It was the day.
Paul awoke in the twilight before dawn and lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. The room was quiet except for Moussa breathing heavily in the next bed, still dead to the world.
Paul felt good under the covers. All the world was at peace on this side of the bedroom window. But the butterflies were back, the ones that flew in to announce trouble or danger. Only this time they weren’t for himself. They were for this day, for his father. It was the day he both prayed for and dreaded, the day his uncle told him to be patient for, the day that never seemed to arrive.
It was the day his father would stand before a court-martial. The day Paul was determined to see him at last. It was a Monday, and he was supposed to stay away from the trial and go to school. “The trial is not something for children,” Henri had told him. “I will be there myself. I will tell you everything that happens exactly as it occurs. I promise.” Paul had agreed, but his insides got all knotted up as he thought about it.
He had heard his aunt and uncle talking, late one night when they thought nobody was listening. But he was awake and heard them through the vent, and what they said filled him with dread. If things didn’t go well for his father they might take him out and stand him by a wall and shoot him. Uncle Henri had said so. He’d said it twice. If Paul didn’t quite understand how that could happen, he certainly understood what it meant.
And he wasn’t about to let that happen while he was sitting in some lousy class staring at a nun. He never – well, almost never – directly disobeyed his uncle. There was just too much trouble when he did. But this was different. If it meant punishment, he would take it. He and Moussa had talked about it the night before. Usually it was Moussa who came up with the big ideas. This time it was Paul who forged ahead, daring to do the forbidden.
“I’m not going to school tomorrow,” he announced. “You can if you want. I have to see what they’re doing to my father.”
Moussa thought it was a grand idea, one that required them both to be there. “But they probably won’t let us in,” he pointed out.
“We’ll sneak in.”
“They’ll probably throw us out.”
“So we’ll sneak back in. I’ll watch through a window, or listen from behind a door. I’m not missing this.” Moussa’s grin of adventure gave Paul another thought. “We’re going into the city through the gate this time,” he said in a tone of voice that meant no arguments. Moussa pretended to be disappointed.
Paul watched the dawn light slowly fill the room with another autumn day. When it was time he awoke Moussa. Acting as if everything were normal, they left at the regular time for school. The count was late himself, busy with paperwork. Paul was pretty sure he felt the count’s eyes on his back from behind the window of the study as they disappeared down the lane toward St. Paul’s. Moussa didn’t seem to notice. They got to a junction in the road where they should have turned right, and turned left instead.
A month and a half of siege had dulled the sharp gay edge of Paris. People walked more slowly and talked more softly, and there was less laughter than before. Even the boys noticed something was different.
Long lines of people waited in front of the grocers they passed; food was getting scarce and expensive. The boys walked through the Champ de Mars, a huge encampment filled with guardsmen who looked haggard and hungover. The École loomed huge across the commons. Paul’s heartbeat quickened when he saw it. They were making their way quickly along the side of the street, staying out of the path of carriage traffic when a familiar voice froze them in their tracks.
“Have you forgotten the way to school, or do you test my patience?” Paul’s hair stood up on the back of his neck. He flushed and looked sideways at Moussa, who was studying the ground. The count never had to raise his voice to sound angry, Paul thought. He knew how to make you miserable without yelling, how to get right inside of you with his voice of velvet thunder. They turned to face him, and had to look up to see him. The sun was behind him and it blinded them. He looked as though he had a ring of fire around his head.
“It was my idea, Uncle Henri,” Paul said quickly. “I made Moussa come—”
“You have no mind of your own, Moussa? Your cousin thinks for you now?”
“Yes… I mean, no sir,” Moussa stammered. “I couldn’t let him come alone.”
“He wasn’t to come at all, and you knew it. You heard us talking.” Moussa nodded, red and ashamed. “I thought we had an understanding,” the count said to Paul. “I take you at your word, as you must take me at mine.”
“I had to come, Uncle Henri,” Paul said, and he thought about it and remembered that he was right, that he was sure, and he stood straighter and felt less guilty. “I know I said something different yesterday. But it wasn’t enough to just hear. I have to see what they do.”
Henri looked down on the two anxious boys. They fell mute, awaiting his judgment. He had known where they were going from the moment he’d seen them leave the house, just as he knew what he would do now. But if he was to prevent anarchy in his household he had to let them stew a bit in their broth of nerves and guilt. Paul was fidgety, moving up and down on anxious feet. Moussa’s hands fiddled with twigs, but his expression was a masterpiece of innocence. He gets that face from his mother, Henri thought fondly. The guile is his own handiwork.
