Le Temps des Cerises (14 page)

Bernadine nodded. ‘Yes. I believe she hated every minute of it.'

‘Ah.' The wizened one nodded wisely. ‘It was quite different in my day of course. We were to practise a Holy indifference to wherever we were posted. A Holy indifference.' She smiled with the quiet constancy of a martyr. ‘Whatever we met with. Whatever they saw fit to throw at us. Often we didn't even have the bare necessities but in compensation we earned our spiritual fortune in no time flat, let me tell you, no time flat.'

‘Alleluia!' murmured the rosy-cheeked one.

‘Of course, there were the horror stories…'

The lugubrious one sat up in her chair. ‘Horror stories?' she cried eagerly. ‘What horror stories?'

‘Well…' Sister Frances settled herself down nicely, crossing her legs by lifting one arthritic old knee over the other with a pair of equally arthritic old hands. ‘You've heard of Sister Isidore?'

The nuns gasped. Sister Isidore was a legend. And not a good one.

‘Oh, she started off well enough – a pleasing temperament, a soul bound to virtue, sound of wind and limb… when she was posted to Tassin they offered her all sorts, a classroom with a coal stove and bell, sunny and spacious accommodation... She thought she would be received like a countess… But in the end, oh me oh my, she was housed in a ruined abbey where rats and elderly monks attacked her bed.'

All heads swivelled to Brother Michael who was prostrate beside the bed, kissing the floor.

‘Goodness!' gasped Sister Luke. ‘It fair gives you the palpitations.'

‘Doesn't it just. Her downfall in the end of course, was novels.' She shook her head. ‘How many young girls have been lost through the reading of novels.'

‘Praise be!' The rosy-cheeked one said a little wistfully while the lugubrious one coughed and turned a distinct shade of red.

It was hard not to stare at the body – it drew your eyes back again and again like a statue or a painting or a model reclining on a chaise longue awaiting the first brushstroke. How quickly she had gone cold. Bernadine had been astonished at how quickly she had gone cold. From life to death in a matter of seconds. As if the artist had changed his palette mid-air in temperamental fashion, turning the veins from wine red to silver, silver as the starshine that crept through the window, filling the room with fluctuating shadows. The corpse had emptied itself several times already with a gentle trickling, scaring some, provoking hilarity in others; but now it made no sound at all though Bernadine could hear Aggie's voice plainly in her ear, laughing, singing, rejoicing.

What would you have Sister Bernadine? A great banquet in your honour. Sugared almonds and pineapples are my favourite.

She would not abandon this child. Not this one. She made a silent vow to the corpse of her friend that she would not abandon this child. Never again.

‘It's all fashion and futility these days!' declared the Old Walnut. ‘Spiritual fortune is squandered, frittered away on novels, jujubes, facepaint, fancy note paper. The Mother Superior's shelves are bursting.'

Sister Luke muttered a discreet ‘Alleluia' while the lugubrious one stared morbidly at Brother Michael who lay fast asleep at the bottom of the bed like a dog at the feet of his master.

‘Not that I am all for self-abnegation,' Sister Frances went on tolerantly. ‘I have always believed the laborious work of teaching to be sufficient exercise in the practice of mortification.' She chuckled. ‘We used to say that the rule of silence was invoked simply to save one's voice for the classroom!'

Bernadine smiled politely and Sister Frances chattered on good naturedly. ‘It is hard to live in a community. So little privacy. So many… sacrifices. But I like to think of our Saviour Jesus of Nazareth and the first community, if you will. Just imagine if he could not abide the smell of fish! Or the presence of some of his more dull-witted disciples.'

‘Praise be!' said the cheery-faced one a little vacantly; and Sister Frances' face took on a long-suffering look.

‘But we must persevere. Trust in the Lord. Keep our minds on each sunrise and each sunset. We need do no more.'

