You live among jackals. they will forget you, and turn on you, and eat you alive.”
Every night Delescluze came to him, mocking, taunting. Every night he said it again: “Your world is finished.” The colonel laughed at the absurd notion, secure in his empire, unafraid, unbelieving, and spit in his face. A gust of wind blew up and turned the spit around in midair and it landed back on Jules’s cheek. Delescluze shrieked with laughter when he saw. “You wear it so well, Colonel.”
He awoke in his recurring fog of pain. His head screamed and his temples pounded. His tongue was thick. His throat and mouth were dry and tasted hideous. He squeezed his eyes shut in dread of the new day. He had no desire to face it. His days were running sores that ran together, one after another, the next just like the last, tomorrow more of yesterday, today just the same, stuck in between. He hated waking up. The room was dark. He was alone now, the other side of the bed empty. Had Elisabeth been there? He didn’t remember. He doubted it. She didn’t sleep in their bed anymore. He wasn’t sure if she slept in the château, either. It didn’t matter.
He dragged himself from his bed to a sitting position, and with a supreme effort stood up. Too soon, too dizzy. He sat down again and held his head in his hands. How could it hurt so much? He had no idea how much he’d had to drink the night before. Where had he been? In? Out? Had someone been there with him? Dim memory, of Paul and dinner. No, that was the night before. Someone was yelling, someone’s face was in his face, and he’d gotten angry and – had he hurt anyone? He didn’t think so. But he didn’t know. That was the worst part, not knowing whether the savage had struck or not. He couldn’t imagine striking someone in his family. As angry as he’d gotten over the years, he’d always kept his temper under control, neatly buttoned up and stored inside, and when it was too much there were always his troops to take it out on. But even they had never felt the back side of his hand. They got extra drills or short rations or stood all night in the rain. He shuddered, feeling it deep down to his soul. He’d hit Paul. He knew it. He didn’t remember doing it, couldn’t see it in detail, but he knew he had. What in the name of all reason would make him hit Paul? There was nothing, nothing at all, but he got so angry and he fed the anger liquor and the liquor took over and he couldn’t stop himself, didn’t know what was happening. There was a stranger inside him, a stranger who lived in the bottle and came out with the liquor, a stranger with a face of wrath and powerful hands and terrible venom, and the stranger’s fury built up until it was blind and then nothing on earth could stop it.
When he was conscious he felt old and tired and lost. It was an effort to do even the simple things, like dressing or eating or brushing his hair. His appetite, always so robust, had left him. He wandered around the house, entering rooms without knowing why he went in. He leafed through Henri’s journals but the pages were blurred, the subjects lost. He stared at the labels on the cans and jars in the pantry. He sat in a chair and listened to the squirrels running on the roof.
When he could he avoided his son, whose company he desperately wanted, but he didn’t know how to talk to the boy. He had no idea what to say. He had had no idea for years, really, and the words had always come in a trickle. Only now the words had dried up altogether, and when their eyes met it was the father, the stranger, who dropped his gaze first. It was the most horrible of feelings, to be mute and ashamed before one’s son.
He sat on his bed and was sick. It came quickly, the bile rising in his throat. He stood too quickly and staggered a few steps to the chamber pot. He sank to his knees and put his arms around it, his face just above it, and threw up again and again, retching a horrid yellow vomit that wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t let him alone and racked his guts and made him cough and heave. He rested his cheek on the cool brass until the misery passed. He got to his feet and poured water into a wash-stand to rinse himself. The water felt soothing, but nothing would truly diminish his agony but time. He didn’t know anymore if time would do it, either.
He saw the blinds were not drawn. It was still night out. The château was quiet. Exhausted, he returned to his bed, and then he saw the papers crumpled on the dresser. In a wave of horror it all flooded back; he remembered the night before, at least some of it, and he felt the despair welling inside him once again.
