Le Temps des Cerises (28 page)

At least the kitchen was warm from the heat of cooking and she looked about in search of her valerian and a dustpan and brush. The place was a tip. The steward had left spices everywhere and crockery sat unstacked and greasy looking.
Everything in its rightful place…
No wonder Brother Michael had gone round the twist. Even the cupboard where the consecrated vessels were kept looked as if it had been ransacked, its door ajar, half hanging off its hinges. Whoever had done such a thing? She held the taper above her head and almost cried out in alarm. The cupboard was empty! Somebody had made off with all the consecrated vessels as well as the silver chalice and candlesticks that had been hidden in there for safekeeping.

It was then she heard a noise in the cellar. She shrank back, snuffed out the candle and quieted little Aggie who was stirring restlessly in her sleep. There it was again: a scratching, scraping, crash and a bang. Her mind raced. It could, of course, be Brother Michael back from his spell in the army but she didn't think so somehow. She had a feeling he'd left the city for good. It could even be the steward working late, catching up on this ungodly mess but that didn't seem very likely either. As her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she detected a glimmering light coming from behind the cellar door. There was definitely somebody down there. She spun the papoose around to the front the easier to protect little Aggie and, shutting her mind to what the Mother Superior had said about red hot and bothered revolutionaries, she pushed through the door and bent down over the gaping hole.

‘Brother Michael,' she shouted confidently into the blackness, ‘are you down there?' She didn't think for one moment that it was he but she felt the subterfuge was justified in the circumstances; and the trespasser – if that's who the body was – might be a little unnerved to hear that a man was in the building. ‘Brother Michael,' she went on nervously into the silence.

There was no reply. The glimmering light flickered for a moment and then stood still. Bernadine, more irritated now than scared, clambered down the top few steps, ducking her head to avoid a low beam and straining to see around empty crates and wine boxes
.

‘Who's there?' she demanded angrily. ‘Who's there?'

The light shone tantalisingly at the far end of the cellar, casting shadows on the walls of monstrous wine bottles and grotesque jam jars. ‘Who's there?' she demanded again.

And then she saw him. The ghostly figure of a Bishop bent over a crate of wine. Her heart stopped and she felt a rush of blood in her ears like the pealing of a hundred church bells. Could it be he, after all these years? She clutched Aggie tightly, almost crushing her to her chest as she climbed down the last few steps.

‘Ernest?' she faltered. ‘Ernest?'

The figure turned at the sound of the voice and raised a lantern in the air. Bernadine strained her eyes to see.
His garments shone white as light and when they saw him they worshipped him but some doubted…
could it be he, after all these years? After all these useless, fruitless years had he come back for her as he promised he would? ‘Ernest,' she faltered again, then (as she allowed herself to believe it was he) in joyous disbelief: ‘Ernest?' And as her feet flew over the cold dank floor, her mind flew back to the night they had lain in incense of lavender, the rose all thorn and crimson petals, the ha-ha overgrown with stars…. Quite the theologian, he had said the day they first met (the day the very flowers had caught their breath) and she had blushed, oh she had blushed deep...

‘Green!' said the Bishop in a slurring tone. ‘Green she was and bloated when they fished her out of the Seine.'

Bernadine stopped in shocked astonishment and rubbed her eyes, her body drooping with fatigue. Had she been dreaming? Was she dreaming still? She stared at the figure in utter bewilderment.

‘Another one?' the stonecutter remarked, absurdly pompous in his ornate costume, pointing at Aggie sleeping soft in her papoose. ‘You must breed like rabbits down here. In the dead of night I shouldn't wonder!'

It was all Bernadine could do to hold herself together. To stop herself hitting the man or bursting into a fit of hysterics. It was all she could do to ask in an even-tempered voice: ‘What are you doing here at St Joseph's in the middle of the night, Monsieur….' Realising she didn't know his real name she found herself saying: ‘Monsieur Mistigris.' It was the last straw. It was the straw that broke the camel's back and she burst out in nervous laughter. ‘Monsieur Mistigris. Monsieur Mistigris.'