“Climb in,” he said at last. The boys scrambled into the carriage, which started forward at once. They still didn’t know whether he’d keep going straight or turn around for St. Paul’s. With the count it might go either way. Henri regarded them sternly. “I will get you inside. Keep absolutely quiet and stay out of the way. Understood?” Paul’s eyes brightened, and a smile of triumph and relief crossed his face. He adored his uncle. The boys both nodded eagerly.
The carriage threaded its way through a throng of people and turned into the courtyard of the École. A guard recognized the count and waved them along. As they made their way inside the building, Paul watched his uncle moving easily through the crowd. Whether people wore uniforms or not, the count was greeting them, shaking hands and chatting. He seemed to cause a stir everywhere he went. Some in the crowd stood apart from him and scowled, looks of hatred on their faces. They loathed his influence, his nobility, his money. But no one was indifferent to his passage. Paul felt a surge of pride that he was with a man so commanding, so sure, so significant. It made him feel big and important himself. It had to mean good things for his father. He saw the count hand one of the guards some folded-up money, and they were waved inside.
The court-martial was to be held in a makeshift courtroom with a high ceiling and windows that ran along the top of one side. There was a bare spot on the wall where a portrait of the emperor had been. A tricolor had been hung in its place, but was smaller and didn’t cover the spot. The room had been chosen because of the large number of spectators expected, both military and civilian. It was the only room large enough. There was a long table at the front with three chairs, one in the center with a high back much larger than the others. Two smaller tables were set in front of the big one, with more seats. A podium stood to one side. Along the back of the room were scores of chairs and benches jammed close to one another for the audience. The civilian spectators were chosen by a lottery held in the courtyard. There were ten applicants for every seat. The boys watched as they streamed into the room, some noisy and rude, others quiet, others laughing, ready to enjoy themselves at the trial deVries, one of the few entertainments left in the city. “I wonder how come they’re letting so many in,” Paul whispered. He didn’t like it, didn’t like the press of people filling the room, didn’t like the whiskers and jokes and rough manners and the smell of stale wine. He didn’t like what he saw in their eyes. It was like they were coming to watch the elephants at the zoo, Castor and Pollux. Moussa felt it too. “It’s like a carnival,” he whispered.
Henri indicated two chairs at the back of the room. His look left no doubt that he expected to find them there next time he looked. This time they would obey. They sat down as the count moved forward to one of the tables at the front of the room. He started talking to two men wearing uniforms that Paul didn’t recognize. Others came into the room, big men in other uniforms, uniforms that they didn’t recognize, and those men took their places at the table opposite Henri. The one in the middle carried a stack of papers. He had a large Adam’s apple and dark brooding eyes and a shock of unruly gray hair. Instinctively Paul didn’t like him. That one is the enemy.
A door on one side of the room opened, and Paul’s heart leapt with joy as his father came through. He looked pale and tired and not like himself, but he was still big and powerful and stood like a mountain in the boy’s eyes. Jules’s gaze swept the spectators and the officials, but he did not see his son. Ramrod-stiff, head high, he strode to his seat. At first his entry made the room fall silent, and then Paul heard the crowd beginning to stir to ugly life around him. “Voilà le poltron! Traïtre!” They reminded Paul of his classmates, when they dared to test authority: just loud enough for the words to be heard by all, but soft enough for their source not to be identified. Jules ignored them, and sat conversing with the count and the others at his table. The room was alive with a hundred conversations.
After a few moments another door opened and three men walked in, important-looking men, officers, and everyone stood. Paul and Moussa were unable to see over the crowd. They climbed up on the bench, but all they could see were bald heads and an occasional mustache up front. The day was a blur for Paul, who paid attention but couldn’t understand a lot of what was going on. It started with the prosecutor, the man with the gray hair, who stood and read from a paper detailing the charges against his father. He said once again all the terrible things, using words like treason and shame and cowardice, and talked about the conduct of an officer and unfitness for duty and dereliction and desertion.
