Andrew Miller - Pure

Her offer — the good, practical sense of it — is quickly accepted. Lecoeur picks out three men from the circle to assist her. Jean-Baptiste counts money into her hand.

‘They are quite tame,’ says Lecoeur, indicating her helpers. ‘Tell them what you want of them and they will do it.’

They watch her go, the men plodding behind her.

‘She will be a great asset,’ says Lecoeur. ‘I foresee she will become their little virgin mother.’

‘When the men have eaten,’ says Jean-Baptiste, ‘they must put up their tents. Here, I think, in two rows of five. You, if you have no objection, will have your billet in the sexton’s house. It is only the old man and Jeanne there. I think you will be quite comfortable.’

‘I am here as a tool,’ says Lecoeur. ‘It matters very little where I am laid down at night.’

Jean-Baptiste nods. He is listening to the low voices of the men and remembering what, unaccountably, he had forgotten. At least half of the miners at Valenciennes speak only Flemish. When he worked at the mines, he learnt two dozen words of it but has long since lost them all.

‘You have their tongue?’ he asks Lecoeur.

‘I do not think I could court a lady with it,’ says Lecoeur, ‘but for our needs I believe I have what is necessary.’

After half an hour, Jeanne returns with the miners. Two of them carry steaming pails of soup. Jeanne and the third miner have their arms loaded with bread. Behind this party comes Armand, who strides towards Jean-Baptiste and Lecoeur and, while still some way off, calls, ‘I saw your smoke. I had begun to believe that you were merely an amiable dreamer. I shall always take you at your word now.’

‘Allow me to present,’ says Jean-Baptiste, ‘Monsieur Saint-Méard.’

‘Are you of our number, monsieur?’ asks Lecoeur.

‘I think I may be called so,’ says Armand, looking at Jean-Baptiste.

‘Monsieur Saint-Méard is the organist at the church,’ says Jean-Baptiste.

‘Former organist,’ says Armand, ‘once these gentlemen have started their work. But I intend to participate in my own destruction. Is that not the right of us all?’

‘The ancients believed that, monsieur,’ says Lecoeur.

‘And we are the new ancients, are we not?’

‘We are the men,’ says Lecoeur, ‘who will purify Paris. I said as much to my friend here when last we met. It will be a type of example.’

‘We will dispose of the past,’ says Armand, a voice pitched between earnestness and comedy. ‘History has been choking us long enough.’

‘I much approve of these sentiments,’ says Lecoeur, lowering his voice.

‘Then let’s approve of them over a bottle,’ says Armand.

‘It will be dark in two hours,’ says Jean-Baptiste. ‘The bottle must wait.’

‘Already he has turned tyrant on us,’ says Armand.

Lecoeur looks uncomfortable. ‘But he is right, monsieur. Quite right. There is much to attend to here. We will need our wits about us. Later, perhaps?’

The soup and bread are consumed without ceremony. The miners lick their spoons, wipe clean their beards with the side of a hand, spit, scratch, yawn.

Seeing them done, Jean-Baptiste climbs the winding steps to the narrow, railed pulpit on the pediment of the preaching cross. He is followed by Lecoeur, then, entirely at his own invitation, by Armand. With three of them in the pulpit, they have to stand with their shoulders pressed hard against each other. With his free arm Jean-Baptiste gestures to the miners. They stand and slowly approach the cross. Something else he had forgotten about these men: years of stooping in the tunnels means that many are permanently hunched. They gather below him and tilt their heads awkwardly to look up. To Lecoeur he says, ‘I shall speak to them a little. Then you, if you will be so kind, can repeat the gist of it in Flemish.’

He clears his throat. He does not have a strong speaking voice, wants to be heard but does not wish to shout at them. ‘You are welcome here,’ he begins. ‘It may be that I knew some of you in Valenciennes. Our work here will be very different. All this ancient cemetery and the church behind you is to be destroyed. The whole surface of the cemetery will be dug out. All the bones, all those you can see in the charnels, all those underground and in the crypts, will be removed and taken to another place. You must handle the bones as you would those of your own ancestors. We will start tomorrow on the first of the big pits. We will, at all times, have fires burning to purify and circulate the air. The doctors are agreed that fire is the best defence against any vapours our digging may release. Your pay will be twenty-five sous for a day’s work. There will be one hot meal a day plus a litre of wine. You must not leave the cemetery without permission from myself or Monsieur Lecoeur. Your first task is to put up your shelters and dig the latrines. You must not foul the ground. We will work every day. You will each be responsible for the care and maintenance of your tools.’ Then, an afterthought, ‘I am Baratte. The engineer.’

‘Excellent,’ whispers Lecoeur.

‘Functional,’ says Armand.

Lecoeur begins his translation. He is evidently much more fluent than he has admitted. As he speaks, Jean-Baptiste scans the broken ranks of the miners. There is one who stands out; taller than most of the others, bare-headed, his gaze seems to move coolly across the faces of the triumvirate on the preaching cross. One might almost guess that he was amused, as if he had seen such sights, witnessed such moments too often not to find in them some hint of the absurd. For a few seconds he settles a hand on the shoulder of a much older miner in front of him, and though it is hard to see clearly across twenty metres of air, the hand is evidently not quite as it should be, is, in some way, deformed.

When Lecoeur has finished, the three of them, at some risk of tumbling over each other, descend the winding steps. Boyer-Duboisson’s poles and canvas are carried to the level ground in the middle of the cemetery. Once the first tent is erected, its construction understood, the others go up swiftly enough.

The wood merchant arrives with fresh timber. He peers in at the miners, sucks his gums, nods approvingly. Supplying les Innocents will be the best work of his life: once the fires are lit, they’ll stay that way for months. The new wood is stacked close beside the tents. It is both valuable and stealable. Already a sizeable quantity has found its way over the walls at night.

Jean-Baptiste inspects the work on the latrines, approves it. Inspects each tent, tugs at their ropes. Several times he is called away to the cemetery doors to deal with a tradesman, work he eventually gives to Armand, who seems to want it.

Even in digging the latrines and the fire pits they have unearthed some hundred or more large bones and countless fragments, some of them chalk-white, others grey or black, or yellow as a chanterelle. Jeanne collects one of the smaller skulls, dislodges with her thumb a gob of earth from its brow and settles it in the grass again as though returning a fledgling to its nest. There is in these actions of hers something faintly repellent, yet it is obvious to Jean-Baptiste that her example will impress the men far more than any words of his own.

As he passes them in the deepening gloom of early evening, he tries to fix their faces in memory. Not many will look him in the eyes. Those who do he stops and asks their names. Jacques Everbout, Joos Slabbart, Jan Biloo, Pieter Molendino, Jan Block. He does not find the man he noticed from the preaching cross, the one who looked up so coolly. Whoever he is, he seems to have the knack of making himself invisible when he chooses to.

When Jean-Baptiste built the bridge on the estate of the Comte de S—, he had some twelve men under him — servants from the house and gardens, together with a pair of journeymen masons and a master mason from Troyes. The master in particular made no effort to hide his impatience with the ‘boy’ who commanded the project. The journeymen were not much kinder, and even the house-servants would come and go as they pleased and missed no opportunity to humiliate him, in that way servants in great houses become adept at. It is not good to be humiliated. It is not good to be the master in word only. Here, at les Innocents, he must somehow impose his will, must do it even if in the privacy of his own heart he is as uncertain of himself as he was then. And yet he would like them to like him. Or at least, not to despise him.