Illumination

by Matthew Plampin

  Elizabeth rose from the side of Hannah’s chair, wiped the tears from her cheeks – one a mottled red from where the militiaman had struck her – and fixed her Leopard with a cool stare. She wasn’t outraged or mortified; Christ above, Clem thought, she isn’t even particularly surprised.

  ‘That,’ she said, ‘is disappointing.’

  Clem couldn’t help it; he laughed. ‘Had your suspicions, did you?’

  ‘I knew that he wasn’t what he claimed, certainly,’ Elizabeth replied. ‘He couldn’t have been. One simply needs to consider the other red leaders – that old pipeclay Blanqui, that posturing dandy Flourens, the idiot Pyat – to realise that this man has no natural place among them. He is of an altogether different stripe. I had imagined that he might be a radical from the east, from Russia perhaps; a true libertarian socialist, an anarchist in the mould of Bakunin, brought in from outside to help this city towards its revolutionary commune.’ She lifted her chin. ‘To learn that he is only a Prussian, however, an obedient servant of the old world, is quite upsetting.’

  This finally goaded the fellow to speak. ‘There is nothing old,’ he said quietly, ‘about the united Germany.’

  ‘Hell’s bells, Elizabeth,’ blurted Clem, ‘your man is a spy! A bloody spy! D’you realise what this means for us?’

  His mother gave him a level look – a restraining look. They needed to remain calm. ‘Provocateur is a more accurate term, I think, Clement,’ she said. ‘The gentleman before us now, Herr …’

  She hesitated, inviting this person to provide a genuine name. He declined to take it. He clearly wasn’t going to tell them anything.

  ‘Our former Monsieur Allix,’ Elizabeth continued, ‘is a rare creature indeed. Many do not believe they exist. The provocateur is the tool of the most rapacious, the most devious nations; small wonder that Chancellor Bismarck has cultivated them. Men like this one have altered the course of history. They have performed roles that have passed without record – without credit or blame. That is their great skill. Theirs is the hand that angles the lens so that it starts the fire; that unlatches the gate so the bullocks can run wild. I should think that there are men like Jean-Jacques Allix throughout Paris, in all manner of places. There’ll be one in the Hôtel de Ville, close to Trochu and Jules Favre; one holed up with the Bonapartists at the Jockey Club; one with the Orléanists, even, bolstering their hopes for a new monarchy.’

  The Leopard crossed his arms, neither confirming nor denying any of it.

  ‘Villain,’ muttered Inglis. ‘I always knew there was something rum about you. Those tall tales of Lizzie’s in the Figaro – those ludicrous, pantomime politics. I always knew that something was off.’

  Clem’s mind started to settle – to process this revelation. Many nagging questions had been answered. This spy or provocateur or whatever he was had been aggravating the divisions of the city in order to weaken it. He’d encountered Han when he’d arrived in Montmartre to embed himself among the northern ultras. Recognising her name at once, along with the singular opportunity she represented, he’d seduced her and won her trust with his show of committed radicalism; and then, when the moment was right, he’d penned that letter. And it had been a stunning success, you had to admit. Only now, with Paris on the brink of capitulation, were people beginning to query him – with the exception, of course, of Émile Besson, his consistent and tenacious enemy. This was why the Aphrodite had been sabotaged. This was the secret Allix had been willing to kill for.

  Han’s face was in her hands. She had it worst of all. Strip away the verbiage about wartime exigency and the fate of nations and the whole affair had the aspect of a loathsome confidence trick. It was maddening to think of what had been done – the liberties that had been taken with his sister’s feelings and her person. A true gentleman would insist on fighting a duel over this sullying of her honour, or at least break the nose of the fiend responsible. Clem looked warily at the Prussian. It didn’t seem like a very good idea in this instance. Neither could he just turn the scoundrel in. The Pardys had been chosen carefully. Foreigners, and the English in particular, were already considered highly suspect by most in Paris. They were implicated; if caught they’d probably be subjected to the same prompt punishment as the Leopard himself.

  Staying in the darkness by the window, the Prussian agent laid out his demands. Firstly, and without delay, he wanted an article published in the Figaro: an account of an audacious one-man raid on the northern positions beyond Saint-Denis, designed to hinder the arrival of Prussian reinforcements at Buzenval, that would explain his absence from the attack. He wanted Elizabeth to stress that he held no formal rank in the National Guard, and that the provisional government continued to seek his arrest: appearing on the front line was therefore a serious risk to his liberty.