Elisabeth would not be there. Not tonight, not ever again. He had discovered what she had done. He had been looking in a closet for one of his bottles when he overturned a box with papers in it. The seal of the diocese was imprinted in bright red wax, and when he saw his own name on it he had read it. He had already been drinking, and it took a few moments before he was certain he understood. He read it and then re-read it, until there could be no mistake. An extraordinary amount of money to be paid by the Church so long as either Jules and Elisabeth deVries lived, half that much to Paul should they die.
When Elisabeth came in he showed her the paper. The color drained from her face and she snatched it away.
“It is nothing for you to be concerned about, dear,” she said lightly. “You have enough on your mind. I am taking care of it,” and she turned to go.
“Do not tell me it is nothing to be concerned about,” Jules thundered. “I have read it. Tell me what it means. I have a right to know.”
“You’re so difficult when you’re drunk,” she said, once again turning to leave, but he grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around.
“You will not do this to me! I am not so drunk I can’t understand there is something wrong in that paper. Tell me what it is!”
Elisabeth sighed. So he had found out. She knew he would, sooner or later. So it was to be sooner, then. “Very well,” she said, “you are right. You have a right to know what has been done for you.” She sat on the bed and calmly told him of her business with the bishop. She was light and matter-of-fact and told him everything. Jules was so stunned he forgot his bottle and collapsed heavily in a chair. For a long time he couldn’t speak as he tried to absorb it.
“How could you do this to Henri?” he asked at last. “How could you? He is our family. He has provided us a home.”
“He has done nothing for us. This was your father’s home. How gracious that your brother should deign to share it with you and your family. He keeps the family fortune, which he has not earned. What a great and good and noble man he is, your brother.” Her voice was bitter and laced with sarcasm.
“He is the count. It is all his by right. You know that.”
“What I know is that you made a terrible mess of things, Jules, and that you were in prison, on trial for desertion. I did what I did to get you out of that. I did it for our family. Our family.”
“Henri is our family,” Jules said dumbly.
“Your family, perhaps. But he has done nothing for me, or for Paul. And besides, he can afford what has been done. It makes barely an iota of difference to him, and all the difference to us.”
“Why didn’t you simply ask him? He would have done anything. He would have helped, of course. He did everything in his power for me.”
Elisabeth laughed scornfully. “He is weak, Jules. He does nothing that is not proper. He reeks of order. He never would have interfered to save you from a firing squad in the way that I did, the way it had to be done. Mon Dieu, Jules, he was counting on justice to set you free. He was blind to what was happening. Would you rather have faced the firing squad? I did what had to be done. Your brother hired the lawyers but it was I who saved you. And in the process I provided for our future. I did it for us, Jules. Don’t you see that? Don’t you know it? I want us to be whole again. I want us to be free. I want our family to have what it deserves.” She stood and crossed the room. She knelt before him and tried to throw her arms around him, to persuade him into acceptance of what she had done.
Savagely he pushed her away. He was reeling at her revelations, not the least of which was that she had bought his freedom. She had shattered his belief that he had been acquitted because it was right, and because the charges were ludicrous, and because he was not guilty. But the ugly allegations of the newspapers and the crowds had been right all along: the verdict had been purchased. Jules had always lived his life by the book, and if he had been stuffy or stilted, there had been no fuzzy edges. Now he trembled at his own naïveté. He knew nothing of his world, or anyone in it.
“You think I could countenance this? Did you think for a moment that I would turn my back on my own brother?”
“I thought only that you would care for your wife and son, Jules.”
“My God, Elisabeth.” He looked at her through heavy eyes. His shoulders sagged and he slumped in his chair. “I had no idea. You have always worked your little intrigues with the world, always tried to have your way. I let you do it myself, more times than I can remember. But this – this is evil, what you have done. Truly evil. I honestly don’t know whether I am more upset discovering you are capable of this, or finding out what a stupid man I am.” He shook his head sadly. “I shall tell Henri, of course. What you have done will be undone.”
The sense of finality in his voice was clear, his tone unmistakable. His mind was made up, and he would not waver. Elisabeth knew she had lost, that further argument was futile.
