I tilt my chin. “I am going to the Gare Saint-Lazare to catch a train.”
“I am sorry, Mademoiselle, no trains running today. The station is closed until further notice. I cannot allow you to pass.”
I step closer and he lifts his gun. The gesture startles me. Thought he is not pointing it at me, it is in the ready position. I am offended by the brash gesture.
“I beg your pardon, Monsieur, but I must get through I am meeting my fiancé.”
“He is an idiot to let a woman walk alone in the streets. It is not safe after last night’s tragedy.”
The word causes gooseflesh to erupt on my arms. “What are you talking about?”
“Versailles has fallen to the Prussians. Paris is surrounded. I have strict orders that no one is to pass.”
“But I must—” I contemplate turning away as if I am com-plying with his orders and then trying to find another way to the station.
“Bodier, escort the mademoiselle home and see that she gets safely inside.”
The man called Bodier indicates for me to follow. I realize all is lost.
Mere words cannot describe this paralyzing dread expand-ing inside me. All that exists within me is bitter cold and utter helplessness. It is as if I have let go of Édouard’s hand and he has drifted off into the heavens and there is nothing I can do to stop him.
Dearest Edma,
I am writing you because I do not know whether in another few days we shall still be able to correspond. Paris has changed still more. I think of life before this war, and it seems to me it is not the same city. I received a note from Puvis de Chavannes, who writes as if our last hour has come. Moreover, I see that the National Guard is very restive. Manet’s brother told me very calmly that he does not expect to come out of this alive.
Papa pins all his hopes on the success of Monsieur Thiers’s mission. Father continues to be in good health and is driving us all crazy.
Kisses for bébé.
Adieu, dear. Do enjoy the peace of Mirande. It is better than the agitation here.
Berthe
Dear Berthe,
We feel just as indignant as Mother does when Gambetta is unjustly attacked. It was he who did most for the defense, and it is he who is mostly denounced today. He is unanimously attacked in the provinces and held responsible for France’s defeat. In this world success is everything.
This reactionary Chamber does not inspire me with great confidence. Those who advocate caution and moderation do not seem to be the men of the hour. However that may be, the task is grave and difficult. We must wait to judge them.
There is talk in the newspaper of the German army entering Paris. Perhaps you are now witnessing that spectacle. Nothing is to be spared us.
Affectionately, Edma
You are right, my dear Edma, in believing that nothing will be spared us. The Prussians are to enter our arrondissement on Wednesday. Our area is explicitly mentioned among those to be occupied by them. This news was circulated in the afternoon; it was expected that they would arrive tonight; then the report was denied in the evening, but this only meant that the entry was being delayed. Our rue Franklin, usually so quiet, was animated, the Place de la Marie and the main streets are f illed with noisy crowds. The National Guard was against surrendering its arms, and protested loudly. All this is very sad, and
the terms are so severe that one cannot bear to think about them.
Each day brings us some new sorrow, some new humiliation. The French people are so frivolous that they will promptly forget these sad events, but I am brokenhearted.
If I happen to voice this opinion at home, father throws up his hands and says that I am a madwoman.
There was a great commotion yesterday. The National Guard contingent at Belleville declared that they intended to f ire their guns when the Prussians enter. I think we are at the beginning of an emotional period.
Do you know all of our acquaintances have come out of the war without a scratch, except for that poor Bazille, who was killed at Orléans. The brilliant painter Régnault was killed at Bezenval. The others have made a great fuss about nothing.
Affectionately, Berthe
The air is filled with so much acrid smoke I can barely breathe. The boom of cannon fire sounds so often I wonder why each explosion continues to startle me.
We feel the presence of the Prussian troops all around us. All I want to do is stay in my bed with the shutters drawn. I doze between cannon blasts, and in my fitful dreams, sometimes Édouard is there. We are boarding the train at the Gare Saint-Lazare or he is kissing me as we stand on the deck of a great ocean liner bound for New York. But then the cannon sounds, and I awaken in my dark room, remembering that two weeks have passed since Édouard and I were supposed to meet at the train station.
