Illumination (20 page)

Oh God, thought Clem, just about suppressing an urge to hide behind a cushion, here we bloody go.

Hannah turned from the windows. Her expression served as an unwelcome reminder of those last months before her departure from London – of epic clashes that had run on for hours, with much slamming of doors and shattering of china; of a red hall in Chelsea, filled with parakeets, gentlemen in evening dress chortling in the background.

‘I brought Jean-Jacques here at his request,’ she said in a hoarse voice, ‘but so help me, Elizabeth, if you think that I’m going to—’

Allix spoke over her, covering her hand with his. ‘This can be discussed later. What is important now is that we reach as many as possible. We need to act.’

Hannah whipped away her hand and sprang from her chair. She made for the door but seemed to hit the end of a tether, swinging back around until she stood fuming silently by the fireplace. Elizabeth wore a detestable little smile. Her notebook was at the ready; she’d just finished writing a heading when the gas lights flickered out, dropping the room into shadow.

‘It must be nine o’clock,’ she said. ‘They started doing that yesterday. Everything, I suppose, must soon be rationed.’ She laid down her pen. ‘Clement, be so good as to fetch us a candle.’

Two squads of militia met at a narrow junction, one red and the other bourgeois; after swapping a few insults the former went for the latter as if confronted by a mortal foe. Clem was walking past, thinking about Laure in his usual state of intermingled confusion and desire, when one of the reds, a typically lean, shabby specimen, spotted him and seized his arm. An awkward dance began, Clem lunging across the pavement whilst the scrawny guardsman held onto him, boots scrabbling for purchase, shouting at the top of his voice. Clem’s jacket began to slip from his shoulder. He was wondering how long this tug-of-war could reasonably go on when Émile Besson appeared, detached the red from his sleeve and sent him tumbling to the ground, followed by a few harsh-sounding words.

‘Come, Mr Pardy,’ he said, turning to Clem, ‘this way.’

They walked off quickly.

‘What – what was he saying?’

‘That you were a dirty foreigner, eating food meant for Frenchmen.’ Besson glanced behind him. ‘That you should be shot.’

As if on cue a pistol was raised in the air and discharged. Clem started, almost breaking into a run; the red guardsmen scattered with a flurry of oaths. The bourgeois officer who had fired, a sleek grocer type in a lieutenant’s uniform, lowered his smoking gun and began yelling at the men sprawled around his feet.

‘Lucky for me you came along, then,’ Clem remarked, straightening his jacket.

Besson didn’t respond. He looked down the street; having untangled Clem from the brawl he plainly wanted to be away.

‘Join me for a brandy, Monsieur Besson. I owe you that at least.’

‘I regret that I cannot. I have an urgent appointment.’

‘Come on, old man, it’ll take a minute only. I’ve been looking for you, as a matter of fact – I’ve something to show you. This is a fine coincidence.’

It was anything but, of course; Clem had taken to patrolling this street at lunchtime, knowing that Besson ate his meals in a restaurant halfway down. Through sheer persistence, he’d managed to get himself and the
aérostier
back on a broadly amiable footing after their misunderstanding over the letter; Besson remained Clem’s prime suspect, but it no longer seemed of any great consequence. He was determined to develop their acquaintance into a proper friendship. After nearly a month in Paris he was beginning to feel seriously lonely, Laure’s attentions notwithstanding.

Seeing that it was easier to consent than resist, Besson indicated a small restaurant with a laurel green front – his establishment of choice. Several joints of ageing meat were arranged on plates in the window. The
aérostier
was welcomed by name; he selected a table close to the door, ordering coffee, and a brandy for his companion. Clem grinned, but felt a little crestfallen; this conversation was sure to be a brief one.

Besson took off his round-topped hat and set it on the table, exposing a head of dark, close-cropped hair. The crescent-shaped bruise on his face was almost gone. Over the past fortnight, at intermittent meetings in and around the balloon factory, Clem had watched it change from black through dark blue to purple; now it was a greenish yellow, the colour of herbal soap, a ghost of what it had once been. Clem had made a couple of attempts to extract an explanation for this lurid wound, but had come to realise that none would ever be given. ‘They attacked me near the Elysées,’ was all Besson would say. ‘I don’t know why.’

