‘We need your mother, Hannah. We need the famous Mrs Pardy. She is already writing for the French papers – for ones we can’t get even remotely close to. The Figaro. The Gaulois. You must take me to speak with her.’
‘You don’t understand, you or your friend Monsieur Pyat. She will use you for her own ends. She will—’
‘I know that this is difficult. I’ve seen how things are between you. But we have one final chance to strike at the Prussians before they become unbeatable – before our government can starve the strength from the ordinary people. We must act quickly or we will be lost.’
Jean-Jacques tightened his grip again, fixing her with an unwavering stare. Hannah glanced at him and was caught. She could feel herself beginning to yield – literally giving in like crumbling mortar. This, she thought, is the price.
‘Very well,’ she said, ‘I’ll do what I can.’
III
They were walking side by side up the main staircase of the Grand, from floor five to six: Hannah and the black-clad Monsieur Allix, on their way to Elizabeth’s rooms. A prisoner and her guard, thought Clem, ducking behind a column. He didn’t want to encounter them any earlier than he had to. Raindrops tapped against the glass dome overhead; Paris’s Indian summer, all that radiant sunshine and infinite blue sky, had come to an end. The bad weather was beginning.
There were shouts somewhere below, and a piteous scream. Clem peered over the balustrade, down into the lobby. Doctors in surgical gowns were rushing through the grid of iron bedsteads that had been set out across the marble floor, receiving a wounded soldier from the fortifications – the victim of a sniper, most likely. Clem leaned back. He’d witnessed several operations in the week since the lower floors of the Grand had been turned into a hospital, and had concluded that he was most definitely not of a medical inclination.
The rain grew harder. Clem didn’t know what to make of this visit. His attempt to question Hannah about red activity had been a bit of a debacle. It still made him blush to think of those wet trousers. She’d sent him packing, clearly indicating that there was no place for him or their mother in this Montmartre life of hers. And yet here they were, in the heart of the Opéra district, calling on Elizabeth at Hannah’s own request. The previous morning a few of the ultra newspapers had trumpeted a deadly raid that Major Allix of the National Guard had made against the Prussian encampments at Le Bourget – apparently he’d slain several men single-handed and claimed their helmets as trophies. Later that day, a Montmartre guardsman had delivered a note to Elizabeth from her daughter, asking for an audience. The two things were certainly connected, any blockhead could see that; quite how, though, Clem wasn’t sure. He smoked a quick, apprehensive cigarette and followed them in.
Elizabeth’s suite was larger and finer than his. The central sitting room, lit against the rainy gloom by half a dozen bronze gas fittings, was richly papered and carpeted, and filled with heavy furniture. There was a warm smell of sandalwood; in the grate rippled a jolly little fire. Two tall windows offered a commanding view of Garnier’s opera house. That gilded heap of Imperial extravagance was now being used as a military depot, its stone eagles shrouded in sackcloth. Inscribed in gold across its façade was the legend Académie Nationale de Musique – the Nationale somewhat fresher than the rest, having only recently been painted over the original Imperiale.
Hannah, Allix and Elizabeth sat in a triangle, his sister and her lover forming the base with his mother at the apex. Only one chair was left, in a far corner. Clem picked his way to it like a latecomer at the theatre. Rather unexpectedly, the Frenchman was talking in English, and acquitting himself well. An effective radical must speak many languages, Clem reasoned, the better to disseminate his incendiary creed. Right then, however, he was querying the necessity of Clem’s presence; the fellow plainly thought him a liability, a drunken joke. Clem could understand this. He hovered by the chair, awaiting judgement.
‘Clement is in partnership with me,’ Elizabeth replied; Clem saw a sneer dart across Hannah’s face. ‘Anything that concerns my work concerns him as well. Don’t worry yourself, Monsieur Allix, he can be trusted completely.’
Allix wasn’t pleased, but he accepted it. ‘If you say so, Madame.’
Clem took his seat. That was one mystery solved, at any rate: it was the services of Elizabeth’s pen that they were after. The partnership she’d mentioned was actually in doubt due to his rather woeful performance up to that point, but this was his mother’s way: a unified front before outsiders. Settling down, unbuttoning his jacket, he looked over at her guests.
