“It is finished.”
Count Otto von Bismarck, minister-president of Prussia, took a drink of schnapps and sat back heavily in his chair. He was in a dimly lit room on the second floor of the Schloss Charlottenburg in Berlin, eating a late dinner of blood sausage and bread with his ill-humored but brilliant chief of staff General Helmuth von Moltke and the minister of war, Count Albrecht von Roon.
It would have been difficult to find three more crafty, powerful, or intelligent men in a room anywhere on the Continent that evening. Over a six-year period they had reshaped the balance of power in Europe, redrawing maps, playing royalty like puppets on strings, throwing hundreds of thousands of men into battles that would fashion the future of two continents.
Yet the mood in the room was somber, for there was very real danger of peace with France. Peace would upset Bismarck’s plans. Peace could end the grand scheme he had carefully tended for years. He was possessed by the dream of a united Germany, a reich dominated by Prussia. A reich of which he would become chancellor. To accomplish this he had to unite swarms of independent principalities and dukedoms, many of which had tiny armies and lone generals. The process had begun with a war against Denmark, which the German confederation – of which Prussia and Austria were the strongest members – had won handily.
His plan flowered at Sadowa, a massive and bloody battle on the Bohemian plain that pitted the Prussians against their former ally Austria in a struggle to become the pre-eminent power among German-speaking people. Sadowa had been a huge gamble. Under the Hapsburgs, Austria was regarded, after France, as the most powerful nation on the Continent. There was no assurance whatever that Prussia would win, or that Bismarck would not end up on the gallows. But Bismarck was not one for the safe path. He had gambled, and in a few short weeks he had won. From the victory he had forged the North German Confederation. The balance of power had shifted again. Europe trembled.
What remained of his task was to bring the southern German principalities into the union. This he intended to accomplish by drawing their common enemy, France, into a war. The opportunity presented itself when a junta of Spanish generals overthrew Queen Isabella of Spain. Bismarck had connived with the generals to offer the Spanish throne to Prince Leopold, the nephew of Prussia’s King Wilhelm. France already faced Prussians in the northeast. If Leopold accepted, she would have to face them in the southwest as well, and German influence would spread on the Continent.
And that, Bismarck knew, would lead to one of two outcomes. The first was the humiliation of Louis Napoléon, whose position, already weakening among the powers of Europe, would deteriorate further. The second was that France would refuse to suffer such provocation and would instead declare war. Bismarck was banking on the latter.
“The French ego,” he had assured the generals, “will never tolerate bratwurst on two borders. They will puff their chests and draw their swords and test your armies again.”
“The French army is larger than ours,” von Moltke reminded him. “They will not fall so easily as the Austrians.” The president laughed derisively. He had once shared the popular opinion that Napoléon was a man to be feared and respected. But no more. He had seen him vacillate in international affairs and stumble badly. His court was corrupt. Reports of his illnesses and dissipation were widespread. He was a man who preferred to follow the flow of events, rather than to shape them as had his uncle Bonaparte. A feeble man at the head of an unraveling empire.
“I have looked into the emperor’s eyes,” said Bismarck. “They are empty. He is a sphinx without a riddle. His country is no better. From a distance France is stunning, but when you get up close there is nothing there at all. And when they realize we have insulted their precious dignity, they will do as they always do. They will fight. Only now they will show up for battle wearing nothing but honor for armor and pride for a sword. And we shall raise the whole of Germany against them.”
Bismarck’s generals needed little persuasion of their own superiority. They were confident of their troops. For four years, since Sadowa, they had been rearming, preparing, planning. As generals always did, they wanted more time. But when time ran out, they would be ready.
Now events – and their own sovereign – were threatening their grand plans. The French had indeed puffed their chests and rattled their swords. They had been outraged. They had been insulted. Their foreign minister had threatened war.
King Wilhelm did not share Bismarck’s enthusiasm for war with the French, at least not over this issue. Prince Leopold himself had been lukewarm about taking the Spanish throne, for the situation there was unsettled.
So Wilhelm had blinked.
“It is finished,” Bismarck repeated, the resignation heavy in his voice. “The king has backed down. Leopold has renounced any claim to the throne.”
“I thought you had secured the cooperation of his father,” said von Roon.
“As did I. I persuaded his father by appealing to his sense of duty as a Prussian. And his father persuaded him. It was done. Leopold had asked King Wilhelm to allow him to accept, and Wilhelm agreed. But then Wilhelm changed his mind.”
Bismarck shook his head in anger. “Gott in Himmel, Wilhelm lacks spine. He has buckled under his fear of the French. He has no stomach for the unknown. If the king grants further concessions to the French, I shall have no choice but to resign.”
At that moment an aide appeared through a heavy paneled oak door. He approached the table and saluted.
“Herr Minister, an urgent telegram.” He held out a tray to Bismarck, who took the envelope from it and opened it.
“It is from the king, through the foreign office.” The king was taking the waters at Ems. Bismarck silently read a few sentences. “It appears the French ambassador approached him today.” He read further, shaking his head in wonder. “Mein Gott, but they are insolent. Evidently the king’s assurance that he is withdrawing his support of Leopold is not enough for them. They asked Wilhelm to guarantee that Leopold will never seek it again. And they have asked Wilhelm to apologize.”
“Apologize?” said an incredulous von Roon. “For what should he apologize? The king has done nothing in this matter but what the French themselves have asked!”
Bismarck was not paying attention. He was still reading. “His Majesty has rejected their demands,” he continued. “He has decided not to receive the French ambassador again. He wants to know if I think we should communicate the latest demand and the king’s rejection to the press.” He passed the telegram to the others and fell silent, thinking.
“Even for the French, unbelievable arrogance,” spat von Moltke. “Of course, Excellency, this should be reported to the press at once. The public will see their demands as outrageous.”
“It will accomplish nothing,” said von Roon. “It is mere posturing now. The cause is lost.”
But a smile was taking shape on Bismarck’s face. There was new light in his eyes.
“Gentlemen, this telegram should not be released to the press.”
“I think you are wrong, Exc—” started von Moltke. Bismarck raised a hand to silence him.
“I said this telegram should not be released.” He rose and walked to a desk at the side of the room, from which he retrieved a fountain pen. He returned to the dinner table and pushed the dishes aside. He laid the telegram down and carefully began to edit it. For a few moments his pen made the only sound in the room as he scratched through a few words and added others. When he was done he straightened up in his chair. The look on his face was impassive as he held the revised telegram out for the others.
“Gentlemen, this is what the world shall read.”
Von Roon and von Moltke studied Bismarck’s work. The realization of what he had done dawned slowly upon them. Their eyes took on a look of admiration as they understood. He was an artist. He had taken the king’s simple refusal to see the ambassador and turned it into an outright insult to the French. It would be more than the French could bear. They looked in awe at Bismarck. No one but he would have dared.
