The sky below the low ceiling of clouds was crisscrossed with the contrails of artillery fire. They formed loops and arcs that were marked by smears of smoke where they ended like evil and destructive rainbows.
She pulled the heavy drapes closed, throwing the room into comforting shadow. Caroline lay back, fully clothed on the bed and sank into its lush embrace. The canopy above was bare of curtains, allowing her to see the domed coffered ceiling. A fresco was painted there, an idyllic scene of shepherds and their flock crossing a pasture down to a winding river and a picturesque stone bridge. She smiled as she counted the sheep.
She drifted off before reaching the tenth sheep despite the occasional growl of the bombardment outside.
Dinner was served that evening in the formal dining room. Caroline suspected that the chunks of meat in the consommé were from the former carriage horses, but she was too famished to care. There was fresh bread and even butter, and the chef worked miracles with dried vegetables and beans to create a medley baked in a flaky crust. Dessert was a compote of figs and honey topped with clotted cream. It was hard to believe that she was in a city under siege by an enemy invader. But Jeannot, the Villeneuve son, served as a reminder of that. It was all he could talk about.
“The generals are fools,” he proclaimed. He was a tall, reedy young man of perhaps nineteen. His cheeks were covered with an angry blush of acne. “De Bellemare is the only one with nerve, and they will punish him for his boldness. All they do is fall back and fall back. Fall back to what? They will soon be left with nowhere to stand yet they make no effort to break the ring of steel the Germans have constructed about us.”
Mme. Villeneuve glanced at him occasionally but said nothing in reply. Caroline wondered who Jeannot was addressing, then realized that it did not matter. The boy was an activist student. Back in college in London and Chicago, she’d seen her share. With his unruly hair and opinionated nature, Jeannot would be at home marching in organized protests and arguing in spirited debates on any campus she’d attended. It might be over immigrant rights, the environment, or the injustice of fur used in fashion. For some, it was a phase they grew out of. She sensed that perhaps Jeannot was not one of those. He liked to hear himself talk too much.
“Trochu petitioned Moltke for a ceasefire on humanitarian grounds. He sent word to the Prussian monster informing him that their cannon fire falls upon hospitals where wounded soldiers and citizens lay helpless. Do you know what Moltke said in reply?” Jeannot’s eyes swept the table, but the two ladies sat mutely dining.
“I will tell you!” As if any force on Earth might stop him. “He said that they use the red crosses on the flags atop the hospitals to sight their cannons! He said that! He said that he murders innocents with relish, and looks forward to more murder! Enough to make the Seine run thick with blood!”
“Jeannot! Please!” his mother cried out. “Madame Rivard and I are dining, and cannot do so in peace under the assault of your unspeakable analogies!”
“I only speak the vivid truth, Mother! While we enjoy our meals, Paris starves. And the generals do nothing to stop the potato-eating swine who come to bayonet us in our beds and rape our women!”
“Jeannot! For God’s sake!” Mme. Villeneuve slammed her fork down on the table with enough force to slosh wine from their glasses.
“What would you propose that they do, monsieur?” Caroline asked, as much to break the current course of his colorful ramblings as to satisfy her curiosity.
“We are still many, we Parisians. How can so many be held prisoner by so few?” He seemed to notice her for the first time. “If every man, not just the soldiers, took up arms, and stormed the Prussian batteries, they would have no choice but to withdraw or be overwhelmed. It is simple mathematics.”
“It is simple madness,” his mother huffed.
“There is a movement afoot to make this a reality,” he said, leaning eagerly toward Caroline and gesturing. “The students and the clubs are urging the city fathers toward this action, to allow Parisians to liberate Paris themselves! My club is the Fraternité des Etudiants-Soldats, and we are prepared to fight! We could sweep over the bastards like a tide! Within hours the city would be free of them and their cannon!”
Caroline searched her mind once again, trying to recall if this event ever occurred. She remembered nothing. Certainly, if it had happened and succeeded, it would have been memorialized. Something that foolhardy and heroic would be celebrated if it had resulted in victory. It would have been immortalized in the writings of Flaubert or Zola and been celebrated as a national holiday upon its anniversary each year. Caroline decided that it was only spoken of by idealistic young idiots like Jeannot.
“I think we all pray it does not come to that,” Caroline said.
“Pray all you wish, Madame. But it is man who determines his fate,” Jeannot said, grandly and stood to leave the table.
“Where are you off to?” Mme. Villeneuve protested. “It is past curfew, son.”
“I have to meet with my fellow students. The patrols are too lazy or cowardly to act against violators.” He bowed his farewells and