He did not respond to the note I sent him asking him to call. But I realize it is impossible with the Prussians closing in on us outside.
For two weeks I have taken to my bed, and as the cannons sound outside, I am waging a private war with the demons that have invaded my peace of mind. Maman called in the doctor, Monsieur Dally. But all he does is leer at me. I fear he will insist on examining me for his own pleasure rather than trying to help me feel well again. Although, I don’t think it is possible to recover under these circumstances.
“Berthe, wake up.” Maman comes into the room and throws open the shutters. “Get up. Get dressed. You have a visitor.”
Squinting into the brightness, I sit up. My mind skitters from hope that it is Édouard, to fear that it is Monsieur Dally.
Maman goes to the wardrobe and selects a dress. “Monsieur Puvis de Chavannes has come to call.”
I scoot to the side of the bed and try to stand. But I sway from the effort. “Tell him I am not up to company.”
“Nonsense. It will serve you well. You have been brooding far too long. Get dressed. I shall tell him you will be down momentarily.”
Puvis. Maman must be truly worried about me to urge me on to receive Puvis. Her attitude toward him has cooled considerably. Although, I do not know why. It seems like one minute she was singing his praises, encouraging me that he would be such a good match. Then suddenly the very mention of his name sets her in a decidedly bad humor.
Today he is back in her good graces—for what reason I cannot discern. Probably simply to get me out of bed and dressed.
I throw an arm over my eyes attempting to block out the light. I should have known it would not be Édouard. Bitter dis-
appointment builds in my throat until I feel I will gag on the repulsive taste.
I pull up the covers and try to go back to sleep, but moments later Maman is in my room again.
“Get up this instant. Monsieur Puvis has something remarkable to show you, but if you do not come down within the next five minutes you will miss it. Come on, I shall help you into your dress. Now, Berthe.”
“All right! Stop shouting at me.”
The thought of listening to Maman nag for the next two months about how lazy I have become is incentive enough to get to my feet.
It seems I have barely stood when she has me encased in a corset that has become almost too big for me.
“You have lost more weight,” Maman murmurs as she throws the dress over my head. A swipe of the brush. A few well-placed pins in my hair. And Maman smiles and deems me presentable for company.
She accompanies me to the drawing room—probably afraid that if she leaves me to go on my own, I will go back to bed.
“Here she is.” Maman sings my arrival as if I were a late guest to a party. Puvis stands.
“Mademoiselle, how wonderful to see you. I came as soon as I could, considering the circumstances that befall out beloved country. If you will forgive me for being so bold after having just arrived, I have something to show you. Will you and your Maman come over to the window?”
Maman herds me to where Puvis has thrown back the sash. High up in the sky is a giant red balloon. The bright light hurts my eyes and I blink at the spectacle.
Maman gasps. “What in heaven’s name?”
“That is our good friend Nadar. He is the head of the balloon corps. Thanks to him we shall be able to resume com-
munication with the outside world. I saw him f loating in the clouds as I made my way here today and could not wait to share it with you.”
We stand at the window in revenant silence.
“Everyone used to laugh at Nadar and his fixation with balloons,” says Puvis. “Now he laughs at the world as he f loats high above the ranks. ’Tis like a sign of hope, is it not?”
I blink. It more resembles a strange dream—this vision high in the smoky sky, like a child’s toy left out in the rain. This sight coupled with Maman receiving Puvis so warmly, when I know how much she dislikes him. It is all very strange.
Am I still asleep and this is another nonsensical dream?
I glance up to the sky at the red balloon, my eyes adjusting to the daylight. I try to see Puvis’s glimmer of hope. Is it a sign that the world will soon be right again?
Then I notice Puvis is gazing at me intently and remember his written declaration of love. I back away and sit on the sofa.
I do not want to hurt his feelings, especially after he has come so far. He is a good man, a steadfast friend. Alas, I do not have a single romantic feeling for him.
“Mademoiselle, you look exhausted. Are you all right?”
I nod. “By showing me this you have given me new hope that I might communicate with my loved ones who are so very far away.”
