Le Temps des Cerises (40 page)

‘That is well,' She watched him place four brightly coloured coins on the counter, all of them the same size in a currency she didn't recognise but then she had expected that, ‘for I shall not be coming back again.' She picked one up and stared at it curiously as the proprietor had stared at the ring, turning it over in the palm of her hand. On one side was depicted the figure of Hercules flanked by the figures of Liberty and Equality. On the other side the words:
Dieu Protège la France
. Must she be confronted by God at every turn? Must He follow her everywhere when she was trying to escape Him?

The proprietor had misunderstood her hesitation. ‘If you are concerned about their validity under a new regime,' he offered up, ‘I can give you a guarantee to that effect.'

‘No, no, I am satisfied.' She placed them hurriedly in her pocket and gathered up the horsehair basket, wanting to be off and on with her journey; but the proprietor, having cheated her so beautifully and kindly, was suddenly solicitous of her well being.

‘May I offer you a glass of water, Mademoiselle de Villiers, before you set off again? It is very hot outside.'

‘Oh, no I must catch the next train that is going to Rhône – this morning hopefully.'

The proprietor gave her a look then as if he wished he'd cheated her even worse than he had done. ‘There'll be no trains running today, not for a long time I should imagine. Did you not hear the rappel, mademoiselle?'

Bernadine frowned. ‘No… well, yes of course.' There were always bells and rappels, guns blazing somewhere in the distance but none of it ever affected the convent, none of it ever affected her.

‘We must sit tight and await liberation by the old government or go out and fight at the barricades – depending on which side you happen to be on.'

‘I'm never quite sure about that,' Bernadine replied with the faintest ghost of a smile. ‘I'm never quite sure which side I'm meant to be on.'

‘Oh, the winning side, Mademoiselle de Villiers,' laughed the proprietor and his green eyes gleamed again as she opened the door and the sun hit them. ‘The winning side of course!'

Of course. It was always best to be on the winning side. Once upon a time she'd been on the side of the Lord, but not any more. His red eye smoulder­ed down on her from the direction of the Hôtel de Ville, all seeing, all pervading, and she put her black umbrella up to fend Him off
.
The heat was unbearable, suffocating and she hoped it wasn't too far to the Gare du Nord from here, hoped the trains would be running after all. She wasn't going to trust what the proprietor said on the subject, in any case, not after that grand feat of corruption! She'd forgotten how full the world was of lies and deception. How many of her own would she have to tell before she got to Rhône? How many of her own would she have to tell in order to survive, before she could start a new life…? Her fingers sought the rosary beads sewn into the lining of her pocket and instead found the four, strange, brightly coloured coins; and clasping Aggie fiercely in her cotton papoose she made her way through the burning streets.

Chapter thirty-two

Monsieur Lafayette led the two men over the blackened grass and he whistled a few bars from ‘La Belle Hélène' to show that he wasn't fazed by that stick insect of a captain and his ungainly little corporal, not one iota, not one little bit. Even though he was. The air stank of corpses and pestilence and the sky had turned from a preternatural azure blue to a dingy grey in parts that rained down scraps of charred and burning paper.

‘It reminds me of the ash that buried Pompeii,' he remarked in a jocular tone to show that he wasn't fazed, not one little bit, ‘when Mount Etna blew her top.'

‘The Ministry of Finance more like!' smiled the corporal and he went on with sudden eloquence: ‘All the paperwork of Paris blowing through the air. Every law and order shrivelled to nothing! Every notary's nightmare, every debtor's delight!'

‘It reminds me,' the captain's voice was a soft addendum, ‘that one day the earth and planets will explode and we shall all fall through space like particles of dust.' He sniffed gently, as if he were sniffing a lady's scented handkerchief or delicate blossom. ‘The dead take their revenge as we speak.'

‘Yes indeed, in this heat.' The corporal gave a worried frown. He'd known a corpse to literally melt in the sunshine and it wasn't an experience he was happy to repeat.