Jean-Jacques Allix had a near-invisible hint of supplication about him, but otherwise remained as impressive as ever – if anything, lent a dark gravitas by his lethal actions in the field. Hannah, meanwhile, sat with her legs and arms crossed, making it very clear that she was there against her will. Clem had been told by Laure – through disconnected, emphatic words and a range of scornful gestures – that his twin had been the cause of much annoyance at their guardhouse. Her militia uniform, creased and baggy with paint stains on the cuffs, was worn with none of Laure’s insolent panache. She’d lost yet more weight, gaining a skinny, unapproachable look, and her blonde hair was tied up in a greasy knot. He remembered the moment he first saw her in the Café-Concert Danton, little more than a fortnight earlier, and how enormously happy she’d seemed. That, he supposed, was the real change. Hannah was no longer happy.
‘And to answer your question,’ Elizabeth said to Allix, ‘I certainly saw them. Every one of this city’s journalistic efforts finds its way into this room. I have an example here, in fact.’ She plucked something from the small table beside her chair: two sheets of folded, membrane-thin paper swarming with words. It was La Patrie en Danger, a red rag printed up in Belleville, the entirety both written and edited by the same barmy old fanatic. She put on her spectacles and began a bone-dry translation.
‘We, the working people of Paris, unite in praise of the brave efforts of Major Jean-Jacques Allix of the 197th Battalion. Alone he slashes into the Imperial oppressors, a humble man bringing down the servants of a king with the fire of righteous patriotic anger. In him we witness the power of an honest soul, and are reminded yet again that the emancipation of the workers is the task of the workers themselves.’ Elizabeth stopped. ‘He goes on in a similar vein for another nine paragraphs.’
Allix sat up, placing those black-gloved hands – the right one a touch rigid – on the arms of his chair. His embarrassment did not suit him. ‘Citizen Blanqui means well,’ he said, ‘but we want this to awaken Paris – not to speak only to those in Belleville and Montmartre who are already eager to act. I did not undertake it lightly, Mrs Pardy. I want it to have meaning.’
Elizabeth removed her glasses, listening closely, a tiny seed of flirtation in her manner. The ultra held her gaze, as serious as can be; Hannah stared at the opera house, ignoring them both.
‘We will demonstrate, of course,’ Allix continued. ‘Further marches are planned. But time is running out. They have taken Strasbourg. Metz, our one surviving fortress in the east, could fall at any moment – the commander, Marshal Bazaine, is an old Imperialist and will not give his best fight. Food prices are rising, and we—’
‘Indeed they are,’ Clem interrupted, searching his pockets for cigarettes. ‘Why, a pat of butter already costs more than a lawyer’s letter.’
There was a pause. Why the devil did I say that? Clem wondered. Why can’t I stop myself confirming their low opinion of me?
Elizabeth lifted a thoughtful finger to her lips. She was loving every damned second of this. Here, in the handsome and enigmatic Major Allix, was an alternative to her unreliable son – a source of information far more compelling and authentic than anything Clem could hope to provide. And beside him, of course, was Hannah, the prodigal returned. It didn’t matter how unwilling she was, or ungracious: she had returned. She’d run away to Paris, and now she was sitting in the Grand. For her mother it was qui
te the result.
‘I have some sympathy for your cause, Major. I am no radical myself, you understand; well,’ she qualified, ‘not an active one at least, not any longer. But I respect what you are doing, you and your comrades. I see the lassitude, the empty bombast of the central arrondissements – and I see the workers of Belleville and Montmartre, trying to hold your timorous politicians to account and demanding the chance actually to fight against your invaders.’ She tossed La Patrie en Danger back onto the table. ‘I realise, also, that the deed reported so impressively by Monsieur Blanqui and his peers is a part of this … programme of action. What is it, though, that you could possibly require of me?’
Clem lit a cigarette, looking from his mother to the Frenchman opposite her. Elizabeth had worked it out, probably before they’d even arrived, but she was going to make him say it. Clem recalled her mentioning that Allix didn’t like her, that he’d been set against her by Hannah. Something had happened when they’d met on the day of that march – a slight, perhaps, or a show of indifference. This was Elizabeth settling the score.