‘Governmental decrees
21
!' the old man stuttered, holding up the statue he had made and never been paid for, the statue Brother Michael had thrown into the cellar with the other broken bits of religious paraphernalia. ‘Up with the Commune! Down with the Bishop! Up with the Good Lord! Down with the Bad One!'

He was certainly mad. In a court of law he would be judged insane. Drunk and insane. But it was small comfort to Bernadine who stood with trembling limbs, her heart still thumping horribly out of rhythm. It was too cruel a joke. It was too cruel a joke to play because for one perfect moment he had made her believe that life was worth living again, that time had started ticking again with the nice clean snowdrops. How stupid of her to be fooled by such an illusion! Her father had been right all along – anything truly dead never came alive again and time never stopped ticking, not for anyone. It was she who'd stopped ticking, not time, she just hadn't realised it. She'd stayed put, suspended in her vial of holy oil and time had just got on without her.

‘You should have been paid for it,' a part of her went on with impeccable politeness while the other part simply wilted. ‘The Mother Superior should have paid you for it.'

Mistigris shook his head sadly. ‘It's a little much when the Virgin Mary ends up in a cellar. She should be on the altar with the other holy relics. Dear dear dear. I had to fish her out of the rubble back there like a little mermaid. Green! Green and bloated among the reeds and the water lilies.'

Bernadine didn't know how to respond. Her impeccable politeness had gone. All she could think was that her hopes and dreams had collided in the ridiculous creature in front of her and she felt suddenly pale and conspicuous in her white cotton nightdress like the mushrooms that grew in a corner of the cellar. Growing thin and transparent, etiolated in the darkness. Never setting eyes on the sun.

‘Green as a pea,' Mistigris went on, swinging the lantern in front of her as if to get a better look, his robes flashing like fire in the light.

Where had he got them from, Bernadine wondered, in any case? Had Monsieur Lafayette lent them to him as a joke? Some sick and mischievous little prank? She suddenly lost her temper. ‘When you come to think of it, monsieur,' she began bitterly, ‘the Virgin Mary gave birth in a stable so it is singularly appropriate that she ends her days in a cellar.' And with a deft movement she grabbed the statue from the man's hands and threw it back into the rubble on the floor.

Mistigris stared at her in astonishment and the baby, disturbed by the violent action, started to cry in the cold night air. ‘Hush Aggie,' mumbled Bernadine, overcome with shock at her own little outburst and swaying self consciously from one foot to the other in an effort to quiet her.

‘In the dead of night I shouldn't wonder!' Mistigris said gruffly, peering at them both with a comically morose look on his face. ‘Everything comes to light in the dead of night. But I never needed paying for her.' Tears suddenly poured down his cheeks. ‘I swear by any angelus you care to mention, Sister, that I never needed paying for her. Down with the Bishop! Oh down with the Bishop!'

‘I believe you,' whispered Bernadine, still swaying from foot to foot. He was certainly mad – a cuckoo in borrowed plumes – and she wished he'd just go and leave her alone. There was so much to do! She must feed little Aggie, sweep up the altar cruets, get herself a drink of water, bandage her foot. So much to do and so little time. Time. Time that never stopped ticking, not for anyone it seemed. She must tend to Aggie's grave with her sturdy secateurs, lop and prune her dear little garden, plant some spring onions, maybe pansies for remembrance… She watched the stonecutter make his way a little clumsily up the steps and part of her must have wished him a polite goodnight. She watched him disappear with his tilting lantern, leaving her still rocking in the darkness. She must keep herself busy at all costs! She must keep her mind occupied if only for Aggie's sake!
Until the day breathes again
, another part of her whispered.
Until the day breathes again and the shadows flee away…

Chapter twenty-three

Alphonse's name was on everyone's lips. It was rumoured that he'd singlehandedly started the revolution though nobody quite knew how he'd done it. Alphonse himself maintained a dignified and resolute silence upon the subject which only added flame to the rumours. Laurie was perhaps most confounded, most confused of all, wondering why he'd been left so completely in the dark. He wanted to ask his friend outright about the events of 18th March but didn't have the heart to, fearing to hear the reasons why he had been excluded.

