Sepulchre

The proprietor, grey-headed and as distinguished-looking as his clientele, swept forward to greet Georges, stepping out of the shadow of the two ladies sitting at the front desk, the Scylla and Charybdis, without whose blessing not a soul entered the culinary institution. General Du Pont was a customer of long standing, who ordered the best champagne and tipped generously. But he had been a less than frequent visitor of late. Clearly, the owner feared they had lost his custom to the Café Paillard or the Café Anglais.

  ‘Monsieur, it is a great pleasure to welcome you once more. We surmised that perhaps you had received a posting abroad.’

  Georges looked thoroughly embarrassed. So strait-laced, Marguerite thought, although she did not dislike him for it. He had better manners, and was more generous and simpler in his needs, than many of the men with whom she had been associated.

  ‘The fault is entirely mine,’ she said from beneath her dark lashes. ‘I have been keeping him to myself.’

  The proprietor laughed. He clicked his fingers. While the cloakroom attendant relieved Marguerite of her stole and Georges of his walking stick, the men exchanged courtesies, talking of the weather and the current situation in Algeria. There were rumours of an anti-Prussian demonstration. Marguerite allowed her thoughts to drift away. She cast her eyes over the famous show table of the finest fruit. It was too late for strawberries, of course, and in any case Georges preferred to retire early, so it was unlikely he would wish to remain for dessert.

  Marguerite expertly stifled a sigh while the men concluded their business. Despite the fact that every table around them was occupied, there was a sense of peace and quiet comfort. Her son would dismiss the place as dull and old-fashioned, but she, who too often had been on the outside of such establishments looking in, found it delightful and an indication of the measure of security she had found with Du Pont’s patronage.

  The conversation over, the proprietor raised his hand. The maître d’ stepped forward, and led them through the candlelit room to a superior table in an alcove, not overlooked by any other diners and a long way from the swinging doors of the kitchen. Marguerite noticed the man was perspiring, his top lip glistening beneath his cropped moustache, and wondered what it really was that Georges did at the embassy that meant that his good opinion was so very important.

  ‘Monsieur, Madame, an aperitif to start?’ asked the wine waiter.

  Georges looked across at Marguerite. ‘Champagne?’

  ‘That would be perfectly delightful, yes.’

  ‘A bottle of Cristal,’ he said, leaning back in his chair as if to spare Marguerite the vulgar knowledge of hearing he had ordered the best in the house.

  As soon as the maître d’ had gone, Marguerite moved her feet to touch Du Pont’s beneath the table and again had the pleasure of seeing him start, then shift on his chair.

  ‘Marguerite, really,’ he said, although his protest carried no conviction.

  She slipped her foot from her slipper and rested it lightly against him. She could feel the seam of his dress trousers through her gossamer-thin stocking.

  ‘They have the best cellar of red wines in Paris,’ he said gruffly, as if he needed to clear his throat. ‘Burgundies, Bordeaux, all arranged in their proper precedence, the wines from the great vineyards first and the rest in their correct order down to the merest bourgeois tipple.

  Marguerite disliked red wine, which gave her terrible headaches, and preferred champagne, but she was resigned to drinking whatever Georges put in front of her.

  ‘You are so very clever, Georges.’ She paused, then looked around. ‘And to find us a table. It is so busy for a Wednesday evening.’>

  ‘It’s just a matter of knowing to whom to talk,’ he said, although she could see he was pleased with the flattery. ‘You have not dined here before?’

  Marguerite shook her head. Meticulous, detailed, pedantic, Georges gathered facts and liked to parade his knowledge. She, of course, like every other Parisian, knew the history of Voisin’s, but was prepared to pretend she did not. During the painful months of the Commune, the restaurant had witnessed some of the most violent of the altercations between the Communards and the government forces. Where now fiacres and two-wheelers waited to ferry customers from one side of Paris to the other, twenty years ago had stood the barricades: iron bedsteads, upturned wooden carts, pallets and munitions boxes. She, with her husband - her wonderful, heroic Leo - had stood on those barricades, for a brief and glorious moment united as equal partners against the ruling class.

  ‘After Louis-Napoleon’s shameful failure at the battle of Sedan,’ wheezed Georges, ‘the Prussians marched upon Paris.’

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured, wondering not for the first time how young he thought she was, that he should give her a history lesson of events she had witnessed at first hand.

  ‘As the siege and bombardment deepened, of course there were food shortages. It was the only way to teach those Communards a lesson. It meant, however, that many of the better restaurants could not open. Not enough food, you see. Sparrows, cats, dogs, not a creature to be seen on the streets of Paris that was not fair game. Even the animals from the zoo were slaughtered for meat.’

  Marguerite smiled encouragement. ‘Yes, Georges.’

  ‘So what do you think Voisin’s offered on their menu that night?’

  ‘I cannot imagine,’ she said, wide-eyed with perfectly judged innocence. ‘Indeed, I hardly dare to. Snake, perhaps? ’

  ‘No,’ he said, with a satisfied bark of laughter. ‘Guess again.’>

  ‘Oh, I cannot say, Georges. Crocodile?’