Oh, why did I say that? I hope and pray the mention of writing letters will not inspire him to broach the subject of his letter. Surely not in front of Maman?
“Will you stay for lunch?” Maman offers. “It will be simple fare—bread and soup.”
I can hear the frost forming around the edges of Maman’s words. As the polite hostess, of course she would ask him to stay for a bite—especially in this time of war. But now that
Puvis has served his purpose, gotten me up and back among the living, Maman’s invitation is as much a notice that the visit should wrap up as it is an offer to dine with us.
“
Merci, non.
I cannot stay. I simply wanted to stop by and check on you.”
Maman and I sit, but Puvis remains by the window. “How is everything?” I ask.
He shrugs. Shakes his head. “It is hard to say, Mademoiselle. Every day we hold off the Prussians is another day that prolongs the war.” He shrugs again.
“And what of our friends? Several of them serve in the National Guard with you—Alfred Stevens and Édouard Manet? What do you hear of them?”
“I’m sorry, I have heard nothing. You received news of Bazille, of course. And Régnault. Both dead. It is so sad.”
I nod.
“I have heard nothing else. But I am sure no news means the rest are f ine. I have not seen their names on fatality lists, and I check it daily.”
I breathe a silent sigh of relief and glance out the window again, but the balloon is gone. But that is all right. In fact, I believe it is a good thing.
N
OV E M BE R
1870
Dear Edma,
I write to you every day, hoping that out of all these letters some will reach you. The victory of Friday has raised the morale of many. We have heard the cannon all morning, but so far it is impossible to know
the outcome. We are very well situated for hearing the cannon, but badly for obtaining news.
Would you believe that I am becoming accustomed to its boom? It seems to me that I am now absolutely inured to war and can endure anything.
We saw Monsieur Millet, yesterday; he very insistently offered us an apartment in the center of the city. We have resolved to move into the little
garde-meuble
in the rue Argensen. We shall put what remains of our furniture there. We would be very safe—and protected by the National Guard.
I think often of your Adolphe. I wonder what is happening to his squadron. The total ignorance in which we live is very distressing.
I embrace all of you. Berthe
J
ANUARY
7, 1871
“Berthe! Berthe!” Maman shrieks from the opposite end of the apartment. My heart drops to the pit of my stomach, which in turn feels as if it has fallen to my feet. A thousand horrors f lood my mind as I rush to her. When I reach her, she is sobbing and clutching a piece of paper to her breast.
“Maman? Maman, what is it?”
“It is a letter. It is Edma. Oh—” Her words give way to wails. Icy fear grips me. This is the first letter we have received since the post resumed service. I do not want to know the news that has caused her to weep. I want to place my hands over my ears and stay that way, shutting out all that is loud and ugly and
hurtful, but my arms will not move, and I stand there staring at her dumbly.
“Here.” She holds the white paper out to me with one hand and swipes at her falling tears with the other.
“Here, take it. Read it aloud.” She waves the paper at me. The slack skin of her f labby arm jiggles with the effort. I shake my head and pull my hand away. As long as I do not read the words, no harm has come to Edma. This may well be my last moment of sanity.
She sighs—actually more of a huff than a sigh. “Oh, what is wrong with you? Do not stand there like such a ninny, Berthe. Everyone is fine. I just wanted you to read the good news.”
What? I do not understand. The way she was sobbing and carrying on—
Maman sniffs and waves the letter. “That’s what she says.
Fine. Everyone, big and small, is well and accounted for.”
She laughs through her sobs. Relief rushes over me in waves, yet I cannot cry. My legs, still numb with aborted shock, are weak. I must sit down. I back into the divan just in time and land with a soft thud.
Maman peers at the letter through her lorgnette. “Edma says everyone is in good health, that Adolphe is at sea, and that Tiburce—Oh!” She gasps, then closes her eyes, crosses herself and tilts her head to the heavens, as if reciting a prayer.
“What, Maman, please?”
“She says Tiburce has
escaped
from Metz—and is now a lieutenant! Such joy!”