No one else had the balls.
“It is brilliant,” was all that von Moltke could say.
“A red rag for the Gallic bull,” acknowledged Bismarck with a modest smile. He poured them each more schnapps, and raised his glass in a toast.
“To a united Germany,” he said. “Gentlemen, we shall have our war after all.”
General Bernard Delacroix entered his carriage in the courtyard of the Tuileries, the palace of Napoléon. The general was a member of the emperor’s elite Imperial Guard. He was heavyset with a round face and florid features from too many days of leisure and too many nights of excess.
“Le Château deVries,” he ordered his driver, and settled back to enjoy the drive. It was a beautiful summer evening. The sky was cloudless and deep blue. The shadows of the setting sun lengthened across the courtyard.
The general was bone tired. For weeks he had barely ventured from the Tuileries. Tonight he would take a welcome break from the relentless pace and attend a party. Count Henri deVries was returning from Russia and had passed through Berlin along the way. The general wanted to get his sense of the preparedness of the Prussians. But there was another reason, a far more compelling reason he was attending: it was Elisabeth, luscious Elisabeth, the wife of Colonel Jules deVries, the count’s brother. Elisabeth, lovely Elisabeth, blond and willing. Elisabeth, wild and ambitious and brazen. The general stirred in his seat and felt himself growing excited at the thought of her. He smiled at her persistence, wishing his own officers had her spirit. With the Prussian situation the general was accepting no social invitations, but Elisabeth had taken great pains to ensure his presence, first sending a note and then stopping by the Tuileries personally. Brandishing her parasol like a sword and her resolve like a club, she’d bullied his aide into accepting her invitation on the general’s behalf. The general didn’t mind, not at all. He was ready for Elisabeth. He would have her. Tonight, in the count’s home, with her own husband nearby. The thought brought a smile to his lips and a shiver to his groin.
His carriage turned to the east outside the palace gate. The route to the deVrieses’ would take him past the best of the city. There was the Palais Royal, and the Garden of the Tuileries, where the band from his own Imperial Guard entertained men and women enjoying the fresh air and strolling along the paths among the flowers and trees and fountains.
He passed beneath the long branches of the chestnut trees that lined the rue de Rivoli and into the Place de la Concorde. His carriage joined a never-ending stream of vehicles rolling along the streets in a dizzying parade of élan and excitement. Coachmen’s whips lashed magnificent purebred English horses drawing the elite of society to and from their affairs: an endless procession of top hats, gowns, capes, and jewels feeding an unlimited supply of parties, masked balls, dinners, operas, musicals, and plays. All the formidable resources of finance, intellect, and culture were brought to bear to prevent that most horrible of French maladies, boredom. The refrain of Paris at Play, a popular musical revue, was heard everywhere: “Without finery and pleasure, we must agree, life is just a stupidity.”
The pursuit of pleasure was insatiable, permeating every aspect of French life, consuming every waking moment: for the rich, an evening at the opera; for the middle class, the cancan at the Bal Mabille; for the poor, a drinking den and twelve-year-old prostitutes, or, more likely, nothing at all.
The general passed through streets that were a carnival of jugglers and magicians and potion peddlers and harlots. Sidewalk cafés were everywhere. At the Café Guerbois one might see Renoir or Zola, while at the Nouvelle-Athenes, the general thought grimly, the traitors Clemenceau or Gambetta might be heard roasting Napoléon. They were becoming bold to the point of disloyalty. They ought to be banished, like the writer Hugo. General Delacroix thought the emperor was too soft on dissidents. He had stopped cleaning France’s house too soon. He should have done to the intellectuals what Haussmann had done to the poor, only instead of the suburbs he should have shown them the guillotine. Even banishment was too easy, an unsure fix that could come undone. Blades and bullets: these solved problems more permanently. Delacroix would have been only too happy to deal with the writers and the painters for the good of the empire, painters like that dandy Manet who slopped the excrement of thinly disguised insults to the emperor onto his canvases, and composers like Offenbach, the half-Prussian who wrote operettas satirizing empires and armies and – yes – generals. It was humiliating. Liberty had gone too far when one couldn’t attend the theater without fearing another assault upon one’s integrity or sovereign or profession.
But it would not come to pass, the general knew, for the emperor was sick and weak, a slave to his Spanish empress, Eugénie, and her intrigues. His hold over the empire was slipping, his prestige among the other rulers of Europe at a low, a low that meant danger for France, for where there was no respect for a sovereign’s fitness or judgment or resolve, there was danger of war. Even in the best of times, Napoléon had never been imposing. Now his miseries were clear to anyone who looked. He could barely walk for his kidney stones. The eyes had lost their luster. The whispers at the palace were louder now. The man was disengaged, drifting in pain, losing his grip. There had been violent strikes and street riots in the spring as a struggle developed between authority and liberty, the poor and the rich. Attacks on the emperor were growing commonplace. The newspapers were full of it, full of the fury of discontent, full of the lies and license of the malcontents. The general shook his head at the outrage.
He passed through the shadow of the Arc de Triomphe in the Place de l’Étoile. In all the world this was his favorite place, a memorial to the great wars of the empire, an affirmation of the might of France, its frieze depicting a procession of conquerors bringing the spoils of war home to the motherland, full of glory past, full of glory present, full of glory to come. As always, the Place was vital and alive and surging with humanity. Here one could find reassurance in troubling times. Here one could see and hear and touch that which the general felt would forever preserve France: men-at-arms, men of power and pomp, men with plumed helmets and golden breastplates and swords and guns; the sky blue tunics and jackboots of the Cent Gardes; Lancers on white horses; officers of the Guides, aristocrats in green and gold with their sabers gleaming in the sun; hussars; the Chasseurs d’Afrique and the Zouaves on their Arabian horses; the Spahis from the Sahara. Everywhere, the mighty trappings of a nation that could deploy a half-million men under arms, fighting men who were the envy of the world. From North Africa to Tahiti, China to Somalia, Madagascar to the West Indies, the armies of France rivaled the English as they sought to fulfill their destiny of acquiring and civilizing the world. Yes, reflected the general, kings and emperors would come and go, but France could always look to her military to serve her interests and protect her God-given role as civilizer of the world. France would muddle through, as she always did.
And muddle through she now must, for there was something new in the air of Paris this evening, a special energy and excitement and sense of danger. One could always find something in the air of Paris – love or lust, revolution or intrigue. Now it was the prospect of war with the Prussians, whose king had insulted France. The affront filled the sidewalks with cocky, swaggering crowds, full of the giddy self-assurance that comes so easily to those who don’t have to fight. Parliament was hot, the press on fire. On street corners and in parks, crowds gathered to listen to impassioned speeches. Notices papered every wall. Rumors fed gossip, and gossip became news, and the news made all France indignant.
