Illumination (14 page)

‘I really don’t know.’

Elizabeth became magnanimous. ‘I cannot blame the Guard. They are under siege, for goodness’ sake. Their regular army, what remains of it, has shown itself to be worse than useless. They are bound to be sensitive. Over-cautious.’ The storm clouds returned; she began to talk very quickly, caught up in her narration, reliving her fury. ‘What is harder for me to excuse is Montague Inglis keeping me in a cell with him for six hours when all the while he had papers in his coat from none other than the Prefect of Police. Six hours of him droning on about the damned emperor. Sniping at the labours of my pen. Making ham-fisted attempts to revisit the love affairs of the past – matters involving a number of departed souls that are best left alone.

‘And when the dolt finally deigned to produce his papers we were released
at once
, with all sorts of bowing and scraping. The militia over at the Bois are certainly of a less radical complexion than those in Montmartre, I have to say. When I requested that he explain himself he told me that he wanted to see if they’d try to shoot us.’ She let out a short, high laugh. ‘He was awaiting our
execution
! There are stories going around about Prussian spies being put to death, you see, and the brilliant Mr Inglis thought that this was a good way to find out if there was any truth to them. The man really is the most insufferable idiot I have ever known.’

Clem’s forehead touched the side of his armchair; he hadn’t been aware that he’d even been leaning towards it. He made a noncommittal noise. Elizabeth stepped left, intentionally exposing him to the full blast of the sun. He covered his face with his hands, but the mere fall of light upon his skin caused him pain.

‘Dear God, Clement, what happened to you yesterday? Where exactly did you go off to with that odd photographer?’

‘Montmartre,’ he replied, his voice a hoarse whisper. ‘A – a balloon factory.’

‘I see.’ Elizabeth was doubtful. ‘Yes, I’ve heard about this endeavour – the aerial post that’s being set up by Nadar and the rest. It can’t hope to be much more than a sideshow, I’m afraid.’ She launched into a fresh discourse, distracted briefly from her son’s wretchedness. ‘France needs precise and careful coordination if she is to save herself. The armies trapped at Strasbourg and Metz need to break free and march west. The scattered forces around the Loire must be gathered and brought north. And of course this has to be tied in with whatever actions are mounted out of Paris. Balloons, though – it’s like casting message-bottles into the sea.’

‘That may be so,’ was all Clem could manage.

His mother sat on his unmade bed, perching elegantly on the edge of the mattress. She was wearing the other dress she’d brought to Paris; coral silk with a bustle and cream bows, it would have done for a top-drawer supper party. Clem guessed that she’d been reserving it for a time like this. Elizabeth’s aim was to recreate the Mrs Pardy of her heyday: a lady of matchless poise and intelligence, as comfortable in the luxury of the Grand as in the salons of the bohemian elite, ready to astound the world with her observations.

Slumped opposite, Clem was in his nightshirt, socks, and a quilted dressing gown he’d found in his bathroom. In a corner was his only suit, screwed up in a heap. He couldn’t see his boots anywhere. His head was wrapped in a damp Grand Hotel towel. It felt as if it was the only thing holding his throbbing skull together. His eyeballs seemed to have been taken out, boiled in vinegar and reinserted; his lungs ached; his fingertips and ears were tingling, the poisoned blood crawling through his veins. He hadn’t had one this bad for a while.

His mother was considering him with that familiar combination of pity and dissatisfaction. ‘And you were in this balloon factory all evening, were you?’

‘No, I – we—’

Clem drew a breath. The previous night was a raw, mysterious thing. Thinking back to it was like removing a bandage from a wound you couldn’t recall being inflicted. His towelled head rang with shouts and delighted moans, screams and snatches of speech; his memories were little more than a lurid mess of sights and sensations.

This much he knew. After Han’s disappearance into the crowds, Mademoiselle Laure had led him from the rue des Acacias, through the lanes to a cellar bar. He’d gone gladly, all thoughts of marching forgotten – quite entranced by her uniform and the view it afforded of her lissom limbs. Tucked away in a corner, he’d watched as she mixed them absinthe with casual expertise. This ritual had fascinated him – the slotted silver spoon, the tiny blue flame melting the sugar cube, the pearly hue of the end result – and he’d reached eagerly for his glass.

