Authors: Matthew Plampin
‘He’ll gobble me
up
! He’ll gobble me
up
!’
Hannah watched from a bench set against the far wall. She was in good spirits; even learning that Laure was the other
vivandière
on duty that night had done little to spoil them. Some hours earlier, in an inevitable contradiction of the claims she’d made to Elizabeth, she’d gone back to her easel to start a canvas based on her study of the Club Rue Rébeval. Although wary of self-praise, Hannah couldn’t deny that it was turning out brilliantly well, far beyond her hopes. She was improving. It excited her just to think that this painting
existed
– that it would be standing there when she next opened the door of Madame Lantier’s shed. That she had done this, created this picture, infused her with energy and purpose; the urge was building now, in fact, as she looked at Laure whirling and bobbing with a dozen guardsmen slavering around her ankles. She took out her sketchbook and charcoal.
‘The Walrus and the Langoustine’ ended to hearty cheers. Laure fell backwards from the tabletop into the arms of the militiamen, who held her aloft, carrying her on a lap of the room. This guardhouse had been a private residence before the siege, that of a wealthy merchant; he’d fled several weeks previously, leaving the city to claim his property for the billeting of her troops. It had been ransacked, stripped of everything of value. The walls were covered with slogans and crude cartoons. Hannah’s contributions – a forlorn Louis Napoleon being led to captivity on a donkey, a globular Bismarck eating a baby on a spit – were rather more expert than the rest and had won her some grins, but she could hardly compete with Laure for popularity. She did her duties, which revolved around collecting rations from the
mairie
and then distributing them in the guardhouse kitchen, and stayed on the margins. Her well-known connection with Jean-Jacques spared her the harassments endured by the other girls. No one wanted to cross Major Allix. They simply left her alone.
Laure was deposited in a large armchair. ‘Which of you dogs,’ she demanded, still panting with exertion, ‘was feeling my arse? Whoever it was owes me ten sous!’
‘Is that the rate?’ asked a guardsman. ‘Why, I’ve got it right here!’
‘So have I!’
A second later Laure was standing on the chair, her elbows on its back, presenting herself to the room. The men formed a line, but she lost interest just as the first one was about to lay his hands upon her. She turned, pushing him back a few steps; she’d noticed Hannah.
‘Mademoiselle Pardy,’ she called out, ‘are you a
spy
? Only you certainly look like one with that there drawing in your lap.’
Hannah worked on, shading the cocotte’s stockinged calf. She’d resolved to be distant, contained – to get through the shift and hope that this situation didn’t recur. It wasn’t likely to; Laure’s record of attendance was something of a joke in the 197th. This was actually the first time Hannah had seen her in the ten days since she’d enrolled.
‘Why would a spy be here?’ she said. ‘What is going on that could possibly be of any interest to anyone?’
Laure tossed her head; some of her hair had come loose and was clinging to her sweaty neck. ‘Your brother is a lot more fun than you are, I have to say. He knows how to take his pleasure – and give it too.’
Hannah sighed. This is provocation, she thought; this is not my fault. She put down her charcoal. ‘What are you doing with him, Laure? What do you want?’
The cocotte perched on the back of her armchair, crossing her legs, dismissing the still-hopeful queue with a single flick of her boot. ‘Just to fuck. He ain’t afraid of a little spice, your brother. Big cock as well.’ The guardsmen sniggered like schoolboys. ‘You understand this, Hannah, I know you do, somewhere in that frosty English heart of yours. It’s what you get from your Jean-Jacques, after all.’
‘How do you have any idea what I—’
‘Now
there’s
one I’d like to try out. Me and every other girl in Montmartre, eh? Tell us, what’s our Major Allix like, you know, in the act? I’ve had my share of soldiers. They’re always a bit strange, aren’t they? Rough, sometimes?’
‘You are unbelievable.’
‘So I’m told – by your brother, among others.
Ay-may-sing.
’ Laure’s pronunciation of the English word was deliberately laboured. ‘That’s what he calls me, over and over.’
The last glimmer of Hannah’s good mood disappeared. ‘God above,’ she said, louder than she’d intended, ‘do you even know his damned
name
?’
The guardsmen were silent, totally agog. This was a rare show indeed and they weren’t going to miss a second of it.