It was wonderful to be a military man just then, to enjoy the respect and awe of the masses, who saluted anything wearing a uniform. True to form, the general’s passage brought tipped hats and excited waves amid feverish cries of “Vive la France!” and “À Berlin!” and “Vive la guerre!” After four wars and progressively increasing rank, Delacroix had gotten farther from the battlefield but closer to the glory.
Elisabeth was in ecstasy. This was her party, the party she had worked and hoped for. It was not the party of the year, or even of the month, for this was Paris, after all, but the party of the week perhaps; and for the wife of a colonel, the guest list glittered with promise for advancement for herself and Jules. She had tirelessly leveraged the guest list, first convincing one notable to come, then using that name to persuade someone else, then using both to obtain yet another of even higher stature, until the collective assurance grew that the party would indeed be worth attending.
Henri had been out of the country in Russia, on one or another of his explorations. She didn’t know where or what, but what she did know was that his absence allowed her to dominate the household and take control of its budget and to begin to move things along in her own way. Move them she had. For tonight there was an abundance of help: butlers and cooks, servers and maids, all frantically keeping up with her commands and setting table just so, taking care that all was dusted and arranged and that the candles were lit and the gaslights polished and rugs beaten and floors mopped and shined. There was so much to undo.
She detested the way Henri had, as she put it, “savaged the château.” He was uncomfortable with the affectations of Paris. Upon the death of the old count, he had done away with everything he considered ostentatious or silly, which was to say most of the contents of the house. Stone and wood took the place of frills and satin. Fine carpets were replaced with African rugs. Out went the overstuffed chairs and gilded picture frames and baroque consoles and enameled tables.
She could only watch in dismay as, despite her protests, her brother-in-law stripped the house of its soul. She rescued what pieces she could, and furnished her private rooms in the château as richly as leftovers and a military salary would permit. Not one sou remained after her budget was spent on clothing and furnishings. As a colonel, Jules was well paid, but only as emperor would he have been rich enough for Elisabeth. Had the count not fed them they would have starved, for there was no room in Jules’s salary for Elisabeth’s fashion and food.
Now, with Henri away and a party at hand, the house was hers to remake. She had been clever and determined. Carefully she searched the storerooms and four different attics and found what she needed in dusty trunks that had belonged to the old count; the old man had had a greater appreciation for show than Henri. In the attics she uncovered riches she hadn’t known existed: enameled glass goblets, deep blue in color, with hand-painted miniature portraits from the court of Louis XIV; matching hard-paste porcelain dishes with exotic patterns of cherubs and carriages and forest scenes; a table of painted pine inlaid with Belgian marble and ebonized fruitwood; overstuffed couches and chairs with carved legs; a tapestry of woven wool and silk. Everything she chose was dusted and cleaned and polished and arranged until the whole house more closely suited her tastes and sense of propriety.
Through all these preparations Serena had stayed out of her way, caring little for the party or the budget. There could not have been a greater contrast between the two women. Serena had been born and raised a nomad. Comfort to her was found by looking inward, while comfort to Elisabeth was strictly an external proposition. Serena was content sleeping on the floor; Elisabeth required a Louis XIV canopied bed in which to recline. Serena was an excellent horsewoman; Elisabeth complained of the beasts’ smell. Where Serena dressed plainly and wore no makeup, Elisabeth changed her clothes six times a day. Each season demanded a fresh set of clothes. Once a month she visited the specialty salons in Paris: first, to be seen doing so; second, to purchase the latest rage – cashmere shawls, cosmetics, or scarlet shoes. She had seven parasols and twenty-three garters and thirty-one pairs of shoes. Innumerable hats filled countless boxes stacked in deep rows in her closet.
Elisabeth found Serena an embarrassment, so painfully… foreign. Elisabeth had trouble introducing her to her friends, for Serena seemed to have no gift for the small talk so central to parlor life. As for her clothes – well, the woman had no sense at all how to dress. At least she had dropped her desert rags and adopted the French style, but she wore her gowns unadorned. Yes, Elisabeth granted, she was ravishing; and it troubled Elisabeth not a little that even without hairdressers and hours of preparation, Serena still managed to look so fresh and beautiful. Elisabeth noticed the way men stole looks at Serena. It was impossible not to notice. However the military men and their wives might criticize Serena behind her back for being so different, a heathen and all, the men all looked at her that way. All of them did, the pigs. Elisabeth was particularly incensed when, on one occasion, she was certain she’d caught her own Jules looking at his sister-in-law. She’d refused to sleep with him for a month, as though somehow that might dim the flames of passion she was convinced he harbored for Serena. If logic was not Elisabeth’s strong point, sex was a weapon she used wisely and well. Owing to his military service, Jules was away for long periods, so that when he came home he was naturally eager to renew the bonds of marriage. If she had anything at all to resolve with him, any scheme or program or plan in which she needed his intervention or cooperation or connivance, that was the time to do it. For in the heat of passion Jules was an animal, and prone to promise anything.
Years earlier, Elisabeth had given up on transforming Serena into a lady, or instilling in her the social graces, dressing her and teaching her the proper demeanor of a countess. An early instinct to help her sister-in-law had been replaced by the realization that the Château deVries needed a lady, a proper lady. She was that lady, and whatever polish Serena lacked added luster to her own. Yet Elisabeth felt somehow cheated by Serena or, more accurately, felt that she and Jules had been cheated by Henri and Serena. For it was Jules who had the bearing of a count, not Henri, and Elisabeth who looked the countess, not Serena. It was only by fault of birth order that Jules was untitled and penniless, whereas Henri held the name and family fortune. The title was entirely wasted on the man. Why, if Jules were count – how she longed for it! – the Château deVries would be returned to grandeur and life would be fine.
Instead, she fumed, she was relegated to the second tier. Instead of a noble wife she was a military wife, forced to spend her time in circles that glittered less than those to which she aspired. Therein lay yet another injustice, a bitter fact of her perpetual orbit at the second level: as the wife of a colonel she could dominate the other wives, the lesser wives, and mold their opinions for them and tend to their attitudes and actions. But as the wife of a colonel she would be forever subservient to the wife of any general, however second-rate or undeserving. That thought was simply too dreadful to bear. So one of her primary missions in life was to promote Jules, to help him think, and to do what she could to keep others out of his way as she pushed and goaded him into becoming all that she needed him to be. He had become a lieutenant colonel at the age of thirty-one, a colonel a few short years later. She required more, much more. She required it faster. Marshal of France by forty would suit her perfectly.
Now her guests filled the great house and affirmed her standing. The party was a huge success, the drive lined with gorgeous carriages and horses, the rooms full of gorgeous people, officers in elegant uniforms, ladies with deep décolletages and elaborate coiffures and jewels, and gentlemen in their knee breeches and silk stockings and evening jackets. The whole house was alive with color and gaiety. If there was fear of the war it did not show here. Here there was only optimism and the sublime glow of self-confidence.
