Her words push me to the edge of the cushion. “He is fine, Berthe, and a lieutenant to boot.”
“Maman, I cannot get beyond the fact that my brother was a captive to share your joy in his promotion. He was a prisoner of war.”
“Really, Berthe, if one is to be a hero, one must suffer a few
close calls. But my Tiburce, he is wily and will pull through unscathed. I shall never doubt that for one minute. Don’t you doubt him, either. After all, he has the brains to outsmart the enemy and that is how he will rise to the top.”
A cannon explodes outside in the distance. The Prussians were encamped along the Faubourg Saint-Honoré to the Place de la Concorde. All the French militias clear out, taking up station on the opposite side of the Seine, with a line of sentries guarding the bridges. And Maman is celebrating Tiburce’s promotion as if he worked in a bank?
I wonder if she has a true grasp of what is happening beyond these walls?
J
ANUARY
14 , 1871
Today is my thirtieth birthday. I do not know who has dreaded this day more—Maman or me. None of us feel a reason to celebrate because the day holds only two realities: there is no end in sight for the war, and I am old—a disappointment to my parents.
Provisions are scarce. We have been living on biscuits for nearly a fortnight. They are stale and unappetizing. Sometimes I feel my stomach is better off without food.
This morning, since it is my birthday, Maman makes a fresh batch, and I feel obliged to at least try to eat. So I sit with her at the tiny breakfast table and pick at the crumbling pieces.
“You are getting too thin, Berthe,” says Maman. “You have hollows in your cheeks. You are no longer young. So you must make the most of what you have. No man will find a malnourished waif attractive.”
“Puvis has certainly been attentive these past few months,” I say, to spite her.
He gathered a bouquet of wildflowers and brought them to me yesterday because he was not sure he would be able to call today for my birthday.
“Pierre Puvis de Chavannes is a strange old man,” says Maman. “I do not like him, despite his wealth and his art. I have decided he would not make a suitable husband for you.”
“Why, Maman? Because he dotes on me? Because Puvis and I have much in common, unlike the fat, boring Monsieur Dally who would probably rather eat me for dinner than have a pleasant conversation. I seem to remember a time not too long ago when you encouraged me to pursue a relationship with Monsieur Puvis de Chavannes.”
She tries to interject, but I am too furious to let her berate me anymore. “What really galls me, Maman, is that even in the midst of a war you still pin the worth of my existence on how attractive men find me. I would laugh at you. Only today I do not feel any humor.”
She sits, head bowed, staring silently at the half-eaten biscuit on her plate. I leave the table and retire to my room.
She is right. I am old. That is why Édouard has forsaken me. Why, when he could have his choice of beautiful young models, would he want me—tired, sad, old, and broken?
J
ANUARY
30, 1871
Maman comes to my room with a cup of tea. She has given up trying to cajole me into eating. But I do appreciate the tea. Now that Paris has surrendered and agreed upon an armistice with Germany, perhaps life would resume. This above all is the easiest to swallow.
As she hands me the cup and saucer she wears a strange smile, an expression I have not seen in months.
“I have a wonderful news, Bijou. Edma has received word that Adolphe is at home in Cherbourg. She has decided to join him as soon as the trains are running again. When she does, she says she will stop in Paris to visit us for a few days. You can accompany her to Cherbourg.”
I sip the hot tea and long to spend time with my sister. Yet, staying in Paris is my only chance to see Édouard. The thought leaps into my mind unbidden and makes me angry at myself. That I could even think of forsaking my sister after Édouard has deserted me is unfathomable. I realize he has been fighting a war, but if Puvis has found the wherewithal to make regular trips from Versailles, couldn’t Édouard at least send me a note to reassure me of his safety? Unless that means—
No!
He is fine.
Tea splashes over the rim of my cup as I return it to the saucer. Propriety sits next to Olympia, trying to talk sense into the brazen whore.
What a pitiful creature you have become, willing to put your life on hold for a man who obviously does not care. You cannot continue to rip out your heart and offer it to a man who does not want it.
“That is wonderful news, Maman. A trip to Cherbourg would be lovely.”