  ‘Elephant,’ he said triumphantly. ‘A dish concocted from the trunks of elephants. I ask you. Wonderful, really. Quite wonderful. Shows marvellous spirit, don’t you think?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Marguerite agreed, and she laughed too, although her memory of the summer of 1871 was somewhat different. Weeks of starvation, trying to fight, to support her wild, idealistic, passionate husband, at the same time as finding enough food for her beloved Anatole. Coarse brown bread and chestnuts and berries stolen at night from the fruit bushes in the Jardin des Tuileries.

  When the Commune fell, Leo escaped, and remained at large, hidden by friends for nearly two years. In the end, he too was captured and only narrowly escaped the firing squad. More than a week passed, during which Marguerite tried every police station and court in Paris, before she discovered he had been tried and sentenced. His name was published on a list posted on the wall of a municipal building: deportation to the French Pacific Colony of New Caledonia.

  The amnesty for the Communards came too late for him. He died in the galleys crossing the ocean, without even knowing he had a daughter.

  ‘Marguerite?’ Du Pont said testily.

  Realising she had been silent for too long, Marguerite rearranged her face.

  ‘I was just thinking how extraordinary that must have been,’ she said quickly, ‘but it says so much, does it not, for the skill and ingenuity of the chef at Voisin’s that he was able to make such a dish. It is quite wonderful to sit here, where history was made.’ She paused, and then added, ‘And with you.’

  Georges smiled complacently. ‘Strength of character will out in the end,’ he said. ‘There’s always a way to turn a bad situation to one’s advantage, not that it’s something today’s generation has any knowledge about.’

  ‘Excuse me for intruding upon your dinner.’

  Du Pont got to his feet, courteous despite the irritation clouding his eyes. Marguerite turned to see a tall, patrician gentleman with thick dark hair and a high forehead. He looked down at her with sharp, pinpoint pupils, black in eyes of startling blue.

  ‘Monsieur?’ said Georges, sharply.

  The look of the man sent a memory scuttling across Marguerite’s mind, although she was certain she did not know him. Perhaps about the same sort of age as she, he was dressed in the usual evening uniform of black jacket and trousers, but immaculately so, flattering the strong and impressive physique that lay
beneath. Broad shoulders, a man accustomed to getting his own way. Marguerite glanced at the gold signet ring on his left hand, looking for clues as to his identity. He was holding a silk top hat, together with his white evening gloves and a white cashmere scarf, suggesting he had either just arrived or was on the point of making his departure.

  Marguerite felt herself blush at the way his eyes seemed to strip her bare, feeling her skin grow hot. Beads of perspiration formed between her breasts and beneath the web of tight lacing of her corset.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she said, throwing an anxious glance to Du Pont, ‘but do I. . .’

  ‘Sir,’ he said, nodding at Du Pont, by way of apology. ‘If I may?’

  Mollified, Du Pont gave a slight bow of the head.

  ‘I am an acquaintance of your son’s, Madame Vernier,’ he said, pulling a calling card from his waistcoat book. ‘Victor Constant, Comte de Tourmaline.’

  Marguerite hesitated, and then took the card.

  ‘Most discourteous of me to interrupt, I know it, but I am anxious to be in contact with Vernier over a matter of some importance. I have been in the country, only arriving in town this evening, and was hoping to find your son at home. However . . .’ He gave a shrug.

  Marguerite had known many men. She always knew the best way to be, to speak, to flatter, to charm on a moment’s acquaintance. But this man? She could not read him.

  She looked down at the card in her hand. Anatole did not confide much of his business to her, but Marguerite was certain she had never heard him mention so distinguished a name, either as a friend or as a client.

  ‘Do you know where I might find him, Madame Vernier?’

  Marguerite felt a frisson of attraction, then fear. Both were pleasurable. Both alarmed her. His eyes narrowed as if he could read her mind, his head nodding slightly.

  ‘I am afraid, Monsieur, I do not,’ she replied, struggling to keep her voice steady. ‘Perhaps if you were to leave your card for him at his offices . . .’

  Constant inclined his head. ‘Indeed, I will. And they are to be found . . .’

  ‘In the rue Montorgueil. I cannot remember the precise number.’

  Constant continued to look hard at her. ‘Very well,’ he said in the end. ‘Again, my apologies for intruding. If you might be so kind, Madame Vernier, as to tell your son that I am looking for him, I would be most grateful.’

  Without warning, he reached down, took her hand from where it lay in her lap, and raised it to his mouth. Marguerite felt his breath and the tickle of his moustache through her glove, and felt betrayed by the way her body responded to his touch in stark opposition to her wishes.

  ‘A bientôt, Madame Vernier. Mon Général.’

  Then he gave a sharp half-bow, and left. The waiter came and refreshed their glasses. Du Pont exploded.

  ‘Of all the insolent, impertinent scoundrels,’ he growled, leaning back in his chair. ‘Quite disgraceful. Who does the blackguard think he is, insulting you in such a manner?’

  ‘Insulting me? Did he, Georges?’

  ‘Fellow couldn’t keep his eyes off you.’

  ‘Really, Georges, I did not notice. He did not interest me,’ she said, not wishing for a scene. ‘Please do not concern yourself on my account.’