Elisabeth had panicked earlier in the evening, for Henri had not yet arrived, and it was the promise of his presence that had lured some of the guests to her party. She had cut it very close, knowing how far Henri had to travel, and in fact she wasn’t at all sure he would arrive tonight. She stood greeting guests with Jules beside her, and kept looking nervously at the door and making excuses to those who inquired after him. But at last there he was, amid great commotion in the entryway as Moussa flew into his arms. There was a quieter, whispered greeting from Serena that produced a wonderful smile on his face, and then he worked through a succession of guests with Serena at his side. Count and Countess deVries passed easily through the crowd. Henri was a lean, handsome man with strong hands and thick black hair and deep blue eyes alive with intelligence and curiosity and wit. His boots were dusty, and he carried his cape on his arm, but even in traveling clothes he had a presence, a force of personality that dominated the room. At last he stood before Elisabeth, a wry smile on his face. He made a gesture that took in everything: the party and the people, the resurrected furnishings and her defiance of his customs in his absence.
“Well, Elisabeth, I see you’ve managed to stay occupied while I’ve been away.”
“Henri!” She smiled grandly and kissed him on the cheek, “I’m so glad you’ve arrived! I do hope you’re not too exhausted from your trip. There are so many people who can’t wait to see you!” She knew from his look that he was not really angry, that he would tolerate her tonight, and tomorrow promptly restore the house to the wretched medieval state he preferred. But no matter. This night was hers.
“I marvel at the way you make me feel like such a welcome guest in my own home,” Henri said with a laugh.
“But you are a welcome guest, dear Brother! Come now,” she said, taking him by the hand. “You shall have something to eat and drink, and then there are some people with whom you simply must speak.”
“A moment, Elisabeth.” He turned toward his brother. “Hello, Jules.”
“Henri.” Jules shook hands stiffly. His voice boomed and his handshake was like iron. He was a heavyset, muscular man. He had a square jaw and bushy mustache and heavy eyebrows over eyes that were dark and forbidding. He never relaxed, not for a moment. He stood erect as though supported by a steel rod, and walked as though in a parade. There was tension and formality and a certain pomposity in his manner, leaving his junior officers joking among themselves that “the colonel even craps standing up.”
The military meant everything to him. He lived it, breathed it, dreamed it. He was always in deadly earnest, his every action directed toward the fulfillment of his command responsibilities. He was narrow-minded and believed absolutely in the superiority of all things French. He had been born with no sense of humor and smiled only rarely. This often put him at odds with his brother, whose admiration of things French had been tempered by his travels and whose sense of humor was intact.
“How was Berlin?” Jules asked.
“Indeed, Count, we are all curious!” It was General Delacroix, who emerged through the crowd with General Raspail. They were the senior officers present but dissimilar in every other way: Delacroix a big extrovert, Raspail short, slight, and frosty. Delacroix was relaxed and jovial, Raspail tightly coiled and intense. Delacroix’s hair was bushy and thick, Raspail’s parted in the middle and slicked back. Delacroix had a walrus mustache; Raspail’s was pencil-thin, highly waxed, and pointed at the tips. Jules saluted his commanding officer first and then Raspail. The eyes of Delacroix were upon the women. He returned the salute with a perfunctory wave and handed Jules his coat. Raspail quickly followed suit, adding his hat to the top of the pile. A barely perceptible frown crossed the colonel’s face. It was a brief moment of humiliation, being treated like an aide, but there was nothing to be done. He found a passing lieutenant and handed the stack to him. At the same time he diverted a butler with a tray of champagne toward the group.
The generals made their greetings. Delacroix bowed deeply to Serena and kissed her hand. “Madame la comtesse, as always I am honored in the presence of the Saharan jewel.”
“General.”
Delacroix turned to Elisabeth, who blushed as their eyes met. She hoped no one noticed, and extended her hand. “I’m so glad you could come, mon général.”
“It could hardly be otherwise, madame,” said the general with a smile. “My aide informed me of your summons. It was quite unnecessary. I would not have missed it.”
Raspail shook hands with Henri and gave him a vacant smile. Raspail didn’t like the count. He considered Henri a frivolous vagabond without a proper sense of the obligations of nobility, a man who as a count should represent authority and order, yet seemed to disregard both. Raspail had served in the Crimea with Henri’s father, and found little similarity between the two.
Now Raspail’s mind was on Bismarck. “You were going to tell us of Prussia.”
Henri’s face went grim. He’d spent six weeks traveling from Moscow and on the way had passed through Prussia and finally France itself. It was clear both countries were preparing for war, and the contrasts he had seen disturbed him deeply. “Of course, General, but understand my observations were limited. I spent only two nights in Berlin. I have old friends there, but Prussian enthusiasm for French visitors is limited. I looked around as best I could. What I saw was a country urgently preparing itself for war. There were troops and munitions everywhere.”
“There are troops and munitions everywhere in France,” said Jules.
“Of course. I have seen them myself. But there’s a difference.”
“And that is?”
“The Prussians seem quite prepared. They are serious, deadly serious, while Paris seems to be having one of her parties.” Henri took in the room of revelers. “Like this one.”
Raspail dismissed the comment with a frown and a wave of contempt. “Perhaps we can afford our parties more readily than the Hun. We are always ready for war. Just this morning the minister himself assured the emperor that we are prepared to the last gaiter button.”
“Perhaps the minister should have another look. We are not armed like the Prussians. We are not ready like the Prussians. In Berlin, I saw the troops drilling. Their artillery was polished. Their barracks were painted. Ours are run-down, and our men are drunk.”
“Their barracks?” The general’s voice was laced with sarcasm. “You judge them by their barracks? Their barracks will not bear arms against France! Their barracks will not fire a shot, or protect them from our infantry. Their barracks will not plan strategy or save them from the finest army on earth.”
“Pride will not win a war, General,” Henri said, “not against the Prussians. Or have you forgotten Sadowa?”
It was an unpleasant reminder for anyone in the military. Half a million men, more than a thousand artillery pieces. Only eighteen days. Eighteen days for the illusion of Austrian military power to be shattered by the steel spike atop Bismarck’s helmet. France, the only power strong enough to do anything about it, had done nothing. And now Prussia was knocking at France’s door.
One simply didn’t acknowledge such unpleasantries. A proper Frenchman mustered little but disdain for the notion that the Prussians were anything to be feared.
“You make a grave error comparing the Austrians to the French,” said Raspail.
“There is no error about the German armies and their armaments,” said Henri. “In Essen the factories of Krupp are working around the clock. They are not making strudel, General. They are making breech-loading cannons, thousands of them. The railroads are full to overflowing with them.”
“I have seen their cannons,” said Raspail with a dismissive wave. “They had the arrogance to bring them to the Paris Exposition and show them off.”