When Paul lost the meaning of the words he focused on the man and his mannerisms. He reminded Paul of a street performer he’d seen at the Place de la Concorde, a man who had a monkey and a flute and strutted back and forth and told stories and hooted and made fun of people in the audience. The prosecutor swaggered and glared, and pointed and stared. He stood next to Jules as he spoke and leaned down and put his face up close to the colonel’s, and carried on in his voice of accusation, Paul fascinated and repelled by the man’s bobbing Adam’s apple as it punctuated his sentences. “This sneak, this deserter…” His voice droned on as a long finger indicted the colonel and waved in his face. Paul was astounded that anyone would have the guts to do that to his father. Didn’t he know how that infuriated him, how that could get him knocked on his backside? Didn’t he know he was addressing Colonel deVries?
The hateful words kept coming. “… this wanton disregard for his men, leaving them to the Prussian sword…” As Paul watched he prayed fervently that the prosecutor would have a stroke and drop dead right there on the floor, but instead the man produced a letter from an officer named Delescluze. It was evidently very important, because he read it twice out loud as he walked back and forth in front of the judges. The prosecutor’s voice was slow and soft, but full of menace as he quoted from the letter.
“ ‘ … as to the character of his crime, as to the certainty that he abandoned his men and had fled the battle like a coward, there can be no doubt,’ ” the prosecutor said, halting after each word to give it emphasis.
“He reminds me of Sister Godrick,” Moussa whispered glumly.
Paul jabbed him. “Shhhh.”
The prosecutor’s delivery was devastating, at least as far as Paul could tell. People strained to hear. They shook their heads and muttered among themselves, and had to be quieted four times by the judges. He saw eyes filled with hatred and vengeance, all fixed upon his father. Most of the time he watched his father’s reactions as people spoke. Paul could tell if someone was lying just by watching his father’s face, because that face had been turned toward him when he lied. The colonel had a nose for it and his punishments could be terrible. But for some reason in court he just sat there and listened.
Paul could tell when his father was upset, though, or when he was ready to explode in anger. He saw his eyes narrow and his skin color change, and his shoulders shift. Why don’t you say something, Paul wanted to shout. Tell them this is crazy, that it’s all wrong! But he didn’t. He kept quiet like Uncle Henri said and sat on his hands and wished it would end soon.
He could tell it was trouble when the prosecutor produced a thick blue enrollment ledger from Vouziers. “It is clear from these documents,” he said, “that Victor Delescluze is indeed a captain in the Irregulars, and that” – he held the letter up at eye level, and shook it with each word, as if they would hear him better or believe him more – “this… is… his… signature. No forgery. No mistake. Proof that his letter is genuine… ” There were more murmurs from the audience, more warnings from the judge for quiet.
The lawyers bickered about something. They did it all the time, with bad manners and big words. They couldn’t agree about anything. One said yes, another said no. One said today, another said tomorrow. Paul didn’t like any of them, not even the ones who were supposed to be working for his father. They just sat there and took it, the insults and the lies and all, and when they were done taking it they stood up and dished out some of their own. Paul wanted them to do something instead – to draw some swords and have at it, clear the air with a good fight that would leave some guts on the table and a head or two rolling around on the floor, but the bunch of them didn’t seem up to it. Even Uncle Henri just sat there and listened to the ugly business.
The room was hot and smelly with perspiration and old tobacco. By late morning it was nearly unbearable, but the proceedings wore on. Another storm broke when the prosecutor called a witness he said he had not expected to locate, “owing to the unfortunate progress of the war.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Moussa whispered, “when the Prussians are whipping our ass.”
Paul recognized the uniform of a sergeant of the Dragoons on a towering man, full of power and presence, a cavalry officer who looked the absolute picture of French glory. His uniform was crisp and dazzling. He wore a red tunic with a white sash. There were scarlet epaulets on his shoulders and gold buttons at his sides, and shiny leather boots that rose almost to his knees. He removed his gold helmet and placed it under his arm, and stood at attention until the judge bade him come forward. All eyes were upon him as he walked to the front of the room. The prosecutor had him introduce himself. Paul could tell from his father’s look that he was unhappy to see the sergeant.