  ‘I can supply proof of the action,’ he added, ‘in the usual manner.’ There was a trace of irony in his voice. He was referring to the helmets and other trinkets brought back from previous forays – obviously taken direct from the Prussian commissariat.

  Elizabeth did not react; she appeared, in fact, to be ignoring him. Some kind of contest, subtle but profound, was underway. She was stroking Hannah’s hair, demonstrating more tenderness than Clem had seen pass between them in years.

  ‘Where have you been, girl, for all these weeks, while I was mourning you so bitterly? Were you taken prisoner?’

  Hannah nodded. ‘They kept me in a village, off to the north-east. I was well treated.’ She glared at the Leopard. ‘His doing, I suppose. Other girls were not so fortunate.’

  ‘Other girls?’ Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. ‘Do you mean Clement’s cocotte – the one Mont and I saw leave with you at the Porte de Charenton?’

  The Leopard’s eyes were on them both.

  Hannah opened her mouth, then shut it again. She looked at her boots. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘We were separated in Champigny, during the battle. I – I don’t know what happened to her.’

  She was lying. The Leopard stepped towards her, passing before the candle, his shadow sweeping around the room. Elizabeth drew her daughter close, murmuring a warning; but he wished only to ask a question.

  ‘Did she run off at the same time as you? From Gagny?’

  Hannah wouldn’t answer. She was attempting to remain impassive, to give nothing away, but there was a cruel imbalance here. While she couldn’t even call this man by his real name, he knew her with the intimacy of a lover.

  ‘The cocotte is back in the city as well,’ the Leopard said, ‘and has been telling everyone she can about me for some hours now.’ He almost sounded impressed. ‘You have killed us all.’

  Clem had taken a cigarette from the doctor’s jacket; it remained unlit between his fingers. Mademoiselle Laure was alive – alive and in Paris. He might feel those copper locks against his cheek once more.

  ‘Perhaps that is what we deserve,’ Hannah said. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Now hang on a minute,’ Inglis protested, standing forgotten by the door, ‘I don’t believe that I—’

  ‘I could try to talk to her,’ Clem broke in. ‘To Laure, I mean. It might not be too late. We were friends for a while. I might be able to make her see sense – or at the very least slow her down a little.’

  Hannah shook her head. ‘She won’t listen to you.’

  ‘I can’t imagine that you’d find her, Clement,’ said Elizabeth, ‘before it could make a difference, at any rate.’

  The Leopard retreated to the hearth, to the boundary of the candlelight, turning around again as he arrived at a new decision. He was standing with his back to that damned portrait; it looked as if he was sneaking up on himself.

  ‘I want asylum at the British Embassy,’ he said. ‘It should still be secure. Paris is spent. She will fall in a matter of days – and then I’ll depart.’ He went to Elizabeth’s desk. ‘I shall write a note informing my superiors of the situation. There is a locker in the Gare de l’Ouest from which correspondence is collected and
conveyed to Versailles – if you, Mr Pardy, would be so good as to take it there.’

  He took hold of a pen with his undamaged left hand, dipped it in the ink pot and started to write with swift fluency. Clem stared: there it was, the hand that had written both the letter and Elizabeth’s Leopard reports. The best ruses, he reflected, were often the most straightforward. Allix had presented himself as a man impaired, and there had been no reason to disbelieve him. Han had seen it too. She didn’t move, but the self-control she’d upheld to that point was buckling; she looked as if she’d happily overturn the desk and go at the brute behind it with the poker.

  ‘We’ll never reach the embassy,’ Elizabeth told the Prussian. ‘It’s too far. The streets are packed with National Guard, the Champs Elysées especially. Someone is bound to recognise us.’

  Clem caught something in his mother’s tone – a hint of excitement. Dear God, he thought, she’s actually relishing this awful turn of events. She’s probably started to construct the narrative in her head: a daughter dramatically returned, a family held prisoner, a mother cast into a battle of wits with an impossibly cunning Prussian agent. You had to hand it to her – Elizabeth Pardy was certainly adaptable. Any ordeal one cared to name was just so much grist to her mill.