What a pair, thought Monsieur Lafayette, trudging through the mounds of dock weed and clumps of nettle that were springing up already over the deadened grass. He almost wished he hadn't told them he knew where Alphonse Duchamp lived but his competitive side had got the better of him. The thought of the tortoise outwitting the fox in the final race had been too much for him. To dispose of his fiercest rival – it was too good an opportunity to miss. He was still in a stew over Eveline, having been taken unawares, even amazed by the strength of his own feeling for her. He had thought she was merely a distraction, an amusement, a diversion from the dreadful ennui of his existence; but he saw now there was far more to it than that. The thought of her at the barricades was like a death to him. Without her he was simply a preposterous old man, a bad joke. With her there was a glimmer of hope that he was something more than the black-hearted wretch he secretly knew himself to be. The image of Eveline kept him alive to life and all its intrigues. She was his guiding light, his star, his destination; and with his fiercest rival behind bars he had as good a chance as any… as long as she didn't die at the barricades.
Ma petite sauvage,
his heart sang and wept all at the same time and he suddenly dashed his hand against a clump of nettles in full view of the captain to steel himself for the ordeal ahead and to show he wasn't fazed by that silent creeping stick insect of a man. Even though he was.

The captain, barely noticing Monsieur Lafayette's bizarre activities, was apologising to the corporal for his previous fit of pique. That was what he did: lost his temper, was sorrowful, regretful, apologised profusely then lost it all over again.

‘I have a cruel stomach ache,' he explained contritely. ‘It comes in waves. It has put me in the foulest of tempers. I believe if a bird flapped its wings too hard at the wrong moment I should have to shoot it. And you know my fondness for birds.'

‘Then we are both of us ailing,' the corporal responded with a sullen nod, ‘for I only ate the soup because I have a sore throat. It is like hundreds of bayonets stabbing at my tongue.' He was suddenly eloquent again. ‘Imagine a minute army stabbing hundreds and hundreds of bayonets at your tongue. It is not the most pleasant of evocations.'

The captain agreed calmly that it was not. They had been on the search too long, he placated, that was the trouble – but at least the end was in sight. And they walked on in an amicable silence for a while, each of them prodding the confectioner in the back when his pace slowed too much for them. The sky was a little clearer – all the paperwork of Paris having seemingly deposited itself on the face of the corporal which was speckled and blackened indeed; but he was softened enough by this time to suggest milk of magnesia for the captain's irritable stomach.

‘Milk of magnesia in the first instance. Always.' He just couldn't help himself, he had so much medical knowledge at his fingertips. ‘Unless it is a case of food poisoning whereupon I would prescribe purging. What did you last dine on, Captain?'

‘Thank you
Herr Doktor
!' laughed the captain with a strange quiet coldness, ‘I dined at Brébant's, if you must know, the night before last and have had nothing since. What do you make of that?'

The corporal gave Monsieur Lafayette a vicious dig in the ribs in the vain hope of asserting some authority over somebody, and let him have an earful.

‘Get a move on you fat fool. I believe you're taking us on a wild goose chase. I don't believe you have clue where Alphonse Duchamp lives. Either that or you are in league with him and always have been.'

For an answer Monsieur Lafayette thought it best simply to pick up his pace and he hobbled as fast as he could over the treacherous wasteland. In a moment they would reach St Jacques du Haut Pas and it was an easy stretch of the legs from there. It had been the most ferocious tussle, he now decided, of his life. The most ferocious emotional tussle – whether to rescue Eveline from the barricades or try and dispose of his rival first but in the end his jealous streak had got the best of him. He only hoped he wasn't too late to save his
petite sauvage
. He would march on every barricade in Paris if he had to; descend like a god, a Roman emperor… like a hurricane, like Hercules, like Achilles on one of his immortal horses… His heart filled with pride to think that he had a worthy purpose at last. In a life filled with acts of low profiteering, blackmail, scandals and betrayals, he was surprised to find he had a worthy purpose. The fate of a soul lay in his hands. A perfect beautiful soul was in jeopardy and he must try to save it! Having destroyed so many, he must set out to save one. At the very least, he told himself, he must set out to save one.

