The Rich Are with You Always (64 page)

That February, the promised revolution struck France. A week before Hester was born, a strange alliance of the bourgeoisie, bent on political reform, and the Red republican leaders of the working class, bent on social revolution, began the insurrection that was to lead, three days later, to the abdication of King Louis Philippe and the formation of a provisional republican government in his place. In its own Gallic way, it was a repeat of the English revolution of 1832—that is to say, the English revolution was ruthless, quiet, and nasty; its French counterpart was ruthless, raucous, and very bloody—though the bloodshed was still to come. The English middle classes, as soon as they attained the political power for which they had struggled, severed all connection with the working-class allies they had made during the fight. The French bourgeoisie took until June to consolidate their power; only then did they find the confidence to deliver the real downward kick in the teeth.

  It was in early July that Nora chose to go to Normandy—not for pleasure— there was little pleasure anywhere in Europe that year—but to see Ferrand and console him for the further, inevitable postponement of any plans for Deauville, and to visit the Auberge Clément and see Gaston.

  The line from Dieppe to Rouen was now open so that she could go direct to France from Newhaven. She went over with John, who was keen to show her the new line, and George Acton, a new manservant. She was determined to come back with a French maid, though it was useless asking Rodie to help her there—she dismissed them all so quickly.

  The mood at La Gracieuse was very sombre. France was now going through the commercial crisis that had shaken London last year—the same toll of bankruptcies, the same shortage of money, the same crippling interest rates. The ironworks were almost idle and Rodet was very depressed.

  "He's all right, really," Rodie explained. "He has been clever and we are secure. But it's not good for a man to walk in empty sheds and see only ten men working and one furnace hot."

  There was a mood of economy about the house. No parties this year. And very little riding out. Almost every meal was held in the breakfast room, en famille.

  "These economies, I don't mind them," Rodie said. "I am from a not so rich family. But Rodet has paid off his mistress and sold his apartment in Rouen." Her tone showed it was the ultimate economy.

  "Things must be very bad then," Nora said.

  "For
me
! Oh, it's terrible! But I am firm. I say him no."

  Nora laughed then and hugged her. "Oh, Rodie! We are so different really."

  "Oh, you! You have a dynasty to make. But we are never more than a small patron. It's enough."

  Another time she asked Nora if they had communists in England.

  "Of course," Nora told her. "They issued a 'manifesto' this last January."

  "You have read it?"

  "The first line—
A hobgoblin is walking across Europe…
It's rubbish. They are no threat to anyone. Enthusiasts and dreamers. One of their leaders in London is called Karl Marx—an impractical Jewish refugee, a dreamer. He looks forward to a world composed entirely of ladies and gentlemen standing around in green fields, wearing morning dress, and writing and reading poetry. I can't understand that he is taken seriously."

  "Rodet says they are all very dangerous and must be shot."

  "Give them time and they will do it to each other. Look what happened here in May. You actually had a communist government—which fell apart in mutual hatred within three days. The history of all previous revolutions is the history of personal ratfights. Why on earth are you worried?"

  "It's not May that worries us. It is June. Cavaignac killed thousands of workers in June and closed the national workshops everywhere. Already now in our soup kitchen we have many hundreds more apply for food. There is no work for the poor anywhere, now the workshops are shut."

  "In times of hardship the poor must look to private charity. It was quite wrong of your government to offer work to everyone who wanted it. We learned that lesson bitterly in Ireland. Now you are learning it too."

  Rodie shook her head admiringly. "To be so—like a judge. You are a strong woman. I cannot. I see the children and the women and I say economic law tomorrow; today—charity. Work."

  Nora smiled, not really seeking an argument, but thinking it too important to turn aside with a soft answer. "I've starved, Rodie. I've struggled to keep Sam and two small children, my brother and sister, on ten shillings a week—in a filthy little hovel without roof or door. And when the mill was slack, we had nothing. And we starved. I've heard them cry, my own little ones, crying all night with the hunger. Going out and begging for cabbage stalks."

  Rodie was looking at her in amazement. "Stevie"—it was almost a whisper—"I did not know it. How terrible."

  "You ask Sam, when he comes next. All it did for me was to give me the ambition to get up from there and get out. But I wanted to do it by my own effort. I didn't want some jack-in-office coming and telling me what to do and giving me money I'd no right to. The sad fact is that a lot of people aren't like that. When they get kicked to the bottom, they give up and settle to stay there. They are the people who—even Christ said it:
For ye have the poor always with
you—
Matthew, Mark, and John. And that means, if you have the poor, you also have the rich. To try to make it otherwise, except by natural economic law and free trade, is against nature and against God."

  "Oooh!" Rodie took refuge in the pretence that it was all beyond her, buzzing her fingertips around her head.

This was hardly a holiday for Nora. So when she had spent a week or so at La Gracieuse and exchanged all their news, gloomy though much of it was, she left to go to Coutances and to see the maid Gaston had looked out for her. George Acton had gone back with John. She went to the inn with old Honorine and one of the grooms from La Gracieuse.

  The Clément had done much better this year. Word of its comfort, food, and cleanliness had spread among the English; and there had been a goodly exodus of the Parisian bourgeoisie to Normandy—conveniently close to England's safer shores—ever since the brief communist government of May. In the two weeks after the "June days," they had been able to treble their usual prices.