Laure buffed her fingernails against the frilled strap of her corset, acting as if she hadn’t heard the question. ‘Have you ever thought why he likes you?’ she asked. ‘Jean-Jacques, I mean? Why you, rather than anyone else? You’re pretty enough, I suppose, but that can’t be it. This man could have
anyone
, so why choose a bony
Anglaise
who lives in a shed, putting out these ugly damn pictures that don’t even look properly finished? It don’t make sense to me. Perhaps you can explain.’
Hannah was on her feet now, thinking how easily she could tip that armchair over and send the dirty slut rolling into the fireplace, when their singer-sergeant came forward to propose another number: ‘The Cockerel’s Lament’. He did this as a diversion, to avoid further upset to an important man’s girl, and had started the opening line before his squad properly realised what was going on.
‘
No one heeds my cry, in Paris this fair morning …
’
There were disappointed groans; the guardsmen wanted to see a fight and at first the clapping was reluctant. When Laure hopped back onto the table, however, hoisting up her petticoats, they forgot about her confrontation with Hannah completely.
Hannah sat down and stared hard at her drawing. Something was there, a dash of Laure’s lithe vigour, but she couldn’t continue with it now. She was thinking of Clem – wondering where he was at that precise moment. If he and Laure could speak the same language it would never even have got close to this. She folded the page in two, and then again, sliding the quartered sketch behind the bench.
‘The Cockerel’s Lament’ concluded with the unfortunate fowl going into the cooking pot, put there by Parisians sick of being disturbed during their amours. Laure dropped a deep curtsey and shouted for wine. It was all gone, the guardsmen told her; and what was worse it was past twelve. The liquor seller over on the rue Oudot would have packed up for the night. Someone would have to go down to the place Saint-Pierre.
Hannah went to the table. ‘Give me the money,’ she said. ‘I’ll do it.’
The squad reached gladly into its pockets, counting out coins and placing orders.
Laure, unimpressed, broke into an impromptu jig. ‘See how the mouse tries to make you her friends!’ she gasped as she kicked up her heels. ‘Oh, see the dreadful burdens she’ll carry!’
There was more laughter; the guardsmen looked to Hannah, thinking they’d been granted a second bout.
‘No, Laure, honestly,’ Hannah replied, collecting the money, ‘I just want to get away from you.’
The cocotte stopped her dance, crossing her bare arms, abandoning her jibes for a full-on assault. ‘What are you even
doing
here, you English bitch? This is
Paris
. We are all Parisians here. Go back to London, back to your coal and fog, your—’
Hannah slammed the door behind her. The guardhouse yard was dark; the lane beyond little better. Above, the stars were brighter and more numerous than she could ever remember seeing in Paris, swirls and fronds spreading deep into the heavens. She walked through the streets, concentrating her thoughts on the painting of the Club Rue Rébeval. She recalled how she’d captured the play of gaslight upon the coarse fabric of National Guard uniforms; the blending and jumbling of forms, exactly as a common audience might appear; the charged feeling of the whole, the sense of urgency that ran through it. Her earlier enthusiasm began to return.
There was a screech ahead – a cry of grief and horror. Hannah rounded a corner expecting an accident, an overturned cart or someone flung from a horse, yet all she saw was a group of people before the
mairie
of Montmartre – the offices of the Mayor. Above the doorway, a large red flag almost concealed the hole in the architrave where there had until recently been an Imperial eagle. A bulletin from the Hôtel de Ville had obviously just been read; a fresh bill was pasted to the noticeboard. Hannah hurried towards it.
‘It’s over!’ an old woman wailed, slumping onto the kerb. ‘We’re finished now – undone!’
‘Cowards!’ spat a National Guard corporal. ‘How could they let this happen? Did they not think of
Paris
, of what was at stake here?’
The bill was in the standard official format. One word was struck across the top in the largest type, legible even in the murky street:
Strasbourg
.
There it was. Hannah looked up again at the night sky. Holy Strasbourg had fallen.
Relieved at seven the next morning, Hannah went straight to the central boulevards to see what more she could discover. Huge numbers were out, but to mourn rather than demonstrate; the prevailing mood was one of dazed disbelief. She followed the old current onto the place de la Concorde. So many flowers had been piled upon the Strasbourg statue that the figure itself was almost lost to sight.