‘
La fée
,’ she’d said, lifting hers up with mock solemnity. ‘
Vive la fée verte.
’

The taste was so disagreeable that Clem nearly spat it out: cloying like sweetened liquorice, floral somehow, but with the rabbit-punch aftertaste of deadly strong liquor. He forced himself to stick with it, assuming that they’d have a couple more and then retreat to her rooms on the boulevard de Clichy. Sure enough, they had a second, and a third, Laure drinking the stuff down like watered wine, smiling evilly as she urged him to do the same. Clem’s mouth went numb and he could taste almost nothing. He was happy to be with her again, though, and excited at the prospect of what must lie ahead. They moved closer; she threw her leg over both of his and started to kiss him.

Then her friends began to arrive. Clem did his best not to be cross, chuckling along with the collection of tarts and thieves as if he understood what they were talking about. Slowly, however, he came to realise that they were in fact talking about
him
, and not in an entirely flattering way. Laure said a few lackadaisical words in his defence, elbowing him in the ribs with what he supposed must be affection. He swallowed a great gulp of absinthe to cover his discomfort.

At some point the venue changed. They were in an attic, with two huge windows, looking out over the rooftops of the newly encircled city. Most of it was dark and quiet as a graveyard; there were some dregs of light lingering in the main squares, but nothing else. Fear of the Prussian artillery, of the legendary range of their guns, had fastened the Parisians’ shutters, blown out their candles and switched off their lamps. This view had a sobering effect, reminding them of what the coming days and weeks would hold. The revellers soon turned away from it.

More people crowded into the attic and the night altered, accelerated, began to grow strange. Among the newcomers was the thickset chap from outside the Café Géricault, the one who’d seemed to know Hannah. Clem had found him rather appealing – a true Parisian character, he’d thought. A lot of fuss was being made of him; he’d been involved in some sort of righteous fracas after the march into the centre, from which he’d apparently emerged the victor. Seeing Clem, the fellow swept aside his admirers, came over to the fireplace where he was standing and introduced himself, in English, as Raoul Rigault. There was a shade of the secret policeman about him, combined with a roué’s dissipation and the menace of a seasoned thug. He’d put on spectacles since the afternoon, presumably to make himself appear more intellectual; instead, it just looked as if he’d stolen them from someone.

‘Your sister and I are good friends, Mr Pardy,’ he said, his voice heavy with innuendo. ‘She is a fine woman.’

Christ, Clem thought, this cove’s completely roasted. ‘Is that so?’

Rigault narrowed his eyes. ‘You are fortunate,’ he declared. ‘You will be here when we destroy.’

‘The Prussians, you mean?’

The Frenchman made a sweeping gesture. ‘Everything, Monsieur. France is rotten. You see it everywhere you look – and so all of it must be destroyed.’ He said this with careless pride, as if it was both terribly impressive and nothing very significant. ‘The workers must be given their freedom. And this is how it will be done.’

Clem grinned, reckoning that a French joke was being played on him. ‘By heaven, Monsieur Rigault,’ he said, ‘I do believe that you are some kind of radical. A socialist, I dare say!’

Rigault stepped back and gave him a shallow bow. ‘As is every man with a brain, with a heart, with a stomach that needs his share of food. Your sister’s lover, Jean-Jacques Allix – he is the greatest
socialist
, as you call it. Blood, Mr Pardy, is nothing to him – not the blood of his enemies, the enemies of his cause. He is born for the revolution.’

There was no joke here. ‘Well, yes,’ Clem murmured, looking around for Laure, ‘I’m sure you’re right.’

‘But enough of this serious talk,’ Rigault said. ‘The revolutionary must be well rested, no? His passion is fuelled by the pleasures he tastes, so I always say.’

The orator took out an object, a bar of something wrapped in grease-proof paper, and slapped it down on the mantelpiece beside them. This was done with a flourish, attracting attention throughout the room. Several clapped their hands in anticipation and came over; Laure, nowhere to be seen a second earlier, floated to Rigault’s elbow. He undid his little parcel, sliding a knife from his sleeve. Within the paper was a dark green block, set from a liquid from the look of it. He began carving off chunks and distributing them freely.

‘Hashish,’ he explained, presenting one to Clem. ‘
Les richesses du monde
.’

