The Inheritors Page 2

  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.

  ‘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 wor
kplace, 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 . . .’

  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 ort
hoses 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.

  And to top it all off, I was pulling one of those faces . . .

  I’ve got to say, I wasn’t feeling at the top of my game. I’d just been put on compulsory sick leave because I’d narrowly avoided being sliced in two, width-wise, by the doors of a metro train and, to make matters worse, I was on my way to the ultimate bore of a destination, namely my father’s eighty-fifth birthday.

  And the trip was a long way from over: once I’d made it to Brest, I would still have an hour by bus and an hour and a half by boat over wild seas to go. And since I knew that as soon as I arrived I’d just be in the way, you can imagine my enthusiasm.

  I knew the script by heart: once I was there, my father would pretend to be happy to see me, then, after the customary banalities – Did you eat anything on the train? Were there a lot of people on the boat? When are you leaving again? – he’d have nothing more to say to me. I’d be all, And you? How are things with you? knowing all the while that I’d be opening the floodgate to a litany of grievances. Granny Soize calls it the kaleidoscopic whinge: sentences which, when taken in isolation and uttered in a neutral tone, sound purely informative – You know, I was at the doctor ... When I eat in the morning, I get vertigo ... You remember Dédé, they’re going to cut off his hands and feet because of his diabetes – and yet when they’re all gathered together produce a terrifying pattern of the fate about to befall him. He swivels it a bit, and wham! everything gets rearranged and off we go again. The most awful thing is, it never stops. It was raining at Brest, just for a change. A biblical horizontal rain driven by the wind from the open sea that whips you in the face as soon as you step off the train. It was then that I noticed them for the first time, the three Parisians, there on the platform. It must be said they were the only thing you noticed, standing there in their pretty little shower-proof raincoats in an attempt to ward off the torrents of water. Two hirsute hipsters, one of whom was wearing glasses, as well as a fairly plain, tall girl with long, glossy hair.