“Well, then you know they are heavier than anything we use and are quite as deadly as anything on the Continent.”
“Like their wit?” asked Elisabeth, desperately wishing to lighten the atmosphere.
“No, madame, like their food,” replied General Delacroix, and they all laughed.
“Then I fear Bismarck’s table is well set,” said Henri.
“If so, our army shall eat well, Brother,” said Jules. “We are hungry for the glory of the battlefield. We are ready to shed the blood of the regiment for the honor of France.”
Henri stiffened. It was an old argument between them. “It is an honor you seek for yourself and for which you would pay with the lives of boys, Jules. There is no honor in this cause. There is not even a cause in this cause. We need no war with Prussia over the Spanish throne. And even if a war served a purpose here, France is not ready.”
General Raspail replied with all the derision his voice could summon. “It is extraordinary to hear such military wisdom out of the mouth of a man who has never worn the uniform of his country.”
Henri smiled slightly. “I do not need to wear the uniform of France, General, to see that it is made of gold and stuffed with straw.”
Raspail turned purple with rage. The tips of his mustache quivered. With visible effort he sought to quell his fury. “You insult me, Count,” he hissed. “You insult the honor of France with your treason. If it were not for your father…”
General Delacroix put a soothing hand on the little general’s shoulder. “I’m sure the count means nothing of the sort by his remarks, General,” he said, smiling. “It is clear he has no idea of the true balances here. But let us not fight among ourselves. Let us save it for the Hun.”
“You asked for my observations, General,” said Henri, unruffled by the general’s outburst. “I gave them to you. I regret they do not fit with your own.”
“The field of battle will prove you wrong,” insisted Jules. “For centuries others have doubted France’s will or her readiness. For centuries France has shown them wrong. For centuries France has shown the world she knows the art of war.”
“That is your mistake, Jules. You practice the art. The Prussians are making it a science.”
“Then we shall humble the Prussian with art,” said Elisabeth brightly. “And now that we have slain Bismarck and won the war, let us dispose of this topic and speak of something else.”
Above the party, two small voyeurs were having the time of their lives. From one end of the house to the other they crawled, slithering along a dirty wooden floor underneath the rafters, spying on the adults below. Over the years, the hidden passageways that connected the upstairs bedrooms in the Château deVries had yielded new and ever more exciting secrets to the enterprising and endlessly curious boys. Among the surprises was a series of peepholes into some of the downstairs rooms. Even the count, who had spent his own youth crawling through the spaces, had no idea some of the holes existed. They had been cleverly built to blend into the plaster molding that ran around the circumference of every ceiling in the house, and from within any room appeared to be part of the design. The ceilings were quite high throughout the house, so a person standing below them couldn’t make them out very well anyway. Painters who saw them assumed they had something to do with ventilation. But they were not part of the design, nor did they have anything to do with ventilation, for one had to lift a piece of wood from the passageway flooring above to expose them. Small finger-pulls were notched into the ends of the boards to allow them to be lifted. The holes were quite deliberate, installed by some forgotten ancestor for some unknown purpose.
They now delighted and amused the boys, who were directly above some of the guests standing by one of the buffet tables in the dining room. They were peering at something that had held their rapt attention for a few long moments: the immense snowy white breasts of Baroness Celestine de Chabrillan, whose décolletage was so low that she seemed brazen to the other women and practically naked to the boys. The tight bodice of her dress squeezed her breasts upward and together, making them appear like two soft melons separated by a deep canyon, into which flowed a river of pearls. The baroness was engaged in conversation with a minor diplomat from the Austrian embassy, who had drunk too much champagne and could not tear his gaze from her chest.
“What do you suppose they’re for?” whispered Moussa.
“Jacques says you squeeze them,” said Paul. Jacques was a classmate, ten years old like they were, who seemed to know a lot more about the world than they did.
“Yecch.” Moussa made a face in the darkness. “Why would you want to do that?”
“I don’t know.” He thought for a moment. “They look like they’ll pop if you do.”
“Merde,” said Moussa.
“Jacques says you kiss them too.”
“Jacques would kiss anything.”
“I know. I saw him eat a locust once. He looked it straight in the eye and kissed it before he popped it down.”
“Merde,” said Moussa again, not quite sure which prospect was less appealing, the lady or the locust. He sat up and took a small sip of champagne from the bottle they’d stolen from the kitchen. He grimaced at the taste and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. His head felt light. He passed the bottle to Paul, who remained transfixed at the hole.
“Here,” he said. “Take another drink.” Without looking, Paul reached for the bottle. He hit it by the neck and it tipped over. He sat up so quickly that he banged his head on one of the rafters, loosing a shower of dirt into his eyes. Frantically both boys grabbed for the bottle. Together they managed to capture it, but not before it had rolled along the floor and spewed forth a great gush of foam and liquid. A small stream of champagne ran straight for the open board over the peephole. Moussa’s eyes grew wide as the liquid disappeared over the edge.
“Quick! Stop it!” Paul stomped on the stream, and giggled. His boot splattered the champagne all around.
“Shhhh!!!” Moussa started laughing too, but stripped off his shirt and plopped it onto the escaping stream to make a dam.
“Got it!”
In quiet unison the boys crouched over the hole to see what had become of their champagne. It had filled the low point in the plaster molding and spilled through one hole, and then another, making two tiny and short-lived waterfalls that plunged to the room below. One fell onto the shoe of the diplomat, who didn’t notice, the other onto the breast of the baroness, who did. A look of horror crossed her face. With a gasp she stepped back and looked up. The stream died as suddenly as it began.
“Disgusting,” she said, and stormed off, dabbing at herself with a handkerchief and leaving the confused diplomat to his glass of champagne.
General Delacroix had at last maneuvered himself into a corner of the foyer with Elisabeth. It had taken time and patience, for everyone had wanted to question him about the Prussians, and Elisabeth was the charming and gracious hostess. But at last they found themselves together, and alone.
“You look exquisite this evening, Elisabeth,” he said.
“Thank you.” She smiled, discreetly looking past him as she did to make certain no one was paying attention.
“I need you,” he said.
Elisabeth blushed. “Bernard, really, not now.”
“Yes, now. I can’t wait. Let’s go somewhere.”
“Please, be reasonable. There’s a party! I must attend to the guests!”
“I’m a guest, Elisabeth.”
“You know what I mean. My husband is here! We can meet tomorrow.”
“I may be gone tomorrow. The emperor will declare war. There is no time, Elisabeth.” Delacroix was a head taller than Elisabeth, and as he looked down upon her he felt the irresistible stirrings of lust. She was a beautiful woman. He could smell the perfume in her long blond hair, which was piled high in elaborate curls. Her cheeks were soft and flushed, her eyes alluring and her lips full and red. She wore a tight silk dress. She was overpowering.