  ‘Mont, how about your place? The rue Joubert is a fraction of the distance. No one would think to look there. We’d be safe until morning.’

  Inglis pushed up his kepi. ‘No, Lizzie,’ he answered, ‘I will not knowingly help this man. How could I? It would render my life in Paris untenable.’

  Elizabeth pursed her lips. ‘You are my friend, though, are you not?’

  The journalist let out a tired sigh. ‘I am.’

  ‘Then I ask that you do it for me. My family’s safety is at stake – the safety of my dear daughter, so miraculously restored to me. This man has deceived us most despicably, that I cannot dispute, but I’m afraid we need to ensure that he reaches the embassy.’

  Inglis thought for a moment. Unwilling to look at the Leopard himself, he scowled at the portrait behind him. ‘Very well then,’ he said. ‘For you, Lizzie. I must say, however, that my concierge is quite the gatekeeper. I cannot guarantee that he’ll prove amenable.’

  ‘He will,’ said the Leopard.

  Clem returned his unlit cigarette to his pocket and looked at his mother and sister, arranged stiffly around that armchair as if waiting to have their photograph taken. It was up to him to act – to save the three of them. A lightness fluttered through his belly; a hot prickle crawled up his spine. Amazed by his own daring, he took a step towards the door – the Leopard was busy interrogating Inglis, discovering exactly where the journalist kept his apartment – and then he was against the varnished panels, scrabbling with the handle, out in the hallway and at the first staircase. The stairs flew beneath his boots; he jumped down the last half-dozen, nearly falling when he landed, skidding off towards the next flight.

  The lobby was a hellish, bloody blur, the air alive with yelling and the dreadful rasp of the bone-saws. Clem raced along its edge and plunged onto the boulevard. Only then did he risk a backward glance. There was no sign of the damned Leopard; he was plainly a lesser concern, of no real consequence to the scoundrel’s escape plan. He’d been allowed to get away.

  It was a little lighter outside than before, the crowds and towering buildings touched with silver. Clem looked for the source; above was a glorious spread of stars. National Guardsmen, both red and bourgeois, were everywhere. He worried briefly that he might be recognised again and set upon with more effectiveness, but he’d made his move; he could only turn up his collar and press onwards.

  It really was too much. The dead brought back to life; the Pardys’ position in Paris turned on its head; a close friend – of Han’s and Elizabeth’s, at least – revealed as an extraordinary and devious foe; and all before he’d had a chance to remove his hat. More than anything he wanted to stop, to smoke a cigarette and think it over.

  There was no time. He cut to the left, heading for the northwards diagonal of the rue Lafayette.

  They needed help.

  IV

  The Prussian, the man who was not Jean-Jacques, had returned to the window. He appeared to be monitoring the crowds; Hannah assumed he was waiting for a lull during which it would be safe – or at least safer – for them to leave for Mr Inglis’s apartment on the rue Joubert. Focused on reaching the embassy, he’d barely reacted when Clem had taken flight. There was no point in a pursuit; it wasn’t as if Clem could damage the name of Jean-Jacques Allix any further.

  Hannah wanted to die. She was certain of it. Shame seethed in her; it clogged her veins and choked her heart. She’d bound herself to Jean-Jacques, blended herself into him, and now she had nothing. Her life was founded on deceit, empty, flimsy and improbable, and now it had been stamped flat. The only thing left was death.

  ‘Where has Clem gone, do you think?’ she asked Elizabeth.

  ‘To find the cocotte,’ her mother replied, ‘where else? The little minx has him in thrall. He’s been pining for her all blessed winter. His father was the same – easily infatuated. It will burn itself out eventually.’

  Recovered from her swoon and everything that had followed it, Elizabeth was now a model of dignity. Her arm remained firmly wrapped around Hannah’s shoulders; her narrowed eyes were glued to their captor. Mr Inglis, the final occupant of that plush, shadowy sitting room, had sat down in a chair opposite them. He was shifting about impatiently like someone being forced to miss the start of a much-anticipated concert; were it not for ageing limbs and rheumatic joints he’d have probably made a break for it too.

  ‘I am hateful,’ Hannah murmured, ‘the worst kind of fool.’

  Elizabeth’s hold tightened. ‘Do not think that. You must never think that. I will not permit it. You are my daughter and you are exceptional. When I believed you dead I almost died myself.’