The witness began to tell his story, and it was a story of damnation delivered with calm assurance. Oui, he told the prosecutor and the judges and the court full of people, it was he who had written the note on the back of the letter from Delescluze. Oui, he said, it was he who had observed the colonel trying to escape from his guard. Oui, he assured the court, this was the man – he pointed at Jules deVries, pointed with authority, without the slightest shred of doubt or hesitation – this was indeed the man, and he said it in a voice that was firm and rang with conviction and truth. Oui, the court heard, he had pulled this man off a hapless guard who was merely attempting to follow orders and do his duty and escort the prisoner to Châlons. Oui, he said, he had witnessed the assault from its beginning, had seen the colonel sneak up behind the guard and assault him viciously. Oui, he said, the colonel had admitted to him right there that he was trying to escape!
Oui, Paul heard, oui over and over, yes guilty, yes he did, yes sir, yes yes until he wanted to cover his ears and cry, wanted to jump up and smash the man in his stupid face, smash him until his filthy lying brains were spilled all over the floor. After a while Paul didn’t listen to him anymore. He closed his eyes and shut him out. Moussa watched his cousin and saw a lone tear trickle down his cheek. There was nothing to say. He put his hand on Paul’s shoulder.
The sergeant had just been excused when a major burst into the courtroom and rushed to the front. The newcomer whispered excitedly into the judge’s ear. The judge went pale and raised his hand for order, to silence the room. Gravely he stood to address the court.
“An announcement has been made by the Government of National Defense,” he said. He cleared his throat and the room fell silent, all eyes upon him. “Marshal Bazaine has surrendered his forces and the town of Metz to the Prussians,” he said. “The marshal did so unconditionally, without a fight. The Prussians have entered the city. Our valiant troops are captive. This court is recessed for two hours. Vive la république!”
An uproar shook the room as all three judges left hurriedly. Angry spectators shouted passion and fire, hurling their outrage at everyone and no one. “The last perfidy of the empire! The coward!” one shouted. “Bring him to us! We’ll show him how to surrender!” One man, an ancient figure sitting bent and alone on a bench, wept bitter tears. Guards began herding the spectators toward the door, and the courtroom emptied quickly. Paul had heard of Bazaine and had been to Metz once, but beyond that it didn’t mean much to him except that he wondered miserably whether this was somehow more bad news for his father.
Jules conferred with Henri and then rose to be escorted out by a guard. As he stood he saw Paul for the first time and froze. Paul got to his feet. Father and son regarded each other across the room. Uncertainly at first, Paul walked toward him, and then in a flood of emotion fairly flew the last few feet, and banged into the colonel and hugged him hard round the waist. Jules was embarrassed. He looked to see if anyone was watching. No one but Moussa was paying attention. Jules permitted himself a pat on Paul’s back.
“Father, Father!” Paul cried, and tears were pouring down his face, and he hugged him tightly, not wanting to let go, not even as Jules tried to pull him away, gently at first, then with greater firmness. “Paul, that’s enough,” he said. “Control yourself. This is a public courtroom.”
Paul looked up at him, half-crying, half-smiling. “I missed you, Father,” he said. “I want so badly to help. I want to do something but I don’t know what. I want to make them stop telling their lies. I want to make them let you go. I want to kill all the Prussians, and the guards and judges and the lawyers too. I want you to come home.”
Jules was afraid to say anything for fear his voice would crack. He had never felt such a need for anyone as he did that moment for his son, but he didn’t know what to do just then that wouldn’t look… weak. So he did nothing, said nothing. Feeling hopelessly awkward, he could only nod. He motioned to Henri to come get Paul, to take him away. Henri put his hand on Paul’s shoulder. “Come, Paul,” he said gently.
“I’m not leaving,” Paul said. “Don’t make me leave, Father, please don’t make me. I won’t do it, I won’t.”
Jules sighed. He wished desperately that Paul hadn’t come, that he didn’t have to see any of this, that Elisabeth had had the grace and good sense to keep him away. But, of course, it was too late. “Very well,” Jules nodded. “You may stay if you wish.”
After Jules was gone the boys wandered around outside. Paul was suffused with happiness that he’d spoken to his father at last. Just touching him had made him feel better, made him feel that things would be all right. After a difficult morning his spirits soared. He and Moussa wandered through streets teeming with agitated people fired up about the news of the war, of which Metz had only been the most recent debacle. The government looked soft and inept, and Paris was smoldering, ready to catch fire from its own anger. Irate orators stood on boxes and raised hell before eager crowds. “We’ll have a new government!” a man shouted from his pulpit to the cheers of the crowd. “The Commune forever!” Hats flew in the air and bayonets glistened, and people hugged each other and cried tears of joy. “Vive la Commune!”