“We may all be gone tomorrow, Elisabeth,” he pressed, “including Jules. You know I can help him. I want to keep helping him.” Delacroix looked over his shoulder, into the dining room, which was still packed with people. “Besides, he’s not paying any attention.”
It was true. Jules was engrossed in conversation with another colonel. He clutched a large glass of champagne, of which he’d had too many. He would not notice anything amiss in this crush.
It was so dangerous, so outrageous, so tempting. Elisabeth felt no sexual attraction to Delacroix, at least not in the strictest sense of the word. Yes, there was an attraction, but it was more complete than mere lust: it was the promise of power, of advancement of her cause, of the possibility of attaining all that meant anything to her in the world. Delacroix was powerful, and she was aroused by proximity to power, and that excited her sexually; and she looked at the general and her heart beat faster and she began to decide not when, but where.
She was doing it for Jules, of course. It had always been for Jules and his career, for the family, and yes, even for France. They would each do their part, he in the field, she at home, and together they would attain the ultimate mantle she sought, the baton of a marshal of the French army.
She had been sleeping with the general since the Italian campaign, when Jules had received his promotion from lieutenant colonel to colonel. Jules had been assigned to the Italian garrison, and had found himself involved in a skirmish at Mentana. He led a force of nearly brigade strength and had stumbled across a much smaller and poorly equipped company of men who had been separated from their leader, Garibaldi, during a storm. The incident was one of those turnabouts in war that results not from planning or deliberation, but rather from complete happenstance that becomes blind luck. The result said little of Jules’s leadership or lack of it, for there was nothing more involved than utter surprise on both sides. Without firing a shot, raising a sword, or giving an order, Jules had simply been swept along at the front of an impressive tide of Frenchmen and horses that swarmed over a grossly inferior Italian force. It was over almost before it had begun.
Yet in a campaign that had been boring, brief, and seriously deficient in action, the skirmish had matured with each retelling. The details took on more luster, with the outcome of the “battle” appearing ever more uncertain, until by the time they arrived at headquarters the word was everywhere that Jules deVries was a cunning hero and his troops valorous indeed. It was a triumph of illusion. Jules, who had remained with the main force, had no idea why such a stir had developed over a trivial incident; but the general who later presented him with his promotion didn’t press him for details, and Jules knew better than to protest.
Elisabeth had not known which had been the truly important act: her sleeping with the general, which she had resolved to do before Jules had even left for Italy, or Jules’s own good fortune in the field. It didn’t matter, really, for the result was what counted. General Delacroix had been quick to claim credit for the promotion – and in fact had endorsed it enthusiastically – and had since made it clear to her that he had taken to looking after the colonel, to keeping him out of trouble and making certain that opportunity met him square on. The promotion had brought with it assignment to more sedentary duty at Imperial Guard headquarters in Paris, which meant Jules would travel less than before. Elisabeth liked that. It meant he could spend more time with her and Paul.
Not for an instant did Elisabeth consider her trysts with Delacroix an act of infidelity. She was not unfaithful, just practical. When they slept together the first time, in the Hôtel de Ville, in a suite the general had arranged with silk curtains and thick Persian rugs and a stunning Louis XIV four-poster bed, she had begun with some trepidation, for while she knew what she was doing, this was an unknown road full of danger. Her butterflies had flown quickly before his advances. And as she took him inside her that first time, and closed her eyes and realized with whom she was sleeping – that this powerful man sat at the emperor’s side and commanded the legions of France – she grew hot and frenzied and made love like a madwoman. Her long fingernails left deep gashes down the back of the astonished general, who had never known such turbulence and lust in bed.
She had not stopped loving Jules; nor did she love him any less. In fact she felt the opposite had occurred. She felt closer to him than ever, knowing that she had played a pivotal role in their mutual quest to advance his career. She knew Jules quite well, suspecting that his military skills were uninspired and that his past promotions had had more to do with his ability to follow orders without hesitation than with his qualities as a strategist or leader of men. There was nothing wrong with that, for the military depended upon obedience. It was simply that his career could use every possible advantage in its progression. It did not matter to her that in the councils of power, from the Tuileries to the parliament, from the emperor on down, flesh was the currency of the moment, that other women, many of them, were doing the same thing she was to curry favor here or there. She drew no comfort from having so much company, nor did she need it to ratify her own actions. What others did was of no consequence to her.
Elisabeth stood there in the foyer with the general and savored the danger and the thrill and the arousal she felt in a room full of generals and diplomats and nobles. She glanced again over the general’s shoulder. Her pulse quickened. She made her decision.
“Follow me,” she whispered, touching his hand lightly. Briskly she turned and walked to the far side of the entry hall, around the corner toward the kitchen. There was a door to a little-used pantry. As she approached it she hoped she appeared composed. She dreaded the thought of seeing Madame LeHavre, the cook she despised, but the object of her fear was loudly occupied at the far end of the kitchen directing the efforts of the help. Elisabeth opened the pantry door and slipped quickly inside. The general appeared a moment later, closing the door softly behind. There was no latch on the door, but there was a small wooden ladder used to reach the highest shelves. He slid it in front of the door, wedging its cross-brace beneath the handle so the door couldn’t open.
Elisabeth threw her arms around him. The sounds of the house dimmed. Dishes and glasses clinked in the kitchen. There were muffled voices and an occasional shriek of laughter. They kissed long and passionately. Elisabeth fumbled at the general’s clothing while he worked at the catches of her dress. He pulled it off her shoulders and partway down.
They froze as someone jiggled the doorknob to the room. The person gave up, and they heard footsteps disappearing down the hall.
“Ce n’est rien,” she whispered. “Someone’s got the wrong room. But we must hurry!” The general surveyed the room. Two walls were covered from floor to ceiling with brown wooden shelves which held hundreds of cans, bottles, and jars. A canning table stood along the wall at one end of the room. With powerful arms he lifted her off her feet and carried her to it, pulling some aprons from a stack on a shelf as he went and throwing them on the table for a cushion. Frantically he unbuckled his trousers and dropped them, struggling to get them past his erection. He was panting. He lifted her skirts and petticoats and she lay back on the table, arms outstretched.
“Come to me quickly, Bernard,” she said in a low voice, and an instant later he was in her, his hand on one breast, his mouth on the other as he half-stood, half-lay upon her and their bodies began to move together in the steady unison of passion.
Moussa and Paul sat in the semidarkness of the secret passageway, comparing notes on the evening’s espionage and sharing the last of the champagne. They were not drunk, for the spilled bottle had left them little, but they felt content, fuzzy and warm.
“Une soirée magnifique!” announced Paul. He had never seen a party at the château, or anywhere else, but his pronouncement was delivered with the authority of a true connoisseur.
“Merveilleux,” agreed Moussa. “Especially the goose.”