He realised now, taking another swig of wine, his head thumping, that he had never really confronted anything. He'd never quite looked life in the eye, he took shy peeping furtive glances at it and even that was too much for him. The corner of his eye acted like a telescope, honing in on little things, magnifying them out of all proportion so that he never saw the big picture. He should have swivelled his head more. Even now, at this very instant, he was waching Eveline out of the corner of his eye watching Alphonse heading for the platform. Alphonse kitted out in evening dress – white gloves, silk cummerbund – every inch the hero. There were sharp intakes of breath on his left – a woman (a launderess he guessed) was also watching Alphonse heading for the platform. Eveline couldn't take her eyes off him, valiantly trying to make light conversation in an effort to cover up the fact that she couldn't take her eyes off him.

‘Honestly,' she was saying, patting his hand in a sisterly gesture, ‘Papa's gone completely mad, once and for all. He and his cronies stole some theatrical costumes from the Jesuit school on the Rue de Rivoli. I came home the other night and found him dressed as a Bishop, Madame Larousse as a nun! Can you picture it?'

He turned to look at her. She was wearing a dress for once instead of the trousers that had become de rigueur for her. It was soft green, flowed over her body like water and she reminded him of a sea nymph or a woodland sprite. Her hair bright gold fire about her face, her skin so translucent you could see the veins beneath.
He stared in awe at the trembling leaf, her veins on fire…

‘He's thinking of extending the coffin to make room for his mitre…'

Or should it be:
His veins on fire…

‘I think he's stolen more than theatrical costumes though. I found a silver chalice in his pocket.'

It was too much for him. She burnt his eyes. He had to turn away again. ‘Oh dear,' he said flatly, taking another swig of wine. There were shushing whispers from behind. Alphonse Duchamp was about to speak. Alphonse Duchamp the revolutionary. Oh yes, they all hung on to his every word, wanted to know his opinion on everything under the sun from the colour of wallpaper to the Apocalypse, boils to Bismarck. It would have been mighty sickening, Laurie thought, if he hadn't been his friend. The shushing whispers dug into his back: Alphonse Duchamp was about to speak.

‘We have a Commune!' he said simply, stretching out his arms as if to envelop the whole audience. After the thundering applause had died down he went on: ‘The Communal revolution begun on the 18
th
March by popular initiative signals the end of the old clerical and governmental world, of militarism and bureaucracy, exploitation, privilege and the start of political unity.'

‘What unity?' somebody shouted out. ‘The members of the Commune are at each other's throats already as far as I can see!'

Alphonse looked a little taken aback though nobody but Laurie would have noticed it. It was the way he lifted his shoulders a fraction and ran a hand through his hair. ‘The Commune took over the reins of power at a gallop,' he countered firmly. ‘The ride is bound to be a little bumpy to begin with.'

‘That is his way of admitting he stole the horses,' the laundress whispered to her friend who Laurie decided was undoubtedly a boot stitcher. ‘He hides his light under a bushel, that one. You have to read between the lines with him.'

‘Is that his mistress?' the boot stitcher murmured curiously. ‘The one in the green?'

Laurie frowned and took another swig from the bottle. He was beginning to feel ill with all the wine he had consumed. He wished he could shut down his telescopic eye and frightful tendency to eavesdrop but he didn't think that he could. He should have been a spy though he didn't know which side he would be spying for.

‘Bumpy!' scoffed the man in the audience. ‘I should say it's bumpy. We've practically got a civil war on our hands.'

Alphonse smiled. ‘This is transformation and transformation is always difficult. We are so used to the habitual, the routine, that we fear change, even change for the better. But these are the birth pangs of the revolution, my friend, and birth pangs are painful, laborious, even bloody. Do not forget, however, that the end result will be glorious.'