Someone threw a rock at the speaker, but it missed and landed at Moussa’s feet. He jumped back and looked at Paul. “It’s like the day the empire fell,” he said, and they scurried back to the École.
That afternoon the courtroom was sweltering. Paul’s attention was riveted on the proceedings. He noticed every word, every sound and motion. It was his father’s turn, he guessed, because the prosecutor had fallen silent for a change, and the witnesses were ones called by the lawyers sitting with Uncle Henri. And the witnesses were saying nice things.
“A fine officer, deVries,” said a little man with a mustache whose name was Raspail. He seems awfully small to be an officer, Paul thought. I’m as tall as he is. Well, almost. Yet not only was the man an officer but a general. The prosecutor jumped up and complained about his uniform. “Out of order!” he cried. “There is no Imperial Guard anymore. This witness has no standing!” One of the judges told him to shut up and sit down, and Paul thought nothing finer had happened in the courtroom all day. After Raspail there were other officers, another colonel and then a major who said wonderful things, things about Italy and Africa and the service of France. It was heady stuff and Paul savored every word.
Near the end of the day Jules deVries himself rose and spoke to the court. Paul nudged Moussa to make certain he was listening as hard as he ought to be. This will shut them up, he knew. There’s no way they can doubt him now. His father’s voice was not loud but strong and firm, its tone captivating the room as no other voice had. It was a voice Paul had heard a thousand times, a voice that had told him to stop doing this, or to start doing that, a voice that invariably scolded or taught some lesson.
Paul listened raptly as the voice described what had happened since he left Paris on his way to the Prussian front. He told the story carefully, in great detail, missing nothing, from the look of the smoke over Châlons to the Uhlan patrol in the forest near Attigny to the position of the bodies in the farmhouse. He looked straight at the judges as he spoke, head erect, shoulders up, and to Paul he looked a million times better than the officer of the Dragoons. The stories he told were confusing, though. Instead of cavalry charges his father spoke of drunken soldiers. Instead of secret patrols there were French supplies put to the torch. Instead of great battles there were French soldiers, murdering women and children. It was all wrong, all mixed up. Paul didn’t know what to make of it.
Paul saw that the judges listened carefully as his father spoke, all three of them leaning a little toward him and tilting their heads as if they might hear better. But the spectators paid no such attention. He could hear the jokes and the doubts and the mean things they said, undermining every word, every statement, laughing and shaking their heads and keeping up a steady murmur of distraction and disbelief. He glared at them. This is my father speaking.
“Delescluze took me prisoner when he realized I’d caught him in the act of murder,” he heard his father say. “He was a twisted man. He wrote the letter for revenge against the empire. He did it drunk as we sat by a campfire. He wanted nothing more than to destroy my honour, and wrote the letter in the specific belief that the empire would fall at the hands of the Prussians, that this very trial would be the result…”
He spoke for nearly an hour, and when he was done his voice was hoarse. “I am not guilty of these charges,” Paul heard him say. “I am not a coward. I have told you the full truth about what I have done, and what has been done to me. I stand ready to fight for my country. I stand ready to die for her.”
It was the best speech Paul had ever heard. He wanted to jump up and shout, but the words didn’t seem to have the same effect on the others in the courtroom, who hung far more intently on the closing words of the prosecutor.
“The whole history of France is covered with military glory,” the prosecutor said. “For two centuries she has held Europe in her hands. It is impossible to consider that she should have fallen in the field so thoroughly without the duplicity, the treachery, and the desertion of key officers. We have seen it in Sedan, with the despicable acts of a man who pretended to be emperor, yet who then raised the white flag to the Hun. We have seen it in Metz this very day, behind the spineless actions of a poltron whom we cannot in good conscience call Maréchal de France. And then” – he stood once again before Jules and leaned down, his face within inches of the colonel’s – “we have seen it in Jules deVries. In this man, we have seen the mighty spine of France crumble. For him there can be but one end. From you, honorable panel, the honor, the glory of France demands nothing less than a bullet to the brain of this most low and cunning coward.”
The crowd erupted at that, exploded like nothing Paul had heard all day. The awful feeling of dread settled over him again, the one that brought the panic and the fear. He reminded himself it didn’t matter what the audience thought. His uncle said it was the judges who made the decision. But he looked at the audience cheering, and he looked at the judges who allowed it, and his uncle’s assurances didn’t help. Didn’t help at all.