A pigeon flapped against the stained-glass panes of St Jacques du Haut Pas and a murder of crows circled and spun above the square-topped belfry, peppering the blue sky in place of all the paperwork of Paris. Monsieur Lafayette stopped short at the sight of the largest congregation he'd ever seen in his life pouring out into the sunshine. There were boys, girls, old men, young women and they just kept coming, one after the other. Some of them bareheaded, in kerchiefs, silk dresses, National Guard uniforms… Hardly dressed for worship, he thought, and it couldn't have been the most uplifting of sermons for many of them looked a trifle subdued, their heads down, their arms at their sides. It must have been one of those hell and damnation, fire and brimstone sort of things the Catholic church always went in for. All about souls and the need for salvation… Monsieur Lafayette shuddered in the hot, bright sunshine and shaded his eyes to get a better look. They were gathering now in groups and lines in the derelict courtyard and he saw suddenly that their hands were tied – they were tied together with bits of string. At that moment a Versaillais officer cantered up on a large bay horse, confirming the confectioner's worst fears. It wasn't a collection of God-fearing folk at all but a collection of prisoners. He stepped back instinctively, as more officers emerged from the recesses of the church, and bumped into the captain who patted him on the back with one of his long spidery hands.

‘You are aiding governmental enquiries and are not, as yet, a prisoner of war.'

Monsieur Lafayette didn't hear the ‘as yet', it was spoken so softly, and he continued to stare with morbid fascination at the scene. The prisoners were blinking like owls in the sunlight, having been cooped up in the church for so long; and they were such a strange mix it was hard to believe that they all deserved capture. Children next to spinsters next to housewives next to arthritic old men. Most of them wearing a bemused or resigned look on their face, or gazing down at their feet to avoid attracting attention. There were different nationalities too – close by was a couple who could only have been English, the man so handsomely stiff upper-lipped, the woman quite plain and nondescript, worrying about her pet dog at a time like this!

‘Don't worry about the dog,' her husband admonished her. ‘You must just try to keep up, my dear, despite your poorly leg.'

‘But you know how he pines so when we are gone,' wailed the woman, ‘and if cook forgets about him entirely…'

‘Cook won't forget Rufus.' The man's face was a miracle of stoicism. ‘Cook won't forget Rufus. Are you certain your shoe laces are quite tight, my dear, for I am sure we could be freed for a moment to tie them up if they are not.'

‘It is so frightfully hot for him, poor lamb, in his kennel at this time of year.'

It was indeed hot. Cries of ‘water' came from all over the place and one jeering officer emptied the contents of his bottle on the courtyard just for the fun of watching lines toppling as individuals threw themselves to the ground for a lick of that rolling evaporating liquid. A young woman in a silk dress had spotted Monsieur Lafayette and his companions and was quietly edging her group over to them. Her line was smaller than most consisting merely of a small child, an old crone and a short-haired woman dressed in a National Guard uniform. The girl herself, the confectioner decided, was almost as beautiful as Eveline with her long, dark hair and bright green eyes.

‘She should be on the stage,' the captain murmured admiringly as she approached them; and it was true for her bearing was proud, almost arrogant, her head held high and gracefully. She didn't look like a prisoner. She looked like a queen who'd been taken by surprise and was scathingly waiting for someone to realise.

‘Do you have any water?' she asked softly, her voice hoarse and oddly accented. ‘There wasn't a drop in the baptismal fonts and the wine bottles were bone dry. These filthy dogs have left us for hours without a drink. It is not so bad for I but my friends are parching.'

The corporal, who understood the devastating consequences of dehydration, uncapped his bottle and tipped a little into the small child's mouth, then the old crone's and on tiptoe into the short-haired woman's. He was on the verge of giving the girl in the silk dress a drink when an officer caught his eye and, fearing retaliation, he stepped back quickly into the role of onlooker, recapping his water bottle tightly. The short-haired woman must have had the strength and presence of mind to hold some water in her mouth for she turned immediately and pressed her lips against those of her companion who, understanding, stuck her tongue out gratefully for the few precious drops.