Allix met it head on, delineating his proposal with direct clarity. The famous Mrs Pardy would become his champion in the moderate press – the papers that catered to the broad middle class of Paris. With each day of isolation the city’s news hunger grew more acute. Both of them knew that a Parisian hero, a man seen to be striking against the Prussians, would be seized upon and lauded to the heavens. Major Allix of the 197th battalion could be fashioned into a powerful example of French courage – a tool to be used against the hesitant Trochu.
Elizabeth adjusted the fall of the coral gown, acting as if she was preparing to grant Allix a grand favour; although in truth this had come to her like an answered prayer. She’d managed to get a couple of pieces in the major papers, trading on those connections of hers, but it had been far from easy. There was too much competition, she’d complained to Clem, boredom having swollen the ranks of the Parisian press to an almost unsupportable degree, and her once-renowned name had counted for very little. Privileged access to a tale like this, however – backed up with hard proof, unusual indeed in besieged Paris – would surely lead to her being sought out rather than obliged to seek. And then there was the book. Even Clem could see that this might serve as its backbone, and distinguish it at once from the other siege diaries crowding the bookstalls.
‘I could do this, certainly,’ she said. ‘Remove the socialistic rhetoric, if that is what you want – give the whole a bit of dash. I’d need regular reports, though, on your activities and everything that frames them. And some details about your background, Major; your noble actions, love of your country, and so forth. The part you played in the American war.’
‘Naturally, Madame,’ Allix replied. ‘Shall we begin now? There is not a minute to be lost.’
Elizabeth had one more request to add. ‘I will need a portrait,’ she said, without looking at Hannah, ‘for the illustrated papers both here and abroad. A more considered version of the one in that shed, perhaps.’
Oh God, thought Clem, just about suppressing an urge to hide behind a cushion, here we bloody go.
Hannah turned from the windows. Her expression served as an unwelcome reminder of those last months before her departure from London – of epic clashes that had run on for hours, with much slamming of doors and shattering of china; of a red hall in Chelsea, filled with parakeets, gentlemen in evening dress chortling in the background.
‘I brought Jean-Jacques here at his request,’ she said in a hoarse voice, ‘but so help me, Elizabeth, if you think that I’m going to—’
Allix spoke over her, covering her hand with his. ‘This can be discussed later. What is important now is that we reach as many as possible. We need to act.’
Hannah whipped away her hand and sprang from her chair. She made for the door but seemed to hit the end of a tether, swinging back around until she stood fuming silently by the fireplace. Elizabeth wore a detestable little smile. Her notebook was at the ready; she’d just finished writing a heading when the gas lights flickered out, dropping the room into shadow.
‘It must be nine o’clock,’ she said. ‘They started doing that yesterday. Everything, I suppose, must soon be rationed.’ She laid down her pen. ‘Clement, be so good as to fetch us a candle.’
Two squads of militia met at a narrow junction, one red and the other bourgeois; after swapping a few insults the former went for the latter as if confronted by a mortal foe. Clem was walking past, thinking about Laure in his usual state of intermingled confusion and desire, when one of the reds, a typically lean, shabby specimen, spotted him and seized his arm. An awkward dance began, Clem lunging across the pavement whilst the scrawny guardsman held onto him, boots scrabbling for purchase, shouting at the top of his voice. Clem’s jacket began to slip from his shoulder. He was wondering how long this tug-of-war could reasonably go on when Émile Besson appeared, detached the red from his sleeve and sent him tumbling to the ground, followed by a few harsh-sounding words.
‘Come, Mr Pardy,’ he said, turning to Clem, ‘this way.’
They walked off quickly.
‘What – what was he saying?’
‘That you were a dirty foreigner, eating food meant for Frenchmen.’ Besson glanced behind him. ‘That you should be shot.’
As if on cue a pistol was raised in the air and discharged. Clem started, almost breaking into a run; the red guardsmen scattered with a flurry of oaths. The bourgeois officer who had fired, a sleek grocer type in a lieutenant’s uniform, lowered his smoking gun and began yelling at the men sprawled around his feet.