“You will only do harm to your son and wife.”
“You are not my wife, Elisabeth. My wife died a long time ago, and I never knew it. I will provide for my son as I have always done. He will never be wealthy, but he will be fine, in spite of this, in spite of what you have done to him. To our name.”
Elisabeth stood, her eyes flashing in anger. She clutched the precious paper in her hands. “Tell him if you wish. It will do you no good. It is done already, and will not be undone by you or the count. You are an idiot, Jules, a little man. I despise you. Go bury yourself in a bottle.” The rest was blurry in his memory. He knew he had exploded in rage, and that he had struck at her, struck with all the pent-up fury and helplessness he felt. There was a broken table. Her violet drapes were crumpled on the floor, and a plate lay shattered at the foot of the bed. He couldn’t remember how that had all happened. He remembered the shouting. And he remembered that she had not shed a tear, and when she left the look she gave him was one of hatred and satisfaction. He had had a lot to drink then. He knew because of the way he felt now. The bile came again, sudden and furious. He curled up on the floor around the chamber pot, gagging and heaving until his insides hurt.
When it had passed he felt better. He lay there for nearly an hour without moving, his eyes open but unfocused. He got up and cleaned himself again. He wandered around his room for a few moments, unsure of what he wanted to do. Aimless, always aimless. It was still early, just after midnight. Sleep would not come again, not without the bottle. He looked at it on the dresser and reached for it but then stopped. The thought of more made him nauseous. Extraordinary. Even I have had enough.
He stopped in front of the mantel, where his sword had always hung, the sword with the ivory handle and eagle’s head. The weapon had belonged to his father, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather before that. Its long blade had shed the blood of the enemies of France at Waterloo, and in the Crimea. It had shed the blood of the sons of France, during the Great Revolution. He himself had carried it on three continents. For all the flesh and bone the sword had carved, its blade had always gleamed razor-sharp, ready to bring honor to the man who wore it.
Now there was an empty spot where it had hung. He had lost the sword, like so much else, to Delescluze.
He had another sword, one that had been presented to him after the Italian campaign. He took it from its wooden box in the closet, and sat in the chair by the window. He had a view out through the great stand of chestnut trees that ran down the long drive toward the river. A crescent moon gave just enough light that he could see the naked branches stirring in the breeze. The leaves had all fallen and the trees were barren, ready for their white mantle of winter. He pulled open the window. The wind was cold and filled the room with the late autumn night. The papers on the dresser blew off in a flurry. It was quiet outside, peaceful. He sat there for hours without moving, his head aching horribly but clearing with time.
He found himself holding the toy soldier Paul had made him a lifetime ago. From the day Paul gave it to him in the train station he had kept it with him. While it had been in his pocket an empire had fallen and Delescluze had worked his demented scheme. It had been his companion in a cell, and had seen his career die, and his marriage. He turned it over and over, the little soldier with a twig where its arm should have been and a walnut shell for a helmet and buttons painted down the front. The soldier gave him its silly grin. Jules had gotten fond of looking at it, that grin, and over time the face had taken on character, and had its own stories to tell. The piece of wood he had received from his son had become something more with time. Paul had done a wonderful job with it.
The hours passed slowly for the colonel in the chair. He wondered how it had all gone so horribly wrong, what he had done to have made things so desperately bad for so many people. He despaired at ever making it right again. His men dead, all dead. The private Etienne too. His marriage over. His own brother cheated by his wife. His son a stranger to him. The Imperial Guard, to which he had devoted his life, disbanded and discredited. His very identity, his sword, unwanted even as Prussians stood at the gates of the city. His name cleared by a court that had been paid for its verdict. His name reviled by the public, a public that was fickle and cruel and made his life hell. Delescluze had done everything he had set out to do. Somehow the crazed words of the curse had come true.
It is not you I wish to destroy, Colonel. It is your honor.
