The young man flicked feverishly through the newspaper, unable to discover anything further about the siege. There had just been fighting at Châtillon, but most of the soldiers had fled ahead of the artillery assault. Believing themselves to be pursued by the Prussians, they had retreated to seek refuge within the city walls, sowing widespread panic and anxiety. Not only that, but all roads and railways had been cut, the outer districts of the city had emptied out, and all livestock from surrounding areas had been requisitioned. The city, like an enormous fortress, had raised its drawbridges and was holding its breath as it awaited the onslaught of the barbarians. From this point forwards, it would have to stew in its own juices.

He found his aunt’s magazine, La Mode Illustrée, almost more interesting. Its front page featured the first battalion of female National Mobile Guards, the Amazons of the Seine, who would be seeking to defend the ramparts. A double spread was devoted to sketches detailing the uniform, comprising black pants with an orange stripe, shirt and black kepi with similar-coloured piping. Women of all ages and from any social circumstances were being urged to present themselves for recruitment at 36 Rue Turbigo in order to share their disdain for death with their male comrades and thereby earn their emancipation and civic equality.

The advertisement was so typically Parisian and hardly seemed serious, yet, he said to himself, it seemed everybody in this war had their place; everybody but him.

Even the Commune, already suffering from internal rivalries, didn’t want him. The Forty-Eighters, the supporters of Blanqui, Delescluze and Pyat, spying an opportunity to make their grand return to politics, all of them had their sights set on the available positions, blocking access to the younger men. That said, there were some, like Vallès and Varlin, who had managed to get their way, but they all had at least ten years on Auguste and his peers. At one point they had been told, ‘You too shall have your revolution in thirty years’ time. In the meantime, watch on and leave this to us.’

Chapter 8

8

AS MONTHS WENT BY, my curiosity about the de Rigny family did not wane. On the contrary, I would go so far as to say it developed into a recreational activity. I had followed the funeral of Philippe and Pierre-Alexandre on the internet with a certain degree of interest and I was a regular follower of the family’s social media posts, so when, some months after their tragic end, I saw on Instagram that Adrienne would be exhibiting her works at the International Fine Art Photography Fair at the Grand Palais, I obviously resolved to go as soon as it opened so I could see what she looked like in the flesh.