‘What’s to become of this boy and his unhealthy sensitivity?’ Casimir would often wonder if he happened to be pondering his son Auguste. ‘He seems incapable of imagining doing anything with himself.’
He saw only one explanation for the significant difference between his two children: whereas the eldest, Ferdinand, had developed both in strength and energy, the youngest had succumbed in quick succession to every conceivable illness from the day he was born – and, like every child wrestled from death, he had been far too spoiled by his mother.
Physically he belonged to that species of tall, thin types with a broad forehead and dead-straight blond locks that he flicked off his face. His large dark eyes shone like horse chestnuts, lending him a fanatical air, as if ravaged from within, with a slightly effeminate touch. He considered himself a philosopher or poet, or both, coming out with particularly infuriating inanities such as: ‘I’d love to learn a manual trade so I might help my fellow man, brother to brother.’ He would go around predicting that he would die at thirty-three, like Christ, which women found highly entertaining. His parents, much less so.
After turning family mealtimes into a great headache by declaring suddenly one day that he was adopting a Pythagorean diet, a regime spurning all animal flesh, his latest infatuation was socialism, or more precisely the writings of a philosopher – a certain Marx – who was living in exile in England, about whom he would harp on endlessly at every opportunity. This most recent fad had disrupted the household’s peace and quiet once and for all, with the two brothers constantly bickering, each time further testing the limits of acceptability. It had reached the point where Casimir had had to beg his sister Clothilde, who lived in Paris, to take Auguste in so as to remove him from Saint-Germain until he had had a chance to mature.
Clothilde herself was not without her failings.
For starters, her lodgings were not at all appropriately located for a woman living on her own. Instead of settling in an area such as the 16th, 8th or 7th arrondissement of the capital, Clothilde had purchased an apartment for an exorbitant price in Haussmann’s new developments in the heart of the Grands Boulevards, surrounded by cafés and theatres. To make matters worse, she meddled in politics. A committed Republican and devotee of a certain Léon Gambetta, a young arrogant lawyer with a visceral dislike of the Emperor, she would loiter in courtrooms and clubs so she could listen to his speeches. And to complete the picture, she was single – I wish to remain a free woman and not be a poor turkey under the guardianship of some halfwit who has assumed control of her money – so, lacking a husband with whom Casimir might reasonably have been able to discuss the possibility of reining her in, and at the age of fifty-six, it was obviously too late. Notwithstanding these few imperfections and the fact she set a deplorable example for the women of the family, she remained nonetheless socially acceptable. Unfortunately, the same could no longer be said of Auguste, who in addition to having transformed his home into a battlefield had managed to set himself in out-and-out opposition to his social peers.
An optimist by nature, Casimir had gambled on his sister’s modernity to guide his young son gently towards a more moderate stance. What’s more, they would each be looking out for the other, which could hardly hurt.
When Auguste appeared in the dining room looking all undone, dinner had already been served and the three men of the family – his father, his brother-in-law Jules and his older brother Ferdinand – were waiting for him before beginning.
‘Well then?’ asked Casimir, anxiously.
‘Judging by the look on his face, I’d say he’s drawn a bad number!’ said Ferdinand in a mocking voice.
‘You’ll be pleased. I drew a 4,’ replied Auguste with a sigh, before collapsing onto his chair.
His father reassured him.
‘You mustn’t worry for a moment, I had made provision, as I did for your brother, and had set aside the 2000 francs required by the state to pay for your exemption. But given this damnable law, and the fact we now have to go about finding you a replacement ourselves, I’ll have ample means to pay a dealer to bring us a good one. I’ve already approached Kahn & Levy at Place Saint-Opportune, who reportedly have no shortage of men.’
‘Was it in that rag published by your friend Tripier that you found your Jewish dealers in human flesh listed?’ asked Auguste’s brother-in-law, Jules.
‘Between an advertisement for the Naudia measuring stick and Learning German made simple!’ said Ferdinand, not to be outdone.
‘The Assurance is not a rag but a newspaper for decent family men. The recruiting board will convene on 18 July, which leaves us, all of us – and let me insist on this point, all of us – six short months to find a replacement for our dear Auguste.’
Casimir himself still harboured very unpleasant memories from the period that had preceded the ballot of his own class. He had been left in a state of uncertainty right up to the eleventh hour, after a quarrel with his mother led her to punish him by steadfastly refusing to pay for a replacement for him in the event he drew a bad number. It still made him anxious to remember the day, twenty-three years earlier, when, in that same town hall, he had plunged a trembling hand into the urn. Fortunately, fate had smiled upon him and he had drawn a good number. He would not have to head off. And the events of 1848 only served to underline his relief. ‘I felt the wind of the cannonball in my hair,’ he was wont to recall. So there was no question of having his sons suffer that same dreadful experience, especially Auguste, who, given his feeble constitution, would struggle more than most with life in the barracks.
‘With the Prussians bearing down on us like a locomotive, I suspect prices will climb and your measly 2000 francs will do little to attract the dealers as you would hope. Believe you me, we shall have our work cut out,’ pointed out brother-in-law Jules, who knew a thing or two about conscription, having squandered a third of his existence wallowing in the dreary routine of garrison life.
‘There’s no doubt that with the rumours of war, those hustlers are set to earn more buying and selling men than trading livestock,’ agreed Ferdinand, his mouth full.
Despite feeling everybody’s eyes focused upon him, Auguste stared at his plate as if into an abyss. His father placed a reassuring hand on his forearm and said, gently:
‘Do you think we’re not mindful of what’s troubling you? Military replacements are a good thing precisely because they help to restore the very social equity of which you’re so fond. It causes money to fall from the hands of those who have it into the empty hands of those who have none, to ensure, at the end of the day, that the army is supplied with a good soldier rather than a poor-quality one. Don’t listen to the foolish notions planted in your head by those socialists whose company you keep. By removing them from the foul air of their workplace, and by relieving them of their bad food, military service offers nothing but benefits to the proletariat, whereas it serves only to compromise the health of the sons of the bourgeoisie and ruin their careers. This inequality you’re constantly talking to us about is found precisely in the absurd notion of universal service.’
Ferdinand intervened.
‘There is a much easier way to explain all of this to my dear brother: any proletarian worker with a true job will never be used as a replacement. It’s only ever an issue for a labourer who has no work and who, by definition, constitutes a menace. There’s no need to delve any further into the whys or wherefores: it’s a simple matter of rounding up the riff-raff and confining them to the garrisons in order to stave off chaos! Isn’t that right . . . Auguste . . .’