The words flitted round Bernadine's head like battered moths. Trust the Lord. Sunrise and Sunset. Sunrise and Sunset from here to eternity. For what purpose? To what end? Soon the sun would rise and the nuns drift away to mass and to make the necessary arrangements, leaving her alone in a barren little cell with the corpse of her friend and a blue baby girl. Her nerve failed her for a moment.
She
had sinned as badly as her friend. For what purpose did
she
remain living?

My beloved is mine and I am his,

He feedeth among the lilies

Until the day breathes and the shadows flee away

Who is that looks forth like the dawn

Fair as the moon, bright as the sun

Terrible as an army with banners?

Part Two: Living, Dying

Chapter thirteen

‘What a send off!' murmured Alphonse as 7
th
Company made its way as best it could through the packed streets and crowded boulevards. Thirty-five National Guard battalions were setting off that day – a cold, muddy morning in the middle of January – to fight the enemy. It was to be a mass attack in retaliation for the bombardment the city had suffered in the last few weeks at the hands of the Prussians – General Trochu's plan come to fruition. Some said it was a mass suicide and that the beautiful men of Paris were going to their graves; but the people were out in their thousands, in any case, to cheer them on – waving flags, singing military airs and patriotic songs. It was like a public holiday: shops were shut up, wine poured, emotions soared – all for the glory of the Republic of course. More and more people came out of their homes to see what all the fuss was about, join in the fun, watch the procession of polished bayonets, boots and buttons pass by, some of the men looking gay and light-hearted, some looking grim and determined. Mothers wept; lovers sang and sighed at the same time; old men cursed, wishing they were younger while young boys ran alongside the troops, wishing they were older. An old gent sitting on the shoulders of his equally ancient wife shouted out in a trembling voice: ‘Kick their arses back to Berlin, boys! Kick their arses back to Berlin!' He took off his hat and appeared to be weeping. ‘Remember Austerlitz, Wagram, Borodino, Sébastopol!'

‘Keep your hair on, Granddad!' cried Tessier, grinning from ear to ear. ‘We'll shove 'em back across the Rhine, never fear. They won't get past Léon Tessier in a hurry.' And he promised the old man he'd bring back a bit of Bismarck's goose nicely cooked for him.

Laurie scanned the crowd, looking for Eveline, though she had said she wouldn't come and he looked in vain. He thought he caught a glimpse of her once behind a fountain on the Rue de Rivoli but it was nothing but a cascade of sparkling water. A woman dressed in a tricolour flag was trying to distract him, doing the rounds of the men, offering brandy and a kiss on the cheek for France and for victory. Coupeau was taking full advantage of the situation, gaining victory after victory after victory; he even broke the line and darted in and out of the crowd – a strange little figure almost dwarfed by his kit bag – getting as many smackers as he could from women who didn't dare refuse him for fear he was one of the poor men on their way to meet their maker. The rest of 7
th
Company however, Laurie noticed, looked as if they had the weight of the world on their shoulders; and he smiled a secret smile of delight: this was it! At last a taste of some real action!

Suddenly he spotted her as they turned onto the Champs Élysées. She was wearing a sky-blue dress and holding Jacques tightly by the hand at the edge of the crowd. His heart missed a beat. She had come! She had changed her mind and come! He didn't know whether to stare straight ahead as Alphonse was doing or turn and feast his eyes on her. In the end he turned and she caught his eye. The next moment she was trotting alongside, flushed and breathless, almost tripping over her skirts. Even in the early hours of a dull winter morning she was radiant and he wanted to take her in his arms then and there in the middle of the Champs Élysées – though of course he never would have. She kept opening her mouth to speak but the noise and commotion were too great and in the end she simply pressed something into his hand – it was a bunch of dried violets – her eyes huge and shining with tears. To hide his own emotion he buried his face in them and their sickly sweet odour filled his nostrils, making him feel quite light-headed. He was dimly aware that she lingered by Alphonse and handed him something too – he thought he caught a flash of dazzling red – but then they were turning sharply right and her face fell away with the bands and roaring streets and he was left with nothing but the odour of violets. He tried to imprint an image of her in his mind so that later on he could draw on each and every detail, wondering a little dramatically if he would ever see her again.

