Marcel returned only once to the Avenue Ste Anne. The district had been pounded by both sides, but even so, despite the destruction caused, once the bombardment had ceased the invading French army had been welcomed by the prosperous inhabitants of Passy. Few people in Passy and the surrounding districts had any love for the Communards, and those that had not left long ago had now come out of hiding and were trying to return to some sort of normality. The area was filled with government troops, moving openly without threat or danger. Marcel had taken the precaution of putting on workman’s clothes, disguising himself as Georges had done so often before. He moved confidently along the avenue, knowing that if by any remote chance he were to be recognised, he could bluff his way out of trouble as he had when he’d taken Georges to Dr Simon. Though there was considerable damage in some of the nearby streets, it was with great relief that Marcel saw that their house seemed undamaged; at least Hélène had shelter to come back to. He continued to move with extreme caution as he approached the house, but no one challenged him and he reached the gate in the lane without trouble. He knew Georges was safe enough with Dr Simon, but he was worried sick about Hélène. Was it possible she was back now? If he could see her, or even leave a written message for her in the stable, he could at least reunite her with Georges and they would both be safe enough with Dr Simon now the fighting had moved on.
He opened the unlocked gate and moved stealthily across the garden to the stable, but when he opened the door he found it empty and it was clear that no one had been there since he had. Hélène had not been back. Where on earth were they, she and Jeannot? Had they not escaped when they’d left Georges? He had no idea where Jeannot might have taken her. Why hadn’t the damned boy done as he was told and brought her home again that night? Had they been killed or wounded? How could he find out? Where could he begin to look?
For a moment despair overtook him and he sank down onto a straw bale, burying his head in his hands. The war, the siege, the renewed fighting had torn his family apart.
He sat for a long time, his thoughts bleak, his mind exhausted. What should he do? What could he do? Should he go back to Georges and tell him that Hélène was missing again? No point in that, he decided. There was nothing Georges could do to find her, laid up with his leg in splints; all he would do was worry.
At length Marcel got to his feet and let himself back into the house. There he found pen and paper and sitting down at the dining room table he wrote two notes – one to his parents and one to Hélène.
To his parents he explained that he had survived the battle of Sedan, but since then he had left the army.
Right or wrong, I have thrown in my lot with the National Guard. I know you’ll find that very difficult to understand, but I couldn’t fight any more for an emperor who cut and ran, leaving his soldiers to the mercy of the enemy and an army that squandered its men’s lives so recklessly. So, Georges and I have found ourselves on opposite sides in this conflict, but we have remained brothers and have done all we can to find and take care of Hélène. I have been using the stables as a place to live, and apologise to Pierre for using all his things.
I am about to go back to my duty as a National Guard and man the barricades. I know, thank God, that I shall not be shooting at my own brother as he is safely with Dr Simon. I am extremely unlikely to survive the next few days, and if I do it will be as a prisoner, a deserter and a Communard. I expect no mercy, for I’m sure none will be given. The battle has been too long and too bloody. But I ask you to pray for me and remember me fondly, for whatever else I am, I am your loving son, Marcel.
His note to Hélène was much shorter.
Dearest, bravest Hélène.
I probably won’t see you again, but if you get back to the stable and find this letter, go to Dr Simon’s house where you’ll find Georges, laid up with a broken leg. I don’t know where you are now, but have to trust young Jeannot to take care of you as I no longer can. I can promise you that Gaston Durand will never, ever, trouble you again.
Don’t think badly of me for fighting on the ‘wrong’ side, just remember how proud I am to call you my sister.
With my love, Marcel.
He left the letter for his parents on the hall stand where the servants always left the post and took the note to Hélène out to the stables. If she came back that’s where she would look for him and he left it propped up on a straw bale. Then he took a last look round his childhood home before going back into the city to find his unit once more.
Most of the fighting was now concentrated further east. Passy was no longer under threat as the government army continued its steady progress through the city. There were short, intense battles as they came up against the hastily erected barricades. Rattling rifle fire poured into the insubstantial barriers, eventually killing almost all who tried to defend them, before the invading troops swept through and on to the next one. The government troops suffered losses too, but they were nothing as compared with the Communards who, though determined to fight to the last man, were gradually driven from behind the barricades.
Marcel and his unit defended and fell back, defended and fell back, each time losing more men, weakening their strength but not their resolve. Marcel had no illusions, he knew he was going to die, but he was determined to take as many of the enemy with him as possible. When their officer was killed, it was Marcel who took command and led his unit in retreat to survive and fight again.
It was two days later that he and his men made one final stand at Montparnasse station. Ensconced in the station buildings, they held off the attacking soldiers until, their ammunition almost exhausted, Marcel gave orders for them to fall back.
‘Every man for himself,’ he bellowed as, hidden inside a newspaper stand, he raked the station with steady fire, keeping the incoming troops at bay while his men made their escape behind him.
He knew his own ammunition would run out before long, and once he knew his men were clear, he used it more sparingly. There would be no escape for him, but he continued to fire at any soldier unwise enough to emerge from cover, to risk a dash towards his hideout.
At last his rifle fell silent and the attacking troops began a stealthy advance. When it was clear that they were in no further danger from the hidden sniper, several of them rushed to the newsstand, guns at the ready. They found Marcel, sitting on a stool inside the kiosk, his empty rifle across his knees, his hands in the air and an insouciant grin on his face.
It was the grin that did it. Behind them lay the bodies of their comrades, the soldiers Marcel had been picking off individually as they broke cover. The first man stared in at him, his rifle pointing menacingly at his chest, hesitating before taking the life of a man with his hands in the air in cold blood. The second man had no such qualms. He aimed his gun and pulled the trigger. At such close quarters Marcel was flung backwards, his head exploding, brains and blood and bone sprayed all over the confined space of the newsstand.
As the sound of the shot died away there was a moment’s silence, then on a command, the soldiers turned, leaving Marcel’s body, just another damned Communard, a bloodied heap on the floor.