They’d had a wonderful party. They’d spent most of the time in their second-story haunts enjoying their private view, looking down upon bald heads and feathered hats and baroness parts. But they’d also hidden underneath the buffet table, staring out at shoes and pants and petticoats. Paul had started to tie a banker’s shoelaces together, but the man had moved away before he was done. They’d poured vinegar into several open bottles of champagne, and put horseradish in the cake. They’d stuffed their pockets with hors d’oeuvres and gone out behind the house where they sat in the woods, their backs to a tree, and watched the comings and goings of the guests. The shoelaces inspired Moussa to try something similar with the horses. They’d sneaked behind a group of liveried footmen standing near the carriages. Crouching low, they’d tied the tails of some of the horses to the carriages behind them, and then tied harnesses to other harnesses, and managed to create a massive tangle without getting caught.
And then there had been the goose. The boys had been downstairs in the kitchen when it happened. A mongrel dog had slipped through a forest of guests’ legs, underneath the buffet table and through a door to the kitchen, where it had boldly seized an entire cooked goose ready to be carved by Madame LeHavre. She was a stout woman who always wore a plain black dress and a starched white apron, and she could get deadly serious when the mood took her. Her eyes caught fire at the sight of the thief. She grabbed a butcher knife and gave chase to the scrawny dog, which weighed barely as much as the goose flopping around in its mouth. They disappeared through the back door, which had been propped open to keep the kitchen cool, and across the lawn. Madame LeHavre was not a young woman. She moved more quickly than the boys thought possible, but not as quickly as the dog. She took the theft personally and would have carved up the beast if she could have caught it, but the dog was lucky and got away clean. For the boys, if not for Madame LeHavre, it was the high point of the evening. They howled at the memory.
“Thinking of the goose makes me hungry again,” Paul said. “I’m going to the kitchen. I’ll bring something back.”
“Your face is a mess. You’d better let me go, or wash up first.” Even in dim light Paul’s face was covered with dirt and streaked with champagne. It was the kind of attic grime that wouldn’t wipe off, but smeared instead. It wouldn’t do to appear downstairs looking as if he’d been dragged through the dirt, and washing wasn’t something that appealed to Paul just then.
Moussa wasn’t much better. His upper body was covered with dirt, which highlighted a long scar that ran underneath his rib cage where the boar had gored him four years earlier. His shirt, the one he’d used to mop up the champagne, lay in a heap somewhere down the passageway. But his face was still relatively clean. “D’accord,” Paul nodded. “You go. Here. You can wear my shirt. While you’re gone I’ll go back and get yours.” He slipped it off and gave it to Moussa, who pulled it over his head and crawled through the trapdoor into their bedroom.
Paul started back down the passageway. He crawled next to a wall that ran around the back stairwell and continued down the passageway. Along the way he stopped to look through each of the spy holes. He peered into the count’s study. The room was dark. He watched the help in the kitchen, and saw Moussa talking to Madame LeHavre. He noticed a notch in a board that he didn’t remember ever lifting to look through. He lifted the board and knelt down and put his eye to the hole. He saw part of a table and two hands, a man’s and a woman’s. He guessed he was looking into the pantry. He shifted his position to get a better view. Then he saw it clearly, at first not comprehending what he was seeing. But then his brain caught up with what his eyes were seeing and his eyes went wide.
He saw his mother lying on her back on a table, and a man in a uniform – it was a general’s uniform, Paul could see the sash of the Imperial Guard – a general bending over her, his pants down around his ankles. They both were moving back and forth and making grunting noises. And then everything came to him in a blur. He saw her breasts, breasts he’d never seen before, at least not that he could remember, breasts like those on the baroness, but these were his mother’s breasts, breasts uncovered, and her dress was pulled down off her shoulders and the man was holding her and rubbing them and kissing them – he was kissing them – and his mother’s eyes were closed; Paul knew the man wasn’t hurting her, but he couldn’t tell what he was doing, couldn’t tell what that expression on her face meant, and he didn’t know what was happening, except that his mother was with another man in a strange way. And then she kissed him. Paul knew what that was; he’d seen his father kissing his mother one time when they didn’t know he was looking, but this was a different kind of kiss, a lot different than when she kissed Paul. Then he saw his mother’s eyes fly open wide. She groaned and bucked and said, “Oui! Mon Dieu! Oui!” and looked straight up at the ceiling, right to where he was looking back. He panicked and thought she must be looking at him, but then he remembered she couldn’t see him, not through those little holes, of course not, but he jerked back anyway and sat up.
He was breathing hard and his face felt hot and his heart was pounding, pounding so much he could feel it in his ears. It was like the time he’d fallen out of the tree house and had the wind knocked out of him. That time his breath had finally come back to him in great gasps. Now he felt the same way, but there wasn’t a tree house, or a fall. Just his mother and that man. He was terrified too, all tingly and scared. He had no idea what he had seen, only that it seemed to be something private, something his mother shouldn’t be doing with a strange man.
He closed his eyes, which stung with grime, and rubbed them as he tried to make sense of things. He felt ashamed for spying like that, and knew that somehow he’d done something wrong, something terribly wrong, that he shouldn’t have done it, shouldn’t have been looking, but now it was too late, he couldn’t take it back, and he wished he and Moussa had never come here at all, wished he didn’t know about the stupid peepholes and the passageways, wished he were back in the tree house, right now.
Down through the darkness he heard Moussa calling for him in a low voice. “Paul!” There was a pause, and silence. “Paul, where are you? I brought the food! And I got another bottle! Paul!”
Paul didn’t answer. He sat in silence, staring straight ahead. He drew his knees up to his chest and buried his dirty face in his hands, and tried his hardest not to cry.
Four days later Napoléon declared war.
Jules prepared to leave for the front. His days were a blur of activity. He left for the Tuileries early in the morning and didn’t return home until late at night, barely taking time to eat. Even at home, when everyone was asleep except Jules and the boys, officers and soldiers came to see him. The boys watched from their window overlooking the front drive. Everyone was in a hurry. Couriers rode up fast on their horses, right to the front door, and carried messages inside. Their boots clomped in the front hall. There was silence in the house as they waited, and then boots clomped again as they carried messages back out.
Sometimes at night the boys heard Henri and Jules arguing. They didn’t understand what was being said, except that it was something to do with the war. Moussa wanted to go into the passageways to listen, but Paul wasn’t interested. He was finished crawling around in there, he said.
Paul stood in awe of his father, and with the coming of the war supposed he was probably the most important man in Paris just then, excepting maybe the emperor. Jules was the biggest, bravest, most powerful man the boy had ever seen. Paul swelled with pride when he saw other soldiers salute him, or stiffen in his presence, or run to carry out an order. He loved to watch him put on his uniform. His father was meticulous about it, every movement precise and well ordered, every centimeter of cloth pressed, every button shiny, everything just so. When the colonel was out Paul would touch his dress uniform, the sword and pistols and crimson sash, and wonder what it must be like to be a soldier. He dreamed of the uniform he would wear one day.