‘Lucky for me you came along, then,’ Clem remarked, straightening his jacket.
Besson didn’t respond. He looked down the street; having untangled Clem from the brawl he plainly wanted to be away.
‘Join me for a brandy, Monsieur Besson. I owe you that at least.’
‘I regret that I cannot. I have an urgent appointment.’
‘Come on, old man, it’ll take a minute only. I’ve been looking for you, as a matter of fact – I’ve something to show you. This is a fine coincidence.’
It was anything but, of course; Clem had taken to patrolling this street at lunchtime, knowing that Besson ate his meals in a restaurant halfway down. Through sheer persistence, he’d managed to get himself and the aérostier back on a broadly amiable footing after their misunderstanding over the letter; Besson remained Clem’s prime suspect, but it no longer seemed of any great consequence. He was determined to develop their acquaintance into a proper friendship. After nearly a month in Paris he was beginning to feel seriously lonely, Laure’s attentions notwithstanding.
Seeing that it was easier to consent than resist, Besson indicated a small restaurant with a laurel green front – his establishment of choice. Several joints of ageing meat were arranged on plates in the window. The aérostier was welcomed by name; he selected a table close to the door, ordering coffee, and a brandy for his companion. Clem grinned, but felt a little crestfallen; this conversation was sure to be a brief one.
Besson took off his round-topped hat and set it on the table, exposing a head of dark, close-cropped hair. The crescent-shaped bruise on his face was almost gone. Over the past fortnight, at intermittent meetings in and around the balloon factory, Clem had watched it change from black through dark blue to purple; now it was a greenish yellow, the colour of herbal soap, a ghost of what it had once been. Clem had made a couple of attempts to extract an explanation for this lurid wound, but had come to realise that none would ever be given. ‘They attacked me near the Elysées,’ was all Besson would say. ‘I don’t know why.’
The aérostier’s restaurant was a pleasant enough place, clean and unpretentious; a single room kept quite dim, it had a low ceiling, polished floorboards and plain white tablecloths, and was infused with the smell of fried mushrooms. As unobtrusively as he could, Clem examined the diners’ plates. Only one dish was on offer that lunchtime, an oblong of greyish fl
esh served with some withered beans: the municipal meat ration. Introduced a week or so before, it had already been cut to a hundred grams per person per day. Clem had partaken of this stuff at the Grand. Beef was the official description, but it had a gamey sweetness unlike any cow he’d ever tasted; and it could hardly escape one’s notice that the boulevards were being increasingly left to pedestrians, the horses of Paris disappearing in order of palatability.
Poking from the inside pocket of Clem’s jacket was a sheaf of designs for aerial contraptions. He’d felt positively inspired of late, his old imaginings reanimated by what he’d been seeing in the Elysées-Montmartre. His particular obsession at the moment, having heard of the difficulties in guaranteeing both the direction and duration of flight when free ballooning, was with the notion of actually powering a balloon – of making a kind of aerial steamship with an engine and propellers. He was desperate to discuss this idea with Besson. As soon as the drinks arrive, he told himself; that is when I shall produce my drawings.
The aérostier took out a copy of that morning’s Figaro, pushed aside their cutlery and spread it on the tablecloth in front of him. Clem’s face fell. He’d been hoping that this development might have passed Monsieur Besson by. But no – the aérostier’s sharp features were angled towards an article in the bottom right corner. It was large, six or seven inches long, and was headed Encore Saute le Léopard.
‘You know about this?’ he asked. ‘The exploits of this so-called “Leopard”?’
Clem nodded; he had in fact been given a complete English rendition of this particular piece – Elizabeth’s third on Jean-Jacques Allix – a few hours earlier, before he’d even risen from his bed. She’d come in, prodded him awake and started to read. It told of an excursion made the night before last into the Prussian-held village of Pierrefitte. A field gun had been spiked, two Prussians killed by Allix’s blade and two more injured by an explosion of powder. All exciting stuff, to be sure, and Elizabeth’s triumph knew no bounds; she was especially pleased with this character she’d created.
Illumination Page 15
