let the questions hang. Everyone except for Marie seemed to understand that they were rhetorical. She didn’t realise she was shaking her head.

  ‘No? Really? I suppose I should take your word for it?’

  She nodded, but Rigault wasn’t interested in her word. He had already turned to the fellow at his left shoulder. ‘As a matter of fact, I have a feeling she could be useful to us. The passport papers, please.’

  Marie felt a rush of gratitude. She almost called him ‘sir’ again. Instead, she closed her eyes and held on to the table.

  ‘A few questions, naturally,’ Rigault continued, taking up his pen again. ‘First things first.’

  With a theatrical swipe, he crossed out the word ‘Empire’ at the top of the form, and wrote ‘République’ in its place. Then he smiled his wet smile at her again. ‘Still the same forms, I’m afraid. Clearly the Government of National Defence didn’t think it worth its while to print fresh ones. It was only ever going to be a matter of time for those traitors. Which sadly leaves us with so many more things to organise. So much work still to do.’

  Marie didn’t dare reply. She couldn’t risk a word that might jeopardise this pass.

  ‘Let me see now. Eyes.’ Rigault took the opportunity to stand up and inspect her eyes so closely that she could feel his breath on her face. She held her own breath, and tried to keep her nostrils from flaring too obviously with disgust.

  ‘A lovely shade of blue,’ he said. She closed her eyes. ‘However, I think I’ll just write “blue”.’

  Then he turned to the man by the fireplace. ‘How would you describe this citoyenne’s hair, Gaston?’

  ‘Oh, golden. Quite definitely golden.’

  ‘Golden it is.�
�� He scribbled some more, and moved his finger down the list. What an excruciatingly slow business this was. ‘Nose? Medium, I think. Beard? None, I’m happy to say.’ He laughed at his own weak joke. The others laughed politely too, except for the one called Gaston. ‘Chin? Quite round, I’d say. Face? Oval, certainly. Perfectly oval. But, oh dear, what’s this? Complexion?’

  Rigault’s gaze became even more lingering.

  ‘Your complexion is very pale. This is a matter of some concern. Are you feeling quite all right? I think I should have someone get you a glass of water.’

  Only water? Marie had always been convinced that radical types like Rigault survived entirely on absinthe and brandy. These men seemed sober as camels. Still, you could slip all sorts of things into a drink of water. She wouldn’t touch a drop, she decided, but she just managed to choke out a reply.

  ‘No, no thank you. I’m quite well, thank you very much, citoyen.’

  There was another silence, while Rigault read through what he had written, still smiling, and again insisted on checking each distinguishing feature on the list against its original, as if it might have changed in the long minutes that had passed.

  ‘Do forgive me if this is taking up too much of your time. It’s not every day we strike quite this lucky, I’m sorry to say … Ah, look, citizens … how delightful … see how rosy her complexion has become now? Charming.’ Her blush deepened. ‘Now … all you need to do is sign here.’

  He pointed, and held out a pen still warm from his fingers. Stubby, grubby fingers, thought Marie. He used one to show where she had to sign, keeping it pressed down so that she was forced to brush against it as she wrote.

  She pushed the paper back towards him, and he picked it up with a flourish.

  At last she dared to smile. Any minute now her passport would be safely in her purse and she’d be gone, escaping through all those doors and corridors, past all those guards, and back out to the relative freedom of the quai des Orfèvres. She couldn’t wait to tell Jules and Anatole what she’d managed entirely on her own. How impressed they would both be. And in another few days she’d be at Versailles, and if, as she feared, her brother was still waiting to be released by the Prussians, at least somebody there would have news of him.

  Rigault smiled back. For just a moment, Marie could almost have kissed him. Then he folded the paper neatly and tucked it into his own breast pocket.

  ‘I’ll keep this safe until we get word of your brother’s return to Versailles. Don’t worry. We’ll know where to find you, and then you can get to work on him. I hope I’ll be seeing you again very soon.’

  20.

  11th April

  Anatole kept his secret for two long days, and almost all the way up the stairs too. Zéphyrine’s arms flailed in front of her, as, sightless, she tried to make sense of her new surroundings.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ She tried to push off her blindfold, but Anatole simply batted her hands away from her eyes.

  ‘I told you. It’s a surprise.’ A hand at her waist continued to steer her upwards. She swung her hip against its pressure. They were both out of breath.

  ‘But how long will it take?’ She didn’t like this kind of darkness. She was tiring of the joke.

  ‘Nearly there now.’

  Zéphyrine stopped dead to listen. The walls gave nothing away.

  ‘I’ll smell it out.’ She sniffed, and made an even more determined effort to get her blindfold off, but Anatole caught hold of her hands, and covered them with kisses, and then couldn’t stop himself from kissing her mouth too while it was so open and exposed.

  She stopped resisting, and they came to a halt on the landing. Anatole made her forget everything except for the here and now. It was only later that she wondered what she was doing. When they were together, he was so very hard to resist. Up to a point. Just as they reached that point, a voice echoed down the staircase.

  ‘Hurry up! We’re going to lose the light if you take much longer —’

  ‘Coming!’ Anatole quickly shouted back, but it was too late. Zéphyrine had recognised Jules’s voice.

  ‘Oh, I’m going to see your apartment at last!’ she said triumphantly, imagining a meal, and wrenching the silk cravat from her mismatched eyes. Her hair fell down in the process. ‘No, stop, Anatole. Wait.’

  ‘What is it? We need to hurry.’

  ‘I can’t walk in looking like this.’