Clem held this slimy sliver between thumb and forefinger. All around him people were gobbling it up, Laure included. He considered the situation. Rigault was a weasel, certainly, with an alarming philosophy – but this was an extraordinary moment. Paris was facing its end. God only knew what ordeals lay ahead. If there was a chance for some fun he’d better bloody take it. He put the hashish in his mouth. The texture was soft, like pork fat, the flavour acrid and herbal. He got it down as quickly as he could.

For a while there was nothing; and then, quite suddenly, the night unbuttoned itself, its contents falling out in a gaudy jumble. A lot more absinthe was drunk, the party abandoning the preparation ritual to swig the jewel-green spirit straight from the bottle. Clem’s hands pulled at doors; his feet tripped down staircases. The night air splashed across his face. There were horses close by, their hooves clopping on cobblestones. He was lying in the street, Rigault pulling playfully on his whiskers; an instant later he was propped up on a pile of cushions, laughing hard, feeling as if he was drifting down a warm river. The light was low and orange-red. Laure was on him, her National Guard tunic opened to show a purple bodice beneath. She wriggled inside his jacket, biting his lower lip, purring like a cat. Two of the girls, Laure’s friends, were stretched out on a divan, kissing and undressing each other, sharing an intimate caress to the appreciative hoots of the company. Laure had left Clem’s side to join them; he remembered seeing her running her tongue along another girl’s naked shoulder as she popped the laces of her corset.

‘The sight of women making love,’ he’d heard Rigault proclaim, ‘is the one good argument I know of for the existence of God.’

The next afternoon, in the plush surroundings of the Grand Hotel, Clem could almost convince himself that it hadn’t happened – that it had been the product of his intoxicated imagination. He stared at the carpet pattern between his socks. After this was only blackness. He’d come to with a cheek pressed against the Grand’s cotton sheets. How he’d got back from wherever he’d been he hadn’t the foggiest idea.

‘I saw Han yesterday,’ he said, dodging his mother’s question.

Elizabeth turned to the window. ‘So did I. The girl is as impossible as ever. Her petulance will pass, though. I am confident that she will prove an asset to our investigations.’

‘I – I beg your pardon?’

‘I have commenced a new work. I expect you have deduced this already. As we are detained here it would be foolish of me not to take the opportunity. There will be such interest in the plight of Paris – in England, in America, across the civilised world. It could be exactly what we need.’

Clem wiped a tepid drip from his brow. He waited for her to continue.

‘But there will be competition. Montague Inglis. Labouchêre from the
Daily News
. Whitehurst from the
Chronicle
. A horde of gentlemen correspondents writing siege diaries in their clubs, planning to get them on the sales racks the same week the blockade lifts. In short, an edge is required. A quality to distinguish my volume from the others.’ Elizabeth checked her hair – which was worn up that day, in a more Parisian fashion. ‘Something is stirring among the ordinary working people of the city, those neglected and exploited by the Empire. You’ve seen it – their spirit, their desire to resist. Not only to defend their homes and families against the enemy, but rebuild their country as a better, fairer place.’

Clem heard Rigault’s voice, vowing destruction and bloodshed. ‘It might not be quite so noble as you make out.’

Elizabeth ignored him. ‘I require your help, Clement. So much is happening. Your youth conveys advantages, not least of which is stamina – that dreadful parade yesterday, and the prison this morning, are experiences I have little desire to repeat. You have no real grasp of the language, it is true, but you are making friends regardless. Your sociability has always been your great gift; you are very like me in that respect. You could be there, in the lanes and the debating halls and the
assommoirs
. At the marches. It would give my account an immediacy – a
realism
that Mr Inglis and his kind can’t hope to match.’

There was a silence; soldiers’ boots tramped along the boulevard outside. Elizabeth had never asked for assistance before, from Clem, Hannah or anyone else. Those Mrs Pardy books – towering triumphs, moderate successes, unmentioned failures – had always been hers alone. Was this a genuine admission of
frailty
, of encroaching old age? Clem glanced up. Elizabeth was studying him, divining his thoughts, everything about her businesslike and utterly formidable.

‘I will pay you, of course,’ she added, ‘and ensure that your contribution is known. A mention in the text, perhaps – or even a note on the title page.’