F
EBRUARY
10, 1871
Dear Edma,
If you knew how sad this poor Paris is! And how sad everything is! I have come out of this siege absolutely disgusted with my fellow men, even with
close friends. Selfishness, indifference, prejudice—that is what one finds in nearly everyone.
I am eager to see you; it seems to me that we have so much to tell one another, so much to grieve about together. Father says he has written you a long letter. He is far from sharing Yves’ opinions; I do not share them either, nevertheless I still manage to disagree with Father. We talk so little to each other that this does not make much difference. We are awaiting the results of the elections with the same impatience as you.
Adieu.
I love you
The more in that I believe You have liked me for my
Own sake and for nothing else.
—John Keats
M
ARCH
1871
inally,
the trains are running again. Edma sent us a letter saying we could expect her within the week.
“I wish I could be more specific, as to an arrival time, but it will depend when I can secure passage. So many people are moving about after being confined for so long. Please do not worry about me. When I get to the station, I shall hire a carriage to bring me directly to you on the rue Argensen.”
We want to believe the worst is over, but by the time we receive her letter, we are in the midst of a new situation which makes us fear for Edma’s safety.
The Prussians are preparing for their ceremonial victory march through Paris toward the Champs Elysées. When that
fated day arrives, all we can do is pray Edma does not arrive in the midst of it.
The Prussians march in the deserted streets, while Parisians sequester themselves inside, bolting their doors and shuttering their windows against the ceremony. Those monsters have caused enough misery. We refuse to acknowledge how they have brought our nation—and every French citizen—to its knees.
It’s all over within two days.
We hold our breath until our dear Edma and little Jeanne arrive with Tiburce two weeks later.
Our parents are elated by the family reunion.
“Too bad Yves could not be here,” says Papa. “But it gives me comfort that she is safe at home with Théodore.”
I believe once Maman picks up baby Jeanne she does not set her down again. That gives Edma a much-needed break and time for us to talk.
“What do you hear from our friend Manet these days?” There is a sparkle in her eye that encourages me to tell her everything.
“Which Manet? We have seen Eugène more than his brother.”
Tiburce, Edma, and I decide to go for a stroll along the quay. But once we arrive, we discover hordes of people milling about. Some are shrieking, others are shouting, still more are weeping. They seem to be overcome by some sort of madness. Then we notice that the quay and the two main streets leading up to the Hotel de Ville are barricaded and lined by rows of armed National Guard,
chasseurs,
and soldiers of the line. A red f lag f lies on the hotel tower. The military has cordoned off an area, making room for the unceremonious rolling out of three cannons.
The sight makes the hair on my arms stand on end. Edma links her arm through mine and scoots closer.
“Tiburce, what is happening?” she asks. “I don’t know.”
He tucks us in a relatively quiet spot and says, “Stay here. I’ll try to find out, but please do not move from here or I will not be able to find you again.”
As Tiburce disappears into the crowd, I scan the faces of the guards dressed in the red and blue uniforms, ref lexively looking for Édouard, but I do not see him. In the midst of this frenzied scene, a familiar pang tugs at my heart. No matter what has passed between us, I hope he is safe and unscathed.
Tiburce is only gone a few minutes when I see Eugène Manet elbowing his way through the throngs.
“Monsieur Manet!” I call.
His eyes brighten when he sees us and he pushes his way to us. I look around to see if Édouard is with him.
“Madam, Mademoiselle, I am happy to see you, but what are you doing here? This is no place for the ladies.”
“We were out for a stroll with Tiburce,” I say. “He has gone to inquire of the situation.”
“I shall stay with you until he returns. It is not safe. I fear the worst is not yet over. There is unrest over the new government. Thiers has ordered the National Guard disarmed. Many are unhappy that the siege ended in an armistice and not victory. I don’t know if the discontent that is brewing will come to a peaceable end without more bloodshed.”
Edma gasps.
“Please tell me this is not true. I am on my way home to Adolphe, whom I have not seen in eight months. Will this madness never end?”
Eugène places a gentle hand on her back. “I wish I could assure you it would.”
I can see Edma growing anxious. She stands on tiptoes and scans the crowd—for Tiburce, I assume. She steps a few feet away looking.