  ‘You look beautiful.’ He pulled her up a few more steps, and then into him again. He ran his hands through her loose hair while they kissed again.

  ‘Ow!’ Zéphyrine detached his trapped fingers from her tangles, and tried to repin it. ‘Stop. What’s Mister Crowfield going to think?’

  Of course he had heard. He was already waiting for them at the open door, on the next landing up.

  ‘I’m going to think that if we don’t get a move on, we’ll have to rearrange it for another day. Marie is already here.’

  ‘Rearrange it?’ said Zéphyrine. Then what would happen to the food?

  ‘Very good to see you again.’ Jules bowed politely and kissed Zéphyrine’s hand. ‘Do come in.’

  Moth wings fluttered in her chest as she walked in. How many Montmartre families could you fit in a place this size? How many shacks from Le Maquis, the shanty town on the other side of the hill? She didn’t belong here. Jules knew that. She could tell, despite his perfect manners. Wasn’t it obvious to Anatole too? Apparently not.

  ‘And this is Minou,’ said Anatole, swooping up the cat as she raced towards him, miaowing, and presenting her upside down, like a baby, to Zéphyrine.

  She backed away. ‘A cat!’ she said. She hadn’t seen a cat for months. ‘Where on earth did you get it? Why didn’t you eat it?’

  Jules looked at Anatole. Minou squirmed in his arms and jumped to the floor.

  ‘She … she was very frightened when I found her. Some boys were … never mind.’

  ‘Hungry?’ said Zéphyrine.

  ‘Yes,’ said Anatole, ashamed.

  Jules intervened. ‘Now, let’s go upstairs. I’m sure I can find a brush for your hair up in the studio. If you don’t mind … Follow me.’ His voice was matter-of-fact, not unkind. Perhaps she had imagined his disapproval at the Gingerbread Fair. Anatole had told her that Americans didn’t stand on ceremony, nor were they very concerned how many centuries back you could trace your name.

  ‘It’s surprising what the last occupant didn’t pack,’ continued Jules.

  ‘He left Paris in a hurry, like all the other cowards,’ said Anatole.

  ‘And I have a feeling that he’d been living beyond his means for some time. Our gain, however. And mine in particular, as you’ll see in just a moment.’

  So many doorways invited exploration. She wanted to stroke the wallpaper, to test with her fingertips if it was really silk. She wanted to try out the rose-damask upholstered chairs one after another, and sit at the glowing walnut dining table she’d glimpsed through a half-open door. But Jules led the way straight down the corridor to a spiral staircase that led up to another floor. Behind his back, Zéphyrine twisted round to look at Anatole, with a cross, questioning face. What was this all about?

  ‘You’ll see,’ he mouthed.

  ‘Ladies first,’ said Jules at the top, waving Zéphyrine towards the studio.

  She stopped dead at the doorway. Marie was already standing beside the ‘antique’ column, leaning forward, an elbow on the column top, one finger to her chin. The other arm was horizontal, hand drooping gracefully, as if barely aware of the single silk rose it held. A small bribe had secured the loan of a costume from the Sleeping Beauty ballet, and the help of the wardrobe mistress in smuggling it out of the theatre. The dress was gauzy pale pink, the veil even more transparent and it floated from a garlanded headdress.

  Zéphyrine was entranced. ‘Oh. How lovely,’ she sighed.

  Marie stepped down, extending both hands. ‘You’re here. That’s good.’ And then, seeing Zéphyrine’s
confusion, she said, ‘We met outside the theatre. Do you remember? Mademoiselle Le Gall – Marie – I sing in the same company as Anatole.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I do remember, of course,’ said Zéphyrine. ‘You look different today.’

  ‘So do you,’ said Marie.

  Zéphyrine pinched her upper arm. ‘A little fatter each day.’ She joined in with their polite laughter.

  ‘Can I look?’ she asked, walking right up to Marie to inspect the details: the embroidery on the bodice, the shoes with their satin rosettes. The artificial flowers on her headdress were exquisitely made, the curve and settle of their petals utterly convincing. Zéphyrine was impressed.

  Jules began to fiddle with his tripod. Zéphyrine edged round until she was facing the huge brass lens of his camera.

  ‘Anatole told me you took photographs, but I didn’t know what it would be like … This is enormous! Just like a little cannon, isn’t it?’

  ‘Its shots are less dangerous, I hope,’ said Jules.

  ‘This is the studio camera, for portraits. Much bigger than the one you take out on your travels, isn’t it, Jules?’ Anatole was eager to explain everything to Zéphyrine.

  ‘That’s right. The other one is over there.’ Jules pointed it out.

  Anatole tried to demonstrate the tripod. ‘And the stand is adjustable, here, you see.’

  ‘Please don’t move it,’ said Jules. ‘I’d just got it perfect – no, you stay there too, Marie. Thank you.’

  Anatole retreated and Zéphyrine started to look for somewhere to sit, somewhere out of the way, a corner where she wouldn’t disturb proceedings. But then she noticed the view from the window, and couldn’t help remarking on that, and the rooftops and the distant smoke. Then she darted over to the table where there was a collection of flat rings laid out, each with a tab attached to it.

  ‘Can I see?’ she asked, picking one up and peering through it, mystified, and then putting it down and picking up another. ‘Why do you need so many? What are they for?’

  Jules took it out of her hand, and explained, without explaining anything. ‘Waterhouse stops.’

  Zéphyrine nodded, baffled, and turned back to Marie, who had rearranged herself again.