  Hannah scarcely heard her. She looked at the black back before the window. ‘He knew exactly what to tell me – how to act with me. Even the way he pretended to be fighting against his feelings. He saw straight away that I was a callow girl with a head full of stupid romantic notions, and he used it to the full.’ She put a hand to her face, across her eyes. It was already damp with her tears. ‘I didn’t suspect a thing, Elizabeth. Dear God, I defended him when others voiced their doubts.’

  ‘His actions were those of a thoroughgoing cad,’ Inglis declared stoutly. ‘Beyond anything I have encountered during fifteen years of life in Paris – the supposed capital of this kind of roguish behaviour. These blasted Prussians really are a breed apart.’

  ‘True enough, Mont,’ said Elizabeth, ‘but this man is no predator, seducing and deceiving for amusement alone. There was a goal very much in sight.’ She addressed the Prussian. ‘Tell me – I shall keep calling you Allix, I’m afraid, as I must call you something – was absolutely all of it feigned?’

  Hannah cringed, grasping at the armchair, thinking for a second that her mother was going to talk of love; of intimate matters. Elizabeth was more than capable of it. But no, thank God, she meant the politics, the creed of the International: Jean-Jacques Allix’s commitment, stated so often and with such commanding eloquence, to the cause of the workers, to fighting the evils of the bourgeois state, to establishing a commune in Paris and thus bringing about freedom and equality for her citizens.

  ‘It was false, Elizabeth, plainly,’ she snapped; she was beginning to sense something like admiration in her mother for this provocateur. ‘Dissemblance, every last word. This is a man prepared to urge factory lads and shop assistants onto the battlefield to see through the designs of a king – and employ socialistic doctrine to do it. He is a charlatan, dedicated to a wicked cause.’

  Elizabeth was smiling, pleased by this resurgence of her daughter’s spirit. ‘I suppose that the extremes of opinion are easier to simulate.’

  The man turned to them. His efforts to remain detached were faltering again; creases
had appeared between his eyebrows, a reliable indication that Jean-Jacques was becoming riled. But this was not Jean-Jacques. The familiarity was misplaced. Hannah glanced away in confusion. How much else of her lover lingered in this Prussian agent? Would he dress with the same precision and care? Would he also refuse all drink but strong coffee and cold water? Would he kiss with the same unhurried passion?

  ‘As I have already told you,’ he said to Hannah, ‘I acted only to stop the war. My aim was to speed the surrender – to rob the reds of their will to keep fighting. I knew that the sorties would fail, but also that they had to happen. Paris had to be bled. Once the reds were reduced, so we thought, the bourgeois would lay down their arms. It was believed in Versailles that Trochu was only staging a resistance at all because he was afraid that there would be a revolution if he didn’t.’

  ‘A fair analysis,’ opined Mr Inglis, ‘although to be truthful—’

  ‘I desired a rapid conclusion,’ the Prussian continued. ‘Painless, without occupation or bombardment. There are men close to my emperor who wished Paris to suffer for her decadence and abandonment of Christian morality. I was never one of those.’

  This frustration seemed genuine. The siege had not gone as the provocateur had planned. There was no gloating here; no pride in his manipulations. He just wanted it to end.

  Hannah wasn’t mollified. ‘At what point would you have left,’ she asked, ‘if Trochu had surrendered in September, or in October? Would you have told me, or simply melted away?’

  The Prussian didn’t reply. ‘We must go,’ he said, moving from the window. He wouldn’t look at Hannah; he clearly wished that he hadn’t broken his silence. ‘Mrs Pardy, can I trust you to impress upon your daughter the need for quiet?’

  Elizabeth relaxed her embrace; she laid her hand on the back of the armchair. ‘Will you stay quiet out there, Hannah?’

  Hannah hadn’t yet decided what she would or wouldn’t do. She looked across the room. Against the far wall, between the door and a chest of drawers, were a number of her café-concert canvases: Elizabeth had been grouping them by subject. Foremost was a scene from the Danton. Lucien, a dent in the sheen of his silk top hat, was reading a morning paper in a shaft of sunlight. On the stool behind him was Laure, clad in a short-sleeved scarlet polonaise, smoking a cigarette. Drawn loosely, coloured luminously, they appeared to have wandered in after a night in the dance halls. It was an image from a different life entirely.