Nestled amidst this sorrow and sympathy was a canker of selfish fear. An entire division of Prussians, emboldened by victory, would be on their way to Paris, to bolster the besieging forces. They would be there in a couple of weeks at most. There would be no glorious fight – no heroic triumph. All the Parisians’ patriotic vows and brave words would count for nothing. The few details that had reached them about Strasbourg’s end fuelled dire predictions of the fate that awaited their own city. Many ancient buildings, including a library famous throughout learned Europe, had been destroyed by Prussian bombardment. This is what they are prepared to do, people were telling each other – what they will surely do to us. Soon Notre Dame will be in flames, the Pantheon in ruins!
It had also been reported that the defenders of Strasbourg had been starved into submission rather than defeated in battle, emerging from their confinement in a condition of wretched emaciation. Everyone was now certain that this would be the course of the siege of Paris as well. Hannah overheard much intense discussion of how long they could hold out; of how many sheep and oxen were grazing in the city’s parks, and how much grain there was in the government’s stores; of what foodstuffs were already becoming scarce. She thought of Auguste Blanqui in the Club Rue Rébeval, predicting that Trochu would use the hunger of a lengthy siege to suppress the reforming poor, and headed for Montmartre to find Jean-Jacques.
No one had seen him. He’d been with some other officers from the 197th when the news about Strasbourg had broken, but had disappeared shortly after. This wasn’t uncommon; Hannah gave up and went to the rue Garreau. Her painting was there in the shed, propped on its easel. It was now unsatisfactory in a host of different ways. A whole section close to the bottom – part of the audience, the passage she’d thought so successful – would have to be redone. She snatched her palette from the wicker chair and set to work without even taking off her National Guard jacket.
The arrival of dusk finally forced her to stop. She stepped back and squinted at the canvas: she’d knocked it off balance, labouring some aspects and effacing its best qualities in the process. She swore and threw down her brushes, standing for a moment with her face in her hands; then she went to bed, too tired to do much more than remove her boots. She was asleep in seconds.
A creak woke her; she stared at the rafters, her body rigid. Someone, a man, had crept in through the door, over on the other side of her Japanese screen. She’d forgotten to fasten the bolt again. Dawn was close, a soft light filling the shed; the shutters must be open as well. Her eyes went to the shelf where she kept her canvas knife. Could she reach it before he reached her?
The intruder shut the door behind him. He put something on the floor, several metal objects; a chain rattled into a bowl.
‘Hannah.’
She let out her breath. ‘Here.’
Jean-Jacques came straight to her and lay down heavily, on top of the blankets. She put an arm around his shoulders. Something had happened; his clothes were damp and carried the fresh odour of the countryside, of leaves and dewy grass, underlaid with the tang of sweat. They stayed like this for almost a minute.
‘Where have you been?’ Hannah asked.
He didn’t answer, burying his face in her neck instead. His nose was cold against her skin; she could feel the scar and the bristles of a three-day beard. She sat up, folded back the Japanese screen and looked over at the objects he’d dropped by the door. Three metal helmets shone dully in the early dawn. The six-inch spikes set in their crowns caused them to lean to the side, resting on the floorboards like spinning tops. She recognised them from countless cartoons published in Paris since the start of the war: they were
Pickelhauben
, the helmets of the Prussian infantry.
‘I killed them.’ His voice was quiet – grim yet unashamed. ‘I went out alone, yesterday evening. Slit their throats at a watch post near Le Bourget.’
Everything shifted. Hannah made an involuntary sound, close to a laugh. She put a hand over her mouth. Her head went light, red spots fanning across her vision; her limbs began to tremble. He rose beside her and she found herself wondering if he still had the blade on him – if there was any blood on his jacket or trousers, soaked into the black material. All she could see of his face was part of the split cheekbone. She felt like a child, petrified before something obscure and monstrous.
‘You killed them,’ she said at last. It sounded absurd. It couldn’t be true.
‘I’ve killed many, Hannah. Thirty-six over in America. Seventeen in the Vosges Mountains.’ He turned away. ‘Such is war.’