To Live Out Loud: A Novel

by Paulette Mahurin

  To Live Out Loud

  A Novel

  PAULETTE MAHURIN

  Copyright © 2015 by Paulette Mahurin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. Exception is given in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  ISBN: 978-0-9888468-9-0

  Published by Early Girl Enterprises, LLC

  Printed in the United States of America

  For my cousins

  Acknowledgment

  Thank you, Margaret Dodd, for your expertise editing and feedback. This book would not have moved forward without you. And to Dr. Lorna Lee, the brilliant author and my beta reader, you gave this story the polish it needed for the final touches. I’m forever grateful for your assistance. To Terry, my husband and rock, you were there through it all, reading, editing, cooking my meals, and being incredibly supportive. Everything I do is possible because of your love.

  To those who have endured intolerance and adversity because of your religious beliefs, your sexual preference, or the color of your skin, you have inspired and deeply moved me to write, to remember you.

  Lastly, to all the Zolas of the world a heartfelt thank you for your heroic endeavors. More innocent victims would be in graves were it not for your selfless kindness.

  If you ask me what I came into this life to do, I will tell you:

  I came to live out loud.

  Émile Zola

  Foreword

  Although this story is a historical fiction, much of what you will read is documented historical fact. Many of the scenes, some of the content in the narrative, and sections of the dialogue have been taken from historical references. For example, Lucie Dreyfus’s letter to the court came from the transcript of Émile Zola’s libel trial. The court scenes and accompanying dialogue came from the same source. Émile Zola’s communications were taken from articles and letters he wrote in the Paris newspaper, L’Aurore. When finding accurate and complete data proved difficult, scenes were created. Such was the case with Émile Zola’s death. The protagonist, Charles Mandonette, is a fictionalized character—modeled from his friendship with Henry Vizetelly and his son, Ernest Alfred Vizetelly. In the book, “Émile Zola Novelist and Reformer: An Account of his Life Work,” Ernest Alfred Vizetelly transcribes his father’s journal and writes about his memories of events in Zola’s life. Henry Vizetelly was a close friend and publisher for Émile Zola. His son, Ernest, witnessed many of the scenes described in this book. Fact was mingled with fiction to create a coherent, fluid narrative that remained true to this compelling moment in time and these people who were a part of it.

  Prologue

  On a cold January morning in 1895, Alfred Dreyfus was paraded out into the courtyard of the École Militaire on the Champ de Mars. A young Jewish artillery officer, husband, and father, he had been convicted of treason a few days earlier in a hasty court-martial. “I am innocent,” he proclaimed over and over. In accordance with French military custom, he was ceremoniously degraded in public by having rank insignia, buttons, and braid cut from his uniform, and his dress sword broken. The crowd cheered as he was made to march around the grounds in his tattered uniform with his head bowed.

  Continuing to repeat, “I am innocent,” sweat dripped from his body.

  “Judas!” roared an obese man with a beard.

  “Traitor!” screamed others. “Dirty Jews. Get rid of all of them! You have ruined France!”

  Dreyfus cried, “I am innocent. I love France.”

  With each plea, the crowd’s din grew louder. “Lock the Jew up!”

  Hidden discretely in a far back corner, a thin woman wearing black wept for her husband, whom she knew had been falsely accused. The shock was fresh; the reality had not yet taken hold. “This can’t be happening,” she sobbed. “It can’t be real.”

  Also present was a dignified heavily bearded man wearing glasses, finely dressed in a cape and beret. Standing silently, he shook his head at the disgraceful sight unfolding before him. The man next to him was making a drawing of the scene for the cover of Le Petit Journal, Supplement Illustre. The bearded man questioned him. “Why would someone, who fought so hard to rise to the heights he has, risk it?”

  “Good question, Émile,” responded the artist.

  Émile Zola nodded. “Yes,” he replied, “a question I am curious about.”

  I am an artist. The artist is nothing without the gift, but the gift is nothing without the work.

  Émile Zola

  Chapter One

  The first time I laid eyes on Émile Zola it was 1843. He was no taller than my knee, a boy only three years old. A loquacious child tirelessly questioning all his eyes took in he was his father’s joy. One friend of his father would laugh that he was destined to use his voice for great things. This innocent boy playing with his papers could never know that his curiosity would lead him into the muck of one of the most shameful episodes of French history.

  I was fortunate that his gifted father, François, from a friendly Venetian family, hired me at his newly formed company in Aix-en-Provence. As a collective group of engineers, we worked together on a plan designed by Zola to create a dam and canal to supply fresh water to the city. That François and I would become close friends became apparent in my first interview.

  “Mr. Charles Mandonette,” he said, glancing at the page before him, hand printed in my neatest manner, “you have impressive work experience. I see you went to Aix Marseille University and are also an engineer, like me.” He looked up to make eye contact and added, “Although you are a few years younger.” He laughed, referring to my age of twenty-two. He seemed to be in his mid-thirties.