When quiet returned there were others who spoke, but it was too hot and too much and it all ran together in Paul’s mind. In the end the judge in the middle spoke and said all the evidence had been heard and to come back in the morning for a decision.
Why do they need until morning? he wondered, but he stood when everyone else did, and then at last it was over for the day.
Regret to inform you Major Dupree killed at Flöing. Unable to locate balance of unit. No sign
Delescluze. Still looking.
Blanqui
Henri received the note after court that afternoon. It had arrived in Paris three days earlier by pigeon post, and was contained with thousands of other microscopic messages on photographic paper. The authorities had taken several days to transcribe them all for delivery. Miraculously, it had finally made its way to the château. Henri’s heart sank as he read it. He debated whether to give the message to his brother, or spare him the awful news. His chances were withering, or gone. Henri cursed himself.
The great Count deVries has tried everything, and it has all come to nothing.
He should have listened to Blanqui in the first place, when he suggested breaking Jules out. Now it might be too late.
He decided to give the note to Jules anyway. He couldn’t lie to him. As he rode across Paris to deliver it he heard a chilling sound. It was the rhythmic drumming of the rappel, calling the National Guard to arms. A sound of tumult, of terror, a sound that had last been heard in the city during the Great Revolution, a sound that preceded death. In the afternoon and evening hours, the city had come to the precipice of a new insurrection. The blows of Metz and Le Bourget had been quickly followed by talk of an armistice with the Prussians. The government was considering the payment of a massive fine to end the war, and the cession of the provinces of Alsace and Lorraine. A mob at the Hôtel de Ville had had enough of the government, and had taken General Trochu and his ministers hostage. The troops in the working-class district of Belleville were in full mutiny. The Committee for Public Safety had declared the government finished, and proclaimed the establishment of the Commune. Loyalist troops waited in the Place Vendome for the order to quell the uprising. The siege was less than two months old and Paris, as Bismarck had prophesied, was already ripping at her own throat.
In this atmosphere my brother awaits a verdict, Henri thought grimly.
Jules read the note his brother handed him. He crumpled it and dropped it to the floor, nodding his head as though he expected it. In the weeks of his confinement he had listened as other soldiers were marched away from the compound. He had heard the volleys of the firing squads, and the prisoners did not return. The last one had gone two days before. His thoughts were morbid.
“I heard drums before,” Jules said at length.
“I’m afraid it’s bad.” Henri explained the situation as best he knew it. “There may be civil war before it’s over. I don’t know who will be running things in the morning, or whether it will affect your trial. If it does, it can only make things worse.”
“I don’t know how they could get worse. My God, the Prussians outside the gates and now le spectre rouge inside. I never would have believed that so much could go wrong so quickly.”
A rainstorm settled over the city and lasted through the night. Jules listened to the steady downpour and didn’t sleep at all.
At the château Paul prayed alone in his bed, silent prayers mingled with oaths and promises and declarations. It was the first night he had ever spent in fear.
“You asleep?” he whispered to Moussa.
“No.”
“You think they’ll let him go?”
Silence. The rain pounded on the window. “Oui. Do you?”
More silence.
“Oui”
By the light of a candle Henri and Serena held each other and listened to the storm. Henri told her of his doubts.
“No one could have done more,” she protested.
“I could have broken him out.”
“And I would have helped you, and then we’d all be in the cell with him, or outcasts. Then who would be left to help us?” She squeezed his hand. “It is not the way. You have done what you can, mon amour. You have done what you must. And I believe it will work. Tomorrow he will be free.”
Alone among the deVrieses, Elisabeth slept soundly that night. She had not attended the trial. It was simply too embarrassing, and there had been no need. She had sealed her bargain with the bishop. Her part was done, and the rest was just show. She had found the papers, her heart nearly stopping when Serena entered Henri’s study while she had the papers out on the desk, but she had managed to cover them up, and had gotten them out successfully. The notary had done his work, the bishop his. The judges were the right judges, and they had received their instructions. The bishop was efficient.