The hours crawled with his nightmares, and his devils swirled around him and fueled their fires until the flames licked hot at his soul. His eyes and his hands kept coming to rest on the sword. It had been a long and monstrous road, and now, with the steel blade in his hands, he began to allow himself finally to see its end. The thought had come to him more than once during the last few months. He’d always pushed it away, at first with outrage and revulsion and absolute conviction. But over time the thoughts had come more often, and his protests had grown weaker. He grew less frightened of it, and then, he didn’t know exactly when, he stopped protesting altogether. As he sat before the window the thought persisted and wouldn’t leave him. When at last he allowed it in, when it washed around him and through him, he felt its blessed relief, and his sadness almost passed from him. He was so tired of it all, so tired of fighting, so tired of his living death. So easy to end it, so easy except for Paul, and Paul alone. And yet he knew that Henri had always been as much a father to the boy as he had. A better one, in many respects, and Serena spent more time with him than his own mother did. Paul would suffer, yes, but in the end he would be better off.
He rose from his chair and with a sense of purpose he had not felt for months made his preparations. He sat at his desk and drew out writing paper and a pen. He wrote a letter to his brother in which he explained what had happened with his property, in as much detail as he could remember from what Elisabeth had told him. He apologized for the burdens he had placed upon them all, and was placing upon them yet again. He asked that Henri continue, as always, to watch out for Paul. When he was finished he wrote another letter, to Paul, and sealed them in separate envelopes.
He went to his wardrobe and carefully laid out his dress uniform. It was pressed and clean, the jacket bright white next to the crimson pants, the gleaming belt and red sash, the ribbons and decorations colorful markers of his life. He dressed with precise movements and careful attention to each detail, making certain that everything was exactly as it was supposed to be.
When he had finished he looked critically at himself in the mirror. Everything was perfect. He took his pistols from their cases and strapped on his sword. He shut the window to his room, so that the rest of the château would not be chilled. He closed his door quietly and went down the hall. He set the letters on a stand in the entry where he knew they would be seen, and then he went upstairs.
He walked softly down the long dark hall. He needed no light for he knew it well, this hall that passed by rooms so full of memories. He and Henri had played there as boys. They had grown up and sons had been born and mothers and fathers had died. He found the doorknob and turned it silently and went inside.
Moussa was asleep, snoring lightly. Paul was in the other bed. The curtains were open, and the moon cast its pale light into the room. Jules went to stand beside Paul’s bed. He stared at his son, at the tousled hair so bright against the pillow, at the face that could be so expressive, that had so much innocence. He felt himself losing control, his throat constricting with anguish. He wanted to wake Paul, to talk to him, but he knew the words would not come, that it was better this way. He leaned down and gently brushed back the hair from Paul’s forehead. He started to kiss him, but drew back. For long moments he stood there, fighting with himself. And then he turned and walked silently to the door. With his hand on the knob he hesitated for just an instant, as if he was going to turn around. But then his shoulders straightened, and he walked out and pulled the door closed behind him.
In the stable he saddled one of the horses. It was an old stallion that had once been full of temper and pride, but whose fires had dimmed with time. Like my own, he thought. He went through the motions automatically, without thinking. Blanket, saddle, cinches – everything checked and double-checked, everything just so, the way that he had taught a thousand men to do. When he was ready he took the reins and led the horse outside and closed the doors. Effortlessly he mounted, adjusting the sword at his side. Horse and rider moved slowly past the château. Jules knew the trees, the roof, every inch of the grounds. He had always loved it. It didn’t matter that it had not been his on paper. It had always been his anyway.
The eastern sky was streaked with the first glow of dawn as Jules passed through the Bois de Boulogne. He rode quickly, wanting to reach his destination while night was still on his side. He passed camps of soldiers whose sentries were barely awake, and who watched him pass in silence. At a trot he passed Neuilly, and Villiers, and St.-Ouen, and around the base of the great Fort de l’Est near St.-Denis. When he arrived at the outer limits of the French lines, a lone sentry stood at an outpost to block his way, uncertain why this man would be about at this hour of the morning, and, more particularly, why he would be going in that direction.
