Home > The Inheritors(2)

The Inheritors(2)
Author: Hannelore Cayre

As he made his way up Rue de la République, the dawn filled with the silhouettes of people whose snowy footprints were converging on the town hall of Saint-Germain-en-Laye. Children were playing battle games out the front of the building, entertaining the soldiers standing guard. Sitting astride imaginary mounts and armed with snowballs and sticks by way of swords, they launched themselves, shouting, at invisible enemies. Prussians, they said.

Those accompanying the young men were asked to remain outside while all those who had been called up were led by privates into the Hall of Honour. Sitting at the table waiting for them, with the municipal register containing the names of all the young men born in 1849 open in front of him, was the mayor, wearing his sash of red, white and blue, together with an impatient officer flanked by a handful of soldiers.

Auguste went to join a small group of bourgeois civilians standing around a large coal brazier, who had been joined, naturally enough, by the offspring of their servants. He greeted the Bertelot boy, who he knew had harboured designs on his cousin at some point, as well as his childhood friend Duchaussois, whom his father was constantly holding up as an example after he had pursued a position in the magistracy. He saw his high-school friends Berquet, Bruault and Fromoisin . . . and there was Portefaux, too, the son of the mortgage registrar. Auguste hardly recognised him he had gained so much weight: he was hoping to be declared unfit for service on the grounds of obesity, he said. Auguste was equally surprised to see the fellow whom his mother had always called little Perret, the youngest son of their gardener, who it seemed had been born the same year as him. Then there were the sons of the town’s shopkeepers. Some of them he knew from church, from having played with them when he was younger, or simply from having glimpsed them at the back of their parents’ shops. A cheerful hubbub was very quickly heard emerging from this inner circle.

A little removed, keeping a respectful distance from the stove, stood a crowd of young workers clad in factory coats, as well as a few peasants battling silently against the cold, dressed as if heading to Mass. They had all made the effort to put on clean clothes, for if their poverty was tolerated it was only because they had made the effort to dress properly and did not allow their impoverishment to cause offence to those with whom they were required to rub shoulders.

Auguste could not help but observe them surreptitiously.

‘There are so many of them,’ he thought, astonished. ‘How awkwardly they conduct themselves, and how stubborn their silence. Their manner sits at such odds with the ease and civility of the well-to-do. Why are they not the ones approaching the stove so they might warm their bones, with their meagre clothes and inadequate shoes, so poorly suited to the cold?’

‘These poor lads had a price, it seems. How much for that sturdy specimen hopping from one clog to another so as not to freeze? And would he agree to sell himself, that man, if he weren’t given his marching orders? Did he think that to have himself killed in the place of the son of a wealthier family is “a matter of outlook” as Monsieur Thiers recently asserted in the Chamber? Did he think it self-evident, a given, much like conceding his place around the fire?’

‘How complicated it all is!’ he thought, sighing.

Despite the Emperor’s desire to bring some ethics to the trade in men, the principle of freedom to contract had once again triumphed in the Chamber as a result of pressure exerted by the country’s paterfamilias.

The liberal deputies had voted by overwhelming majority in favour of bringing back military substitution as it had been practised prior to the accession of Napoléon III. Thus, it was no longer a question of the state being responsible for finding a replacement, in exchange for a fee, for those young men refusing to go, but rather a matter for the families themselves. There had of course been the minor socialist group led by Jules Simon protesting this white slave trade, this resurgence of traffickers in human flesh – but it was against a backdrop of general indifference. The conservatives, for their part, had brandished the spectre of war with Prussia. And contrary to all expectations, that country, while considerably smaller than France, had just crushed Austria at Sadowa in a single battle, thanks entirely to its compulsory service and its army of 1,200,000 men, but the conservatives too had been preaching in the wilderness.

At around ten o’clock, the officer present started to call the roll that had been stripped of exemptions, while a soldier turned the handle of the drum containing the 127 numbers slotted into their wooden casings.

Each time a name was called to be drawn, Auguste, who was not only in a state of panic but also bad at mathematics, would jump and lose track of his reasoning: ‘There are 167 on the list, and twenty of them are exempted, so given that the municipality has to supply twenty-five men and assuming there’ll be ten discharged for various reasons, a number would become truly bad from twice that, so from fifty, which means there’s one chance in . . .’

Duchaussois was the first of the little group around the coal stove to be called. Were he to draw an unlucky number, he would seek to rely on a document he had thought to have prepared by a public prosecutor of the Imperial Court in Paris who was a family friend, which referenced his position as an acting judge on the Seine Tribunal, a position he had occupied for three years without remuneration. He drew a 10, asserted his claim, and was exempted.

Portefaux was the next name to be called . . .

After hesitating for some minutes as he mumbled who knows what sort of incantation, the young man was called to order and pushed unceremoniously towards the urn for the draw. When he extracted the number from its casing, he started to weep with relief: 120.

‘You’ll be able to start your diet, you great lazy oaf,’ mocked the soldier, as he returned to cranking the handle of the drum.

At last, around midday, it was Auguste’s turn.

When his name was called, his face crumpled. His body felt like it weighed a tonne as he dragged himself to the urn, plunged in his hand, then yanked it out as if from boiling water.

‘A 4,’ he murmured, defeated.

‘Selected!’ cried the officer, before reeling off the relevant articles of the Code in an emotionless voice. ‘Monsieur, in view of your number and unless you qualify for discharge, your position in the contingent is hereby confirmed. The recruitment board shall make its announcement on 18 July, whereupon you may proffer such replacement as you may have identified from any département in the Empire. The mayor shall inform you of the conditions of said replacement’s acceptance, as well as any documents you may be called upon to produce. We are relying on your zeal in performing your duty, and remind you of the unfortunate consequences which shall befall both you and your family in the event of your failure to comply.’

Auguste remained frozen before the soldier, his eyes vacant, hands moist, mind adrift. Then another name was called and he was forced to move, shoved aside by the next person to draw. He left the town hall without acknowledging a soul; in any event, nobody would have welcomed his greetings, for now he was jinxed. Overcome, he headed home, where his father was waiting impatiently to know what action to take.

Despite his outwardly calm and confident demeanour, Casimir had always worried for his youngest son.

Once the boy had passed his baccalaureate, he had done his best to initiate him into the delights of public construction – there was no memory of any de Rigny having ever done anything else, at least since Colbert – but so vacant were Auguste’s eyes on the occasion of his last site visit that Casimir had sadly concluded the boy was not at all suited to such matters. This was in stark contrast to his other son. Ferdinand, having adopted and made his own the extraordinary legal construct that was the public limited company – namely an ability to conduct business without any liability for its failures – had managed the remarkable feat of quadrupling his assets by the age of twenty-seven, while taking like a duck to the troubled waters of awarding public contracts.

Hot Books
» House of Earth and Blood (Crescent City #1)
» A Kingdom of Flesh and Fire
» From Blood and Ash (Blood And Ash #1)
» A Million Kisses in Your Lifetime
» Deviant King (Royal Elite #1)
» Den of Vipers
» House of Sky and Breath (Crescent City #2)
» Sweet Temptation
» The Sweetest Oblivion (Made #1)
» Chasing Cassandra (The Ravenels #6)
» Wreck & Ruin
» Steel Princess (Royal Elite #2)
» Twisted Hate (Twisted #3)
» The Play (Briar U Book 3)
» The War of Two Queens (Blood and Ash #4)