  ‘Do you know the fellow?’ Du Pont said, suddenly suspicious.

  ‘I said I did not,’ she replied calmly.

  ‘Fellow knew my name,’ he persisted.

  ‘Perhaps he recognises you from the newspapers, Georges,’ she said. ‘You underestimate how many people know you. You forget how familiar a figure you are.’

  Marguerite saw him relax his guard at the careful flattery. Intending to finish the matter, she took Constant’s expensive card by the corner and held it to the flame of the candle set in the centre of the table. It took a moment to catch, then burned brightly and furiously.

  ‘What in the name of God do you think you’re doing?’

  Marguerite raised her long lashes, then dropped her eyes once more to the flame, watching until it guttered and died away.

  ‘There,’ she said, brushing the grey ash from the tips of her gloves into the ashtray. ‘Forgotten. And if the Count is someone with whom my son wishes to do business, then the proper place for such matters is between the hours of ten and five at his offices.’

  Georges nodded in approval. With relief, she saw the suspicion melt from his eyes.

  ‘Do you really not know where that boy of yours is tonight?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ she said, smiling at him as if letting him in on a joke, ‘but it always pays to be circumspect. I do dislike gossiping women.’

  He nodded again. It suited Marguerite for Georges to think of her as discreet and reliable.

  ‘Quite right, quite right.’

  ‘In point of fact, Anatole has taken Léonie to the opera. The premiere of the latest work by Wagner.’

  ‘Damned Prussian propaganda,’ Georges grumbled. ‘Shouldn’t be allowed.’

  ‘And I believe he was intending to take her to supper afterwards.’

  ‘To one of those ghastly bohemian places like Le Café de la Place Blanche I shouldn’t wonder. Crammed to the gills with artists and what have you.’ He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘What’s that other place on the Boulevard Rochechouart? They should shut it down.’

  ‘Le Chat Noir,’ Marguerite said.

  ‘Layabouts, the lot of them,’ pronounced Georges, warming to this new theme. ‘Daubing dots on a scrap of canvas and calling it art: what kind of occupation is that for a man? That thoroughly insolent fellow, Debussy, who lives in your building? Chaps like that. Should be horsewhipped, the lot of them.’

  ‘Achille is a composer, darling,’ she chided mildly.

  ‘Parasites, the lot of them. Always scowling. Banging away on that piano day and night, I’m surprised his father doesn’t take a stick to him. Might beat some sense into him.’

  Marguerite hid a smile. Since Achille was a contemporary of Anatole’s, she thought it was a little late for such disciplinary measures. In any case, Madame Debussy had been very much too free with her hands when the children were young and it had clearly done not the slightest bit of good.

  ‘This champagne is really quite delicious, Georges,’ she said, moving the conversation on. She stretched across the table and took his fingers, then turned his hand over and pressed her nails into the soft flesh of his palm. ‘You are most thoughtful,’ she said, watching the wince of pain turn to pleasure in his eyes. ‘Now, Georges. Will you order for me? We have been sitting here for such a time that I find I have quite an appetite.’

  CHAPTER 5

  Léonie and Anatole were shown to a private room on the first floor of Le Bar Romain, overlooking the street.

  Léonie returned Anatole’s evening jacket to him, then went to wash her face and hands, and repair her hair, in the small adjoining closet. Her dress, although in need of the attention of her maid, she pinned at the hem, and it was almost respectable.

  She stared at her reflection in the looking glass, tilting it towards her. Her skin glowed from their night-time chase through the streets of Paris and her emerald eyes glittered brightly from the light of the candles. Now the danger had passed, in her mind Léonie was painting the scene in bright, bold colours, like a story. Already she had forgotten the hate on the men’s faces, how terrified she had been.

  Anatole ordered two glasses of Madeira, followed by red wine to accompany a simple supper of lamb chops and white creamed potatoes.

  ‘Pear soufflé to follow, if you are still hungry,’ he said, dismissing the garçon.

  As they ate, Léonie related what had happened up until the moment Anatole had found her.

  ‘They are a curious lot, les abonnés,’ said Anatole. ‘Only French music should be performed on French soil, that’s the aim. Back in 1860, they pelted Tannhäuser from the stage.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s a commonly held belief that they do not care about the music in the slightest.’

 
‘Then why?’

  ‘Chauvinism, pure and simple.’

  Anatole pushed back his chair from the table, stretched out his long, slim legs and took his cigarette case from the pocket of his waistcoat. ‘I do not believe Paris will ever again welcome Wagner. Not now.’

  Léonie thought a moment. ‘Why did Achille make you a gift of the opera tickets? Is he not a fervent admirer of Monsieur Wagner?’

  ‘Was,’ he said, banging a cigarette on the silver lid to tighten the tobacco, ‘but is no longer.’ He leaned into his jacket pocket and pulled out a box of wax Vestas and struck a match. ‘ “A beautiful sunset mistaken for a wonderful dawn”, that is Achille’s latest pronouncement on Wagner.’ He tapped his head with a mocking half-smile. ‘Forgive me, Claude-Achille as we are now supposed to address him.’