  The warmth he radiated gave me comfort. “Yes, Mr. Zola, this is one of the reasons I wish to work with you. I want to continue to learn and grow.” My own parents were deceased, and having no siblings, something about him spoke to my longing to belong, to find the family taken from me by yellow fever. While on vacation I was left inside for a nap when the mosquitos found my parents outside. After they died, I was sent to an orphanage. All I knew of family was from the nuns who took care of me and educated me through school until I went to university. Attending at an age younger than most, it was there that I became friends with other engineering students.

  “That’s a fine attitude, Charles. And what exactly were your engineering duties at your former place of employment?” he asked.

  I explained the project I had worked on, which was brought to a successful completion, leaving me available and in need of a new job. His smile suggested that I would not be spending the last of my savings on my next month’s rent. He went on to hire me with a celebratory meal at his home that night. It was there I met his French wife, Émilie, and son, Émile.

  Émile pointed a finger at me as he stuffed a piece of baguette into his mouth. Before he could say a word, his father interrupted with, “Do not speak with food in your mouth, my son.”

  Still pointing, he finished what he was chewing and asked, “Who are you?”

  “I am Charles Mandonette. And who might you be?”

  Giggling, he replied, “I’m Émile.” He looked at the loaf of bread then at his parents. Upon his father’s nod he said, “Here,” as he passed the plate to me. “It’s very good.”

  We laughed at the endearing manner of this precocious child. The laughter ended four years later, when my friend and mentor, François Zola
, died from pneumonia before the water project was completed. His death left his wife to struggle with an increasingly difficult financial situation. A meager pension barely sustained them. Despite this, young seven-year-old Émile enjoyed his boyhood and schooling in Aix, where he became close friends with Paul Cézanne. The two boys spent hours debating topics important to them. In these dialectics, Émile developed a trait of defending against injustices. This attribute would stay with him for the rest of his life serving him years later when he would write an exposé in the press against powerful resistance.

  As for me, I found other work, and maintained a close friendship with Mrs. Zola and Émile. Whether from the premature death of his father or the need for a man in his life, Émile took to me as a confidant. Having never married, I valued this substitute father-son relationship, and was grateful it continued when in 1858 he moved with his mother to Paris. There he went on with his education but never succeeded in passing his baccalauréate examination. For a few years after leaving school he struggled to make ends meet, and were it not for my supplementing the small earnings he acquired from odd jobs, he would have been destitute. On many weekends, I traveled from Aix to Paris to spend time with him.

  “Should I pursue my dream to write?” he asked.

  “To what end? And by what means?” I questioned.

  “For love. And voice. I’m driven to communicate, to write.” He sighed. “Who makes a living writing? Perhaps I should forsake my passion.”

  His furrowed brow and inward gaze showed his discouragement, to which I responded, “If you follow your passion, using prudence and wisdom and an ethical conscience, with your gift you might find luck.”

  “Luck says it, doesn’t it? But I’ve not been lucky thus far in life. My father. My education. Mother’s struggle.”

  “The past doesn’t have to dictate the future. Trust your intuition to guide you where you need to go.”

  Shortly after, in 1862, as I sat in a Parisian café with him and Cézanne, he announced, “I’ve been given a position with the Hachette publishing firm. And I am going to become a naturalized citizen of France,” referring to the French nationality law that requires children born in France of foreign parents to request citizenship at adulthood.

  § § § §

  The years following were good to Zola. He stayed at Hachette for four years learning the business and the promotional side of publishing, and met several esteemed writers. Not long after that, he made decent money as a freelance journalist. Around that time I partially retired and moved to Paris.

  “I’ve met a woman, Alexandrine,” he glowed, “whom I plan to marry.”

  “At twenty-six, you’ve acquired the wisdom and patience needed to live with another,” I said, patting him on the back.

  That relationship was childless. After the death of his ailing mother who lived with them, he fell in love with a young seamstress, Jeanne Rozerot, with whom he had two children. He remained married and close friends with his wife, who painfully understood and accepted his desire for offspring. Zola maintained two households: his primary home was with Alexandrine, but he spent as much time as he could with Jeanne and the children. His writing during that time showed a sunnier disposition, which he attributed to his domestic happiness.

  As he aged and continued to write, he grew into an accomplished, respected journalist. He was ripe for the dramatic intervention he would take on behalf of Alfred Dreyfus.

  I am little concerned with beauty or perfection. I don’t care for the great centuries. All I care about is life, struggle, and intensity.