  She heard all this from a happy Gaston within minutes of her arrival, but she did not then begin to look at the books—though she itched to open them, for she needed some good news. It was then late afternoon but, like Sarah, she made it her first duty to go up to Tom's grave. After a brief, silent prayer, she told him aloud how well the inn was doing and what a fine woman Sarah had become— what splendid work she was doing at the Female Rescue Society and how it had made her blossom out. Knowing that the spirits of the dead could read thoughts, she avoided all thoughts of Sarah and John.

  All next day she went through the books, finding them flawless. Gaston had been a real discovery of Tom's. She showed him her own private colour code of red ink for debits and blue for credits. "It just makes it easier for me to follow if everyone who works for me uses it," she explained. He agreed to use it in future. The new maid, Nanette Clébert, would come for her interview that evening. She was a very dependable girl, the daughter of the housekeeper to the bishop, so she understood all the arrangements for a grand establishment. They were, of course, most respectable people and she had a good and strict upbringing. She was just beginning to learn English but had only three or four words as yet. Nora thought she sounded admirably suited. "Tell her to come wearing clothes she has made for herself," she said. "Dressmaking's an important part of her work."

  The girl was due that evening after the Angelus. About fifteen minutes before that time, one of the maids came to Nora's room to tell her that a gentleman had come to see her. He would not give his name but said to tell her he'd "come to judgement in the hope of mercy."
Daniel,
she thought. The maid's description fitted, as did the fact that he would not come indoors but waited in the stable. Nora went down at once.

  There was no doubting this time it was Daniel. The disguised stance and the flamboyant clothes were gone. It was martyr Daniel, last seen in an epic role,
Transportation from Manchester,
who stood with his back to the door and turned only slowly to face her. He was dressed in the borrowed clothes of a French
gentilhomme,
not well fitted; the fact that he had not washed before donning them made them look even more borrowed.

  "Nora," he said uneasily when she did not speak. The horses stirred at his voice.

  "I suppose that's the dust of the Place de la Bastille on you still," she said.

  He wiped a bit of grime from his cheek and looked at it. "Aye," he said proudly.

  "It earns you no welcome here," she said. "You'd best be on your way."

  "There's no price on my head now, love. That went with Louis Philippe. I'm a free man."

  "Then behave like one. Come inside. Register. Take a room. Twenty-five francs."

  He laughed, not believing her. "I've no money."

  "Then you must pawn something. There's a
mont-de-piété
just up the street."

  "No-o-o-ra!" he wheedled, drawing her name out, not knowing what to say.

  "I told you everything I ever wanted to tell you last time, two years back. The day you left me with Sam and Wilfrid and Dorrie you stopped being flesh of mine."

  "But I was struggling for you—and Sam and the bairns. It was to make a better world for folk like us."

  "We didn't want a better world, Daniel. A better hovel would have suited us. A door would have done for a start. A door would have kept back the boar that ate your brother Wilfrid. Do you know what it was like, Daniel, to come back that evening and find no Wilfrid—just his arm flung up among the branches that served for our roof? Think how that boar must have shook and shook that poor little lad to shake an arm up into the roof!" She felt herself beginning to choke at the remembered outrage, so she fell silent; she was not going to offer him the spectacle of herself in tears.

  "My whole life is a struggle for a world in which that cannot happen," he insisted quietly, respecting her anger.

  "Then you have changed."

  "What do'st mean? I were the same then."

  "Oh, believe me, Daniel, you were not. By deserting us you made sure it would happen. You wanted it to happen. You wanted proof that the world was exactly what your communist friends said it was. You wanted Wilfrid and Dorrie to die. You wanted Sam sold off into service. You wanted me to starve and go on the streets. Because that was the only thing that would mend your conscience for what you'd done."

  "I'm allowed a conscience, am I?"

  "In those days you still had the remnant. I remember the last night of your freedom, when I asked you to mend that door, and instead you sat with those two Chartists and wrote your appeal—you knew then what you were condemning us to. I saw it in your eyes."

  "Huh!" he sneered. "Anyway, going on the streets would have been a step up for thee."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Sharing our father's bed. After our mam died."

  "What if I did? If I helped that poor, lonely man, whose world had flown to pieces all around him, if I helped him find any comfort, I'll answer for it on judgement day. He had no notion of what was happening. And if you've come here to mock his memory, you may piss off now." She gathered up her dress and turned to go.

  But he raced across to the stable door ahead of her and stood barring her way. "No, love. I'm sorry. I never meant to bring that up. Thou stung us to it, that were all. Listen. I've no cash. I've eaten naught for two days. I'm on the run—I can't disguise that. All I need is somewhere to rest up and hide for six hours."

  "Not here, Daniel. You've no chance of…"

  "Listen!" He was beginning to show desperation. "Listen—there's a boat coming to Blainville at three o'clock tomorrow morning. I can reach that in two hours from here, on foot. Then I'll be away to Jersey. I'll be safe there. All I need is to be able to lie here—I'll get in the hay up there. No one will know."

  A low whinny from one of the horses drowned his last words, like a stage laugh.

  Nora said: "No, Daniel, you'll have to do your lying somewhere else. I'm going to the gendarmes." She waited for him to get out of the way.

  "You can't," he said, incredulous at her determination. "I'm asking for my life. If I'm taken, I'll rot in Devil's Island until I die. I know we are on opposite sides of the struggle now. And my beliefs threaten your…business. But I'm thy own brother. Blood's thicker than water, love."