The First of July(30)

Some gendarmes, running, overtook the men. The two Pierres stopped and stood back in the doorway of a cobbler’s workshop, the older Pierre pressing Jean-Baptiste back with the flat of his hand. More men ran by, away from whatever catastrophe had befallen, while other men guided their wives from the street. A smartly dressed gentleman was pulling a reluctant priest toward the commotion.

Pierre Duval reached out and caught one of the escaping men by his jacket. “Who’s been murdered?” he asked. “What in the name of the Virgin is going on?”

“Shot in the café. By some ordinary young man. With a gun.”

“Who?”

“Jaurès.”

“He’s dead?” Pierre looked stricken, Pierre red-beard unbelieving. “What’s all this nonsense … this damn fool city and its rumors.”

“Go and take a look. Paddle in his blood. Get arrested. Get shot. The whole place is swarming with police. It was probably a German, if you ask me.”

The older Pierre was clearly fighting to keep his voice under control. “Jaurès was trying to keep peace with the Germans. Why would they shoot him?” A small spasm crossed his face. “Dead? Are you sure?”

The man tore his sleeve free. “If a man can live with his brains all over his dinner plate, then yes, perhaps he’s alive. I’m getting out of here—there may be more Berlin anarchists about.”

Pierre Duval looked up the street. A black official car, its horn hooting, trundled over the cobbles.

“Let’s take you back, young Jean-Baptiste,” he said, his voice flat. “If Jaurès is dead, we’ll hear soon enough.” He turned and moved off, Pierre red-beard a step behind him. Jean-Baptiste followed forlornly.

At the hostel, two tired-looking workmen were standing against the wall smoking.

“Jaurès has had it,” one said in a thick accent. “Some French lad did it. They’ve already caught him.”

“A patriot,” said the other.

Jean-Baptiste expected one of the two Pierres to react, but they hardly seemed to have heard and he was left standing on the steps feeling, suddenly, very alone. But as his companions reached the corner, Pierre Duval turned, looked at him, and walked back. He took him by the elbow, speaking low and urgently.

“You need to go home,” he said. “Don’t stay in Paris. Go back home. It won’t be safe here. Jaurès was a small voice, and now that’s silent. War is coming, and Paris is where it will come to first. You’ll be a soldier within weeks.”

Jean-Baptiste couldn’t tell him that there was no way he could ever go home again. That his mother was a whore, that the man he had looked up to was a spy, and that he was himself a thief. By now everybody in Corbie would know what he’d done, but only his mother and Vignon would know that he knew what they’d done, what they were.

A few days later, Therzon was late for work. Eventually he came haring along the embankment, waving a newspaper, which was odd because he couldn’t read.

“War! It’s war!” he cried, as if it were the best day of his life. “Revenge! Here!” He stabbed at the newspaper with his finger.

Young Pierre scrambled, goat-like, up the half-built steps from the waterside, his eyes sparkling in his muddy face. Red-beard Pierre just rested on his pickaxe, with an expression that was hard to read, while Pierre Duval’s was unequivocal. Grim-faced, he kept working. Yet Jean-Baptiste felt a thrill of something, even though he was ashamed of it: perhaps Therzon’s euphoria was contagious.

He was on the top of the bridge as Therzon ran off, shouting the news to anyone who would listen. The bells had started tolling. Who would have thought there were so many churches in Paris? Jean-Baptiste looked up and saw a couple, very elegant, very rich, he thought, walking arm in arm and talking to each other. She had a parasol and a pretty hat and, underneath it, hair so fair it was almost white. The man, who was older, was laughing at something she’d said. They came to a halt when they saw Therzon running across the road, shouting to women waiting outside the baker’s. A group of road-menders were all putting down their tools, and a trolley actually stopped while a passer-by spoke to the driver. A waiter crossed the street to join in, still carrying his tray.

The couple, clearly foreign, looked puzzled, even nervous. Were they perhaps Germans? Jean-Baptiste ran toward them, the bells and the shouts across the street creating a sort of urgency that made him run too fast and shout too loudly rather than tell them calmly what had happened. The man caught him by the arm and held him for a minute. He didn’t know what he actually said to the couple, but he was certain it was as bad as if it had been Therzon.