  Émile Zola

  Chapter Two

  It was a clear cold day in Paris on January 13, 1895 when Le Petit Journal, Supplement Illustre, hit the streets. On the cover was a drawing of the École Militaire courtyard with a young Jewish artillery officer in a plain uniform devoid of medals and ribbons. His dress sword was being broken across the knee of a senior officer as the dejected man stood guarded by a number of military men. Zola had told me it was one of the worst public scenes of degradation he’d ever witnessed. The gawking crowd went wild, screaming “Jew! Traitor!” as Dreyfus professed his innocence.

  I purchased the newspaper and walked past cafés with braziers outside keeping their jovial patrons warm. Their laughter rang in my head as I thought of Dreyfus serving a life sentence on Devil’s Island in French Guiana. I couldn’t clear my mind of what Zola had told me—that Dreyfus had gone to the prestigious war college, graduated with honorable mention, and was designated as a trainee in the French Army’s General Staff Headquarters. Why would he risk so much? It didn’t make sense to me. Zola had concurred.

  I arrived at the bistro where I was to meet Émile and noticed the article on the table. “Ah, you too,” I said.

  “The whole of Paris… France… most likely will be talking about this today,” he replied.

  “And we shan’t be an exception,” I laughed.

  “I think not,” Zola smiled. “I ordered a carafe of red wine.” He moved an empty glass over to me. “Help yourself.”

  I drank while he held up the drawing.

  “That day was like something out of medieval Europe; the Inquisition comes to mind. That poor man kept bellowing his innocence with such conviction that it was hard to disbelieve him. And I am not so sure that I accept the veracity of the accusations against him. From my perspective, it simply doesn’t add up.”

  “Yes, I have the same sense. Why would he risk everything he’d achieved? No small feat for a Jewish man in France.”

  “Excellent point, Charles. Of all things, he yelled out, ‘Long live France, and long live the army’ with immense certitude.” Zola finished his glass of wine and poured another. “The oddest thing he said, ‘I remain worthy of serving the army,’ is hardly something a guilty traitor would be screaming after being found out. It violates my sense of logic.”

  “I suppose we’ll never know the truth.” I looked into his pensive eyes, and commented, “You look as though you want to say something.”

  “If this is some kind of conspiracy, France’s identity as a republic founded on equal rights for all will come into question for castigating a man of Jewish faith. If, and it’s a big if,” he sucked in a slow breath, “Catholic France is involved, it threatens to divide the nation.”

  Little did he know that nearly two years later, in November 1896, news would leak to the press of a cover-up and Dreyfus’s probable innocence. It would engender a national fiery debate on France’s position regarding equal rights versus anti-Semitism that would forever alter Zola’s life.

  Sin ought to be something exquisite, my dear boy.

  Émile Zola

  Chapter Three

  On that frigid January day back in 1895 when Alfred Dreyfus was humiliated, what was seen publicly—on the Champ de Mars in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, the monument of changing times—had started a year earlier. French Army’s Intelligence Service was alerted that a spy in a high position was passing data on to the Germans. The assumption: the hostile operative was most likely on the General Staff and that Dreyfus was the spy.

  Later, after the Dreyfus court-martial, the new chief of military intelligence, Lt. Colonel Georges Picquart, found evidence that the real traitor was Major Ferdinand Esterhazy. When he reported this to his seniors, he was transferred to the southern desert of Tunisia to silence him. Esterhazy, the real culprit, was tried in a sham military court. After two days he was unanimously acquitted.

  Now, almost two years after Dreyfus had been imprisoned in a solitary, cold prison cell, word of the cover-up began to spread, eventually leaking to the press. And to Zola.

  “I can feel the wave of hatred rolling over France as we speak, Charles,” Zola said, shaking his head disapprovingly.

  “We suspected as much early on. But what if this is a ploy as well, a further cover-up?”

  “Anything is possible with military politics,” he replied. “Heaven forbid a mistake is exposed in the war machine.”


  “Yes, hubris does thrive there,” I laughed.

  Zola gave me a look.

  “I know this is not a laughing matter.”

  He nodded.

  “I feel for the poor wife and children,” I said.

  “I feel for Dreyfus,” he said as he exhaled. “It never added up in the first place. Probably being the only Jew on the General Staff, he was the most likely target once the leak of documents to the German Embassy was discovered.”

  “What now?”

  “Everything has been suppressed.” His words spit out in snake-like hisses as he continued, “No one is going to touch it. The military machine has denied any wrongdoing. I don’t know what now. When hatred is involved, it burns flames that are near impossible to extinguish.”

  That night I had trouble sleeping. Tossing and turning, I was unable to stop thinking of Zola’s last comment about hatred. I imagined all sorts of scenarios, knowing that anything resembling reality would not have a good ending against the might and power of the military. If Dreyfus was innocent, military hubris and concealment would most likely still win out. Too bad this wasn’t ancient Greece, when hubris was a high crime. Perhaps that would be a deterrent. How fragile the ethics of civilized conduct are when involved in self-preservation. My final thought was, God help us all.