“You cannot pass here, sir,” the boy said nervously. “This road is closed to all traffic. Orders of the commandant, sir.”
“Get out of my way, Private,” the colonel responded, and the boy, hearing the unmistakable voice of authority, did as he was told. Jules rode by without breaking stride. He left the road and passed earthworks and old artillery encampments and through empty fields. It was all deserted, eerily quiet. No one ventured between the lines, not here, not anymore.
The sun was almost up when Jules stopped and pulled out his spy-glass. Slowly he scanned the horizon until he found what he sought. There was a peasant’s cottage, with low fortifications to each side. He could see a sentry wearing the distinctive helmet, sitting with his back propped against a wall of the cottage. For long moments the sentry didn’t move. He was sound asleep. The pride of the Prussians, Jules thought. He placed the spyglass back in its sheath. He gauged the angle of the sun, calculating exactly where it would rise, wishing to use it to best advantage. He drew his sword and leaned over to pat his horse on the neck. It was something he always did before a battle, to calm the animal’s nerves, to let him know it would be all right. “We’re a small regiment, you and I,” Jules said. “We’ll have to do this alone, and well.” He sat silently, erect and motionless. He closed his eyes and smelled the morning air. He smiled. The first rays of the rising sun struck wispy light clouds along the horizon and shot them through with pink. He felt the welcome warmth on his back. The sun would be behind him, square in the eyes of the enemy. He watched as its light found the roof of the cottage, then crept downward until it gleamed off the sentry’s helmet.
With a furious kick Jules spurred his horse. The old animal stumbled but then found its footing. First a trot, then a full gallop as they raced across the plain, gathering speed. Arms at order, Jules told himself in the litany of a cavalryman’s preparation as he flew into battle. The horse’s hooves were muffled in the soft soil. Ranks tight, all together. Jules became oddly detached from himself, as though he were an observer, not a participant. He felt a floating sensation, the lightness of a bird in flight. Knees close, find the next boot. The wall was before them. Set your mark. His sword came up, and they took to the air.
The Prussian sentry never knew what hit him as Jules and his horse soared over the fortifications. His head had been severed before he could raise the alarm. His helmet clanked to the ground, the sound lost in the roar of thundering hooves. Some of the men inside the cottage stumbled out, astonished looks on their faces aswere cut down, one after another, by the mad colonel of the Imperial Guard whose sword swung repeatedly through the air. He fired at them with a pistol and hacked at them with his blade, no sound coming from his lips, his eyes set in savage determination beneath his helmet as he waded through their surprise and confusion, a fearful dervish raining terror and death in the dawn. Four had fallen by the time one got off a shot. It struck Jules in his arm and he dropped his sword. With his other arm he raised his pistol and fired back, and a fifth infantryman died. Then there were other shots from the cottage and the Prussian rifles began to find their marks as horse and rider whirled through the camp. Jules took a bullet in the chest, and another in his thigh. His heart pounded and he fired and fired. He was hit again and felt numb. The world swirled around him and his horse staggered to its knees, and they both crashed to the ground, Jules hearing nothing as he floated downward through the dust, a strange silence settling over him, a heaviness overtaking his arms and legs as men shouted and he came to rest on his back. He tried to move and couldn’t. Nothing worked anymore. He stopped firing, stopped hacking. His fingers twitched and his eyes settled on something in the sky. There was peace now. He was warm and calm. A Prussian stood over him, pointing a pistol at his face. Jules tried to move his lips, to say something, but then the gun roared.
Later, going through the pockets of the madman, one of the Prussians found a toy soldier. He looked at it and thought what common craftsmen the French were. No wonder they’d lost the war. A toy. It was pathetic, not worth keeping. He tossed it away. It fell into the trench, the trench being dug to bury the men killed by the lunatic who had shattered the breaking dawn with such fury.