She wished she could share her knowledge with the others, with Paul at least; but of course, it was impossible. She told him not to worry, but he dismissed her with that awful look she’d seen in his eyes of late. He seemed so distant just now, and wouldn’t talk to her. He spent all his time with Moussa and when he talked to adults it was to Henri or Serena or Gascon, never to her. She supposed it was a phase, that he would get through it. She would fix it later. Everything would be better later, when this business was done.
Court was scheduled to convene at nine o’clock the next morning. By seven the crowds were assembling in the courtyard, larger than the day before, fueled by newspaper accounts of the trial. Some had spent the night outside the Hôtel de Ville, where an uneasy compromise had been reached in the hours before dawn. Elections were to be held, and there were to be no reprisals against the leaders of the uprising.
For the moment, civil war had been averted.
Half an hour early, at eight-thirty, the prisoner was shown into the courtroom. His lawyers and the prosecutor had been hurriedly summoned from their homes by special messengers, and were hustled into the court through a side door. The court was empty except for Jules and the lawyers. Suddenly the judges filed in and took their seats. Jules was puzzled. Obviously not even Henri had been informed. It was clear the judges had decided not to wait for the crowds. The prosecutor started to object, but the judge silenced him and told Jules to stand. The judge spoke only two more words.
Non coupable. Not guilty.
Jules heard it with numb relief. It was done that quickly, without speeches or explanation, a swift climax to his long nightmare. He closed his eyes. Again the outraged prosecutor leapt to his feet, but the judges were already departing. Outside, the crowd sensed that something was developing, and a few spectators entered the courtroom. Like a brush fire the news spread through the assemblage, producing disbelief and shock. They had come for blood and had been denied. The morning’s ennui was to have been punctuated with a firing squad. All the smart money knew it. Only pay offs and corruption could have managed such an outcome.
Henri and the boys were approaching the court just as Jules was leaving. He was under an escort of guards who pushed their way through a crowd pulsing with malice. From atop the carriage Paul saw his father in the middle of the throng. The boy must have absorbed more than he thought the previous day, because he read the mood of the crowd and knew instantly what it meant.
“They’re letting him go!” he cried in jubilation. He leapt from the carriage and plunged into the multitude, ignoring the count’s shouts to stop. He made his way through a forest of legs and arms to Jules. “We’re going home!” Paul said in a half-question, half-statement.
“Oui,” the colonel nodded. “We’re going home.” He said it dully. His eyes were listless, his spirit low. His happiness at seeing Paul could not overcome the awful sadness that engulfed him. During the long dark hours of his captivity he had often wondered how it would feel to be set free. It wasn’t to be like this, not at all. The glorious delight of liberation he had expected was missing, choked away by the loathing of the crowd. He felt cheated and empty.
Paul followed him closely as he made his way to the carriage. The shouts got uglier as they went. “Déserteur! Traître! Allez au diable!” The crowd was becoming a mob. People jostled and pushed and ripped at Jules’s uniform. One tore an epaulet from his shoulder. The motion startled Jules from his reverie. Without thinking he hit the man, whose jaw shattered with a crack. He collapsed on his back, the crowd around him incensed at the colonel’s brutality. With growing concern for Paul’s safety, Jules took him by the hand and began shoving his way along, pulling Paul in his wake.
“Quickly!” Henri called desperately, seeing that the situation was getting out of hand. Jules heaved his son onto the carriage and leapt aboard himself. Henri lashed the horses, and the carriage lurched against the crowd that was surrounding it. The guards had melted away altogether, abandoning the square to its own passions.
“It was all fixed!” a man shouted. “Justice bought and paid for by the Count deVries!” “À bas la noblesse! À bas le gouvernement! Vive la Commune!” The crowd roared and the horses drawing the carriage whinnied in fright. Pebbles began to fly. The colonel took one on his forehead that drew blood. Terrified, Paul and Moussa huddled on the floor of the carriage. Determined hands grasped the sides of the carriage and tipped it back and forth, hoping to overturn it. Henri pushed relentlessly on, turning his whip on two men who tried to grab the harness. They fell away and the carriage moved out of the square.
As the angry gauntlet faded behind them Jules looked to be sure the boys were all right, then down at his hands. With surprise he saw they were trembling. They hadn’t ever done that before, not in Africa or Italy or in the face of Delescluze. His temples were throbbing. The carriage passed quickly through the city. He stared out into the cold November day. It was a different Paris than the one he had left on his way to war. He didn’t know her anymore, nor she him.