The march began in earnest then, through the south-west part of the city. Huddles of onlookers still watched and waited to cheer them on and a ragtag of children kept pace for a while. Jacques was amongst them, thumbing his nose at them both and Alphonse took a moment to thumb back and wave. A little girl in a yellow dress threw a posy which Tessier caught and slipped over the end of his rifle.

‘Thank you, mademoiselle,' he said graciously, stopping to execute an elaborate bow as if they'd just taken a dance together. ‘Thank you, mademoiselle.' And he threw a playing card over to her that landed at her feet and she knelt to retrieve it then ran off, giggling and blushing to the roots of her hair.

Joubet made some remark about clowns wanting their heads blown off but nobody paid him any heed; and they marched on in good cheer. Women still stopped and stared as they passed and Coupeau preened and chuckled in delight though most of the women, Laurie thought, were staring at Alphonse. He looked like a Greek god with his tall frame and sculpted features and Laurie wondered suddenly what Eveline had given him. It had looked like the ruby brooch she wore on special occasions yet he did not think that could be right; and he didn't dare ask his friend for fear of having his suspicions confirmed. Whatever it was, Alphonse had slipped it into his pocket and wasn't saying – he simply looked straight ahead, intent on where he was going, his strong face calm and composed, ignoring the calls and waves from girls who wanted him to notice
her
, smile at
her
. Had Laurie known it, he himself was the object of several shy glances and fervent prayers but he was too busy thinking about Alphonse… In the end he turned his thoughts to the battle ahead. To launch an attack from Mont Valérian and Buzenval
12
was a daring, surprising manoeuvre. The full spate of men bearing down on the fortresses, moats and barricades surrounding Versailles. He hoped that his nerve would not fail him. That he would pass the test. And he hoped that if he were to die it would be an honourable death.

He fought valiantly for his country

Fearless to the end…

A true soldier… and a true friend…

Each one was silent, lost in his own thoughts, kindled by the cheers of the crowd, replaying scenes of farewell with loved ones. They didn't mind the rain coming down at a fair lick now, creeping under their clothes, gently soaking them to the skin and turning the road to slush. They had the people behind them and God on their side – what couldn't they achieve? To an objective eye they were a motley crew, emaciated, thin as rakes with haunted eyes; but in their own minds they were indestructible. Ill trained and ill equipped they might be. Famished and bombarded to within an inch of their lives they may have been. But it made them even more determined to beat the Prussians black and blue. They would return dead or victorious, General Ducrot had said. Dead or victorious. Defeat would mean ruin and shame and it didn't enter into their vocabulary. Any doubts had been dashed by the warmth of the crowd and the men were glad and full of hope. The Battle of Buzenval would go down in history along with Austerlitz, Wagram, Borodino, Sébastopol… Tessier said as much as they left the Seine far behind and entered into open country.

Now and then they had to stop for other battalions to pass or because the battalion in front had come to a standstill. Thirty-five battalions was a good deal of men and led to a good many foul-ups. Laurie wondered why they hadn't set off in relay but then again it wouldn't have been such a spectacle for the crowd. Soon, of course, they would split off in different directions – some going to Mont Valérian, others to Buzenval. Still more had camped out the night before and were in position, waiting for back-up. Nevertheless, the hold-ups were exasperating and led to friction between the battalions – the men too full of themselves not to pick a fight with something. Some of the battalions were made up of
mobiles
– rurals recruited from the rest of France and regular fighting men. The National Guard battalions dubbed them ‘yokels' and were in turn dubbed ‘part-timers' by the
mobiles
.

‘Butchers, bakers and candlestick makers!' sneered a muscled-up
mobile
, looking down his nose as he passed 7
th
Company.