The
aérostier
’s restaurant was a pleasant enough place, clean and unpretentious; a single room kept quite dim, it had a low ceiling, polished floorboards and plain white tablecloths, and was infused with the smell of fried mushrooms. As unobtrusively as he could, Clem examined the diners’ plates. Only one dish was on offer that lunchtime, an oblong of greyish flesh served with some withered beans: the municipal meat ration. Introduced a week or so before, it had already been cut to a hundred grams per person per day. Clem had partaken of this stuff at the Grand. Beef was the official description, but it had a gamey sweetness unlike any cow he’d ever tasted; and it could hardly escape one’s notice that the boulevards were being increasingly left to pedestrians, the horses of Paris disappearing in order of palatability.

Poking from the inside pocket of Clem’s jacket was a sheaf of designs for aerial contraptions. He’d felt positively inspired of late, his old imaginings reanimated by what he’d been seeing in the Elysées-Montmartre. His particular obsession at the moment, having heard of the difficulties in guaranteeing both the direction and duration of flight when free ballooning, was with the notion of actually powering a balloon – of making a kind of aerial steamship with an engine and propellers. He was desperate to discuss this idea with Besson. As soon as the drinks arrive, he told himself; that is when I shall produce my drawings.

The
aérostier
took out a copy of that morning’s
Figaro
, pushed aside their cutlery and spread it on the tablecloth in front of him. Clem’s face fell. He’d been hoping that this development might have passed Monsieur Besson by. But no – the
aérostier
’s sharp features were angled towards an article in the bottom right corner. It was large, six or seven inches long, and was headed
Encore Saute le Léopard
.

‘You know about this?’ he asked. ‘The exploits of this so-called “Leopard”?’

Clem nodded; he had in fact been given a complete English rendition of this particular piece – Elizabeth’s third on Jean-Jacques Allix – a few hours earlier, before he’d even risen from his bed. She’d come in, prodded him awake and started to read. It told of an excursion made the night before last into the Prussian-held village of Pierrefitte. A field gun had been spiked, two Prussians killed by Allix’s blade and two more injured by an explosion of powder. All exciting stuff, to be sure, and Elizabeth’s triumph knew no bounds; she was especially pleased with this character she’d created.

‘I thought of
Le Loup
first,’ she’d confided, ‘but they are pack creatures; it is the Prussians who are the wolves here, wouldn’t you say, circling us as they do? No, I wanted a beast that creeps, that stalks, that pounces with deadly force – that has a beauty to its actions, even as it kills. In short:
Le Léopard!
’

Clem had tried to talk to her about Hannah and her obvious despondency, how she seemed trapped by the whole business, but Elizabeth had been without mercy.

‘I will not try to rescue the girl for a second time, Clement,’ she’d said. ‘This is what she wanted. Don’t you recall how angry she was to see us here? Besides, that sweetheart of hers is about to become a hero. She’ll soon be the most envied woman in Paris.’

Besson smoothed his
Figaro
and translated a few sentences aloud. ‘
The great gun stood useless, so much dead metal, robbed forever of its fire. Its operators, coming to investigate, met their ends without ever seeing their assailant. Major Allix, our Leopard, having primed a powder keg to burst, slid back soundlessly over the emplacement wall; and by the time it blew, knocking down two more of the foe, he had vanished. A relief party arrived, searching this way and that for the saboteur; but all they could do was curse the night – curse fate and the greedy Kaiser who had led them on this needless, ignoble invasion
.’ The
aérostier
was impassive. ‘Quite an adventure, no?’

‘Somewhat over-dramatised, perhaps …’

‘It is signed only “a friend of free Paris”, but everyone knows it is your mother. She is famous once again. And this creation of hers, this Leopard, is being talked of in every arrondissement.’

The coffee and brandy were brought. Clem frowned; there was accusation in Besson’s voice. ‘What can I tell you? It has absolutely nothing to do with me. He sneaks up to talk with her while I’m out in the city. I know literally as much as you do – as any reader of the
Figaro
does.’

