CHAPTER 3
‘Léonie, c’est moi. Léonie!’
A man’s voice, familiar and reassuring. And a smell of sandalwood hair oil and Turkish tobacco.
Anatole? Here?
And now strong hands were circling her waist and lifting her up out of the crowd.
Léonie opened her eyes. ‘Anatole!’ she cried, throwing her arms around his neck. ‘Where have you been? How could you!’ Her embrace turned to attack, as she pummelled his chest with furious fists. ‘I waited and waited, yet you did not come. How could you leave me to—’
‘I know,’ he replied quickly. ‘And you have every right to rebuke me, but not now.’ Her anger left her as quickly as it had come.Worn out, suddenly, she let her head fall forward on to her big brother’s chest.
‘I saw—’
‘I know, petite,’ he said softly, running his hand over her dishevelled hair, ‘but the soldiers are outside already. We must leave or risk being caught up in the fighting.’
‘Such hatred in their faces, Anatole. They destroyed everything. Did you see? Did you see?’
Léonie felt hysteria building inside her, bubbling up from her stomach to her throat, to her mouth. ‘With their bare hands, they—’
‘You can tell me later,’ he said sharply, ‘but now we must get away from here. Vas-y.’
Straight away, Léonie came back to her senses. She took a deep breath.
‘Good girl,’ he said, seeing the determination return to her eyes. ‘Quick now!’
Anatole used his height and strength to forge a path through the mass of bodies fleeing the auditorium.
They emerged through the velvet curtains into the chaos. Hand in hand, they ran along the balconies, then down the Grand Escalier. The marble floor, littered with champagne bottles, overturned ice buckets and programmes, was like an ice rink beneath their feet. Slipping, but never quite losing their footing, they reached the glazed doors and were out into the Place de l’Opéra.
Instantly, behind them, came the sound of glass breaking.
‘Léonie, this way!’
If she had thought the scenes inside the Grande Salle impossible, on the streets outside it was worse. The nationalist protesters, the abonnés, had taken possession of the steps of the Palais Garnier too. Armed with sticks and bottles and knives, they stood in lines three deep, waiting and waiting, chanting. Below, in the Place de l’Opéra itself, lines of soldiers in short red jackets and gold helmets knelt with rifles trained on the protesters, hoping for the command to fire.
‘There are so many of them,’ she cried.
Anatole did not reply, as he pulled her through the crowds in front of the baroque façade of the Palais Garnier. He reached the corner, and then turned sharply right into rue Scribe, out of the direct line of fire. They were carried along by the mass of people, their fingers laced tight so as not to be separated from one another, for almost a block of buildings, jostled and bustled and knocked like flotsam on a fast-flowing river.
But for a moment, Léonie felt herself safe. She was with Anatole.
Then the sound of a single shot from a rifle. For a moment, the tide of people halted, then, as if in one single movement, pushed once more. Léonie could feel her slippers coming unfastened from her feet and was suddenly aware of men’s boots snapping at her ankles, trampling underfoot the torn and trailing hem of her dress. She struggled to keep her balance. A volley of bullets erupted behind them. The only fixed point was Anatole’s hand.
‘Don’t let go,’ she cried.
Behind them, an explosion ripped through the air. The pavement shuddered. Léonie, half twisting around, saw the dusty, dirty mushroom of smoke, grey against the city sky, rising up from the direction of the Place de l’Opéra. Then she felt a second blast reverberating up through the pavement. The air around them seemed first to solidify, then fold in on itself.
‘Des canons! Ils tirent!’
‘Non, non, c’est des pétards.’
Léonie cried and grasped Anatole’s hand tighter. They surged forward, ever forward, no sense of where they would end up, no sense of time, driven only by an animal instinct that told her not to stop, not until the noise and the blood and the dust were far behind.
Léonie felt her limbs tire as fatigue took hold, but she kept running, running, until she could go no further. Little by little the crowd thinned until at last they found themselves in a quiet street, far removed from the fighting and the explosions and the barrels of the guns. Her legs were weak with exhaustion and her skin was flushed and damp with the night.
Coming to a halt, Léonie reached out with a hand to steady herself against a wall. Her heart was thudding feverishly. The blood was hammering in her ears, heavy and loud.
Anatole stopped, leaning back against the wall. Léonie sagged against him, her copper curls hanging all the way down her back like a skein of silk, and felt his arms go protectively around her shoulders.
She gulped at the night air, trying to regain her breath. She pulled off her stained gloves, discoloured by soot and the Parisian streets, and let them drop to the pavement.
Anatole smoothed his fingers through the thick black hair that had fallen down over his high forehead and sharp cheekbones. He too was breathing hard, despite the hours he spent training in the fencing halls.
Extraordinarily, he seemed to be smiling.
For a while, neither spoke. The only sound was the rise and fall of their breath, clouds of white in the cool September evening. At last Léonie drew herself up.
‘Why were you late?’ she demanded of him, as if the events of the last hour had never happened.
Anatole stared at her in disbelief; then he started to laugh, softly at first, then louder, struggling to speak, filling the air with guffaws.
‘You would scold me, petite, even at such a moment?’
Léonie fixed him with a look, but quickly felt the corners of her own mouth starting to twitch. A giggle burst out of her, then another, until her slim frame was shaking with laughter and the tears were rolling down her grimy, pretty cheeks.
Anatole removed his evening jacket and draped it across her bare shoulders.
‘You are really the most extraordinary creature,’ he said. ‘Quite extraordinary!’
Léonie gave a rueful smile as she contrasted her dishevelled state with his elegance. She glanced down at her tattered green gown. The hem hung loose like a train behind her, and the remaining glass beads were chipped and hanging by a thread.
Despite their headlong flight through the streets of Paris, Anatole looked all but immaculate. His shirt sleeves were white and crisp, the tips of his collar still starched and upright; his blue dress waistcoat was unmarked.
He stepped back and looked up to read the sign on the wall.
‘Rue Caumartin,’ he said. ‘Excellent. Supper? You are hungry, I suppose?’
‘Ravenous.’
‘I know a café not far from here. Downstairs is popular with the performers, and their admirers, from the cabaret Le Grande-Pinte, but there are respectable private rooms on the first floor. Does that sound acceptable?’
‘Perfectly so.’
He smiled. ‘That’s settled then. And for once, I shall keep you out late, well past a reasonable bedtime.’ He grinned. ‘I dare not deliver you home to M’man in such a state. She would never forgive me.’
