And conscious of his son’s despondency, Casimir finished on a gentle note, as if conversing with an invalid:
‘Tell yourself it’s time we’re buying, not a man . . .’
‘Time to refine your grand leftist theories, which one day are sure to benefit society,’ came Ferdinand’s merciless mockery, prompting mad laughter from brother-in-law Jules, who, desperately struggling to contain himself, narrowly avoided spitting his soup onto the tablecloth.
‘In the barracks, they’ll begrudge Auguste his education and scorn him for his qualities!’ said his father, losing his temper.
‘His qualities? What qualities?’ said his brother, pretending to call for a response from around the table.
And then suddenly, as if struck by lightning, Casimir started:
‘But of course!’ he cried. ‘How did I not think of it sooner? Why not ask the young Perret lad to replace you? It may well be that he drew a favourable number. And to think we’re preparing to send people off on a hunt to the other side of the country when the solution may well be here, right under our very noses! Adèle . . . Adèle . . .’
He beat the floor with his walking stick as he shouted for the maid:
‘Adèle! Adèle, in the name of God!’
‘Yes, Monsieur . . .’
‘Adèle, where’s the gardener?’
Auguste, who until then had remained silent, suddenly struck the table with his fist, causing everyone present to jump.
‘That’s enough. It’s abominable! Perret’s boy will not be sent in my place! I will never agree to it! His poor family will not pay that bloody impost when we have the means to buy ourselves out of it for the cost of an annual subscription to a box at the Opera.’
‘Aaaaaaaah, here we go!’ groaned his brother.
And calling the other two as his witnesses, he said:
‘The moment has finally arrived when he gets to lecture us on the topic of human misery!’
Then, grabbing the ladle to fill Auguste’s plate to overflowing, Ferdinand said:
‘Here, have a little more of this excellent soup so you can take your time telling us about all these poor people, because after all there’s nothing better than a handsome table bedecked with flowers and silverware to bring out socialist sentiments. Come on, get on with it, we’re all ears! Tell us, for example, about your friends from the Café du Madrid . . . Or – now what is he called again? That shameful Jew who seems to have scribbled some sort of treatise on the right to steal? – Marx, is that it? Go on, tell us a bit about your Monsieur Marx!’
Infuriated, Auguste left the table immediately, fists clenched, his mouth full of all the abominable insults he would so dearly have loved to spit in his brother’s face, but he contained himself out of respect for his father, who he felt had already put up with enough for one day.
He could still hear his brother shouting as he fled to his room.
‘—And you just sit there without saying a word. “I love the people,” he cries, the fool . . . Instead of letting him get away with everything and leaving him in the care of that lunatic Aunt Clothilde, you should be putting your foot down! Because when he gets it into his head to go and enlighten the hoi polloi about the principles of Goodness, Truth and Beauty, and he’s brought back to you in pieces from Paris on some oxcart, everybody here will be weeping – everybody except me! And anyway, I’ve had enough of eating this peasant’s food when Monsieur does us the honour of turning up!’
And with that, Ferdinand set the cutlery dancing across the cloth and left the table.
Jules observed his plate somewhat sceptically.
‘It’s true that without any bacon this soup is not very tasty!’
Hastily gathering together the few things he had brought with him, the young man hurried out of the house so as not to miss the train that would take him back to Paris. But arriving at the station and seeing the crowds gathered at the roundhouse, he realised many people had taken advantage of the sunny weather to head out to the snowy countryside. As a result, he was unlikely to find a seat in first class for his return journey, nor even one in second. That left third, even though he did not have enough layers to join the clerks and workers in the open carriage.
There, gathered in that railway station – built, not without irony, by Casimir de Rigny himself – was a microcosm of French society. A woman in clogs, burdened with a brood of grubby children, was rubbing shoulders with a grande dame flanked by her maid and doll-like offspring, all heading home from an outing. A respectable husband from Saint-Germain-en-Laye, off to the capital to breach the conjugal monotony, offered his seat to a young dancer from the Opéra Comique who was on her way back to her aged patron. A host of aspiring millionaires and young artists, loaded up with masterpieces, crossed paths at the station with their down-at-heel counterparts heading home and cursing Paris. There were thieves about too, one eye on that handbag somebody had forgotten to watch, the other on a wallet poking out.
All these social theatrics were a world away from Auguste’s preoccupations; in his mind, he was already dead, absurdly alone, his body impaled on a Prussian bayonet in the middle of a field.
No sooner had the carriage doors opened than the compartments were stormed. The young man, having purchased his ticket at the last minute, ended up in the third-class carriage, precisely as he had anticipated. He began his journey jammed between two stocky workers stinking of sweat, who were greatly amused by their proximity to this young, sweet-scented chap. Upon arrival in Pecq, people took pity on him, seeing as he was blue with cold, and he was shoved into the second-class carriage. There he was able to warm himself up, drowning in a gaggle of young women being scolded by their mothers. They were returning from an arranged rendezvous with attractive potential Saint-Germain-en-Laye suitors, but despite the photographs sent in advance, the train tickets, the money spent on outfits and ribbons, no understanding had been reached. ‘No, truly, you simply make no effort at all!’ railed their mothers. The young ladies were not listening, content to giggle as they pretended not to eye Auguste all the way back to Gare Saint-Lazare.
1
FROM THE MINUTE I BOARDED the TGV, I had the shits with everything.
I don’t like having people in my space, so I never sit in my allocated seat. I can’t stand my legs touching my neighbour’s, not to mention having to do battle over the armrest. I prefer the flip seats near the doors, even if you rarely get any peace there because the space is often crammed with idiots letting rip or old people who, having just got on, are busy phoning to say they’re on their way – I can’t hear you anymore, can you hear me? Hello?
That day it was four girls who looked like they’d stepped straight out of a rap video, taking selfies from every possible angle. Curious, I checked out #TGVParis-Brest on Instagram to see how they’d glorified themselves, and to see what attributes they’d unveiled to the grand twenty-first-century fairground of seduction. But there, amid those images of curvy booty and pouting, swollen lips ready for every sort of stimulation imaginable, somebody – without my realising – had taken a photo of me looking on, and posted it.
There I was, in my black mini dress with pockets, my bomber jacket, my legs fitted out with their orthoses and my little heeled ankle boots, lost in a cloud of rainbow-coloured parrots. The total casting error. Emily the Strange invited to the hos’ birthday party.