When Paul had turned eight two years earlier, Jules had begun letting him polish the sword. Paul handled it with reverence. It was over a meter in length and had an ivory handle with an eagle’s head carved in it. It had belonged to his great-great-grandfather, who had used it in the Revolution. He ran his finger down the long blade, lightly so that the razor-sharp steel wouldn’t cut. He used polish and a soft cloth to make it shine until he could see his reflection. After he was finished and was sure he had it perfect, his father would inspect it with a critical eye. The colonel always found a blemish, and lectured him like a recruit.
“Your sword is your companion, your friend. It is an extension of your honor. Show your pride, son. Make it look so.”
Sometimes, no matter how hard he tried, Paul couldn’t see the defect, but he would start over just the same, often having to repolish it three times before the colonel would accept it.
Now, as Jules stood in his bedroom and packed his bags with uniforms and toiletries and papers, Paul polished the sword again. Moussa was with him. The boys shared everything, but not sword duty. Paul let Moussa assist by getting the cloth or holding the polish, but he wouldn’t let him touch the sword.
“Where are they going to have the war?” Moussa asked as Paul worked.
Paul shrugged. “I don’t know. Somewhere they can find Prussians to kill. Prussia, I guess.”
“I bet your father kills a lot of them.”
“About a thousand, probably.”
Moussa whistled. It sounded like a lot, even for Uncle Jules. “How can he get so many?”
“I don’t know. He’ll stab them first. Like this.” Paul lifted the sword with two hands and ran a Prussian through. “I suppose he’ll shoot them, too. Just to be sure.”
“What if they shoot back?”
Paul frowned. “Everybody knows Prussians can’t aim. Prussians are sissies.”
“Didn’t they beat the Austrians?”
“Austrians are sissies too.”
Moussa knew that was true. Everybody said so.
At last Paul finished the sword. He was certain it had never looked so fine. He had Moussa check it first, and even though Moussa didn’t touch it, Paul buffed it again. With great trepidation he took it to Jules, who held it up for inspection. Paul held his breath, expecting the inevitable order to do it over. Jules turned the sword to see both sides. He held it up to the light of the window. The blade gleamed. Paul had done well. It was perfect. But he was not a warm or demonstrative man. He could not permit himself a smile of acknowledgment. He addressed Paul as he would a private.
“Well done.” He nodded brusquely. “It is acceptable.” He set the sword on a table and returned to his packing.
Paul was in ecstasy.
The next morning Jules left before the sun came up. Elisabeth and the boys rode with him to the Gare du Nord. Paul sat in the front of the carriage with his father. Moussa rode in the back with Elisabeth. Since the party, Paul had been distant with Elisabeth. He didn’t know how to look at her or what to say. Being near her made him feel awkward, so he did his best to avoid her. She was preoccupied and didn’t seem to notice.
Even at dawn the teeming streets burned with the fever of war. Their carriage could barely make the passage for the traffic. Hawkers peddled papers filled with Gallic passion. Dogs barked and roosters crowed the cocksure confidence of a defiant Paris. Throngs of soldiers went this way and that, each in a different direction, each on some private mission. Wagons full of ammunition and supplies clogged the roadways and created massive traffic jams.
All the activity of the streets funneled into the railway station. Ordinary traffic had ceased as train after train, regiment after regiment, boxcar after boxcar of supplies was loaded and departed. A ceaseless stream of armed men entered the station. There was no order, only confusion. Men didn’t know where they were going, or where the rest of their units were, only that they were supposed to report to the station. Some were early, some were late, some were at the wrong station. Many were drunk. Some had passed out on the platforms and were pushed aside roughly by the crowds. Women clung to men, and cried their farewells.
Jules made his way angrily down the platform, disgusted by the chaos. Elisabeth and the boys hurried along behind him, waiting as he stopped to chastise a drunk or order men to move wagons or boxes to make way for the traffic. It was hopeless, but Jules was Jules, and he would try: “You there! Move those crates! Corporal! Have that man picked up and brought into the station! See he’s placed on report… Where is your commanding officer?… Where is your rifle?… Who’s in charge here?”
None of it did much good. Some of the men sneered and made rude gestures as the colonel passed. Paul saw it, and wondered and worried. Moussa gawked at everything. Elisabeth wore a pained expression. She stepped gingerly around the drunks and the garbage and the boxes and did her best not to let any of it touch her, and wished she’d had the sense to bid Jules farewell at home. But at last they arrived at his platform. The train was just backing in, so they had to wait. Paul stood next to his father and watched as the locomotive belched smoke at the ceiling. Its shrill whistle echoed through the great hall. Clouds of steam billowed out from between the cars, enveloping the platform in a white misty shroud.
Without thinking Paul started to take his hand, but the colonel pulled away. “You are too old for that,” he said, without looking down. Paul dropped his hand and felt his face flush. The excitement of the day was being replaced by the reality of his father’s departure. It was just beginning to sink in: he was going away. Paul wouldn’t see him for a while, maybe a long while. Paul didn’t know how long wars took. He’d asked Moussa, who hadn’t known either but suggested they ask Gascon, who usually knew everything. But Gascon had only shrugged and said, “As long as it takes.” Paul felt a lump in his throat. He wished he could go.
Elisabeth stood next to Jules. Her face was bright and showed no strain. She had long since stopped worrying about his dying in battle. She was so certain that he would become a marshal of France that death must, of course, take a back seat to destiny. This war was a blessing. It was what she needed, what they needed. War sped promotions as peace never could. She was saying au revoir to a colonel, and would greet a general upon his return. She smiled at her husband as he was about to leave.
“I am certain you will bring us honor, Jules.”
Jules kissed her stiffly on both cheeks. Public displays of affection made him uncomfortable. “I shall write as affairs permit,” he said.
“Kill lots of Prussians, Uncle Jules!” said Moussa.
Jules waved. As he was about to step up into the train, Paul rushed up to him.
“Wait, Father, I forgot! I made you a present!”
With a broad smile he held it up to the big man. He had carved it himself from a piece of oak. It was crudely done, but recognizable. It was a toy soldier. An arm had broken off, so Paul had taken a straight piece of a twig and fashioned it into a rifle with a bayonet, and pasted it where the arm would have been. He painted a face on it, and the buttons of a uniform down the front. He used a walnut shell for a hat. The soldier had a small smile on its face.
Jules turned it over in his hands. It touched him, and he knew how long Paul must have labored over it. But his expression remained impassive. He regarded it with the same eye he used when Paul polished his sword.
“It is chipped,” he said. “And our troops don’t wear hats like that. You should pay more attention.” He slipped the soldier into his pocket. “Very well,” he said. “Make the next one with more care.” He turned and disappeared into the train.