Eugène and I stand in awkward silence.
“How is your brother?” My heart pounds so loudly, each beat recalls a cannon blast.
A noisy bunch, push between us, laughing and shouting and reeking of drink and unwashed bodies.
“He was released from duty a week ago and has joined his family in the southwest. I am set to follow tomorrow.”
With those words, my heart stops. So that is the situation. If any lingering hope of Édouard returning to me simmered within my heart, Eugène had supplied the water to douse the remaining embers.
“I see.” I feel as if my insides have been hollowed out. I could not cry if I wanted to, which is a good thing, standing here with his brother. I cannot feel anything except a numb dread that is slowly spreading throughout my body. “Please give Monsieur Manet and his family my regards. Tell him I am much relieved to hear he has escaped unscathed.”
Eugène nods and strokes his beard.
“With trouble brewing, I wonder how long he will stay away. He harbors strong opinions about this regime, and I am sure he will want to help the cause.”
The
cause.
Papa detests the
cause.
As far as he is concerned, they are a band of revolutionary zealots looking to reinvent trouble. How ironic that Édouard should be among them. I had determined to take a wait-and-see attitude before I branded myself for or against them, but I am beginning to believe I detest them as much as Papa does.
“And you, Monsieur?” I ask. “Will you change your plans with this shift in political climate?”
“I am not inclined to fight, Mademoiselle. If I were to
change my plans, it would take the promise of something much more alluring to entice me to stay.”
A man with an empty wine bottle in one hand and his arm around a woman wearing a dirty, low-cut dress push their way between us.
“You speak as if you have already met this—alluring enticement, as you say.”
He looks thoughtful for a moment. I am surprised by how focused he remains despite the hullabaloo unfolding around us.
“Yes, he says. “I have long known said
enticement.
”
The way he looks at me makes me uncomfortable. Not quite a smile, not quite a—I do not know what, nor do I know how to respond.
I am doing my best to hold my hollow self together in the wake of his news about Édouard’s departure, but each new turn weakens the glue that keeps me intact. For lack of knowing what to do, I turn to my sister who is no longer there. I turn in a circle looking for her, bumping into people who are trying to pass.
“Where is Edma?” Nearby, a cannon blasts and I cover my ears. “Where is my sister?” I feel as if the crowd is closing in on me, and suddenly it’s hard to breathe.
A burly man shoves past me. I fall backward. An arm catches me. Rights me. Encircles my waist to steady me. It is Eugène.
“I see her,” he says. “She is over there with Tiburce.” Through the crowd, I catch a glimpse of her. She is wringing her hands talking to my brother and I know the situation must be grave.
“I want to get them so we can go home.”
Eugène takes hold of my hand and pulls me through the crowd. Someone gropes me and we bump from one dirty drunk to the next, inhaling vile, fetid odors the likes of which
I have never in my life experienced, but Eugène does not let go of my hand. In a matter of moments, he deposits me next to Tiburce and Edma.
“We must get the ladies away from this madness,” Eugène says. “May I accompany you to the rue Argensen? I should very much like to pay my respects to your parents.”
We take a different way home, thinking it will be safer to keep to the wide boulevards rather than the winding back streets.
But about halfway home, we encounter an odor the likes of which I hope never to experience again. It is so strong that even covering our mouths and noses gives us no relief.
We see a rotting corpse propped in an open doorway holding a sign that says “Death to Thiers.” Edma screams and faints into Tiburce’s arms.
I close my eyes and bury my face in Eugène’s shoulder.
He puts an arm around me and holds me close the rest of the way home.
My Dearest Edma,
The day of your departure, after that sad walk on the boulevard that upset us so greatly, we had a visit from the fat Monsieur Dally. I was still disturbed. The doctor had been returning from the Place Vendome, where he had been attending the wounded and helping to collect the dead. He told me their names, at least the names of those he knew; I was greatly worried, nervous, being troubled for fear of hearing bad news. This sad evening that the four of us spent together brought back the siege to me as if I had never come out of it. Life has been a terrible nightmare for six months, and I am surprised that I am strong enough to bear it.