Clem had been consigned to the sidelines, required only to admire. Elizabeth, having Allix at her disposal, no longer troubled herself very much to learn what he’d seen. ‘If I ever pen a report on harlots’ boudoirs or low drinking dens, Clement,’ she’d told him, ‘I’ll be sure to consult you.’

Besson was eyeing him steadily; he had more to say, but was holding his tongue. Sipping his coffee, he allowed Clem to switch the subject to ballooning – even to get out his designs and lay them over
Encore Saute le Léopard
.

‘Changes are coming to the balloon post,’ he said, picking up the topmost. ‘Nadar has decided to move all operations from the Elysées-Montmartre to the Gare du Nord.’

Clem was impressed; this would be a significant undertaking. ‘A question of space? I recall you bemoaning the height of the ceilings in the dancing school.’

‘In part. There is a feeling, also, that Montmartre is turning against us. Our position has become fragile since the evacuation of Monsieur Gambetta.
Les Rouges
now believe that we are merely an arm of the government.’

Just over a week earlier Léon Gambetta, Trochu’s Minister of the Interior, had flown out from the place Saint-Pierre, with instructions to head for Tours and assemble an army that could come to the aid of Paris. Clem had been in the crowd that gathered to cheer Gambetta’s departure. The brave statesman had looked distinctly sick as he climbed into the tiny wicker basket – and close to fainting as he was carried up and off, away into the dreary October sky.

The reds hadn’t liked this development at all. It was said that they wanted Paris to be left entirely alone and unaided, their leaders convinced that they could vanquish the Prussians with their ragtag militia battalions and then establish their socialistic commune before anyone from outside had a chance to stop them. The radical agitations were becoming more violent and determined by the day; the brawl in the street just then had been the smallest taste of the discontent that seethed across the city, boiling down from the north. Clem thought it pretty obvious that these rampaging ultras would single out the Elysées-Montmartre as a target. Perhaps this was the story behind the
aérostier
’s beating.

Besson was studying Clem’s design: the best one in its author’s opinion, detailing a two-tier steam propeller mechanism. He didn’t reel with amazement or anything like that, but his half-smile held genuine approval.

‘There is work here,’ he said, ‘serious work. I take it you are not so committed to your cocotte as previously?’

The
aérostier
had seen Clem and Laure together at the launch of the
Neptune
. He derived some mysterious amusement from the thought of their liaison.

‘Don’t, old man.’ Clem knocked back his brandy. ‘Things in that quarter, to be quite frank with you, have grown somewhat strange. I’ve been trying to stay away a bit, in fact, as much as she lets me, in the hope that this might cool it all down a fraction. I don’t know if it’s the boredom of the siege or just the normal course of things for a woman such as her, but …’

Besson returned the propeller design to the pile, looking over as if inviting him to go on. Clem put his glass on the table and sighed. There really was no one else he could tell about this.

‘God knows, I am no prude,’ he began. ‘Oral pleasures I can deliver, enjoy even. Her apparently quite pressing need to insert her finger into my … well, you know … may not be something I’ve encountered before, but I can submit to it.’ He cleared his throat. Besson was sitting very still. ‘Her wish to bring others into the room, however, of both sexes, and involve them in the proceedings – or to introduce these …
objects
of hers … These things I find more difficult to accept. Why, only the other day she commanded me to push a hen’s egg up her—’

Besson rose suddenly from his chair. ‘I must go,’ he said. ‘Really I must. My appointment – time has run on. I apologise, Mr Pardy. I will see you before long, I am sure.’

The
aérostier
pressed a coin into the hand of the nearest waiter and put on his hat. Clem, left sitting alone, had to laugh; he tried to make an affable protest, to plead a few more minutes, but found himself addressing the inside of the restaurant’s door. He stared at his designs; at Besson’s forgotten newspaper; at the starched tablecloth beneath them both. His confessions had been too graphic. He should catch the fellow up and apologise for his thoughtless crudity. The
aérostier
’s meeting was sure to be at the offices of the Balloon Commission, near the Gare d’Orléans. It occurred to Clem that he could tag along – ask for an audience with whichever official was available and present his designs to them. He smiled, his belly warm with brandy; this was a
brilliant
idea. He gathered the balloon drawings and hurried into the street.